Chapter 3: The Mysteries of Box 5

The unseen genius of the Opera Populaire must have been laughing at the sight that would welcome any onlooker to the Opera House's offices that day. These people, all a fluster over the news of the Ingénue, Anders, and her subsequent return from the underworld, danced about in a strange choreography truly rare in modern spontaneous life.

"Did you send this note?"

"How did you hear? Where is she?"

"What about the show?"

(Monsieur Logan had been the one to notice this, as always the only one to truly care about the Opera. He was a large help in my investigation following the incident, leading me to the man who revealed much of the mystery of the Opera Ghost. However, his only response was a rather flustered and dark return by Sebastian. "What about the show? The ticket prices alone we could cancel the show and hop the next ship to America and live quite comfortably!")

"What about the girl?"

"Why must we all argue?"

"What is going on?"

"Who is sending these notes?"

They were all interrupted by the suddenly loud voice of Tara Markov, "Quiet! She is ill, and will see no visitors at this time. And Monsieur Blood, I must insist you take these notes seriously!"

"Why do you say that, girl?"

"For there is one last note," Madame Raven answered in a tone like controlled thunder or unchained tigers, whichever would suit the reader as less lethal. "Monsieur Blood, Monsieur Logan, this is merely the beginning, if you do not heed these warnings."

"I'll be the judge of this," Blood said, snatching the note nastily from Madame Raven's hand and opening it with a startling rip and removing the hastily scribbled note. It was again in this hard and untouched hand. "Ahem, now, allow me to read this to the congregation."

Assembled Friends,

I have now sent you many notes of the most amiable nature I can muster, detailing how my Opera House shall be run. But as of this time, I have not received adequate response. This is your final, and most urgent warning.

Kori Anders has returned to you, so that her career my resume and I am eager to see it progress. Your new production, Il Muto, a delightfully tongue-in-cheek number I have enjoyed on many occasions, suits her talents and her charm wonderfully. She will be a show-stopping Countess. But, let it be said that I am not heartless, I have cast, in my mind's eye, La Gatita as the page boy, a role best suiting her talents.

Which is, to say, occupying space.

I will be enjoying the performance from my normal seat in Box 5, which shall remain empty.

Should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination shall occur.

I remain your faithful servant,

O.G.

It was the straw that broke the camel's back. The fluster became a roar, as La Gatita pounced on Richard, and began to tear his morning dress with the sheer fury that was contained. The Raven dodged to the side, and took in the anger and loathing with a rather contented smirk. Mademoiselle Markov cried helplessly about the repercussions, and the managers were unable to manage the incident that had suddenly broken loose in their office.

"I'm taking all bets!" Garfield called, loudly, in English. Those who understood him glared angrily in his direction. Except for a light-hearted, under-his-breath, chuckle from Blood. "Five to one on the Vicomte!"

"Mi Gatita, por favor!" her father cried.

"Why are you doing this?" Tara murmured. "We're facing imminent destruction, these forebodings only lead to disaster!"

"The angel sees, the angel hears, the angel knows." Madame Raven repeated quietly, ignored but for the Vicomte, who, despite the yelling of La Gatita in his ear could still respond.

"What is this angel?" he demanded to know.

"You sent this! It was you!" La Gatita screamed.

"Madame! Please!"

"Sebastian, what do we do?"

"Allow me to handle this!" Sebastian responded. "Madame! Do not attack him. It is him, but he will not succeed. No, I believe I have caught his ruse. Entwined in love's duet, she has gone and slept with our patron. But, Madame! I have told you once, I will tell you again, the lines, they are for you, the world wants you!"

"How dare you!" Vicomte de Changy cried.

"No, no!" Madame Raven whispered, "Don't do this."

"Portents," Tara murmured.

"You merely say that to appease me."

"N, no!" Gar said, "We truly need you, Madame."

