The men had finished their back nine of golf and were having lunch at the 19th Hole. Andre Moncharmin started his second Manhattan, and listened to the idle talk at the table. Philippe was teasing Albert Davis for his lengthy stay at the twelfth hole when Andre's phone rang. Looking at the caller's name, he hastily excused himself and walked outside and around the corner checking for privacy. Satisfied, he took the call.
"I had nearly given up on you. I'm meeting with Reauchard tonight; I certainly hope you've come up with a way to stall him. He's anything but patient." He listened to the voice, his ire increasing.
"You can't be serious! No. What- ? I said no, didn't I? Time is running out and he'll want all the particulars, and this is what you're giving me?"
His face went an unhealthy shade of red. "Yes, you're damned right. I am afraid of him! Those freakish eyes that don't blink. I thought I left all of that behind in Paris!" He shuddered and took a deep breath letting it out harshly.
He paused when the man on the other end spoke again, then exclaimed, "You don't say! He did? Philippe?" Their conversation continued a few minutes more, then Moncharmin walked back inside the restaurant and took his seat again.
De Chagny turned to him smiling. "Everything all right, Andre? Any problems?"
"No, no, nothing wrong. Simply a few minor details that Reyer wanted to discuss concerning the next ballet scheduled." He looked at Philippe, seeing his host in quite a new light. Well, we all have our little secrets, don't we?
Erik found himself back at Chagny close to midnight; the night was warm and cloudy. Getting in unseen wasn't difficult, and he soon slipped inside Moncharmin's room. The man rose from a chair near the window and stood nervously watching the Phantom's approach.
"Quite unusual wouldn't you say, having an attack of the nerves given your line of work?" Reauchard was smiling, but it was far more wolfish than friendly. He advanced into the room and seated himself in the other chair. He leaned back crossing his long legs, and laced pale fingers together beneath his chin, studying Moncharmin closely.
"Well, Andre, time is becoming precious. What about the information I requested of you?"
Moncharmin looked at the man impersonating a human, and was struck again by how calm and composed he was for this deadly business. He chose his words carefully. "The hit will definitely take place at the ceremony on July 3rd in the military park. At the site of the so-called Pickett's Charge."
"Who, my ami?" he asked softly.
"I...do not know." He looked at Erik, the words pouring out of his mouth in a rush. "My informant doesn't know who the trigger man is yet, but he will...he will. I swear you will know very soon. I've always given you the information you requested, haven't I?"
He didn't look Reauchard in the eye, but sat down and leaned forward, his trembling hands clutching his knees. "There is something else you should know." Andre paused and shot Erik a quick glance, then looked away. "For what it's worth, Philippe de Chagny is an ex-Navy Seal and not so very long ago became a mercenary. Which means he could be trouble."
"Philippe de Chagny does indeed have a solid friend in you," Erik sneered.
Andre had the grace to flush. "I find it interesting that Philippe worked so hard to be on the planning committee for the president's visit." He shook his head. "I've always wondered- to what purpose? He has never been a social butterfly; that's usually the objective of a wife, which he doesn't have. Couple that with his mercenary work- " He shrugged.
Erik continued watching Moncharmin, knowing the man's abhorrence for him, and using it to his advantage. Fear, after all was a wonderful motivator. It made men like this, enthusiastic windbags.
"I fail to see the significance. He has an established home here. Even if he became a rich man from the president's death, he would be in hiding for the rest of his life." He leaned forward and studied him closely. "However, by all means observe Monsieur de Chagny, if it pleases you."
Erik's eyes took on a preternatural glow. "In the meantime, I will be watching, Andre. I don't trust you," he said quietly. But you have something that I do not. An informant who can tell me what I need to know." He added very softly,"Do not even think of selling me out. You will regret it."
Erik got up from his chair and leaned down until he was mere inches from Moncharmin's face. "I need to bring this business to a satisfying conclusion. Unfortunately, I require your help to accomplish that. You're not getting paid for the usual type of information you've supplied me with at the Garnier. This is a far more delicate matter which must be handled in a timely fashion." His eyes burned into the other man's.
