4. Ghost of the Cabaret (7)
4. Ghost of the Cabaret (7)
Walls meant nothing to Derek.
He could pass through anywhere. Nothing could stop him.
A few restrictions existed, but as long as he followed the rules, there were no problems.
No one could find him.
He hid inside a wall and watched the monster.
Two enormous spider legs rising from behind its back.
And the sharp blades fixed at their tips.
It wasn't human.
A genuine monster.
He hadn't believed such a thing could exist in this world.
The creature gazed down at the stage below for a moment, then retracted the blades into its body and left.
Derek cautiously followed.
Thankfully, it seemed unaware of being trailed.
But he still had to be careful.
He had no idea what his quarry really was, either.
How had it discovered his name?
Had "my little bird" truly told him about me?
Even if she had, how did it know I was here?
Questions swirled as voices rose from the floor below.
"This way!"
"It's the top-level frame!"
Technicians who had grasped the situation rushed toward the spot where they had been.
The monster, however, slipped expertly through their patrol routes.
It seemed to have memorized the cabaret's entire layout.
It descended all the way to the audience level without encountering a single person.
Derek was genuinely impressed.
Even he, who had lived in the Rose Windmill for so long, would have found that difficult.
The thing navigated dead ends and hidden side passages as if it had been through this place dozens of times.
Was this one of the monster's abilities?
Perhaps discovering his name, pinpointing his location—all of that was tied to the creature's power.
Derek shifted between walls, floor, and ceiling, studying the thing in greater detail.
Earlier, its terrifying appearance had blinded him to the fact, but the monster was remarkably handsome.
Better-looking than any actor Derek had seen in his life.
Was it over thirty?
The face was young enough to pass for someone in his twenties.
Shame about what was inside it.
Appearances truly weren't everything.
The world held few people who, like him, harbored love and altruism within.
Apart from his little bird, of course.
The theater management sent all the guests home.
Since the performance had been free from the start, there was no messy business with refunds.
Derek could see Bwallet, the Rose Windmill's manager, quietly exhale in relief at that fact.
The man's vulgar materialism never failed to amuse him.
I may be hideous on the outside, but I am nobler than those earthly creatures.
I help my little bird out of pure goodwill.
I bestow kindness upon her.
She feels gratitude toward me.
And perhaps she might even love me...
"Everyone, gather round."
The artistic director, Yug Maroine, had returned from the hospital.
He wore a somber expression after hearing about the actor playing the count, then proceeded to explain what Yvonne had told him about the "Ghost."
She had received a threatening letter not long ago.
It warned that if she didn't quit acting and leave the theater, something terrible would happen.
At first, she'd dismissed it as a hollow threat, but strange things kept occurring around her.
Then today, when the cabinet collapsed and pinned her under its contents, she had seen a pale form emerge through the wall.
"If this really is a ghost, we'll need to contact the cathedral and summon an exorcist."
Bwallet wiped sweat from his brow as he spoke.
Inside his head, the calculations were already spinning at full speed: exactly how much would he have to donate to the church?
At that moment, the chief technician who had searched the ceiling earlier stepped forward.
"That shouldn't be necessary."
He described the wrench he'd found, the human traces left in the dust.
"This was the work of a human being, not a Ghost."
Bwallet's expression loosened a little.
"Did any audience member leave after Act Two began?"
"Well...?"
As heads shook around the room, one of the chorus members spoke up.
"There was someone."
She raised a finger and pointed.
At the end of it stood Wonderstein.
"The seat in the middle of the second-floor section was empty."
Every gaze in the room fixed on him.
Through the long, uneasy silence, he wore a faint smile.
As though the whole situation amused him.
The faces of the theater people hardened.
Those company members who had felt drawn to him looked stricken by that cold expression.
A man was dead.
With the implication that it might have been murder.
And there amid that heavy atmosphere stood a man, smiling all alone.
No one like that could be a good person.
Everyone grasped that.
'Yes. Yes. A monster.'
Derek chuckled to himself inside the wall.
No matter how well you dress up the outside, what's on the inside isn't human.
The heart is what matters.
Seeing the look of fright on the girl who had been stealing glances at his looks just moments ago—Shayla—set Derek at ease.
Yes. My little bird. Looks aren't everything.
Remember the kindness I've shown you.
Who has cherished you so dearly?
You mustn't let yourself be charmed by a man you've just met today. Indeed, you mustn't.
Wonderstein let out a soft, scoffing laugh, as if even their stares were a joke to him.
"I stepped away to the restroom for a moment."
"Is there any other witness who can vouch for your whereabouts?"
"No."
The waiting room brimmed with silence.
The chief technician drew a neatly folded cloth from inside his jacket.
On it was the mark of a palm, outlined in black dust.
