IMPERFECTION by Ray Clark (good books to read for women TXT) 📕

Further down the corridor Gardener sensed a strong odour of leather before he came to the last two rooms. On the left, a small kitchen; on the right, a complete replica of the room in Corndell’s house, featuring mannequins and mirrors and benches. A number of shelves were crammed with tubes and bottles of make-up.

Gardener walked inside and inspected the costumes. The Hunchback from the night at the theatre was there, complete with blood spatter patterns. The vampire costume Chaney wore in London After Midnight was also present, and it too had blood spatter. It was obvious now how Corndell had managed to do all he had without being caught. The warehouse was his centre of operations, not his house.

Outside the room he glanced to his right. A curtain blocked entry into the main warehouse. He waved it aside and stepped through, into another world. The view was magnificent, one to make Hollywood sit up and take notice.

Straight ahead was a French street scene reminiscent of yesteryear. The ground was covered in a fine layer of dust. Two circular pavements around ten feet in diameter had been constructed on either side, each with old-fashioned gas lamps. The street continued toward a brick pavement, where he noticed more traditional lamps. A swirling mist hung around the lamps.

Gardener’s heart raced when he suddenly realised that hanging from those traditional lamps were a number of bodies. All were perfectly still, as if they had been in the building some time. Despite that, he ran forward to test the pulse of the first. As soon as he grabbed the wrist, it came away in his hand and Gardener breathed a sigh of relief as he realized they were mannequins. He checked two more with the same result.

Turning to study the remainder of the area, he realised that the warehouse roof had been raised in order to accommodate the showpiece, a huge gothic building that had been backlit very carefully in order to create an eerie ambience, particularly as the façade had been constructed with cylindrical columns and arches. A series of steps led up to a number of doors, each with a wire grille front save one. A glass dome sat on the roof of the building, and on each corner were a number of angels glancing in different directions.

Before he had any further chance to think about what to do, a spotlight lit up one of the arches. Approximately twenty feet high, standing in one of them was Corndell, as far as Gardener could ascertain. “At last, Mr Gardener.”

The voice confirmed it all. He suspected a hidden microphone. Even at that distance it was crisp and concise. Gardener walked slowly forward as Corndell launched into his running commentary.

“The Paris Opera House is one of the most beautiful buildings in the world, Mr Gardener. It contains levels beyond levels of cellars, fountains, chandeliers – the history of which is very dark and very interesting. It even has its own ghost!”

It’s talking to me, thought Gardener, with little idea what he was going to do, or in fact what he was going to say once he was up close. All he did know was that he was at an extreme disadvantage from the positions they were in.

Corndell continued unabated. “Part of the mystique of the opera house, Mr Gardener, is the levels that it inhabits underground. There are chorus rooms, green rooms, ballrooms, set rooms, cellars for props, closets, dressing rooms, and many more kinds of rooms making up the building. The underground levels contain all sorts of gruesome objects from various operas that have been produced. Of course, my replica is nowhere near as prolific, but it does contain a nasty surprise for you.”

Gardener had reached the steps leading up to the only entrance door available. He had a much better view of Corndell, and the character he was playing, the Phantom. Even from where he was standing, the attention to detail was so intricate that Gardener felt lost for words.

Corndell’s head was little more than a skull with an up-tilted nose. The dark shading around his eyes gave them a hollow-eyed expression, emphasised even more by the line of colour under the lower eyelashes. And his ears seemed flattened against the sides of the skull, so much so that at first glance, he didn’t appear to have any. His face was very pale and the head itself bore very little hair save a few fine strands. Gardener was impressed, and at the same time disturbed.

“How do you like what I’ve done, Mr Gardener?”

“Where are they?” he asked.

“All in good time. Now, perhaps you can answer my question.”

Gardener sighed. Whether he liked it or not he would have to play the game. “If you mean, do I actually enjoy watching lunatics mutilate people, leaving puzzles all around the city, I can’t really say I am that impressed, Mr Corndell. It’s people like you who make my job extremely unpleasant.”

“I’m not talking about that, you peasant!”

He realised he’d touched a raw nerve because Corndell’s left eye had started to twitch, something he had noticed only once before when he thought he was being threatened. Corndell gripped the sides of the arch in which he was standing, and Gardener found himself praying that he had not done too good a job when erecting the exterior: hopefully the whole fucking lot would collapse and kill him!

“But seeing as you brought up the subject, perhaps we can discuss what I’ve done... why I’ve done it? Isn’t that what you shrinks are all about?”

“I am not a psychiatrist, I’m a police officer.” Gardener was growing tired of the conversation, and he certainly wasn’t about to pander to the whims of an egomaniac, particularly when he was holding two people hostage who were not necessarily