It was just after tea time on a gloomy Thursday.

Singh changes to his third best jacket and his old Army boots, settling his revolver securely in his jacket pocket. Joining the others, he eats a hasty tea. Blotting his mouth with the serviette, he nods to Miss Holloway and leaves the room. He walks through the lobby and out the front door, walking briskly to the nearest tube station.

He checks the map on the station wall and boards the first train that will take him to Soho, where the Blue Pyramid Club is to be found.

In reply to Imran Singh (msg #2):




Charing Cross Road, Soho

In five minutes, Singh walked from the hotel to the Hyde Park Corner tube station.  It was under a red ox-blood brick building off Hyde Park, and accessed by a series of lifts. To get to Soho, he would have to take the Great Northern, Piccadilly and Brompton Railway line, four stops to the east. It would be a journey of a few minutes at most to cover what would be a mile's walk on the surface.

Like usual, he was ignored thoroughly by the other passengers, protected by the invisibility of the lower and non-white classes. After the ride he exited at Leicester Square, taking the lifts to the street. Getting his bearings, Singh walked north up Charing Cross towards the club, which was a short distance east on Litchfield St. at the corner of West st.

Once he turned the corner on Litchfield, he looked back and realised he recognised a man that was following him. Plenty of people were going his way this time of day, but he recognised the fellow from the lift at Hyde Park station. The follower was an Arab man in his 30s in a shabby suit, bad haircut and cheap hat.

Singh circles the block, pausing several times to look into shop windows, pretending to consult a piece of paper and reversing direction, crossing the street and then re-crossing it. During these maneuvers he observes any others who respond to his movements and whether his shadow gives up.

In reply to Imran Singh (msg #4):

The tail struggled to keep up. He was either not very good, or WAs deliberately drawing attention to himself.

The block was triangular, with Charing Cross forming the "base" of the triangle on the left while the club is near the point on the right where West and Litchfield meet. Singh reverses himself along Litchfield and walks back to the busier Charing Cross Rd, turning right. He then turns right onto West, heading back towards Litchfield to circle the block from the other direction.

He circled the block a couple times reversing direction once more to smoke out any other tails.

Circling the block, Singh didn't see any more tails. His own tail evidently decided that Singh had become too suspicious and at one point when Singh looked back, he was gone.

However, Imran also noticed a somewhat rough-looking Caucasian man in a suit lounging within sight of the Blue Pyramid Club. He was reading a paper at a newsstand and if Singh hadn't spotted him earlier he would have never realised the man was taking too long to make a purchase.

For his part, Detective Sergeant Darlington was bored. He knew from several days of unproductive stakeouts on his own time that the club wasn't due to open until after 6pm, hours away. Nothing unusual seemed to happen during the day, although there was always the chance something would turn up. Darlington noticed the Sikh gentleman (suit, turban, army boots) a few minutes earlier, noted the man following him, and the efforts to either lose the tail and/or determine if there was more than one. When Singh came into view as he circled the block, the tail was gone and he didn't appear to be followed.
This message was last edited by the GM at 20:17, Sun 02 Oct 2011.

Singh approaches the Blue Pyramid Club, nodding at the fellow at the newsstand and giving him the smallest of smiles as he passes. At the club, he hammers on the front door.

He also notes whether he has seen other Sikhs in the vicinity.

In reply to Imran Singh (msg #8):

There was no answer as he hammered at the door. The club couldn't be that large, maybe the size of a large restaurant.

Looking around the street, Imran was reminded that Soho did not have a significant Sikh population. He knew that London was in the midst of a wave of immigrants from India, particularly Sikhs, but they settled in other areas of the city. His was the only dark-skinned face on narrow Litchfield St., quite odd considering that he was standing outside a club that catered to a largely Egyptian clientele.

Singh looks for a passage along either side of the building or another way around back. He'll see if he can talk to someone at the back door.

As soon as he has taken a few steps into the dingy, litter-strewn narrow alleyway next to the Blue Pyramid Club Imran Singh feels a firm hand tapping on his shoulder from behind. Even though he was only a few metres from the bustling throng of people on Litchfield Street, the alley felt isolated and claustrophobic.

"Allo allo. What do we 'ave 'ere then?" A commanding voice says in strong east London cockney accent, complete with plenty of dropped 'h's. "Loiterin' with intent? Or just bein' a public nuisance? C'mon, me turbaned sonny Jim, why you 'anging around this 'ere Eyptian Club when you obviously ain't no bleedin' Egyptian?"
This message was last edited by the player at 17:16, Sun 02 Oct 2011.

Singh turns slowly to face the man, his face impassive, his hands empty and open at his sides. He blinks twice as he takes stock of the man. When he speaks, it is in a somewhat exaggerated, sing-song Hindi accent.

