CHAPTER IXThe Phantom of the Opera
Nobody said it, but the same image came to all their minds, the old familiar one—remembered from how many reruns?—of that terrible, fleshless face, deep underground beneath the Paris Opera, suddenly turning from the keyboard to confront the audience—and all the old familiar shock and horror returned with it. Who could be lurking in whatever unknown spaces had been hollowed out under that house? What could it be that might be moving there beneath their feet?
There are ideas which should not be allowed to grow; and Timuroff came in swiftly. “Heck,” he said, in a voice as unruffled as a croupier’s, “could anyone have planted a tape player somewhere down below?”
The death mask did not vanish instantly, but he could feel it getting frayed around the edges.
