Chapter Two: Not a Few Little Grey Cells
The two managers rush into the back entrance, avoiding the sudden downpour. They take one of the worklifts, then climb a short flight of stairs, their eyes adjusting to the darkness. The indoor air is thick of the odor of smoke damage and humidity, causing them to gag and cough and dig into their pockets for handkerchiefs. In the dimly-lit halls they see the silhouettes of men milling about. They are now on the main level of the auditorium, suddenly walking noisily with a slush, slush, slurp, the floor seemingly to soften and swirl underneath their feet.
"Water!" M. Andre exclaims in surprise. Yes, the floor is utterly soaked. So are his socks and shoes and the hem of his pants.
"This is impossible! How could the firefighters have reached this deep into the theater? How can they navigate through 120,00 square feet? The massive foyer alone would have made it impossible. From the side? Not even then…and to use this much water!" M. Firmin retorts with much confusion.
"Most of the wetness seems to be confined around here where the chandelier fell. In front by the orchestra pit, the right side of the stage, and the second level near the stage," answers a tall, greying man on the stage. "Good morning, gentlemen. I'm Chief Detective Roussin."
The managers go up to the stage and exchange handshakes with the detective. Behind him is a slim, umbrella-toting, impeccably-dressed young man with a thick black mustache holding a torch. Roussin turns to introduce him.
"This is Hercule Poirot, one of our junior detectives," Roussin says. "He found something."
"Good morning, gentlemen. Please come this way," says the junior detective, leading the way to the stage wall.
"This theater already has its in-house firemen to manually help put out fires. But I found several sets of these pipes at intervals along the stage, barely visible until they do their work. I suspect there may be a series of these sets throughout the theater, but the ones deployed were nearest to the fire," explains Poirot, pointing to something sticking out of the wall. It appears to be a copper pipe with a knob attached to it, dripping water."This way, please."
They walk back down to the left side of the auditorium. Electricity in the massive hallways have recently been activated and M. Andre finds the light switch. Poirot walks closely along the wall until he finds what he is looking for: a small pipe, barely protruding from the wall. The managers now see, for the first time, a series of small pipes along the wall.
"I've never noticed them before now," says M. Andre. "What are they?"
"Monsieur, if you please, " says Poirot, still holding a torch. He opens his umbrella and brings the torch near the knob. Within moments a cap pops off, releasing a short burst of water which, under its brief pressure, sprays the two managers with ice-cold water from head to foot. They gasp, startled, chagrined.
"Gentlemen, it seems you have a fire brigade built within the walls of the theater!" Roussin who has been standing behind Poirot, stifles his laughter.
"It saved the theater, and people's lives. If not for these waterpipes, the fire would have consumed the entire theater and the loss of life would have been incomprehensible," states Poirot, closing his umbrella. "And it is automatic too, activated by the fire itself. What ingenuity!"
"He called it his theater," M. Firmin softly says, finally realizing the truth of the theater's design, and its builder. "His theater."
"This Opera Ghost?" Poirot asks. He receives nods in reply. "Ahhh. Bien. So he builds his theater with these formidable features. A labor of love. And the electrical wiring? They, too, have already long ago been established, non?" Poirot muses in admiration. "Indeed. A labor of love. But the enormous water supply for the fire system? And the pump?"
"The lair, Poirot. It's by a shallow lake," Roussin responds with understanding.
"Ahh, but it may not have been so shallow as it is now, this lake," Poirot states. "I would like to see this lake and the lair, but first, where was M. Piangi's body discovered?"
They walk back to the stage and behind the charred stage draperies.
"Right here, M. Poirot. Discovered by his wife, La Carlotta. Strangled with a punjab lasso," M. Andre says, pointing to the area hidden by the drapes. "The Punjab lasso. That seems to be this phantom's preferred method, according to the rumor mills."
Poirot looks about, pokes the debris from props that clutter the floor with his umbrella, picks up and examines a broken plank, a chain, and pieces of stage pastiche.
He see something caught between the drapes. A white cloth. He takes it and holds it up to his torch.
"Sir, take a look at this," he calls Det. Roussin over. Roussin inspects the cloth.
"A man's handkerchief. Plain, fine linen, white, about twenty-two inches, no laundry marks." Roussin smells it and gags. "Oh good heavens!"
"Oui. Very strong," Poirot says, folding the handkerchief and putting it in his vest pocket. "Shall we go below?"
The two shivering managers, who never had any desire to go down to the fifth cellar in the first place, and now especially in their wet clothes, make their excuse to take their leave and give the two detectives permission to proceed.
