The Phantom of Manhattan

by Frederick Forsyth

  So we sat, the three of us, and to make conversation I asked the priest if he had enjoyed New York. ‘Very much,’ he said, a fine city, and full of his compatriots. ‘And Coney Island?’ I asked. At this he became grim. ‘A strange place,’ he said at last, ‘with some strange people on it.’ ‘The Funmaster?’ I asked him. ‘Him … and others,’ he said.

  ‘Still the innocent abroad,’ I blundered on. ‘Oh, you mean Darius,’ I said. At once he spun round upon me, his blue eyes boring like gimlets. ‘How do you know him?’ he asked. ‘I met him once before,’ I replied. ‘Tell me where and when,’ he said, and it was more like an order than a request. But the affair of the letter seemed harmless enough so I explained what had happened between me and the Parisian lawyer Dufour, and of our visit to the penthouse suite at the top of the city’s highest tower. It simply never occurred to me that Father Kilfoyle, apart from being the boy’s tutor, was also the father confessor to both vicomte and vicomtesse.

  Sometime during this the Vicomte de Chagny, evidently bored by his lack of understanding of English, had excused himself and gone back upstairs. I continued with my narrative, explaining that I had been surprised when Darius ran past me in the funfair, looking distraught, shouted three incomprehensible words, had his brief eyeball confrontation with Father Kilfoyle and had then driven off. The priest listened in frowning silence, then asked: ‘Do you remember what he said?’ I explained it was in a foreign language, but that I had jotted down what I thought I had heard on, of all places, my left plastic cuff.

  At this point Monsieur de Chagny came back. He seemed worried, and spoke rapidly in French to Father Kilfoyle who translated for me. ‘They are not there. Mother and son are not to be found.’ Of course, I knew why, and tried to be reassuring by saying, ‘Don’t worry. They have gone out to a meeting.’

  The priest stared at me hard, forgetting to ask how I knew, but simply repeated the word: meeting? ‘Just to say goodbye to an old friend, a Mr Erik,’ I added, still trying to be helpful. The Irishman kept staring at me and then seemed to recall what we had been talking about before the vicomte returned to us. He reached across, grabbed my left forearm, pulled it towards him and turned it over.

  And there they were, the three words in pencil. For ten days that cuff had lain among others on my dressing-table and that morning I had by chance grabbed it again and slipped it over my wrist. Father Kilfoyle gave the cuff one glance and let out a single word that I never knew Catholic priests were aware of, let alone used. But he did. Then he was up, dragging me out of the chair by the throat, shouting into my face, ‘Where in God’s name did she go?’ ‘Battery Park,’ I croaked.

  He was off, racing to the lobby, with me and the hapless vicomte running along behind him. Through the main doors he went, and found a brougham under the marquee with a top-hatted gentleman about to climb in. The poor man was seized by the jacket and hurled aside as the man in the cassock leapt inside, shouting to the coachman, ‘Battery Park. Drive like the devil himself.’ I was just in time to jump in after, and hauled the poor Frenchman after me as the carriage hit the road.

  All through the drive Father Kilfoyle was hunched in his seat in the corner, hands clasping the cross on the chain round his neck. He was furiously murmuring, ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, grant that we may be in time.’ At one point he paused and I leaned across, pointing to the pencil marks on my cuff. ‘What do they mean?’ I asked. He seemed to take some time to focus on my face.

  ‘DELENDA EST FILIUS,’ he replied, repeating the words I had written down. ‘They mean: THE SON MUST BE DESTROYED.’ I leaned back, feeling sick.

  It was not the prima donna who was in danger from the crazed man who had run past me at Coney Island, but her son. But still there was a mystery. Why would Darius, obsessed though he might be at the thought of inheriting his master’s fortune, want to kill the harmless son of the French couple? The carriage raced on down an almost empty Broadway and over to the east, beyond Brooklyn, the dawn began to pink the sky. We arrived at the main gate on State Street and the priest was out and running into the park.