"Oh my gosh, effendi, such a start you are giving me in this too dreadful locale. I seek an employee for this establishment, wanting to make the reservation for my most excellent employer who wishes to go to the slum tonight. Not meaning any offensiveness, goodness no.

"It is possible that you are proprietor of this most desirable club and my search is at an end? Yes?"

Darlington visibly relaxes his posture as Singh explains his reasons for being here. "Well, I certainly ain't not the owner of this dump. Though I been 'ere so much the last coupla days I might 'as well bloody be. Listen, Mr Patel or whatever ya name is, I can tell you for nufink that you ain't gonna get no job 'ere at the Blue Egyptian, they only employ darkie sandboys, not turbanheads like yerself. If yer feelin' stubborn though ya better come back 'ere at six, that's when they open."

Darlington takes a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lights it with a match. "Go on, be off with ya now. Before I change me mind and nick ya for loiterin' with intent."

Waving his hand as if to dismiss Singh, Darlington says, "Oh, by the way, did you realise that you was bein' followed by a suspicious lookin' sandboy earlier? Someone out ta get ya or sumfink, eh?"

Singh nods continually as Darlington talks, his mouth part-open and grinning, as though putting on a show of comprehension while only catching every few words. Finally, he chuckles, "Oh-ho-ho, nossir, not looking for work, having most excellent position already. Oh no."

When Darlington mentions that he was being followed, Singh's eyes go wide in surprise and fear, "Golly-gosh, you are saving my life, I wager. Will be going away right now this exact very minute. Blessings upon you, sahib. Many blessings."

He quickly departs the alley, almost trotting. He turns right at the end onto Litchfield. He circles the block, going up Whitechapel, then right again into West Street. He surreptitiously watches to see if Darlington -- or any other -- follows him. If not, he pauses at the West Street entrance to the alley and comes down that way, seeking the rear of the Blue Pyramid.

Detective Darlington watches the turbaned man trot out of the alley and turn onto the busy Soho street. He shakes his head and mutters under his breath, "Bleedin' immigrants."

Puffing on his cigarette, Darlington takes up his surveillance post at the newsstand once more and re-reads the sports section of The London Scoop for the twentieth time that day whilst keeping an eye on the front of the Blue Pyramid Club.

In reply to Imran Singh (msg #14):

Deeper in the alleyway, the light faded and the smell of garbage from overflowing bins became stronger. Although the days were long gone where raw sewage flowed down the streets of London Town it couldn't have been much worse!

Singh found the rear door (in addition to the side delivery door). The rear exit door looked stout but forceable. Someone with burglary on their mind had obviously tried to force their way in with a pry-bar at some point. Several times.

Out on the street, Det. Sergeant Darlington skimmed the copy of the London Scoop again, knowing it completely by heart at this point. As far as he could tell the staff and entertainers at the club were all Arab (Egyptians?). However, the clientele was an eclectic mix of foreigners and Londoners looking for novel entertainment in a decade that would become known as the "Roaring 20's".



This message was last edited by the GM at 06:52, Tue 04 Oct 2011.

The drops of rain that start to patter on the pages of the London Scoop he was reading cause DS Darlington to gaze upward at the dark clouds brewing ominously in the grey London sky. All of a sudden a peal of thunder broke out, rumbling menacingly from the west. Darlington gave a dejected sigh as he folded up his newspaper and used it as a makeshift hat to protect himself from the rain that was now falling in a moderate-to-heavy shower.

He abandoned his surveillance of the Blue Pyramid for the day and hurried across the street, headed for Manze's on Brewer Street, the best pie & mash shop in Soho. There he could have some dinner and a mug of sugary tea and wait for the rain shower to blow over, and go over the notes that Inspector Barrington had given him concerning the Blue Pyramid Club and the suspect Arab spice dealer, Tewfik al-Sayid, who Darlington was hoping to spy in the Blue Pyramid tonight.

Anyway, that was later on tonight. First things first, and that meant a slap-up pie & mash dinner.

Singh stands at the delivery door and hammers on it with his fist.

In reply to Imran Singh (msg #18):

Rain began to patter down on the cobbles of the alleyway. Water from the roof gurgled down through the tin drainpipe into the water butt (rain barrel) on the corner.

There was no answer at the door. No one looked or came to investigate what the racket was all about, either, so that was a plus. The man who'd accosted him (likely a policeman, although he hadn't shown a badge) seemed to be right, there was no one inside and wouldn't be for a couple hours more.

Turning up his collar, Singh returns to the hotel.

4pm

Darlington was positioned where he could watch down the alley and the front door of the Blue Pyramid Club.

On time as usual, the obese owner, "Abdul Nawisha" arrived wearing a suit and tie with a tarboosh (fez) on his head. He unlocked the front door and entered. Within minutes, four cleaning/serving staff and the cook arrived to get the club ready for the evening's customers. Five young dancing girls straggled in, late, joking and laughing, dressed in the latest London fashion, if on the trashy side. All names unknown; pretty shoddy police work, in his opinion.