With torches in hand, Poirot and Roussin proceed down the stairs to the cellars, with Poirot stopping to inspect the massive ceramic conduits and ancillary copper pipes built along the walls of each cellar. Each of the eight conduits in each floor have separate levers and switches, and each conduit is built above the other. The conduit walls are icy cold to the touch and give a soft and consistent vibrating hum, which can now be heard in the stillness of the cellars.
They reach the fifth cellar platform: cold, dark, and dank. Poirot holds up his torch against the wall. The lake shows the previous water level, even in the semi-darkness.
"A good thirty feet, I would say," states Roussin. They walk down another steep flight of algae-coated steps to a cement shore. The lake is now so shallow that they could have crossed it on foot, but they use a boat left stranded on the shore.
"This lake is much bigger than I had imagined," Poirot says.
"I spoke to M. Garnier earlier today about these underground structures and this lair," responds Det. Roussin. "The lake is actually a reservoir. There was an underground river that used to run through here when the foundation was quarried. It was dammed, creating this lake. He did tell me of a contractor who built this theater, and that this contractor has a deformity which he does not wish to impose on society. That is as far as what M. Garnier wished to tell me; he believes this man to be innocent and did not wish to talk about him any further." Poirot nods. They go through the open portcullis and and disembark.
The lair is in tremendous shambles. Poirot picks up a manuscript, a piece of music, from the floor which is littered with them. He begins to gather up the manuscripts but stops when he sees an alcove. He goes in. The alcove is in less of a disheveled state, but the mirrors are shattered. He pokes at the broken mirror pieces on the floor and on the frames, tapping the solid backing. He stands momentarily in front of one frame covered with a tapestry.
"Well, Poirot, what do you make of all this?" Det. Roussin asks Poirot.
"The man who built this has made great use of his little grey cells, but this is also a man of deep unquenched emotion, and rage. He built the theater for his music and the cellars to hide, and puts in place an ingenius protection, perhaps little realizing it was to protect it against himself. He abducts a young woman with the notion of marrying her, but releases her to his rival, yet not before he had threatened to hang him. And M. Piangi. Why was he murdered? To get him out of the way. Sir, if you don't mind, I would like to look around for a little while longer." Roussin nods, and goes to the boat and waits.
Poirot gathers what he could find of the musical manuscripts. "Don Juan Triumphant", he reads on the cover of the portfolio. He places them on top of the dismantled organ. He looks at the sketches tacked on the wall. Sketches of buildings in different stages of design, various sketches of a young woman, sketches of the opera stage from the balustrade showing the same woman, sketches of the anatomy of the human face. Various musical instruments are scattered, many broken. One violin is intact and he picks it up and places it on the organ next to the manuscripts.
"A man of not a few little grey cells," he says to himself.
He sits on the bench and surveys the lair from its owner's perspective. The room is big and the ceiling is high enough to accomodate the organ's acoustic needs. The bench and the organ is on a dais. There are a few recognizable furniture, what's left of them. An intact table with candelabra and a bust of Hades and some chairs, a broken sculpture of Apollo on the floor with shattered bits of mirror next to the organ, the bench he sits on, an easel near the alcove where the sketches are tacked. An unlit fireplace, a torn highbacked chair in front of it, a small table next to the chair. The rest have been reduced to kindling. He finds a closet containing a mannequin and a shattered cheval mirror. The portcullis remains open and he can see the lake beyond, the water dark and still and shallow with its watermark revealing a tremendous loss of water. He pauses...and hears that hum, the same hum from the conduits above. He gets up and follows that hum, to the right beyond the lair's wall and several steps down, just before reaching the water's edge.
The generator is enormous but its hum is not noticeable unless one is looking for it. The entire right wall of the cellar is one huge conduit, still partly buried in the water, its submerged pumps still swirling water upwards. The massive electrical generator, powered by the rushing water itself, is designed to pressurize several tons of water via the conduit up five levels in a short period of time, and the water, which had been sustained under this pressurized state, was at the ready when the fire broke out. He touches it. It, too, is icy cold, which has also kept the generator from overheating and burning itself out! Poirot nods in amazement.
He goes back into the lair and to the alcove. The big bed is covered with pillows and a thick eiderdown. A music box is at the foot of the bed. The broken mirrors crunch under his boots. He again stands in front of the tapestry-covered frame. He smiles.
He uses his umbrella to lift the tapestry up. As he had noted earlier, it is a door. He goes in and finds a small and empty room, no bigger than a broom closet. He raps the back wall. Yes. There is more behind that wall, but the edges of the walls are seamless. No knobs, no buttons, no levers.
He goes back to the organ, takes out the handkerchief, and places it on top of the portfolio. He turns to leave, knowing that in order to meet him, it will be by invitation.