suddenly there he was. Right in front of me. Standing very still, studying me thoughtfully, holding a long slender knife in one hand. Got you . . . I turned my golden mask to look at him directly, and his head came up as he realised I could see him. He nodded respectfully, then walked confidently forward to join me. He didn’t lower his knife.
He was an old man, probably tall once but stooped now and more than fashionably thin. Most of his gaunt face was hidden behind a black domino mask. His formal tuxedo hung loosely about him, and he also wore a heavy black opera cape and a gleaming top hat. He should have looked ridiculous, wearing such an old-fashioned outfit in a modern setting, but somehow he didn’t. Something in the way he wore the outfit made it clear that these were his working clothes. And while age might have slowed him down, it hadn’t affected his professional style. This old man had already killed a great many people, just to get this far, most of them trained soldiers.
I looked at the outfit and knew who he was. Who he had to be. My uncle James had talked about him. I inclined my golden head respectfully.
“Do I have the honour of addressing that venerable French spy and assassin, the premier villain of Paris, the legendary Fantom?”
He smiled quickly and bowed briefly in return. “Indeed you do, monsieur Drood. Might I inquire . . . ?”
“I’m Eddie Drood. I believe you knew my uncle James.”
“But of course! The legendary and renowned Grey Fox! Yes, indeed; many the years we spent, chasing and being chased across the rooftops of Paris. And sometimes through the underground, or the sewers . . . The fox and the hare. It was like a game we played, except the stakes were real. Money and secrets and honour . . . I would take something, and he would do his best to take it from me. Sometimes he won, sometimes I won. But it was really all about the chase. I think he would have killed me if he could have. I would certainly have killed him. But somehow that never happened. Now the old Grey Fox is gone . . . Without him, I tired of the game. The streets and rooftops of Paris are no doubt so much safer as a result, but I can’t help feeling they have lost something of their glamour.”
“I know why you’re here,” I said. “But why are you wearing your old outfit?”
“A matter of style,” said the old villain with dignity. “It reminds me of the good old days, when everyone dressed up to do battle. Put on a persona, choose a mask and an outfit, and go out into the world to play the greatest game of all. People just can’t be bothered these days, my young friend. You are the Grey Fox’s nephew, yes? I have heard of you, Eddie. A fine adversary.”
“That’s close enough,” I said. And the Fantom stopped his stealthy advance.
“Your uncle trained you well,” he said, smiling. “I feel . . . you will not be persuaded to let me pass.”
“I’m a Drood,” I said. “I’m here to stop you. It’s what we do.”
“But I came prepared, monsieur Drood! You see this cloak; it belonged to the original Fantom of the Paris Opera. It enables its wearer to walk unseen, in plain sight. How else was he was able to run around that crowded old opera house without being observed? And see this knife! A very special blade, I assure you. Fashioned from the very first Madame Guillotine, from the time of the Terror. Bathed in the blood of a thousand executed aristocrats, it has become so sharp it can cut through anything! Perhaps even the legendary Drood armour.”
“So,” I said, “you sneaked up on people while you were invisible, and stabbed them in the back. Not exactly worthy of the legend of the old Fantom.”
“But no, monsieur Drood! That is exactly what a thief and spy does! He comes and he goes, and no one knows, until it is far too late. I was often pursued by your uncle, and occasionally thwarted in my plans, but never once was I captured!”
“Then what are you doing here now?” I said. “No one’s heard anything of the Fantom in years. We just assumed you’d retired.”
“And I had!” said the Fantom, with a sudden flash of anger. “Being a spy and a