The Phantom of Manhattan

The reason for the boy’s good English emerged last, a stocky and fit-looking Irish priest in black cassock and broad hat. ‘A good morning to you Mr Funmaster,’ said he. ‘And a cold one for the likes of us to bring you out.’

‘But not cold enough to chill a warm Irish heart,’ said I, not to be outdone, for as a chapel-going man I do not normally have much to do with Papist priests. But he threw back his head and roared with laughter, so I reckoned he was perhaps a good fellow after all. It was thus in a merry mood that I led the party of four up the boardwalk, through the gates, past the open turnstile and towards the Toyshop for it was plain this was what they wished to see.

Thanks to the heaters it was pleasantly warm inside and Mr Malta was waiting to greet them. At once the boy, whose name turned out to Pierre, was entranced by the shelves and shelves of mechanical dancers, soldiers, musicians, clowns and animals that are the glory of the Steeplechase Park Toyshop and not to be found anywhere else in the city and perhaps not in all the country. He was racing up and down the alleys asking to be shown them all. But his mother was only interested in one type - the rack of music-playing monkeys.

We found them on a rear shelf, right at the back, and she at once asked Mr Malta to make them play.

‘All of them?’ he asked.

‘One after the other,’ she said firmly. So it was done. One after the other the keys in the backs were wound up and the monkeys began to bang their cymbals and play their tune. ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’, always the same. I was puzzled. Did she want a substitute? And did not they all sound the same? Then she nodded at her son and he produced a penknife with a screwdriver attachment. Malta and I looked on stunned as the boy eased away a flap of cloth at the back of the first monkey, then undid a small panel and put his hand inside. He took out a dollar-sized disc, flipped it over and put it back. I raised my eyebrows to Malta and he did the same. The monkey began to play again. ‘Song of Dixie’. Of course, one tune for the North and one for the South.

He soon replaced the disc the way it had been, and started on the second. Same result. After ten his mother signalled at him to stop. Malta b

egan to replace the wares as they had been before. Clearly not even he knew there were two tunes inside the monkey. The vicomtesse was very pale. ‘He has been here,’ she said to no-one in particular. Then to me, ‘Who designed and made these monkeys?’

I shrugged in ignorance. Then Malta said, ‘They are made by a small factory in New Jersey, all of them. But under licence and from patented designs. As for who designed them, I do not know.’

Then the lady asked, ‘Have either of you ever seen a strange man here? A man in a wide hat, with most of his face covered by a mask?’

At this last question I felt Mr Malta, who was standing beside me, stiffen like a ramrod. I glanced at him but his face was set as stone. So I shook my head and explained to her that in a funfair there are many masks: clown masks, monster masks, Hallowe’en masks. But a man who wore a mask all the time, just to cover his face? No, never. At this point she sighed and shrugged, then wandered off down the aisles between the shelves to look at the other toys on offer.

Malta beckoned to the boy and led him away in the other direction, apparently to show him a display of clockwork marching soldiers. But I was beginning to have my doubts about this icy young man so I slipped after them while keeping a rack of toys between us. To my surprise and annoyance my unexpected and mysterious helper began quietly to interrogate the child, who answered innocently enough.

‘Just why has your mama come to New York?’ he asked.

‘Why, to sing in the opera, sir.’

‘Indeed. And no other reason? Not to meet anyone special?’

‘No, sir.’

‘And why is she interested in monkeys that play tunes?’

‘Only one monkey, monsieur, and one tune. But that is the one she is holding now. No other monkey plays the tune she seeks.’

‘How sad. And your papa, is he not here?’

‘No, sir. Dear Papa was detained in France. He arrives by sea tomorrow.’

‘Excellent. And he really is your papa?’

‘Of course. He is married to Mama and I am his son.’

At this point I felt the impudence had gone far enough and was about to intervene when something strange happened. The door came open, admitting a blast of cold air off the sea, and in the frame was the stocky figure of the priest, who I had learned was called Father Kilfoyle. Feeling the chill air, the boy Pierre and Mr Malta came into sight from around the corner of one of the display racks. The priest and the white-faced one were ten yards apart and stared at each other. At once the priest raised his right hand and made the sign of the cross over his forehead and chest. As a good chapel man, I do not go along with this, but I know that for Catholics it is a sign of seeking the Lord’s protection.

Then the priest said, ‘Come now, Pierre,’ and held out his hand. But he was still staring at Mr Malta.

The clear confrontation between the two men, which was to be the first of two that day, had cast as good a chill as the wind off the sea, so in an attempt to restore the mood of merriment of just an hour before, I said:

‘Your Ladyship, our pride and joy here is the Hall of Mirrors, a true wonder of the world. Please allow me to show it to you, it will restore your spirits. And Master Pierre can amuse himself with the other toys, for as you see he is quite enchanted as are all young people who come in here.’

She seemed undecided and I recalled with some trepidation how insistent Mr Tilyou had been in his letter that she should see the mirrors, though I could not discern why. She glanced at the Irishman who nodded and said, ‘Sure, see the wonder of the world for a while. I’ll look after Pierre, and we have the time. Rehearsals are not till after lunch.’ So she nodded and came with me.

If the episode in the Toyshop was strange, the boy and his mother seeking a tune that none of the monkeys could play, what followed was truly bizarre and explains why I have been at pains to describe exactly what I saw and heard that day.

We entered the hall together through the only door and she saw the corridor left and right. I gestured that she should make her choice. She shrugged, smiled most prettily and turned to the right. I climbed to the control box and glanced into the upper mirror. I could see she had reached a point halfway down one of the side walls. I moved a lever to turn a mirror and direct her towards the centre. Nothing happened. I tried again. Still nothing. The controls did not work. I could see her still moving between the mirror walls of the outer passage. Then a mirror swung of its own accord, blocking her path and forcing her towards the centre. But I had moved nothing. Clearly the controls were malfunctioning and for her own safety it was time to let her out before she became trapped. I moved the levers to create a straight passage back to the door. Nothing happened, but inside the maze mirrors were moving, as if under their own control or that of someone else. I could see twenty images of the young woman as more and more mirrors spun, but now I could not work out which was the real person and which the image.

Suddenly she stopped, trapped in a small centre room. There was another movement in one wall of that room and I caught a swirl of a cloak, replicated twenty times, just before it vanished again. But it was not her cloak, for it was black while hers was of plum velvet. I saw her eyes open wide and her hand flew to her mouth. She was staring at something or someone standing with his back to a mirror plate, but in the one blind spot that my observation glass could not cover. Then she spoke. ‘Oh, it is you,’ she said. I realized that somehow another person had not only entered the hall but found a way to the centre of the maze without being observed by me. This was impossible, until I saw that the angle of the tilted mirror above and ahead of me had been altered in the night so that it covered only one half of the hall. The other half was out of vision. I could see her, but not the phantom to whom she spoke. And I could hear them, so I have tried to recall and note down exactly what was said.