London to Croydon and Back

Fully expecting Jonas to back up his story, John-Marc excused himself to travel back to Croydon and make his arrangements for lodging. Not being informed of Sigh's tail, he didn't take any special precautions to avoid being followed himself.

It took about a quarter hour's travel by fast train to make it from London's West End to Croydon, on the outskirts of the city. Once open farmland, Cryodon was now an important industrial and manufacturing centre, also home to Croydon Aerodrome (now offering direct service to Tempelhof Airport in Berlin). As a commuter and commercial hub there were good transportation links to the centre of London, including roads, trams buses and the rail.

John-Marc first went to Croydon Aerodrome and made arrangements for them to let Karlheinz pick up the Brisfit from where it was parked. He placed a call to the Lympne Aerodrome and had them run a message to the Falcon Aeronautics hangar for Karlheinz to contact him at the hotel. Crossing to the adjacent Aerodrome Hotel he waited for Karlheinz's call, then instructed him to take the train to Croydon, stay at his room in the hotel (as it was already paid for) and then fly back in the morning.



Falcon reflected this would give Karlheinz time to dry out if he'd been drinking. Good chap, but his nerves had been shot flying on Zeppelins during the War.

Once those tasks were taken care of, he was back at the Park Lane Hotel by 6pm and checked into a shared suite with Doctor Weston.

Singh changed into his best clothes. Leaving Simmons to set out the dinner in their lounge, Singh went about, knocking on doors to let everyone know that dinner was served.

In reply to Imran Singh (msg #32):

After getting settled into the suite with Phil, John-Marc answered the door to Singh's knock.

"Thank you, sir. I will be a moment further."

He finished laying out and brushing his suit, then sauntered over to Lampton's luxury suite for dinner.

Cynthia eventually excuses herself to her private room for a few hours. Normally she can be quite punctual. Tonight she is not. She keeps her maid hopping; sending her back and forth to the luggage, down to the corner store, off to the tailor and so on. She'll wrap up no earlier than 8:30. But when she emerges, she is perfect; bundled in her Schiaparelli dress, cloche hat, red lips, dark eyes, curves a bit too accented for the comfort of the gentlemen in the room, under a fur-lined coat.

"I'm afraid, gentlemen, this dress does not permit me the luxury of concealing things on my person. I'm sure I can depend on you all to protect me should things come to blows?"

Having retired to an armchair to peruse The Times while waiting for Cynthia, Howard looks over the top of the paper and fairly goggles at the stunning vision she has become (not that she is ever anything less than lovely). Belatedly, he rises to his feet, dropping the paper to the floor and forgetting the cigar smoldering in the ashtray: "I say, Miss Holloway, you look smashing." His hand unconsciously pats his pocket where the bulldog revolver is ruining the line of his suit.

He steps forward, trying to beat Falcon to the privilege of helping the lady into her coat.

"Actually, I'm not going to go, inside. I think I'll get my old comfortable cloths on and just be a beggar and scrounger around the 'club' tonight. I'll check out the garbage cans and watch the area while you folks party.  If anything goes wrong inside the 'club', I'll help out. I'll take the staff's elevator and exit out the hotel and get to the 'club' before you do.  I'll watch to see if anyone tails you in.

I'll probably need an escort to get back into the hotel, dressed in my comfortable cloths I doubt they'll let me back in.  I'll phone to let you know I need back in."

Park Lane Hotel

During the time she was getting ready, Cynthia placed a call to an old flame of hers, a London barrister named David "Smitty" Smythe. There was a little flirting, some witty banter and a not-so-subtle pass from the now-married Smitty, but the upshot was while he'd never been to the Blue Pyramid Club he didn't think she or her companions would be too out of place. Londoners seeking novelty frequented the club on a regular basis, if not every night. They hung up, promising to keep in touch.

Some time after 7pm, Ralph Fulty rang up Howard's room.

"We're still alive. As a serious researcher, Dr. Weston obtained a reader's pass to the Reading Room at the library department of the British Museum*. He says he dug up some information on the photo Elias left us but nothing on any books that might help. Of course, that was a couple hours ago.

We've contacted Jonas via trans-Atlantic telephone and he's wiring some money to further the investigation, and this Falcon chap seems like he's on the level. Comes with the highest recommendation.

"Unless you can think of a good use for some old farts like us at this club, we'll collect Dr. Weston from the British Museum and be back at the hotel around nine thirty, then bedtime. I should imagine that unless we drag Dr. Weston out of there, he'd stay in the Reading Room for days until he collapsed from lack of sleep. So would I, for that matter."




*The British Library did not exist as such until the late 60's, when several collections were amalgamated. Instead, if one wanted to do some reading or research on esoteric topics one went to the world-famous Reading Room of the British Museum's library. The reading room was available to anyone who could show credentials as a researcher, and Dr. Weston certainly qualifies.

Cynthia gives a sly smile, "well thank you, Mr. Lampton." She dons her coat, with Mr. Lampton's help. "That's an excellent idea, Phil. I support it fully." Without waiting another moment, she proceeds on out the suite and towards the lobby, expecting a taxi will be arranged to pick her and the party up before she reaches the street.