  Now Battery Park then was not as it is now. Today vagrants and derelicts adorn the grass lawns. Then it was a quiet and placid place with a network of paths and walkways spreading out from Castle Clinton, and among them recesses and arbours with stone benches, in any one of which we might find the people we were looking for.

  Outside the gate of the park I noticed three separate carriages. One was a closed brougham in the livery of the Waldorf-Astoria itself, clearly the one that had brought the vicomtesse and her son. The coachman sat on his box, huddled against the cold. The second was another of equal size, but unmarked; nevertheless, of a style and state of repair that would be owned by a wealthy man or corporation.

  Parked some distance further on was a small carriage, the self-drive calash that I had seen ten days earlier outside the funfair. Clearly Darius had arrived too, and there was no time to waste. We all ran full tilt through the park’s gateway.

  Inside the park we split up, running in different directions the better to cover more ground. It was still dusky among the trees and hedges and hard to make out human forms as opposed to the many bushes. But after several minutes running hither and thither I heard voices, one manly, deep and musical, the other that of the beautiful opera singer. I wondered whether to turn away to find the others or to approach. In fact I crept quietly nearer, until I was behind a block of privet hedge fringing a clearing among the trees.

  I should have run forwards at once, made my presence known and shouted a warning. But the boy was not there. For one optimistic moment I thought the vicomtesse might still have left him at the hotel after all. So I paused to listen. The two stood at each side of the clearing but their low voices carried easily to where I crouched behind the hedge.

  The man was masked as ever but I knew when I saw him that it was he who had been the Union officer who had sung that amazing duet with the prima donna at the opera house and brought the audience to tears. The voice was the same, but this was the first time I had ever heard it.

  ‘Where is Pierre?’ he asked.

  ‘He is in the coach still,’ she replied. ‘I asked him to give us a few moments. He will come shortly.’

  My heart leapt. If the boy was in the coach there was a good chance that Darius, hunting somewhere in the park, would not find him.

  ‘What do you want of me?’ she asked the Phantom.

  ‘All my life I have been rejected and rebuffed, treated with cruelty and mockery. Why … you know too well. Just once, all those years ago, I thought for one fleeting hour that I might have found love. Something bigger and warmer than the endless bitterness of existence …’

  ‘Stop, Erik. It could not be, it cannot be. Once I thought you were a real ghost, my invisible Angel of Music. Later I learned the truth, that you were a man in every sense. Then I came to fear you, your power, your sometimes savage anger, your genius. But even with the fear was a compulsive fascination like a rabbit before the cobra.

  ‘That last evening, in the darkness by the lake far beneath the Opera I was so afraid I thought I would die of fear. I was half-swooning when what happened … happened. When you spared me and Raoul and vanished again into the shadows, I believed I would never see you again. Then I understood better all you had been through and felt only compassion and tenderness for my fearsome outcast.

  ‘But love, true love, anything to match that passion you felt for me … this I could not feel. Better you should have hated me.’

  ‘Never hate, Christine. Only love. I loved you then and ever since and always will. But now I accept. The wound is cauterized at last. There is another love. My son. Our son. What will you tell him of me?’

  ‘That he has a friend, a true and dear friend, here in America. In six years I will tell him the truth. That you are his real father. And he will choose. If he can accept this, that Raoul has been everything for him that a father can be, and done everything for him that a father
can do, and yet is not his real parent - then he will come to you and with my blessing.’

  I found myself rooted behind the hedge, stunned by what I had heard. Suddenly everything that had drifted by me unobserved and not understood became too clear. The letter from Paris that had told this strange hermit of a man that he had a son alive, the secret plan to bring mother and child to New York, the tryst to see them both, and most terrible of all the crazed hatred of Darius against the boy who would now displace him as the heir of the multimillionaire.

  Darius … I suddenly recalled that he too was somewhere among the shadows and was about to throw myself forward with the too-long-delayed warning. Then I heard the approaching feet of the others to my right. At this point the sun rose, flooding the glade with a pink light, turning to rose the dusting of snow that had fallen in the night. Then three figures came into view.

