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use the work,” I said. “And I’ll take it, but …”
    “I received a call the morning after the unfortunate Mr. Wyler fell from the scaffolding,” Stokowski said. “A raspy voice, a baritone possibly, said a single word, ‘ One ,’ and hung up. Perhaps it is coincidence, but since the police will not investigate, I thought it prudent to enlist your services both to protect the production and to identify this Erik. It is my hope that nothing is amiss. Is that your automobile?”
    He was pointing at my Crosley.
    “Yes,” I said.
    “I should like to ride in it at some point,” he said. “Giancarlo will give you what you need.”
    With that he shook my hand, climbed into the back of the limo, and was gone.
    “Well?” asked Lundeen.
    “Twenty a day and expenses, like I told the lady on the phone,” I said, pocketing the note Lundeen had handed me. “And fifty for a retainer.”
    “That is most reasonable,” he said. “Shall we go to my office and sign a contract?”
    “Your word’s good enough.”
    It wasn’t that I trusted Lundeen, or even Stokowski. I’ve been stiffed by the poor and the unpoor alike, but a contract with the rich doesn’t mean anything. You can’t sue them. Even if you win, you’d be behind on lawyer fees. It’s better to take your chances and give the impression that you trust people, even overweight people who sweat in cool weather.
    “Thank you,” said Lundeen.
    “Two quick questions,” I said. “First, you saw someone climbing up the scaffolding just before this Wyler fell?”
    “A man in a black cape, which seemed odd, but this is a city of odd people,” sighed Lundeen.
    “Second question. Who’s Erik?” I asked as we headed back up the steps.
    Lundeen laughed, a deep laugh that made the workmen and women turn their heads in our direction.
    “Erik,” he said, “was the Phantom of the Opera.”

4

    L undeen’s office was on the second floor, up a flight of marble stairs. It had clean windows and furniture—old, heavy furniture. He handed me fifty dollars cash, plus sixty for my first three days. I was rich. He didn’t want one but I wrote out a receipt. Now we were buddies.
    Lundeen went behind his desk and sat down. I sat in front of the desk.
    “Where do we begin?” he asked. “I’ve never done anything like this.”
    He began to fidget with the rings on his fingers. He stopped fidgeting and reached for a cigar in the humidor on his desk.
    “I don’t smoke in front of the Maestro,” he said. “Would you like one?”
    “No,” I said.
    He lit up and felt better. It wasn’t an El Cheapo. I could take the smell for a while.
    “We begin,” I said, “with a list of everyone connected with this opera, everyone who might be a target.”
    “Then you believe …”
    “No,” I said. “But I’m being paid to act like I believe.”
    “The list is long,” he said. “Contractors, musicians, office staff, cast, costume shop, set construction, lighting engineers. I’ll get it for you.”
    “Put a check in front of the names of everyone who was here when Wyler fell,” I said. “How many people were in the building that morning?”
    Lundeen thought about it, looked at his cigar, belched out smoke.
    “I don’t know. A few dozen perhaps,” he said. “No, more. The orchestra, but they were together in the auditorium when it happened. I remember …”
    “Cross check,” I told him. “Give me the names of everyone who was in the theater.”
    “I see. Whoever was with us rehearsing couldn’t have killed Wyler.”
    “Unless more than one person is involved,” I said. “The Erik note said, ‘ We are watching.’”
    “The royal ‘we,’ perhaps,” Lundeen said, pointing the cigar at me. “Or an allusion to his belief that he represents more than himself.”
    “Put a few people on it. Ask who was here. Ask them who they remember being here. See if someone remembers someone being here who claims he or she wasn’t here.”
    “Elimination will