"Your public cries out your name. Do you hear them?" Sebastian said, ribbing Garfield. Garfield began to make quiet beckoning calls from the supposed public while Sebastian spoke, "Signora! Sing for us an age old raporte. Light up the stage once more!"

I think it was at this time that they were silenced by the creaking of some ancient hydraulic achievement compacted into a muscle. The Persian stood, looming in the doorway, holding a note.

"Perhaps you should conduct business," he said, "In a more productive fashion." The smell of steam should waft into the nose of any standing in the presence of the Persian. Why would be revealing of the story, so I opt to keep it my little secret until much later. Instead, let it be understood that many mistook the steam for smoke and began to panic further.

Only Madame Raven and the Vicomte seemed unfazed, but Sebastian was the first to speak, "Who are you, precisely."

"A patron," was the only answer he received. "This note, it was left for you."

"Let me see it!" Sebastian said, taking it even more angrily than before. It was merely folded half-way, as if too rushed for finding an envelope. It was brief, no real mark, and I ponder if the Phantom sat about, reading it along with his adversary. "So it is to be war between us."

"Pardon?" Richard asked, "War?"

"He has seen, he has begun. Turn back, recant, apologize and pray, or prepare to feel his wrath."

"Foolish woman," Sebastian said. "Now, who is this that delivers this note?" The man was gone. Everyone looked from one to the other, unsure of how to truly respond. "That is most repugnant, smoking in a place of business. Do you French ever conduct yourselves properly?"

"I take offense to that," Richard said. "Don't you, Madame Raven?"

"Hardly. I am not French."

"Then where do you come from?" Richard asked, masking his suspicions under carefully wrapped good-natured boyish charm.

"That is none of your business. Now I must be gone, come along Tara. We have completed out task for the day. To practice, girl!"

"Yes, Madame," Tara said quietly. She looked desperately at the patron, but was taken away by a rough handed movement. I don't know exactly what it was she wished to say, but perhaps it was something related to Madame Raven. The Persian informed me that very few people knew her native land, but she had lived in France for as long as I can remember. I recall her working the boxes, as well, to earn spare change while the performances were on and she was not required to be teaching these skeletal messes how to dance.

Perhaps that was why she knew best the secrets of Box 5.

"I would like to see Box 5, if that is not too much a hassle."

"Pardon me, Monsieur le Vicomte," Blood said, "But our patrons are not allowed into the boxes outside of a performance. It is currently being prepared for the next performance."

"Which I of course shall be seeing."

"Ah, but we have already sent tickets to Madame Hive. I shall, of course, inform you, and if your curiosity gets the better of your judgment, if the seats become available. I am sure, however, Madame Hive did not go through such lengths to give up a seat she covets so."

Their note would be quickly replied to.

"I see," Richard would in the meanwhile tell them, "I will be away. There are other matters I must attend to."

X x X x X x X

As to the matter of Box 5. The note that they had sent was hastily replied by Madame Hive, who thanked them for the considerate offer, but regretfully declined due to the nature of the seats.

"Box 5," she had written, "Belongs to Monsieur Fantome. It is not my place to assume it." The superstitious tone of the note went against the very fiber of Sebastian's being. He would not rest until he discovered what was causing this horrible rash of bizarre accidents and prove once and for all that there was no ghost.

But he did not know completely the history of Box 5.

Madame Raven was kind enough to send me a report of her time taking care of Box 5, in which she had nothing but flattering things to say about the occupant of the box. He was, she said, a gentlemen through-and-through.

"He would always remember my birthday," she recalled, "And that was a kind thing for him to remember. He would leave me long-stemmed roses, how he procured them I would never know, because he was quite invisible to the naked eye."

This invisible patron, she went on to write, often requested small things. A glass of champagne, in particular, was a favorite of his. He had sophisticated taste and asked for only the finest vintages. He was always kind enough to leave her a tip when the performance had finished.

And yet no one entered or left the box.

Box 5, otherwise, was like any other box. It had perhaps the best view of the stage, but in particular it was notable that it ran against two pillars. These pillars framed the box.

