Chapter Twelve
Meg: I've decided, after a stroke of genius and inspiration, to add why Ratigan wanted a wig of Meg's hair.
Leigh: You moron! You told me you weren't going to do that!
Meg: I changed my mind?
That afternoon at the Paris Opera House, Colhart knocked on the dressing room door of prima donna Claire Prenessant. Rahle followed close behind him, carrying a bundle.
"Who is it?" a female voice asked.
"Doctor Raleigh is here to see Mademoiselle Prenessant," Colhart said suavely.
"Come in," she said.
Colhart came into the room. The young prima donna sat at her dressing table, looking at herself in the mirror. When she saw his reflection in the mirror she arose, turned around and came over to him.
"Doctor, I am not feeling well today. I do not think I will be fit to attend the ball tonight at all."
"Such a pity, mademoiselle," Colhart said, kissing her hand. "The royals of Europe will surely miss your lovely voice."
Rahle observed the whole scene in complete annoyance. "Where is the professeur?" he snapped impatiently.
"Rahle, how nice to see you again," said Ratigan, appearing from behind a full length mirror.
"Professeur Ratigan! I have what you asked for." Rahle presented the small bundle.
Ratigan unwrapped it, producing dark brown tresses. "Perfect," he said to himself, his eyes glinting. He then turned to Claire. "Mademoiselle," he bowed, offering her the wig.
She took it and, walking back to the vanity, she sat down and placed it on her head, hiding her blonde locks beneath it. Rahle followed Colhart and Ratigan as they surrounded her.
Colhart grinned. "She looks just like her."
"Yes..." Ratigan gripped her shoulder, and producing a photograph, placed it against the mirror. "An almost exact likeness."
Claire looked from her reflection in the mirror to the photograph. She slowly moved her hand over Ratigan's. The professor quickly withdrew it and turned to Colhart.
"Basil and Miss Sarentis are still in your custody?"
"Of course."
"Excellent. Expect me at your manor after the ball." He then turned to Rahle. "Come back here this evening, before eight. Claire will have the money."
Rahle frowned. "I was told I was going to get it now."
"Have I ever failed to pay before?" Ratigan asked, a smug grin spreading across his features.
"No. But too many strangers. I don't trust her," he said, pointing to the prima donna.
Claire opened her mouth in shock and anger. "Why you little-"
"She will have the money," Ratigan interrupted, his grin turning into a frown.
"She had better. If not, expect no more business from me," Rahle announced, storming out of the room.
"What's wrong with him today?" Colhart muttered. "He's never that temperamental to regular clients."
Claire turned to Ratigan. "Why did you let him say such outlandish lies about me?" she demanded.
"No one here doubts your loyalty Claire," the rat said offhandedly, lighting a cigarette.
"You should have defended me!" she exclaimed.
Ratigan took a puff from his cigarette and turned away.
"Fine!" she snapped. "I am not going through with the plan! You can get your bitch some other way."
Ratigan's eyes flickered, and he turned back around. "Claire..." he warned.
"You have never cared about me the same way you have cared about that bitch!" she screamed, pointing to the photograph on the vanity. "And she doesn't even love you! Is that what you want, James? A wench who will never love you?"
Ratigan grabbed Claire by the shoulders and threw her to the ground. She scrambled to her feet. He pinned her against the wall.
"You will treat Rahle as if he were one of my agents. You will wear that wig tonight, and you will kill the Duchess of Bachenstrauff. If you don't..." Ratigan leaned in close, slowly tracing her neck with one gloved finger, "I will personally tear out your vocal chords and make sure that you never sing again."
Basil bent over me, applying a thin layer of makeup to my face. "Just enough so Colhart won't recognize you at a glance," he said as he worked. "Now, stay on the lookout for Ratigan too. I have a hunch that he will make an appearance."
We sat in a storage room in the Paris Opera House. Landon had taken sanctuary in Notre Dame, hidden by a priest who was a childhood friend. Music drifted from the entrance hall of the Opera House, where guests had been arriving for the last hour.
Basil and I had both stolen clothes from the many costumes that belonged to the Opera House. He had on a tux. I wore a light, plain pink dress.
"What if we are recognized?" I asked.
"Run like hell."
"That's it?"
The detective shrugged as he closed the makeup case. "I doubt Colhart will draw so much attention to himself by running after us himself, but he may send his lackeys after us."
