Andre
After L'Esprit and Madame Maturin had disappeared into the snowy night, Firmin and I found ourselves quite alone in our befuddlement on the pavement in front of the now-darkened establishment of Le Grand Véfour. We stood pensively, with our hands under our arms to keep warm and our breath puffing out as fog clouds from our frozen lips, and stood for quite a while in silence as we continued to stare in the direction the odd couple had gone.
It was Firmin who finally grew the nerve to ask: "That was… strange, right?"
We had known each other for twenty-five years, and were often more plain-spoken in each other's company than in even our own spouses'. Societal expectations of politeness were disregarded more often than not between us; for the two of us had seen so many sides of each other – had shared a bed and more in our days and nights of poverty – that to engage in the "gracious, infamous art of the notorious notion of that unrivaled Parisian sense of discretion" (as Firmin liked to succinctly refer to it) at this point would be an outright insult.
So I responded forthright. "Very much so, I'd say."
"L'Esprit never once mentioned to us that he had worked on the Opera," Firmin said quietly, restating the very same thought I'd had earlier. "Why do you think that is?"
"He's a private man, I suppose. Private… and strange."
"But there must be more to it than that!" Firmin clenched his fist. "Such an important, relevant detail to the job and he doesn't even care to bring it up? That's more than private – that's intentional!"
"You think he's hiding something?"
Firmin closed his mouth in a terse line and shrugged pointedly. "I don't know what opinion to have at this point. We hardly know the man."
"He's our associate," I said uneasily. "We should at least give him the benefit of the doubt, shouldn't we?"
"I suppose… we may be reading into this far more than we should. It is quite late, after all. Perhaps we can sleep on it and our minds will be clearer in the morning…" Firmin suddenly stopped and shook my shoulders. "We need to speak with Monsieur Khan tonight!"
"The Persian fellow?" I asked. "What are you, mad? The patrons are already paranoid enough as it is, why do you want to bring that superstitious man back around?"
"Because there is an Opera Ghost!" he cried. "And he's bound to be furious when he discovers the patrons are hiring a private investigator! Oh, we are certainly doomed in that case! So! - we need to talk to Monsieur Khan and figure out how to save ourselves!"
I paled as I caught on to Firmin's train of thought. "The last thing Monsieur Khan told us was to remain on our guards… and that was just his advice for dealing with L'Esprit! Whatever will he say when we come to him with this?!"
"I suppose we'll have to find out, Andre! Come, let us go…!"
Once again we found ourselves on the brownstone stoop of the Persian's quaint flat on the Rue de Rivoli.
It was an unflattering façade in the nighttime light. Unflattering meaning unspectacular, of course. The Persian had no adornments outside his door; no decorations or flowerboxes to give a sign of the character of man who dwelled within. For a moment – just a moment, and nothing longer – I pondered if perhaps, like the Opera Ghost, there was a secret to this man hiding just below the surface, and if perhaps this one secret might in fact be the key to the other… but again, I pondered this only for a moment. Idle thoughts are, after all, fleeting by nature.
I raised my closed fist to the door then to knock, but in the last split second before contact, Firmin held my wrist back and said: "Listen!"
And so I did. Murmured voices within the flat could be heard, although they couldn't carry more than the rolling timber of a muted conversation.
"He has company," I noted. We suddenly shared a suspicious glance. "Do you think…?"
Who else might be visiting the Persian at this hour… save the Opera Ghost? After all, we didn't know what the Persian got up to in his free time!
So we pitched our ears against the wood panel of the door and strained to hear.
"I must confess, I'm almost afraid to ask what your purpose for being here is."
That was the Persian's voice!
"Well…" A man's voice, it seemed - but indeterminate in nature, for he uttered nothing further. Still we wondered: could it be him?!
"Should I take a wild guess and assume it has something to do with the burial that never happened?" That was the Persian again!
"…You knew?" It was a familiar voice! But I couldn't quite put my finger on it…
The Persian: "Unfortunately I must admit it was my idea. He was against it, honestly, but I thought it might be a way to settle the matter discretely. I see now it was a foolish thing to attempt. Was Mademoiselle Daae very upset with us?"
"Somehow no. She's in odd sorts, though, I'd say. I asked her to flee with me and she said she felt safe enough to stay in Paris." No, this wasn't the ghost speaking, it was… the Vicomte de Chagny?! But what was he doing here? And what was this business about Mademoiselle Daaé?