Beautiful ornamentation, and the seats aside, there was little or no way for the person to enter or leave, except the door or by leaping from the box to the stage and vice versa. Needless to say, no one saw anyone do the latter.

Most peculiar is the note in Madame Raven's letter that pointedly marked the incident of the Phantom's lady friend. He had requested a footstool once, and his explanation was for his lady. A lady phantom.

She also explained that she had told the exact story to the detectives that they had called in to investigate these incidents, and only received askew looks. Moreso when she warned them that the Phantom would not approve. The Angel, she told them, would seek a swift retribution for the police's involvement.

Still, she refused to divulge much of what she truly knew about the Phantom. And she knew much more than she allowed herself to say.

One cannot help but be taken by the grandeur of the Opera House's main foyer, and here took place of one of the strangest incidents involving Box 5. Madame Raven barely covered this in her report, but the news on the incident was certainly quite a scandal. Monsieur C had enjoyed a quiet evening at the Opera on his own. He was a reputable man, keeping his nose to the ground and letting people ignore the later revealed more illegal activities of his shipping business. The Chinaman sat and watched the Opera until he began to notice voices.

They appeared to be coming from the box next to his. He called for assistance, and the lady – not Madame Raven that night as she had been busy keeping the girls in line on a particularly nerve-wracking opening night – and complained about his neighboring box. The lady agreed to check, but when she returned she said that the occupant ad no idea what is going on.

"I hear them! Tell him and his lady friend to keep their voices down."

The woman answered, "But Monsieur, there is only a gentleman in the next box. You must be hearing things."

Madame Raven was furious when she had heard of the sale of Box 5 – Madame Hive assured her that it had been a slip-up at the box office, and the help could do little to deny that the ticket indeed read Box 5.

And Box 5, it was reputed, was furious at its new occupant. The voice, which M. C was the only audience of, then whispered scandalous things in his ear, causing him to sweat, he described, like a hog in the oven. "Our little arm's dealer. Forgive my Argot for being so rusty, but it's I believe you're the one the escaped cons go to for their little toys. How entirely bourgeois. You believe yourself to be worthy of the Opera House because of your profit margin? Don't make me laugh."

I was not answered that he had any merit behind the accusations, but the slander – libel in my case if I weren't to include this disclaimer in my written report – had offended the man enough to rise from his seat and leave the box.

It was at this point that the Foyer's grand staircase becomes important to the story. You have seen it yourself, that sweeping stairway that splits apart halfway up, and then up to the balcony and the boxes.

M. C was heading down the staircase, and then he fell down the stairs with a grand ruckus. One of the attendants had witnessed it and said that the man had fallen forward, M. C corroborated that part of the story. He felt he had been pushed by some malicious child at the top of the stairs.

If Box 5 was the Phantom's seat, then it would be that our Phantom was a vindictive sort that quickly responded to any conceived offense with such swift and unseen justice that it was as if the touch of the ghost itself had descended for but an instance, felt but unseen. A chill descends on those who witness it.

X x X x X x X

Monsieur Logan was again always very in tune with the Opera House. He was a student, as mentioned earlier, of music at the University of Paris, and a quiet, intelligent, but often goofy and detached young man. His skin, green as it was, had been a reason for much his own insular nature, and perhaps why the Opera was so seductive to him. He could forget, with ease, the conflict he had among the religious backlash of Monsieur Charles Darwin's infamous book.

I would be bereft if I should mention my personal opinion of the theory, but it seems to have merit should this Beast Boy, as the papers had described him in England, was to be believed. His parents were scientists, Godless people if ever there were, and sent the boy to study privately in Paris following the media circus – forgive the pun – that had followed his revelation.

The boy, his parents explained, had contracted a strange disease during their visit to the Galapagos, to investigate Monsieur Darwin's findings. They were close friends of Darwin's, and had been eager to experience as he had, even at the cost of their young son, who had contracted a rare disease indigenous to animals in that region.