Singh hands Miss Holloway's coat to Lampton. He picks up the 'phone and arranges for two taxis to be waiting in the lobby.

[ooc - I seem to remember that London taxis only seated three at this time, and we're four -- Cynthia, Lampton, Falcon and Singh, right?]

After dinner, and a modest amount of drink John-Marc heads back to his suite, unless someone has any business.   I does appear that things are going in another direction, especially after hearing how his host speaks to the caller on the telephone, but he still needs to know when to meet.

"Thank you for Dinner, Miss Holloway.  What a lovely dinner.  There was not much conversation to be heard, but I do wonder what the next step shall be?  Shall we meet over breakfast with everyone?  Or lunch?"

Dr. Weston arrived after a day at the British Museum's reading room. Seeing everyone already for dinner and ready to catch a cab he makes his way over to the group.

"Ah I am glad I caught you. Beyond some reading I managed to track down some information on the photograph of the yacht."

When they arrive at dinner Dr. Weston informs them of his news "I found an expert, a Royal Navy admiral, he said the yacht in the picture is anchored in the lower Whangpoo River in China. The Whangpoo is a tributary of the Yangtze River and flows through Shanghai. That jibes as Jackson Elias had a matchbox from Shanghai in his possession."

"With that piece of information I went to Lloyd's British Register of Yachts. I went to the lists and looked for vessels starting with the letters "DAR" and a steam yacht the "Dark Mistress" out of London and owned by an "Alfred Penhurst" jumped out."

"There was a "Sir Aubrey Penhurst" on the ill-fated Carlyle expedition, yes? He and his "Penhew Foundation" based in London provided the funding for the trip. If this boat is related to the expedition, which was supposed to be to Egypt but took a side trip to Kenya, where they were mysteriously killed, I can't see a reason for it to be moored in a river in Shanghai."

"Not a bad piece of detective work. I think my brother would have been proud." The doctor seems to be in good spirits for the first time since the funeral. He seems to have quite an appetite as he polishes off his meal.

"Excellent work, old man," says Lampton, taking Dr Weston's hand and clapping him on the shoulder, "Though I believe it was Sir Aubrey Penhew. Still, the similarity of name is striking."

Turning to John-Marc, he exclaims, "Falcon, surely you're coming along with us to the Blue pyramid Club. We may have need of your strong right arm. Besides, Miss Holloway needs someone to dance with. We old duffers just can't cut it.

"Weston, do you feel up to a spot of night life, too? A rest from your labors."

"I fancy you'd like me to stay, Mr. Lampton? There was that trouble at the Ju-Ju house, and all. You know best."

He was clearing away tea and coffee cups, and the glasses for the digesifs (alcoholic drinks) served after dinner.
This message was last edited by the player at 12:08, Fri 07 Oct 2011.

"Now now, Simmons, I'm a big boy and can look after myself. Besides, as Mr. Falcon pointed out earlier, our whereabouts aren't exactly secret and we have a number of books and papers that should be safeguarded. Well, enjoy your evening off."

He begins trying to herd the others out the door, "Come come, no shirking, we're off to the wilds of darkest Soho."

Giving Simmons a small smile of commiseration, Singh holds the door for the others, then joins them for the elevator to the lobby and shepherds them into the waiting cabs.

9:00pm

The group prepared to leave for the evening.

Falcon took a quick call from his friend Karlheinz, who was now staying in his old paid-for room at the Aerodrome Hotel in Croydon. It was too foggy to fly, although Croydon Aerodrome and Lympne Aerodrom were lit for night flying. He assured John-Marc he would also be far more sober in the morning so it would be far better to wait.

As he followed the group down to the waiting cabs, Phil reflected how hard it was to find someplace around to raise a glass. The Concierge suggested a pub a mere five minute walk (more like fifteen minutes, almost to Picadilly Circus) to an establishment that would be more receptive to his "kind". Once at "Ye Red Lion" pub he'd had a couple pints of bitters and thrown a few darts, but even so it was a far from friendly atmosphere and he could feel the eyes on him. Maybe it was his clothing, maybe his American accent.

Also, the money here was so GODDAMN CONFUSING! He had the feeling he'd stood the pub a round without realising it.

Simmons had lent him a coat so that he wasn't thrown out of the lobby. Aside from Phil, Howard, Miss Holloway, Mr. Singh, John-Marc it looked like Dr. Weston was coming along, too. The "backward" orientation of the vehicles (driving and parked on the wrong side of the street, as it were) confused the Americans as usual, although it was natural to Doctor West, John-Marc and Imran Singh, who'd all grown up in the British Empire and already drove on the correct side of the street (left-hand).

