A/n: People who like Carlotta will be offended if they read this, (but who likes Carlotta?).
Variation on a theme, in E# major
Carlotta's Adventure in the Hallway
Carlotta was humming rather loudly as she moved through the darkened corridors of the opera house, more to annoy passer by than to attempt to cheer the gloomy atmosphere. In fact, she liked the gloom, the air thick with heavy yellow cigarette smoke, creeping out under dressing room doors and curling along the elegantly decorated walls, hanging its haze everywhere. The gas lamps did little to cut through the smog, their shallow circles of light simply illuminating the swirling dust particles Carlotta stirred as she whisked passed, voluminous skirts rustling. She was heading steadily to her dressing room, her pace brisk and her mood uncaring- but she halted abruptly when she could swear she heard the light tread of dainty footsteps behind her.
When she stopped, however, she heard nothing, nothing save the beating of her own heart and her own scolding beneath her breath for being so easily frightened. She held her head high and continued on her way, not seeing the shadow of a figure passing the light streaming from an open doorway. The steps again stopped her in her tracks.
"Who's there?" she demanded, whirling as whomever it was moved in front of the light, silhouetting their figure.
The mysterious person turned slightly and the light glinted off their features, showing them to be wearing a very enigmatic smile.
"Oh it's you," Carlotta sniffed indignantly, "Who do you think you are, stalking corridors and frightening people?"
They said nothing, but raised their arm, displaying the glint of a knife.
"What are you doing with that-" she began huffily, irritated- but had no time to finish her question, or hear the answer as a bloodcurdling scream pierced the calm air.
Carlotta's lifeless body slumped to the floor as the shadow staggered away high on the kill.
()()()()()()()()()()()()
The police inspector coughed to himself, waiting decidedly impatiently for the excitable ballet girls to finish their story.
This is going to be a long and tedious day, he thought with melancholy as he mentally reviewed the facts. One monsieur Moncharmin had discovered the body of the former opera diva La Carlotta stabbed three times and very dead. They knew almost nothing; the facts were thin, very thin.
All the residents could say was, "It's him!" or "She angered the Phantom!"
The managers had told the inspector that the opera ghost had stopped making demands and ceased any communication at all two years ago. Whatever the explanation for that mysterious personage he didn't think it applied to this murder. He rubbed his temples with one care-worn hand as he dismissed the young ladies he'd been questioning, but, glancing up, he caught a glimpse of a man standing just inside the doorway rush away, That's suspicious…
"Monsieur! Stop!" hurrying into the hall he was just in time to see the figure turn a corner, "You monsieur, stop!"
"Yes, monsieur inspector?" the tall fugitive asked, stepping back into the corridor, his voice thick with an indistinguishable accent, but his French grammar impeccable.
"I would like to question you in the matter of Madame Carlotta's murder, sir." The inspector said wearily, suddenly getting the feeling that he was headed for another long, completely useless wild goose chase, this foreigner struck him as a little too slick for someone just passing through, but there was nothing at all malicious about the elder gentleman. He was certainly too old to have taken down a woman like La Carlotta.
"Whatever for? I do not even work here." The man's bright green eyes devoured the inspector as he raised a condescending eyebrow.
"You seemed farily interested in the proceedings just now, so I will ask, for your own benefit of course, that take part in the investigation instead of just watching from the sidelines. Inspector Maurice DeGent." He introduced himself, extending a hand.
The foreigner regarded his hand doubtfully with a look of fuming anger at being caught in the act, then answered shortly, "Daroga Nadir Kahn." He pushed past Maurice, ignoring the offer of a handshake, and led the way back into the wings where the questioning had been taking place, prop chairs set in a sort of semi-circle served as the interrogation room which had lately held the ballet rats.
The good daroga looked decidedly bored as he arranged himself facing the large chair, set apart from the circle where the detective would sit, "What is it you need to ask me inspector? I do hope you won't be all day about it." He commented dryly, turning to face Maurice as he sat down.
"First of all, I should like to ask you if you know anything about this 'Opera Ghost' everyone in this old mausoleum is constantly tittering about."
This seemed to have profound and immediate affect on Nadir, "The opera ghost? The opera ghost is dead, monsieur."
"Dead?" Maurice repeated, raising an eyebrow.
Nadir nodded.
"How is it that a ghost managed to die?"
"Do not concern yourself sir, only remember that no one in this house has anything more to fear from the 'ghost'." Nadir was almost brutally business-like and seemed to have some sort of personal vendetta against any more spectral activities on the premises.
Maurice was intrigued. Everyone else he'd met seemed in an awful hurry to push responsibility for all unfortunate events on the ghost, and this man, this Nadir wanted to ensure, if nothing else that the ghost wasn't blamed. How interesting…
The course of questioning remained its mundane self; the daroga's replies only occasionally interesting. He utterly refused to speak of the ghost, proclaiming that no good would come of it and he should never have told anyone anything in the first place.
Maurice retrieved Nadir's address after much strife in case he should need to speak to him again and wrapped up his duties. Knowing as little as he did about the ghost's legacy, he wasn't as anxious as he ought to have been.