Perhaps through magic itself, they had conjured a serum that could counter-act the disease. They had, to the medical community, described it as finding the root link between all species. Such a notion!

They were laughed at. How could they not be laughed at? The entire concept was hardly accepted among scientists besides Darwin, and now they presumed to tell them that there was a root link between all species? It was ludicrous! But then…

I am not sure how to describe this occurrence, so I will state it simply. The laughter threatened to consume his parents, he wrote, so he attempted to prove they were right. A young boy, he understood their horror. The boy then did a wondrous thing, and transformed. He was no longer merely a boy, but a shape shifting changeling.

This hoax, an elaborate one, they had called it, lead to them being exiled in disgrace from the scientific community. The boy, however, became the center of attention to the superstitious English commoner. The papers had stories, pictures of M. Logan, and attempted to identify him as a kind of elf.

It was a return to the medieval sensibilities! Such a nation.

He had written to me many a time, and sent me copies of his memoirs – which I recommend you read as they are quite riveting – especially around the time of his managing the Opera House. He is now retired, and M. Blood is retired from life itself, so he was truly my only link to the day-to-day business of the opera house during this period of time.

However, he was more open to the police, allowing them to come into the Opera House and investigate Box 5. The incident with M. C was before his time, and they were not allowed in – and why should they be? What possible cause could voices in a crazy man's head give?

But he, unlike Madame Hive, led the detective to the box, personally, to investigate. And they found nothing – instead, it was more interesting that they detected the scent of steam around the area. A scent that was often associated with the strange Persian man. He had decided not to mention this to Sebastian, and instead let it linger as an unanswered question to the inspector.

Though nothing was found, he would still linger over the detail, and belabored in detail how he had "lost sleep, certain that something had been forgotten, something had been overlooked." It was at this time that he had sent a wire to M. Vicomte de Changy, inviting him to investigate the Box, privately, and without the knowledge of M. Blood. "I would keep him occupied, I told him, and continued that he would not be held responsible for anything should it appear to be in order."

He received a gracious return. "He wrote," Logan recalled, "'I am eager to lend my assistance in this manner. I am still greatly grieved over the incident yesterday involving the outrageous rumors that I was behind those strange notes. M. Blood, I understand, was merely attempting to calm Madame La Gatita; however, I would like to clear myself outright of any guilt.' I was," Logan continued, "Greatly surprised that such a man would admit to being afraid of behind held responsible."

M. Logan was not aware, of course, of the nocturnal investigation already afforded to le Merle, which was swift and yet found nothing of any note. Whoever had been using this seat had done so in such a way to mask his presence.

Though, admittedly, the blueprints of the Opera House were contained, it was commonly known that the architect could devise small traps inside the building much like the trap door on a stage, allowing someone to move unseen from a balcony to the stage to the basement to the sub-basements – most of which had not been charted. Of course, this was partially because of the darkness.

But it was also because of the large body of water that had been found below the Opera House.

So, concluded Richard, that perhaps some of the most senior residents would know a bit about the Opera House.

Logan was also confused by the following note. "However," Richard had remarked, "I will be away from Paris on an impromptu visit to an old friend's grave to pay my respects. I will inform you of my return as it presently as becomes it."

This is a most peculiar turn of events for one who does not know Richard. The visit was not one to his own convenience, but out of sheer necessity.

For, you understand, he had gone, following the incident in the office, to see Mademoiselle Anders at her home – the address having been afforded him by Mademoiselle Markov. He was greeted at the door not by Mlle. Anders as he had hoped, but a kindly old lady that he recognized as Mme. Virjit, a kindly old soul who had been quite taken by the young suitor to Mlle. Anders, and informed him that she was not in fact at home at this time.

She had, reportedly, left immediately on a train to that fateful summer retreat that had done her much for her father's health, and in turn was where he had been buried. Richard was quick to follow.

He left on the train the following morning.