The Persian: "You know she isn't…"
The Vicomte: "Of course I know! But she doesn't see reason where he's involved. I know you said he was a magician, but this is simply more than smoke and mirrors! He has her absolutely spellbound – bewitched – enchanted - even after all that has occurred!"
Firmin and I chanced a curious glance at each other. There was no doubt as to who they were speaking about when they said 'HE', for the only being anyone ever referred to in that deferential tone was the Opera Ghost himself! But all that we were hearing now was news to us. What had happened? We'd heard rumors for months, but was Mademoiselle Daaé – and the Vicomte then, by extension – truly involved with the spectral activity within our musical halls?
The Persian: "Never let him hear you say that. You'd give him hope. And hope is a very dangerous thing for him to wield right now." Why?! We pleaded silently for the Persian to further expound upon this mysterious character, but to no avail. "Anyway, he mentioned a doctor was involved. He said he 'ruined everything'. What was that about?"
The Vicomte: "Ah, that was Doctor Barye. Well, what did he expect? We thought he was dead!"
Well, wasn't he? The opera ghost certainly couldn't have been alive and walking around all these years – that'd be simply ridiculous! But what about Doctor Barye? We'd seen him just briefly this morning, hadn't we? And he'd been rambling on some nonsense about… about…
The Persian: "Doctor Barye is a retired psychiatrist. He's not even practicing! Why did you ever bring him down there with you two? What did you let him see?"
The Vicomte: "How were we supposed to know we shouldn't? He saw everything… the lake, the house, the casket! Everything!"
Could it have been true, then, what Doctor Barye had said to us this morning? He'd mentioned a man living beneath the Opera. A man… and now a house. A casket, too, but that was the most reasonable claim of the lot, probably, considering the nature of the Opera Ghost. And, yes, a lake too… but we knew about that, didn't we? We'd be irresponsible managers to not know about the little cistern the builders left for us in the fifth cellar. But a man and a house – now those were new!
But wait! L'Esprit went down there with Doctor Barye, and he told us there was nothing down there. So what were the Vicomte and the Persian talking about?
The Persian: "No wonder he was in such a foul mood the other day."
The Vicomte: "But, you must understand - that's not all!"
As it turns out, we didn't get to find out what else the Vicomte had to say on the matter, for at that very moment the door opened spontaneously and we, having leaned our entire weights against the door to hear, fell forward into the apartment in a comical assortment of limbs.
"Master," the manservant Darius called as he stood before us with his arms crossed sternly, "it appears you have some visitors that were too bashful to knock…"
The Persian and the Vicomte came sprinting into the receiving hall to find us dusting ourselves off.
"Messieurs Andre and Firmin," the Persian addressed us tersely, as he sized the situation up and looked between us both, clutching his pipe at his side as if it were a charm against malificence, "it is rather late for visiting tonight. I should rather like to receive you tomorrow, if possible, after the day has begun and the sun has risen… fully…"
Firmin grew red in the face with his embarrassment, having been caught out of accordance with social graces. I, on the other hand, had dabbled in a more artistic and laissez-faire crowd in my youth and still retained a fair amount of willful ignorance in that regard. Unfazed, then, but extremely perturbed by the very real threat of the Opera Ghost to the point that I almost felt his fetid breath upon my neck, I pleaded with the Persian. "We must speak with you tonight! Tomorrow may be too late!"
It was a long and tense - but singular - moment that the Persian and I locked wills with one another, burning constitutions and pitting resolutions between us, before at last the man sighed with a sense of deep resignation. "About what?"
I… honestly had not expected to win that battle of wills.
"It's – hmm," I faltered.
My mind instantly ran again through the conversation I had just overheard, and in a moment of self doubt I worried we had it all wrong. Perhaps we misunderstood – we knew nothing of the Vicomte and the Persian, and perhaps they were not speaking of the Opera Ghost but of someone else entirely. Had they even mentioned the ghost by name?! No! Simply by that one little word – 'he' – which could refer to anyone! Thereupon I suddenly became afraid to say anything related to the Opera Ghost in front of the Vicomte.
The Persian regarded me peculiarly, and after noting my extended silence he asked, not without the faintest hint of unease, "Is there something new to tell me regarding the Opera Ghost?"
