“There were distractions. There always are. The wasteful detritus of any investigation. The tenor Loubatierre being absent and refusing to give an explanation: that confounded me until I had Le Bon follow him, and found he was visiting his ailing father at the mad house in Bicetre. He simply wished to keep the stigma of insanity in his family a private affair. The other being the dramaturge Beckstein’s unrequited love for Madame Chanaud. It was he who sent the mysterious flowers with no card: camellias in symbolic celebration of her role on stage. On our first visit to the theater I noted he wore a pale pink camellia flower in his buttonhole — Lady Hume’s Blush, if I’m not mistaken — a secret signal to our ingénue that he was in love with her. If she did but care, or even notice…
“Anyway, unimportant! The crucial fact, as Holmes now knows, was Marie-Claire saying that the intruder’s face was level with her shoulder. Common sense dictated that only three possibilities existed: the figure was on its knees (unlikely in the extreme); it was a dwarf (which I considered highly fanciful); or else it was a child. From her description I had no doubt the infiltrator wore the traditional mask of Papageno the bird-catcher, birdlike itself. Confirmed when we were told the name of the previous production at the Garnier: The Magic Flute.
“The problem of the bolt on the Stage Door then presented itself. Yes, a wire from outside poked through the crack could yank up the bolt to allow entry — any pickpocket in Pigalle could show you that trick in five minutes — but why and how was the bolt shut immediately afterwards? At that stage I could not dismiss the notion that Christophe might be an accomplice. Which is why I could not tell you, my dear Holmes, of my plan on opening night. Your most minute gesture or reaction might have betrayed to the doorman the fact that the prima donna was not in her dressing room, and as a direct result our elusive Phantom may have been alerted and the chance of capture jeopardized.” Poe saw my displeasure. I could not disguise it. “Do not sulk. You thereby give the evidence that my decision was correct. It is not a fault, my good friend, but an observation and an accurate one: you wear your heart on your sleeve, and could no easier lie or deceive than you could remove the beating heart of a starving orphan. Where was I?”
“The bolt,” said Guédiguian. “Which was locked.”
“Which was locked because Christophe locked it. The man had not seen the Fantôme enter or leave — or rather he did see it leave, in that he saw the door open and close. Mystified, and thinking he would be blamed for being inattentive when the screams went up, he simply threw the bolt himself and claimed, because he had to, that the door had been closed the whole time. Self-protection being the most powerful of motives.
“My plan then was simplicity itself. The first priority was to remove Madame Chanaud from any possibility of danger. To that end I arranged that she be secreted in your office with two armed guards on opening night. I then went to a saddler to acquire protective clothing, impenetrable to the acid, and a plaster mask, lest the perpetrator see me in the mirror.
“That the criminal was a child I was certain, but a child is not a natural aggressor, it is a natural victim. What was the catalyst for such monstrous acts as these? I needed to know and my fear was that the clod-hopping police force would get in the way. It was imperative to misdirect them, and so I invented the ruse of the underground ‘lake’—a fabrication. The most cursory investigation into the building of the Opéra revealed that when Garnier first cleared the ground, water constantly bubbled up from the swamp below. All attempts to pump the site dry failed miserably. Wells were sunk, eight steam pumps were put into operation, to no avail. The only solution was to construct an enormous concrete tank, called the cuve, to relieve the pressure of the external groundwater and stop any of it rising up through the foundations. But there is no lake, no labyrinth—”
“And no Phantom,” I added. “Just an insane and frightened child.”
“Do you want cream?” Poe addressed our guest. “Sometimes the bitterness of black is too much for a person to take. I confess to having no such qualm. It’s the sweetness that I often cannot take. The universe is black. Blackness is reality. It’s a flavor I prefer untarnished.”
I had no idea if he thought he was being amusing, but Guédiguian gave a polite smile as if he was.
“Well, the main thing is, thanks to you and Monsieur Holmes, Madame Chanaud sang Violetta on opening night.”
“So I believe,” said Poe. “That was the precise intention.”
“And I have to say she was magnificent.” Guédiguian puffed his chest. “You can never be sure with the claque, but the whole of Paris is enraptured by her. I’ve never seen a success like it. She said to tell you her dream had come true after all. And to say when she sang her final aria, Monsieur Dupin, she sang it for you.”
Poe tilted his head in the most miniscule acknowledgment, his eyes a little shinier than they were before. He shifted in his chair and examined his cuffs.
“I feel I have endured an earthquake, or a volcano,” said Guédiguian, standing. “I felt at times the lava might consume me. But now all is well. The threat has passed. The mystery is solved. And what a mystery! It remains only for me to thank you for saving my business.” He extended a hand to Poe, but the writer only stared at it.
“A pity I cannot save your soul, monsieur.”
The opera director took a faltering step backward.
“Monsieur Guédiguian, if I were truly covering my tracks, I should enquire as to the motive for the crime. That would be the thought and action of an innocent man. Though I doubt you would know too intimately the actions of an innocent man, would you?”
Guédiguian retreated to his seat, ashen, and sat with his hands between his knees. “I swear. It is not—not what you imagine…”
“I am not prepared to imagine, monsieur.” Poe stood and buttoned his jacket. “I am only prepared to know. And I know I am right in thinking you have bedded both Madame Jolivet and Marie-Claire Chanaud, her former understudy. As well as many singers before them, probably. Perhaps they see it as no less than their duty, and you as no more than your privilege.”
“Please…” Guédiguian began sweating profusely and took out a handkerchief to stem the tide.
“‘Please’? It is not a question of please…” Poe refused to back off. “What I also know is that you regularly frequented the premises of Madame Floch on the Rue Blondel, known as ‘Tante Berthe’ to her girls. I’m afraid she was very illuminating when I said she might be implicated in some exceedingly violent crimes. Extremely eloquent and forthcoming.”
“Don’t…” The opera manager cringed, holding his skull in torment. I could only stare as the Master rounded on him, unabated.
“She would not normally divulge the names of her clientele, but for me she made an exception. She said you were amongst that fine coterie of men who have certain proclivities. That is, an insatiable longing for young flesh. To use the untouched and the unknowing for your gratification and—”
Guédiguian shot to his feet. “You can prove none of this! This is preposterous! I am not listening to another word! Who said such—?”
“I heard it from the lips of a child.”
Guédiguian stammered. “A child? What child?”
“The child whose bed you took, whose chastity you took, whose childhood you took, for the price of a few francs.”