Page 28 of Angel's Flight

Erik exhaled in reliefas he exited the train in Geneva.He had come to hate rail travel in recent months.He hated the noise, the shaking of the cars, and most especially, the crowds.Even with the luxury of a private compartment, there was no avoiding the hordes of people in the stations and corridors.It made his skin crawl to be so confined with his fellow man.He was exposed, always being watched, and as a creature who preferred solitude and shadows, this discomfited him in the extreme.

At least it was dark now, he told himself as he made his way through the massive, modern station, wincing at the noise of steam and steel.The last time he had arrived in Geneva, Christine had been with him, her presence a balm in the crowd.They had celebrated her birthday here, after Erik had forced them to leave the Alps.It had been a good distraction, and he had attempted to be a dutiful, doting husband who showered his wife with new dresses and gloves and whatever else she had wished for, thanks to the small fortune they had accumulated.Christine had never admonished him for keeping the money he had extorted from the Opéra, nor had she encouraged him to refuse the blood money that was his ‘inheritance.’

Maybe she should have, Erik thought, finally escaping the station and stepping into the cool, Swiss night.The money felt like such a weight, even though it gave them freedom.It was complicated to have it held in a bank, to have to deal with lawyers and bankers and all this nonsense.If he had his way, he would have simply sewn the cash into some garment and kept it hidden in a trunk...Where, Christine had told him many times, it could easily be stolen or set on fire, and then where would they be?

They could be free.

Free to wander the world as God intended, on their feet with only the sky above them and the road before them.No one could drive you out of your home when your home was the entire world, Erik mused as he looked up at the starless sky.

Tissot’s office wasn’t far from the train station.Erik assumed it would be closed this late.That would make it easier for Erik to enter undetected, find Tissot’s residence, and then go to question him.This was not, of course, strictly legal, but it didn’t matter if he wasn’t caught.It wasn’t like he would be stealing.

It gave Erik a thrill he wasn’t proud of to take stock of the offices of Tissot and Garibaldi.Locked doors were just puzzles to be solved, and he relished that none yet had defeated him.He waited until the street was empty to make his move, and he was so quick picking the lock and letting himself inside that anyone passing would think he had his own key.

Erik laughed quietly as he entered, the only sound he made as he stepped through the shadows.Last time he had been here, it had been broad daylight.It had felt so wrong to be doing business like a regular, pedestrian man with his wife beside him.This – creeping through the dark like a specter – this felt far more familiar.In some ways, he would always be a ghost.

Tissot’s office wasn’t locked, which was concerning, but at least convenient.More concerning was the state of the place as Erik could make out in the dim orange light from the gas lamps outside: it had been ransacked.The drawers were ajar, papers strewn on the floor, and ledger books were cast all about.The desk, however, was perfectly orderly, with piles of correspondence arranged next to a silver letter opener.The miniature knife had been carefully set parallel to the letter.Someone had found what they were looking for, and it was right here.

Erik drifted towards the desk, nervous energy thrumming in his veins.He knew who these papers concerned.As he reached for a match in his pocket to light the oil lamp, he saw the name: Gilbride.The name he had chosen to be a real man with real accounts, who could now be tracked and discovered.Erik reached for the oil lamp and froze as his fingers grazed the brass base.It was warm.

“I must say, your timing is impeccable,” a voice spoke from the dark.

The man who emerged, lighting a match as he did, was painfully ordinary.He had neatly parted brown hair, a thin moustache, and keen eyes behind his spectacles.

“So, you’ve been waiting for me?”Erik asked, leaning forward on the desk and spreading his hands on the papers that concerned him.“It’s an intrusion to read a man’s mail, you know.”

“Does that apply to ghosts and criminals, Erik?May I call you Erik?”the man replied politely, as he lit a gaslight on the wall.

“Only if I know what to call you.”Erik held the man’s gaze in a challenge.He hadn’t produced a weapon, but that didn’t mean he was unarmed.Erik hoped his opponent was thinking the same thing – wondering what means of death Erik had concealed beneath his long cape.

“I am Monsieur Bidaut.It is a pleasure to meet you at last.”

Erik narrowed his eyes.“You were the one harassing the Baroness de Martiniac.”

“Your grandmother, yes,” Bidaut replied with a sigh.“It was her information that led me here, though it did take time to put together the pieces to suss you out in Florence.Where, of course, you had to cause a scene.”

Erik waved a hand.“Merely self-defense.What do you want from me?”The fingers of Erik’s other hand had wrapped around the hilt of the letter opener on the desk while Bidaut was distracted.It would have to do.

“Oh, I thought that would be clear.The money that should have gone to your half-brother, on which you have a dubious claim at best.”Bidaut said it with a polite smile.“But which you have quite a firm legal grip on.”

Erik sighed in disappointment.“Money?This is all about money – not revenge or something more interesting?”

“That I am not at liberty to divulge,” Bidaut said with an amused smirk.

“How boring.”Erik looked over the man.“That explains why you haven’t threatened my person yet.”

“Indeed.I need Erik Gilbride alive to transfer the funds we want from a very stodgy Swiss bank.”Bidaut looked at his nails and shook his head.“Which you shall do at our appointment tomorrow.”

“Why on earth would I do that?”Erik didn’t like where this was going.There was something dangerous in Bidaut’s calm demeanor.

“Because it is the easiest way to avoid harm from my associate in Italy to one Mademoiselle Christine Daaé, whom you have been claiming is your wife.”

Erik’s heart stopped, a hundred visions of Christine in peril racing into his mind.“Christine is no longer in Florence,” Erik whispered, praying their precautions had been enough.“Your associate there won’t find her.”

“My friend arrived in Lucca yesterday,” Bidaut replied.Erik couldn’t breathe.“And located your dear Christine quickly.If you do not come to the Augsburg bank at eight o’clock tomorrow and sign over your misbegotten fortune to my employer, then I will not send the telegram telling my associate to spare your lover.They are waiting to strike at noon.Violently.”

“I could kill you right now,” Erik growled.“Better – I could make you bleed until you send that telegram.”

“With only a letter opener?”Bidaut chuckled.“That would be impressive.I think my pistol will be faster.”

---