  From separate paths to my right the vicomte and the priest appeared. Both stopped in their tracks when they saw the man in the sweeping cape, the wide-brimmed hat and the mask that always covered his face, talking to Mme de Chagny. I heard the vicomte whisper: ‘Le Phantome.’ To my left the boy Pierre came running. Even as he did so, there was a low click close to me. I turned.

  Between two large bushes, not ten yards away, almost invisible among the remaining deep shadows, was the crouching figure of a man. He was all in black but I caught a glimpse of a bone-white face and of something in his right hand with a long barrel. I drew in air and opened my mouth to shout a warning but it was too late. What happened next was so fast that I have to slow the action down to describe it to you.

  The boy Pierre called to his mother, ‘Mama, can we go home now?’ She turned towards him with her brilliant smile, opened her arms and said, ‘Oui, cheri.’ He began to run. The figure in the bushes rose, extended his arm and followed the running boy with what turned out to be a Navy Colt. That was when I shouted, but my cry was drowned by a much louder noise.

  The boy reached his mother and passed into her embrace. But to avoid being knocked off her feet by his weight, she swept him into her arms and turned, as a parent will do. My shout of warning and the crash of the Colt came together. I saw the lovely young woman shudder as if she had been punched in the back, which in fact she had for, in turning, she had stopped the bullet intended for her son.

  The man in the mask whirled towards the gunshot, saw the figure amid the bushes, pulled something from beneath his cloak, extended his arm and fired. I heard the crack of the tiny Derringer with its single bullet, but one was enough. Ten yards from me the assassin threw both hands to his face. When he fell he crashed out of the bushes onto the snow and lay face upwards in the frosty dawn, a single hole showing black in the centre of his forehead.

  I was rooted to my spot behind the hedge. I could not move. I thank Providence there was nothing I could do anyway. What I could have done earlier, I was too late to do now, for I had seen and heard so much and understood so little.

  At the second gunshot the boy, still uncomprehending, released his mother who sank to her knees. There was a red stain already spreading on her back. The soft leaden slug had not penetrated her to hit the son in her arms, but had remained inside her. The vicomte gave a cry of ‘Christine’ and ran forward to take her in his arms. She leaned back in his embrace, looked up at him and smiled.

  Father Kilfoyle was on his knees in the snow beside her. He ripped off the broad sash around his waist, kissed both ends of it and draped it around his neck. He was praying rapidly and urgently, tears streaming down his rugged Irish face. The man in the mask dropped his small pistol in the snow and stood like a statue, head bowed. His shoulders heaved silently as he wept.

  The boy Pierre alone seemed at first unable to take in what had happened. One second his mother was embracing him, the next she was dying in front of his eyes. The first time he called ‘Mama’ it was like a question. The second and third time, like a piteous cry. Then, as if seeking explanation, he turned to the vicomte. ‘Papa?’ he asked.

  Christine de Chagny opened her eyes and her gaze found Pierre. She spoke for the last time, quite clearly, before that divine voice was silenced for ever. She said, ‘Pierre, this is not really Papa. He has brought you up as his own, but your true father is there.’ She nodded towards the bowed figure in the mask. ‘I am sorry, my darling.’

  Then she died. I will not make a big production out of it. She just died. Her eyes closed, the last breath rattled out of her and her head tilted sideways onto the chest of her husband. There was complete silence for several seconds, which seemed like an age. The boy looked from one man to the other. Then he asked of the vicomte once more, ‘Papa?’

  Now, over the past few days I had come to think of the French aristocrat as a kind and decent man but somewhat ineffectual, compared, say, to the dynamic priest. But now something seemed to come into him.

  The body of his dead wife lay cradled in the crook of his left arm. With his right hand he sought one of hers and slowly removed from it a golden ring. I recalled the closing scene at the opera, when the soldier with the shattered face had given her back that very ring as a sign that he accepted their love could never be. The French vicomte took the ring from her finger and pressed it into the palm of his devastated stepson.