Andre could only stare back at him, mesmerized by the creature's unwavering regard. He had often wondered what Reauchard was hiding beneath the mask. It must be truly terrible, judging by the fearsome eyes burning into his. Unnatural eyes which looked right through him, making him feel as if his dirtiest and most shameful secrets were on display. "I swear you can trust me, monsieur. By all that's holy- I won't let you down," he whispered.
"I sincerely hope your informant works better for you than your managing of the Garnier."
Moncharmin could only shrug and reiterate that he would have the information the Phantom needed as soon as possible.
Erik nodded finally, and straightened up. "I need to look at a guest list. Can you manage to do that?"
"Yes, I think that can be arranged."
"Excellent." Erik started for the door, then stopped and glanced back at Moncharmin. "Your informant- who is he?" he asked softly.
"I don't know much about him, and even if I did- you realize, I wouldn't be able to tell you."
Erik"s gaze was frosty. "Finally growing a pair are we?"
After he left, Moncharmin slumped down in his chair. Suddenly he felt far too old and frail for this lifestyle.
After leaving Moncharmin, he planted audio surveillance equipment throughout the house, paying special attention to the office he found on the first floor and the study through which he entered. The mansion was quiet, its inhabitants asleep for the night; he moved on gliding feet around Chagny cataloging the rooms in his mind for future reference. He eventually stood in front of a pair of stout oak doors which he cautiously opened.
The library was before him and quite a large one at that; he admired the rows upon rows of books, moving steadily toward the back of the room. He noticed the spiral staircase disappearing into the thick shadows above and mounted the first iron step, intent on seeing what was up there. He arrived at the top of the stairs, where more shelves were located and little else. Erik backtracked the way he came, and when he reached the bottom step, he spied the narrow door tucked away directly under the stairs.
He walked over and gently jiggled the knob finding it locked. Using his pick, within seconds he was stepping through the doorway into a very narrow passage covered in cobwebs and dust. His eyesight worked very well in low light conditions; finding his way around in the dark was no hardship for him, but the tunnel was nearly black as pitch. He pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and switched it on.
Closing the door behind him, he moved forward in the passage, noting that the thick dust on the uneven brick floor was undisturbed. The passage moved downward at a gentle grade for quite a ways, but eventually leveled out. The ceiling of the tunnel was barely a foot above his head, but high enough that he could walk comfortably upright. Every so often, a side passage opened to the right or left, undisturbed as well.
There was dampness in the claustrophobic tunnel and the brick walls dripped moisture, the mustiness and mildew odor almost overpowering in places. At last the tunnel came to a dead-end, and Erik having nowhere else to go, looked up at the ceiling, spying a rusty grate set into the stone. Long, spindly branches from shrubbery overhead, snaked through the metalwork. He grabbed onto the bars of the grate and shook them, gauging their strength, before he saw the sturdy padlock snugly encircling the bars and an iron ring set into the wall just below the grate.
Again, the pick made short work of the padlock, and opening it, he hoisted himself easily through the narrow opening and into the silent night. Quickly he glanced around, making certain he was alone. He was in a wide clearing dotted with scrub trees and mountain laurel, surrounded on three sides by woods that stretched out further than he could determine. Westward, the clearing gave way to a blacktop road well lit by low pressure sodium lamps.
The grate was partially hidden, overgrown with forsythia bushes; to the casual observer it didn't exist. He had read of passages such as this, used for the transporting of runaway slaves to safety in the larger cities of the North; perhaps Chagny was once a part of the so-called underground railroad. He dusted off his hands and started walking in a westerly direction toward the road.
An occasional bird chirruped, disturbed by his passing; the night was still and the ground covered in a heavy dew. He passed wraith-like through the clearing; if anyone had happened to look his way, they would have been puzzled and not a little frightened at the sight meeting their eyes. A shadow moving silently and with speed, two yellow points of light hovering well over six feet off the ground. That same person would stay absolutely still until the shade passed by, wishing he was in a room well lit and filled with noise and laughter, not realizing he was seeing a man made of blood and bone the same as himself. A unique man, but a man nonetheless.
As it was, Erik was completely alone that night. He walked for a few minutes until he was standing at the edge of the road. He turned to his left, and keeping away from the street lights as much as possible, he walked a short distance until he came to a dilapidated shed obviously abandoned, and overgrown with poison ivy.
Tonight's discoveries were going to be very helpful indeed.