I looked at myself in the mirror. "I hope you know what you're doing."
Basil rose, and then helped me to my feet. "That's about it. Let's go."
Rahle moved through the crowd of people at the Opera House. He sidled up to Colhart, who was in the act of taking a glass of champagne from an offered tray.
"How's Claire?" Colhart asked the artist.
"Mademoiselle Prenessant is in a very sour mood," said Rahle. "I gathered that it is the presence of the professeur that angers her."
"Not quite," Colhart said in a low voice. "It's the professor's complete lack of attention to her presence that she's mad about."
"She loves him?" Rahle asked.
Colhart let out a short laugh. "I wouldn't put it that way. She more or less wants Ratigan for his money."
"Why is Mademoiselle Prenessant dressed like a certain girl?"
Colhart shot him a suspicious look. "Rahle, what do you mean?"
"I saw the face in the papers of the girl that the professeur used to try to take over the throne of Denmark. Mademoiselle Prenessant is dressed to ressemble her. Why?"
Colhart handed Rahle a cigar. "Don't you worry about that," he said lightly. "We are scheming. You are here by invitation of the Opera House. Enjoy yourself."
A middle-aged woman walked up to Colhart. "Landon!" she said, embracing him. "It is so good to see you, little brother!"
"Celeste! How is your husband?" They strolled away.
Rahle watched Colhart as he walked with his sister to a small group of people.
Someone tapped him on the back. He spun around. "Monsieur Basil!" he exclaimed. "You're alive!"
Basil raised his eyebrow in bewilderment at the excitement. "Yes..."
Rahle's eyes fell upon me close on Basil's heels. "Mademoiselle!"
I shot Basil an equally confused look. "Bonsoir to you too, Monsieur Rahle.
"Meg!" Basil ducked and pulled my arm, dragging me behind a large.
"What?" I snapped. Then I paused, and whispered, "Colhart?"
"No..."
A tall, bulky man with a thin mustache and long white hair walked up to Rahle and began to talk to him in rapid French. Basil pulled me closer to him in an attempt to get us further behind the plant. Rahle led the man away from us.
"Memorize that face," Basil murmured. "That's Ratigan."
I remembered the day in Rahle's attic that Basil had looked under the sheet that had hidden a 'top secret project.' "With one of Rahle's masks?" I asked.
"Yes."
We waited there for a few moments, Basil still gripping my arm tightly. "Can we get up now?"
"I think it's safe."
After another moment I said, "Umm, Basil?"
"Hmmm?"
"You can let go of me now."
"Oh." Basil released his grip on me. "I am going to follow Ratigan. Find the Duchess."
"All right."
Celeste and Colhart were laughing with some of her friends when Miche came up to Colhart. "Monsieur Colhart, may I have a word?" he asked.
Colhart glared at him. "Pardonnez-moi," he said to the group. He went to a corner with the henchman. "What is it?" he hissed.
"Basil and Sarentis. They've both escaped!"
"What? How is that possible?"
"They took your brother and the automobile. We traced the vehicle. It's in the back alley behind the Opera House."
"Damn it, they're here!" Colhart hissed. He took a deep breath before continuing: "Keep an eye out for them, especially my brother. Make sure that you find them before the rat does. It'll be our tails if he finds out!"
Claire brushed her way past a young brunette woman, searching for Colhart's sister. "Oh, sorry," the brunette said in English, obviously too distracted to take much notice of the prima donna in a wig the same color as her hair. She continued to make her way through the crowd.
Claire watched her go, a dark feeling consuming her soul. She went back to the one of the dressing rooms, searching frantically through the racks of costumes. She pulled out a plain pink dress, one of the chorus dresses from an opera the company had performed earlier in the year. It was an exact copy of the one worn by the brunette.
"Let's see James' little darling get away from this one now," she said, grinning wickedly to her reflection in the mirror as she held the dress in front of her.
RAEB: I am so confused.
Emma: Me too.
Lizz: Meg, JWJ got another postcard. It's from Paris.
Meg: What? You're kidding!
Lizz: Ummm, no.
Meg: (reads) 'Postscript: Tell Meg to read the newspaper.'
RAEB: (reads newspaper) A singer from the Paris Opera House was kidnapped a day ago.
Meg: I wish today was April Fool's Day. I can't deal with this!