  A yard away Father Kilfoyle remained on his knees. He had given the diva final absolution before death and, his duty done, he prayed for her immortal soul.

  Vicomte de Chagny scooped his dead wife up in his arms and rose to his feet. Then the man who had brought up another’s son as his own spoke in his halting English.

  ‘It is true, Pierre. Mama was right. I have done everything for you that I could, but I was never your natural father. The ring belongs to him, who is your father in God’s eyes. Give it back to him. He loved her too, and in a way I never could.

  ‘I am going to take the only woman I ever loved back to Paris, to lie in the soil of France. Today, here, this hour, you have ceased to be a boy and become a man. Now you must make your own choice.’

  He stood there, his wife in his arms, waiting for an answer. Pierre turned and stared long at the figure of the man identified as his blood father.

  The man I had come to call simply the Phantom of Manhattan stood alone with his head bowed, the very distance that separated him from the others seeming to represent the distance to which the human race had pushed him. The hermit, the eternal outsider who had once thought that he had some chance of acceptance into human joys and had been rebuffed. Now every line of his body told me he had once lost everything he ever cared for and was going to lose it all again.

  There was silence for several seconds as the boy stared across the clearing. In front of me was what the French call a tableau vivant. Six figures, two of them dead and four in pain.

  The French vicomte was on one knee cradling the torso of his dead wife. He had laid his cheek on the top of her head which lolled against his chest, stroking the dark hair as if to comfort her.

  The Phantom stood motionless, head still bowed, utterly defeated. Darius lay a few feet from me, open-eyed, staring up at a winter sky he could no longer see. The boy stood next to his stepfather, everything he had ever believed in and held to be the immutable order now torn to pieces in violence and bewilderment.

  The priest was still on his knees, face turned upwards, eyes closed, but I noticed the big hard hands clutching his metal cross and the lips moving in silent prayer. Later, still consumed by my own inability to explain what happened next, I visited him at his home in the slums of the Lower East Side. What he told me I still do not really understand, but I relate it to you.

  He said that in that noiseless clearing he could hear silent screams. He could hear the keening grief of the quiet Frenchman a few feet away. He could hear the bewildered pain of the boy whom he had tutored for six years. But over all this, he said, he could hear something else. There was in that clearing a lost soul, crying in agony like Coleridge’s wandering albatross, planing alone through a sky of pain
above an ocean of despair. He was praying that this lost soul might find safe haven in the love of God again. He was praying for a miracle which could not possibly happen. Look, I was a brash Jewish kid from the Bronx. What did I know of lost souls, redemption and miracles? I can only tell you what I saw.

  Pierre slowly walked across the clearing towards him. He lifted a hand and removed the wide-brimmed hat. I thought the man in the mask uttered a low whimper. For the skull was bald, save for a few tufts of sparse hair, and the skin was blotched with livid scars and ribbed like molten wax. Without a word the boy eased the mask away from the face.

  Now I have seen the bodies on the slabs at the Bellevue, some of them many days in the Hudson river; I have seen men killed on the fields of Europe. But I have never seen a face like the one exposed behind the mask. Only a part of the lower jaw on one side, and the eyes from which tears flowed down the ravaged cheeks seemed human in a visage otherwise so disfigured as to remain hardly human. I could at last understand why he wore his mask, and hid himself from mankind and all our society. Yet here he stood, exposed and humiliated in front of us all, and at the hand of a boy who was his own son.

  Pierre stared up at the terrible face without visible shock or revulsion for a long time. Then he dropped the mask from his right hand. He took the left hand of his father and placed the golden ring upon the third finger.

  Then he reached up with both hands, embraced the weeping man and said quite clearly, ‘I want to stay here with you, Father.’

  That’s about it, young people. Within hours the story of the assassination of the diva broke over New York. It was put down to a crazed fanatic, himself shot down at the scene of his infamy. It was a version that suited the Mayor and the city authorities. As for me, well, it was the one story in my whole career I never wrote up even though I would have been fired if that were known. Too late to write it now.