"The hypothetical ghost, you mean," Firmin said, gesturing covertly to the presence of the Vicomte. Clearly he was nervous too! "There is no real ghost, because that would be ridiculous."
"Quite ridiculous," I chortled nervously. Regardless of what the Vicomte thought he knew, he was a patron – and we needed the patrons to be confident in the unghostly nature of our opera house if we ever hoped for them to invest in us again!
"So if you're referring to the imaginary specter that definitely is not haunting our halls, then – yes, there is something new," Firmin said. "We have reason to believe we are about to upset this ghost quite terribly."
The Persian sighed. "Oh, that. I've heard."
"We were just speaking about it," the Vicomte piped up. So they were talking about the Opera Ghost! Blast my ill-timed self-consciousness! "I had some concerns as well."
"Concerns?" I asked.
The Vicomte explained, "About the so-called opera ghost, of course."
"The ghost!" Firmin and I cried together. So-called? Did he know or not? Best to err on the side of caution! "Oh, Monsieur le Vicomte, don't tell us now you're worried about that horrid tale! Scandal! Slander! That's all it is! Weren't you the one who denied the ghost's existence so vehemently over supper?"
"Well, what was I supposed to tell the others? We can't very well let them know the truth. Imagine the disaster…"
Ah! So he did know!
"We can! And that's why – well, that's why we came here, at any rate." We looked at the Persian. "We need your help."
"For what, exactly?"
"You need to protect us from this wraith's wrath!"
The Persian laughed, and it was such a good-natured laugh I nearly felt at ease. But then he spoke. "I can do no such thing. If he wants to hurt you, he will. I've never been able to stop him from doing as he pleases."
"Which is why I think my proposal is best," the Vicomte added, pointedly looking at the Persian.
"Absolutely not!" the Persian said. "That would do nothing more than irritate him!"
Firmin looked curious, however. "What is this… proposal, Monsieur le Vicomte?"
The Vicomte clasped his hands together thoughtfully, and said, "I would like Monsieur Khan here to play the role of the private investigator for us."
"Absolutely not!" Firmin said, echoing the Persian's sentiments. "We need to convince the patrons that the ghost isn't real, not the other way around! No offense, Monsieur Khan, but I think your presence would severely undermine our position here!"
"He wouldn't tell them the truth, obviously," the Vicomte explained with exasperation.
"In that case, that's an excellent plan," Firmin cheered. "Monsieur Khan, what can we offer you to make you accept?"
"It's not a matter of compensation," the Persian argued. "I just don't think this is a good plan. I've already asked so much of him in the recent weeks, and he has been uncharacteristically obliging. I mean – Monsieur le Vicomte, you must understand, after all I've asked of him, I'm afraid he would take it as an insult if I increased my watch over him. He likes his privacy."
"Well, then he should have thought about that before he started this whole charade," the Vicomte argued. "Anyway, if you don't do this, the other patrons will hire an actual detective, and then we'll all be in peril. Is that what you want, Nadir? Do you think that's what he wants?"
"It is the best arrangement that can be made, I suppose," Monsieur Khan sighed in resignation. "But still, he will not be happy."
"I don't care if he's happy; this is what we're doing," the Vicomte retorted childishly.
"I'm sorry, but don't we, well – care – if the ghost is happy?" I asked nervously. "It behooves us to keep the ghost content, right?"
The Vicomte and the Persian shared a look for a long beat, before finally the Persian's shoulders slumped in resignation. "I will, I suppose, find a way to make him understand in this case. It shouldn't be too painfully difficult this time, at least, all things considered."
"What things?" Firmin probed.
"Curiosity killed the cat," the Persian reminded with a solemn shake of his head. "What I will say – he wants what we want, for once. All of us would prefer this opera ghost business to go away and for the patrons to drop the subject once and for all. If this is the way it must be done, he will understand."
"I doubt he'll be very accomodating, though," the Vicomte snorted.
"You would be surprised," the Persian said. "He and I had a similar arrangement in Persia - he even seemed to enjoy it. I was ordered to follow him and report all of his actions to the Shah. Of course, he could never be followed, so we fabricated stories for me to report back with. He's very imaginative, I'm sure you know. Most of the stories were far more interesting than whatever he was actually doing… or so he said, come to think of it…"
"Monsieur Khan, exactly how well do you know the opera ghost?" Firmin demanded, taking the words right out of my mouth.