The taxis forged down Piccadilly. Although the spotless boulevard was wide and impeccably maintained, the fog was steadily becoming thicker and traffic was heavy. After passing St. James's Church the throughfare debouched into Piccadilly Circus, and it was Bedlam, lit up with electric signs of the business and theatres that surrounded it, and also touting products. Swan & Edgar was a major department store, it had been damaged in the last Zeppelin rain during the War. (Karlheinz had been on raids over London but had not been on that one, or so he'd said.) The massive Lillywhites store was a new addition, featuring the best in sporting equipment, not far from the stately London Pavillion music hall (recently adorned with electric billboards of its own).

It was an interesting thought that this was a Thursday evening on a cold late winter's day. What would the weekend in summer be like? The moon broke through the fog for a glorious moment.



In the middle of the intersection (which wasn't really circular anymore) was a fountain with a statue of winged Eros (actually, his brother Anteros but few knew this). Automatic traffic signals weren't coming for a year, so there were a couple over-worked bobbies trying to manage the flow of vehicles and pedestrians by hand. Electric street lights and billboards lit up the evening haze from within and below.

The fog lifted somehow and they managed to make it through the Circus onto Shaftesbury without any prangs. The taxis became separated in the traffic as they passed by the many establishments of theatreland, entering Soho and a deeper fog. It was clear in that short distance how busier and somehow dodgier Soho had gotten between daytime and night. Throngs of excited and/or drunken party-goers walked staggered along the sidewalks and among the cars and buses, women of easy virtue waited less than demurely on street corners and the lesser-trafficked side streets. Street vendors hawked their cheap wares from suitcases and cooked food on carts.

Just before Shaftesbury and Charing Cross one taxi halted to let Phil out into the crowd before continuing on. The taxis (first one, then after a few minutes the other) turned right and then stopped a block or so down, letting everyone out to make their way down Litchfield to the club. Unlike other establishments there was no line-up at the door, probably because they weren't playing hot jazz. The alley to the side already smelled of urine despite the rain earlier.
This message was last edited by the GM at 12:41, Fri 07 Oct 2011.

Cynthia beckons John-Marc to come along, "indeed, please Mr. Falcon. I will be terribly upset if you spend the night on your own instead of in our company. Plus we may have a little excitement, and I will sorely appreciate all the loyal friends in the room with me."

On the ride over, Cynthia takes the opportunity for a pow-wow.

"Well gentlemen ... we have Phil waiting around the back. What else are we trying to do? I suspect if anyone has been sneaking bodies out at night, the police should have already noticed that. Are we going to be exploring private rooms?"

In reply to The Keeper (msg #46):

When Phil is let out of the taxi, he walks quickly around a corner. He then 'slips' into the shadows and waits for 15 minutes.

"I don't know about strong right arm, mr Lampton, I'm an aviator.  He pats a bicep through his clothing and shakes his head with a rueful grin But I suppose I might be of some help in ways one might find useful.

He'll file in the cab offered with a smile and watch out the windows with a slight smile, though more than willing to join in any conversation.

If the 'coast' seems clear, Phil emerges from the shadows and begins his dumpster diving routine.  He is watching for anyone acting 'out of character' or someone who is 'out of context' for the area.

The other investigators were long gone. Phil Fulty and Charles Storm exited their taxi and took the lift to their floor.

Fulty sighed as he entered the suite he shared with Charlie.

"Interesting day, huh? Can't wait to tell everyone the news from Jonas. Want a nightcap?" he asked as he went to the bar and poured himself a gin and tonic.
This message was last edited by the player at 05:51, Wed 19 Oct 2011.

Following him in and closing the door, Charlie collapsed in a chair after hanging up their coats and hats.

"Of course, make mine a scotch and soda, there's a good fellow. The others'll be excited, I should think. Well, it'll probably have to wait until morning if they come back too late."

He took a cigar out of the humidor on the suite's writing desk and lit it, blowing out a plume of smoke.

"Ah! Now that's a good cigar! Not as good as we had in Cuba, mind, but Dominicans are still decent."

It was getting late, outside the window one couldn't see more than a block or so in the thickening fog.

Simmons sat in Howard's room, coat off, reading a newspaper by electric light and smoking a cigarette. At home he would have been done after dinner, taking the trolley from Charles Village to Waverly. It was his custom when travelling to wait up for Mr. Lampton and put him to bed.

In one of Howard's suitcases were the books they had brought. Old tomes, somehow he sensed the weight of centuries on them, smelled the faint coppery odour of old, dried blood. He shivered and turned the page. From the next suite over he could hear Professor Fulty and Major Storm talking, idle conversation.

Aerodrome Hotel, Croydon

Karlheinz had brought his own bottle of schnapps but was reluctant to open it. It helped when the demons came to visit him.

He feared that tonight the dreams would come again, they were always the same. The ones of fire and the cold, cold skies, the lights of a town miles away, straight down, beckoning him. Perhaps there was a pub down there with warmth, good beer, pretty barmaids. He would step out of the gondola of the burning Zeppelin, screams of his crewmates ringing in his ears, and drift downwards into the darkness, light as a feather... a drifting feather.... with the open fields of England, the Enemy, waiting beneath him with open arms.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:38, Thu 13 Oct 2011.