“You and your bloody edicts,” Jack said to Eddie.

“Actually, I feel rather justified in imposing that one,” said the bear. “Can we go home now, please?”

“We have to prevent a crime.”

“I’m still not really convinced.”

“Eddie, evil will be done here and only we can stop it.”

“You could call your associate, Chief Inspector Wellington Bellis.”

“He might not have faith in my source,” said Jack.

“About your source –” said Eddie.

“Damn,” said Jack, and he sat down on the kerb. “Damn, damn, damn.”

Eddie sat down beside his friend. “Tell me about this source of yours,” he said.

“Can’t,” said Jack. “I am sworn to secrecy.”

“What?” said Eddie. “Why? We don’t have secrets. We’re partners.”

“Look, Eddie, I don’t want to go into it now. We have to get inside the Opera House and that’s all there is to it.”

“Well,” said Eddie, “if your mind is made up, and that is all there is to it, then you’d best follow me.”

“Where to?”

“Just follow.”

Jack rose and followed Eddie. The little bear led him around the corner and down an alleyway and to the stage door. Several Stage Door Johnnies surrounded the stage door.

“Disgusting,” said Eddie, stepping over one of them. “You’re supposed to flush those things away.”

Jack made an appalled face. “Was that a condom gag?” he asked.

“Take it as you will,” said Eddie. “Knock at the door, please, Jack.”

Jack knocked at the door.

The backstage doorman opened it. He was a clockwork fellow, somewhat rusty and worn.

“Ralph,” said Eddie.

“Eddie?” said Ralph.

“Ralph, how good to see you after all this time.”

“All this time?” said Ralph, and he scratched at his tin-plate topknot, raising sparks.

“We’re here on a bit of business,” said Eddie. “Would you mind letting us in?”

“Again?” said Ralph.

“Why is he saying ‘again’?” Jack asked Eddie.

“I don’t know,” said Eddie. “Why are you saying ‘again’, Ralph?”

“Because I’ve already let you in once,” said Ralph. “And your comedy sidekick there.”

“What?” said Jack.

And, “What?” said Eddie. And, “Oh dear,” said Eddie. “This is bad.”

“How did you get past me?” Ralph asked. “I never saw you go out again.”

“We didn’t,” said Eddie. “That wasn’t us.”

“Oh yes it was,” said Ralph. “I’d recognise those crummy mismatched button eyes, and the tatty old raincoat and the –”

“Have to stop you there, Ralph,” said Eddie. “Those were two impersonators. Two very bad and evil beings.”

“Uncanny,” said Ralph.

“What?” said Eddie once more.

“That’s what you said to me earlier, when I let you in. You said that two impersonators might turn up and try to get in, but that I was to refuse them entry because they were very bad and evil beings.”

And Ralph slammed the stage door shut upon Jack and Eddie.

And Jack and Eddie stood in the alley.

And Jack said, “Damn,” once more.

Eddie Bear looked up at Jack. “It seems,” said Eddie, “that I was wrong and you were right. We have to get into the Opera House.”

“We should phone Bellis,” said Jack, “get him to bring a task force, the Army, whatever is necessary. Everything. What do you think?”

Eddie gave his head a couple of thumpings. “I think not,” said he. “And before you ask why, I’ll tell you for why. These murderers, or soul stealers, or whatever Hellish things from beyond or above they are, are disguised as us. And it does not require the gift of precognition to predict the inevitable consequences, as in when a bunch of overexcited police snipers gun us down by mistake.”

“Ah,” said Jack. “You think that might happen?”

“I’d give you a very good odds on it,” said Eddie. “We will have to deal with this on our own. Just you and me.”

“So how do we get in there?”

“Well,” said Eddie, and he cupped what he had of a chin in a paw, “it will have to be the sewers.”

Jack made a sour face and Jack said, “The sewers?”

“It’s an Opera House,” said Eddie. “Ergo it has a phantom.”

“A what?” said Jack.

“A phantom,” said Eddie.

“No,” said Jack. “I mean, what’s an ergo?”

“Most amusing,” said Eddie. “But every Opera House has a phantom. Everyone knows that. It’s a tradition, or an old charter, or something. And the phantom always lives in the bowels of the Opera House and rows a boat through the sewers.”

“And he does this for a living?”

“He’s a phantom,” said Eddie. “Who can say?”

“I don’t like the sound of him very much.”

“We really are wasting time,” said Eddie. “Let’s find some conveniently placed sewer-hole cover to lift and get down to business.”

“Aren’t sewers filled with business?” Jack asked.

“Yes, and Stage Door Johnnies, and crocodiles, too, I’m told.”

“Perhaps if I bribed that doorman …”

A sewer-hole cover was conveniently located not many paces before them. Jack looked up and down the alleyway and then took to tugging, then struggling, then finally prying open.

“Here it comes,” he panted. And here the cover came, up and over and onto Jack’s foot.

“Ow!” howled Jack. And his “Ow” echoed down along the sewer beneath them.

“Keep it quiet,” said Eddie. “And get down the hole.”

“I’ll get business on my trenchcoat,” said Jack.

“Time is wasting,” said Eddie. “You brought us here to save lives, didn’t you?”

Jack lowered himself into the unpleasantness beneath, then called up to Eddie and Eddie jumped down. Jack caught Eddie, reached up and pulled the sewer-hole cover back into place.

Eddie and Jack stood in darkness. And in smelliness also.

“Whoa!” went Jack, holding his nose and fanning his face. “This is revolting – I’m up to my ankles in business here.”

“I’m nearly up to my bottom,” said Eddie. “But it’s quite a pleasant smell. Once you’ve acclimatised yourself.”

“So, which way do we go?”

“That way,” said Eddie.

Jack sighed deeply. “I can’t see a thing in the darkness. Which way do you mean?”

“That way,” said Eddie.

“Oh, that way,” said Jack. “I see.”

But of course he did not. But he did follow Eddie by holding his ear. And Eddie strode forward with confidence, because, as he informed Jack, bears are noted for their remarkable night vision and natural sense of direction.

Presently they reached the inevitable dead end.

“Brilliant,” said Jack.

“Up the ladder,” said Eddie. “Put your hands out – there’s rungs in the wall.”

Jack put his hands out. “Ah,” he said.

There were strugglings and pantings and it’s hard to climb a ladder in the darkness with one hand holding your nose. But at length the two now somewhat ill-smelling detectives emerged into a kind of underground chamber, bricked all around with big stone slabs and lit by flaming torchères in wall sconces. There was an old organ in one corner of this chamber and at this sat an old organist, playing an old organ tune.

Jack dusted down his trenchcoat, but demurred at wringing out its sodden hem. Eddie squeezed at his soggy legs and dripped fetid water.

The old organist suddenly burst into song.

The gulls that circle overhead

Cry out for crumbs and bits of bread.

The gulls that circle underfoot

Are very rarely seen.

“What a wonderful song,” said Jack.

“I hated it,” said Eddie.

“Who said that?” asked the old organist. And he turned. And Jack and Eddie beheld … the Phantom of the Opera.

“Oh my goodness,” said Jack, and he fell back in considerable disarray.

The Phantom wasn’t the prettiest sight, but he wasn’t the ugliest, either. He was somewhere in between, but at a certain level in between that made him, or perhaps it was a her, or indeed an it, utterly, utterly …