"Better than most," the Persian said vaguely.
"Except Christine," the Vicomte said with a roll of his eyes – before realizing what he said and slapping a hand over his mouth.
This time I asked. "Exactly what does Christine Daaé have to do with the opera ghost?!"
"Nothing!" The Vicomte and the Persian cried defensively in unison. "Nothing at all!"
"At any rate, I believe we are agreed?" the Vicomte said nervously, itching to get away from his misspeak.
Firmin and I glanced at each other, reluctant to let this thread go. Assuredly pursuing now would reveal further answers… we saw now that the mystery of the opera ghost was far more complicated than we had initially assumed. But rather than further upset our fragile allies, we decided to concede. We finished up arrangements and then made to leave the Persian's flat for the night. The hour had grown quite late by this point, and even I, who typically had no shame in disregarding proprietry, knew we had well overstayed our welcome.
At the door, as I was shrugging on my cloak, Firmin cast me an offhand comment. "So who gets the terrible task of telling L'Esprit what we're up to?"
"Do we have to tell him?" I asked, only half joking.
Firmin made a sour face. "Unfortunately. It's only proper. He's part of the Opera management. Certainly, though, he's sure to mock us brutally for believing in what he thinks to be but a mere fairytale…"
"I can't say for sure," the Vicomte suddenly interjected, standing in the hall with us but making no effort to reach for his cloak, "but I think Monsieur L'Esprit might have a change of heart after my discussion with him tonight."
A clatter sounded and we all spun around to see the Persian had dropped his pipe. With eyes the size of saucers, he demanded, urgently, of the Vicomte, "You two spoke to each other?"
"Of course. We were all at the same dinner together, after all."
"And - and… what happened?!" The Persian sounded like he couldn't believe his ears. If I didn't know any better, I would say it sounded like he was asking if some poor soul had been slain!
"I merely warned Monsieur L'Esprit about the danger of continuing on as he's been – going against the wishes of the so-called opera ghost, and the like. He seemed dreadfully pale after I said that to him and so I made him sit down and catch his breath... I think for all his talk, he's actually afraid of the so-called opera ghost."
There it was again, that curious phrase! The Vicomte had said it thrice now: the so-called opera ghost. And each time with such blatant cheekiness! As if it were all just a big joke that the rest of us weren't a part of! If he believed in the presence, and yet still doubted its very being… what did that mean?!
The Persian stared slack-jawed at the Vicomte, before echoing my internal sentiments. "You must be joking."
"Ha! Joking, I am not. But isn't this funny? - L'Esprit said basically that same exact thing to me just this very evening!" the Vicomte said with tastelessly good humor.
The Persian pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered, "Allah, save us all…"
Save us all from what? I wished to ask.
The Vicomte ignored the Persian's plea and continued on. "We spoke casually until Monsieur L'Esprit felt better, and then he congratulated me on my recent engagement – which is quite interesting, because I haven't even announced it publicly yet, but I guess word spreads quickly around the Opera…"
"He congratulated you?" the Persian demanded.
"Well, yes," the Vicomte replied. "Is that so strange?"
"He… congratulated…. you…?" the Persian repeated in a mix of utter shock and horror.
The Vicomte gave a strange look to him, and reaffirmed, "Yes, Nadir. That's what I said."
"Oh, Allah…" The Persian stumbled backwards onto an ottoman delivered just in time by his manservant Darius. "We are all doomed!"
The Persian's outcry was admittedly comical to me. L'Esprit had never shared a shred of emotion with any of us, and here he was congratulating this young slip of an aristocrat on his recent engagement! Was it to turn out that after all this time, the dark and brooding L'Esprit actually had a romantic bone in his body? Dare we think of him in that way? Could it be he was a starry-eyed dreamer just like the rest of us? An impractically fanciful optimist with a penchant for love and all the charms that came with it? An unwittingly sensual lover? An unrepetantly hedonistic lover? A devotee of all those bodily joys of the flesh? Anything was possible… we were learning so much about the man tonight!
Still… doomed?
"Monsieur Khan!" Firmin fretted. "If there is a problem you need to tell us!"
But the Vicomte just put his hand up calmly. "It's all fine. Absolutely nothing is wrong. Monsieur Khan here is just concerned about my engagement. The so-called opera ghost was very much against it." He sent the Persian a firm glare. "But that matter is settled… as per his terms. Correct?"