"Would you mind letting me see your hands for a moment, Troupe Leader Wonderstein?"
"Why?"
The chief technician glanced quickly toward Bwallet and Maroine.
"Right after the accident, I searched between the frames. There was a handprint, as if someone had leaned there and looked down. I'd like to compare it."
A reasonably competent man.
Derek thought this was the crisis point.
But then he witnessed something astonishing from behind Wonderstein.
Crrk.
A noise came from his right hand, and then skin and muscle twisted, the shape contorting before his eyes.
Wonderstein extended his hand with a confident expression, and the technician saw at a single glance—no detailed comparison was needed—that this hand was not the one he was looking for.
"The size is... different... and above all, this hand has an index finger longer than the middle finger... I, I apologize. But I did have to check..."
"Ah, it's quite all right. You were only doing your job."
Wonderstein smiled shamelessly.
Derek was flabbergasted.
That handprint had unquestionably been his.
And yet he'd changed his hand in an instant and conned everyone.
'What on earth are you, monster?'
And so the audience side was cleared of suspicion.
The chief technician now began going around to the staff, checking handprints one by one.
Then a girl in a maid's uniform approached the monster.
Derek knew who she was.
An acrobat brought in to cover the role Shayla had held, they'd said.
Come to think of it, the chief technician had called this man "Troupe Leader."
His was apparently the circus troupe this acrobat girl belonged to.
She whispered, too low for anyone else to hear.
"This was you, wasn't it?"
"Heh heh, whatever do you mean?"
"I saw everything. You, looking down at me from that gap."
A blaze smoldered in her eyes.
Derek found himself curious about their relationship.
What kind of history did they have?
"Perhaps you were mistaken? The culprit seems to have been someone from within the theater company originally. They've just confirmed my handprints don't match."
"Changing a hand is nothing for you. You shameless devil."
This girl seemed to know the monster's true nature.
That he could alter his body at will.
And she didn't seem to like him.
The hatred and fear in those eyes were no act.
"And if I did?"
The devil smiled.
"What?"
"If you're right, and I killed him—what will you do about it? Have you forgotten? Heh heh. You signed a contract, Miss Ella. To be my slave for 'life.'"
He leered at her.
The girl glared silently into his face.
Derek nodded to himself.
So that was it.
A vicious situation.
Compared to that, I'm practically an angel.
Derek took pride in his own moral strength.
"Heh heh, from what I hear, they're bringing in Paris as the count for tomorrow morning's performance. Will you be staying, Miss Ella? It isn't as though you 'do' anything in the circus troupe anyway."
At the devil's words, Ella bit her lip hard.
She glanced back at the theater people, then spoke with resignation in her voice.
"...I'll stay. I have to help these people."
"Heh heh, what a good child. Not that I suspect you, Miss Ella, but one does need a hostage. I'll be taking an animal of yours."
Ella flinched at that, then reluctantly nodded.
"...Fine."
She produced a white mouse from her pocket, and Wonderstein slipped the creature into his own.
"If you fail to return after tomorrow... this animal will end up in my stomach. I doubt it would taste like much. Hm, or perhaps I'd be better off modifying it into a monster?"
"...I'll keep my promise, so don't you dare do anything like that."
She stared him down, her eyes blazing with fury.
The devil merely grinned at that glare, entirely unbothered, and departed.
Derek hesitated for a moment.
Should he follow the monster, or remain near this girl?
The deliberation was brief.
Leaving the theater carried too much risk.
More importantly, for gathering information, staying close to this girl seemed far more promising than trailing that inscrutable monster.
Above all, he liked how wretched her situation was.
Because he could help her.
He could be the one to rescue her.
...
The staff quarters lay behind the Rose Windmill.
Ella came back to her room late at night, after rehearsing her chemistry with Paris until the early hours.
Perhaps because a single week had made her accustomed to a luxury hotel, the room looked old and cramped.
'In the school dorms, four of us shared a room just like this one...'
In the end, the culprit hadn't been caught.
The killer could have been nearby even now.
Yet in spite of that, the artistic director was going ahead with tomorrow's play.
The show must go on.
She knew it. Everyone knew it—the cardinal rule of performance.
They all understood it in their heads and acted accordingly, but they couldn't conceal the heaviness in their chests.
No one would sleep easily tonight.
But that wasn't the only reason Ella couldn't sleep.
She was waiting.
Would it happen just as he'd said?
Then, from far off, the toll of the midnight bell.
At the same moment, a pale figure emerged through the wall.
A white mask, a black hat pulled low.
"Good evening, miss acrobat."
He came!
Ella closed her eyes.
In a hotel ten kilometers away.
On the desk in Wonderstein's bedroom.
A mouse dipped its paw into an ink bottle.