"Correct," the Persian whispered.
"So there is nothing to worry about," the Vicomte said with the confidence of a young boy who'd won but a single schoolyard fight. "I will simply not let Christine take a single step within the opera house ever again. See? Everything will be fine and everyone will be safe."
"Let us hope so," the Persian again whispered.
But Firmin was not as easily settled. "You can't be serious! She's our leading lady! We only just debuted her - the public has barely had a chance to pay to see her!"
"And what of the opera ghost?!" I added. "We only just gave her the lead… at his request!"
"He already understands." It was not the Vicomte but the Persian who replied. "He agrees it is for the best if Mademoiselle Daaé does not renew her contract."
"But – but!" we sputtered.
"So it is agreed, then?" The Persian looked to the Vicomte.
"Perfectly agreed. All that's left is to tell Christine. I'm sure she'll take it well."
The three of us each gave a doubtful look to the Vicomte. Firmin and I were married men who knew you could never just tell a woman to do something, and I could only assume that perhaps Monsieur Khan had reason to know this as well…
"So L'Esprit…" the Vicomte trailed off.
"We'll tell him on Monday. Perhaps after a weekend with that lady he'll be in good humor, and he'll take it well."
"Oh!" the Vicomte laughed. "You saw it too, then? I thought I was the only one!"
"The way she wrapped her arms around him?" Firmin laughed. "I'm convinced L'Esprit will soon be our latest scandal… the woman's hardly been a widow a month!"
"A dramatic affair fitting for a man in a dramatic business," I chortled as well.
The Persian spun his head among the three of us in confusion. "What woman?"
"Madame Maturin!" the Vicomte said inbetween his hee's and haw's. "Surely you know her, Nadir. Her husband was Monsieur Maturin!"
"The old opera owner who was killed by the chandelier crash? That Maturin?" The Persian put his head in his hands. "I don't even know what to say anymore."
"Well, you know him better than we do, Monsieur Khan," I clapped my hand on his shoulder. "Best tell your friend what a scandal he's bound to be making!"
The Persian eyes might have left their sockets. "Who said we know each other?!"
"Why, is it a secret? L'Esprit's the one who told us!"
Exhaustion wrought its name across the Persian's forehead, and he suddenly appeared to us very tired. "And he calls me the great booby," Monsieur Khan muttered under his breath, before answering us, "Yes, we are acquainted."
How odd!
"Through the opera?" The Vicomte asked, curious.
The Persian gave him a strange look. "No… from Persia. You know that, Raoul… remember?"
Odder still!
"What was L'Esprit doing in Persia?" Firmin inquired.
The Persian stared at the wall, a full range of emotions flipping on his face before he landed on a suitable word. "Architecture."
"Wait. Isn't that what he was doing over there?" the Vicomte asked.
He, as in the opera ghost, of course.
The Persian nodded silently, eyeing the Vicomte very curiously still.
"What an odd set of circumstances," Firmin announced, "that you, L'Esprit, and the Opera Ghost were all once in Persia."
Entirely too odd!
"Did L'Esprit know of the Opera Ghost when he was there?" I asked. "Did they work together on the same projects?"
The Persian frowned. "I don't really know how to answer that."
"If they did, that could explain why L'Esprit has so much disdain for the ghost," I mused. "I wonder if L'Esprit ever spoke to him in the same manner that he speaks to us! I mean - can you imagine, Firmin?"
"I can, Andre, don't worry," Firmin groaned. "L'Esprit has absolutely no tact when it comes to conversation…"
"It's like no one ever taught him simple manners," I groused.
"Almost as if he's spent his entire life underground…" Firmin grumbled.
"Huh…?" The Vicomte's left eyebrow suddenly arched, a thought apparently churning slowly in his mind.
But that thought never quite made it to fruition, because at that moment the Persian rose from his ottoman and addressed us while looking pointedly at the exotic timepiece hanging upon the wall. "Messieurs, the hour has grown rather late. I think we have all said more than enough for one night, no?"
It was late, I found myself agreeing. Far too late to intrude any further, although I desperately wished to know more. It was as if we were hanging on the precipice of a finally decent conversation, something worthwhile to satisfy all my haunted questions. Yet my curiosity remained unrelieved, and I felt towardly begrudged – but still I relented.
"You'll be around, though?" I asked hopefully.
"I will," the Persian nodded solemnly, "arrive in the morning to speak with… your colleague."
"So you will tell L'Esprit the plan?"
"Yes. Fine. Whatever," the Persian ushered us out of his flat with those words. "But we can discuss it more in the morning. Goodnight, Messieurs."
"Goodnight, Monsieur Kh-"
The door closed in our faces before we could finish. Out on the stoop, where we had stood earlier on the evening, we found the snow had crystalized to a murkier muddy mess than before. If ever grime could gleam, it was here on the Persian's front stoop.
Firmin and I looped our arms together – for balance! – and made our way back down the road to our respective homes. At the spot where we had to part ways, we kissed each other's cheeks and wished each other a very fond good night as per the Parisian way. Many nights we did pass together… but this was one night we knew we needed to pass alone. And in a cold bed, with my wife's form rolled to the far edge of the bed so as not to touch me, I found myself so burdoned with thoughts that I was unable to sleep.
Nadir
After I finally saw the opera managers out – Darius had long since retired - I returned to my sitting room to find the young Vicomte standing by the window, a hand held up to pull the curtains aside.
He looked young – too young. I had never taken the time to actually look at him. This was the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny, in full color. This was the bane of Erik's existance – his bête noire, as the French would say – for even though he had only come into Erik's life in the past few months, I could see he represented something far larger to Erik as a whole. This was the boy who held Christine's heart… who had money, youth, status, a fair head of hair and, worst of all, a handsome face. He was everything Erik was not, and everything I knew Erik wished to be.
But he was so young, and Erik was so old. Wasn't Erik too old for petty grievances? Hadn't he grown and matured like the rest of us old men? The young Erik I had brought to Persia surely had fire and energy in his soul, a temper to set the world alight – and he nearly did! If that Erik had been in this unhappy love triangle, I might have expected such a tempestuous fallout. But Erik had aged thirty years and still behaved like a lovelorn suitor in a situation where all the odds were clearly cast against him from the very outset. Despite having a mind capable of grasping limitless infinities, he instead concerned himself with pointlessly battling with a boy not even half his age.
But it was no different than his time in Persia. Erik had always had the means to make something greater than he did in the end. Such boundless potential… always wasted.
Perhaps therapy with Doctor Barye would be good for him. At least he'd agreed to that.
"Nadir," Raoul said, stirring me from my musings. "You will tell me if something goes wrong, right?"
"I make no promises where Erik is concerned."
I pondered telling him, right then and there, the fact that he had missed an important detail. It was clear he hadn't yet realized that Erik was Charles L'Esprit – and what a ridiculously obvious name it was! – and I worried what further trouble he would land himself in by operating around the opera without that knowledge. At the same time, he'd already talked to Erik without knowing it, and things seemed to have gone… well. That is, if Erik congratulating Raoul on his engagement to Mademoiselle Daaé could be considered well. Perhaps it was better to keep him in the dark, so he couldn't worsen the situation by reacting brazenly. But how could I make that judgement for him? Wasn't Erik a force to be feared? Didn't Raoul have the right to know? Before I could decide, though, Raoul spoke instead.
"Right." He blew some air, and pulled the curtain tauter in his hand, apparently straining to see something distant through the glass. "I don't think I'll ever understand your relationship with him."
Do I tell him? Do I not?
"It baffles me, as well."
The curtain was stretched so taut it was nearly translucent. "Christine thinks I'm being unreasonable for worrying about all of this."
"I'm not surprised that you are. At the same time – if you knew Erik, you would understand better."
"But not completely?"
"It's impossible to fully know Erik. I doubt he knows himself. But… I can tell you Erik's intentions are not bad this time. Selfish, certainly, but even then - only to a point." I paused. "You do know he still loves Christine, and would do anything for her?"
A single loop of stitching pulled from the seam near the curtain rod. "How could I forget?"
"At the end of all of this, like you said earlier this evening… Christine is the one who knows him best. As long as she is not concerned, we should not have to be either. I do not think he would jeopardize her happiness for anything – even to achieve his own - at this point."
"I was afraid you would say that." He let the curtain drop. "I suppose I should see myself out. Good night, Monsieur Khan."
No, I was right the first time. It was better for him not to know.