A Ford lorry backed down the alley off Litchfield, barely squeezing up to the open side door. A few packing crates of food and bottles were loaded onto hand-trucks and taken into the restaurant by known staff. So far, much the same as other days. The lorry left without scraping paint off the walls or fenders, coal smoke poured from the roof vent as the stove was lit for the evening's cooking.



7:00pm

The rain had started and stopped several times in the last few hours. at 6:00 pm Nawisha turned the sign on the front door to "OPEN". People, mostly Arab-looking men, arrived for something to eat.

By 7 o'clock it turned cold, and a thick fog settled on the city. Smoke from countless coal-fired stoves and heaters permeated the thick air. Large wet snowflakes started to mix in with the sprinkling rain.

Darlington noted the newsstand had put out its late-edition papers. There was some political muddle involving the British government and some international agreement about warfare. Negotiations had been going on for decades in Switzerland, and would likely continue for decades more.

Darlington scoffed when he read the late-edition's headline, and proceeded to engage the scruffy proprietor of the newsstand in a casual debate about politics.

"Oi, mate... 'ave you read this about Prime Minsiter Baldwin? Bleedin' pony* ain't it? Europe can sod off is what I say. This green and pleasant land can stand on it's own two feet, don't need no 'elp off those fackin' cowards in Europe." Darlington was becoming quite agitated, and the newspaper vendor was nodding in agreement but looking for a way to terminate the conversation as soon as possible.

"Say what you want 'bout Stanley Baldwin, but he's a damn sight better than that bleedin' Bolshevik Ramsey Campbell. That damn commie bastard can go fack right orf, no word of lie." Darlington spits on the slushy pavement and pulls up the collar of his pea-coat and straighten his paisley neck-tie, "Look at that," he mumbles to nobody in particular, "I got so worked up I only gone an' messed up me Peckham*, ain't I?"

He steps forward and enters The Blue Pyramid club, giving a nod and a wink to the doorman.

[OOC: I'm going to be using a lot of cockney rhyming slang for DS Darlington, so let me know if you need anything he says translated into the King's English!
*pony = pony & trap = crap
*Peckham = Peckham Rye = neck-tie
BTW Keeper, I propose you rename this thread 'Blue Pyramid Club' and the imminent arrivals can post here]
This message was last edited by the player at 19:29, Thu 06 Oct 2011.

In reply to Albert Darlington (msg #22):

It was dusk and darkness was falling, falling hard in the thickening fog. The news-seller paused in closing up shop, and gave the imposing detective a nervous smile. You know, the kind of smile you give Old Bill when you're a guilty cunt.

After dark, Soho became a much livelier place indeed. The sputtering snow stopped but the fog thickened.

The advertising men went home (or at least closed up the office) and the streets filled with Londoners looking for cheap "foreign" places to eat. Young swells in suits and boater hats with their flapper girlfriends looking for a bite before hitting the dance parlours, older folks on the way to the many nearby Soho theatres and music halls, even a few darker skinned inhabitants from the reaches of the Empire and farther afield looking for a taste of home in the damp mist.

Among the glow of streetlamps in the fog floated smells of delicious cooking and exotic food. Along many side-streets and corners clustered young (and not so young) women, dressed just short of scandalous in the chill night air, calling out to passing men, asking if they needed some company or wanted a swell time. Live and recorded jazz music was heard coming from elsewhere over the Soho rooftops. Taxis and buses crowded the wet cobbled streets, honking and trying to avoid the many pedestrians that spilled off the narrow sidewalks.

Inside the Blue Pyramid Club

The burly mustachioed doorman recognised something about Darlington. Maybe how he walked or his confidence, and he knew this was one bloke not to be trifled with. He immediately stepped aside and opened the door with a flourish. "His peace be upon you, effendi."

Inside was crowded and poorly lit. The decor was what you'd expect to see somewhere in the Orient. Low candle-lit tables, back-less chairs, fabric-hung roof, stucco walls, tables to the right and middle, bar and private rooms off to the right and kitchen to the rear. There was some kind of terrible music wailing from a phongraph playing in the corner. Tables were piled with spicy food, people were eating. A small space to the right of the door was cleared and slightly raised as a dance floor.



OOC: Time-wise, this takes place some time between 7pm and 9pm when the investigators arrive, up to you. I actually found a Cockney-English translator on line! "Old Bill" seems to be more recent usage than the 20's but what the hell! I don't see a real need to re-title the thread at this time. Everyone knows where the BP club is, and hey, they still are doing a recce.

As well, there is Al-Sayid's warehouse located elsewhere in Soho just off Oxford St., not too far from the Penhew Institute on Tottenham Court Rd. Tewfik Al-Sayid was interviewed in relation to the Egyptian Murders as he is a frequent club patron but was not considered a suspect. Al-Sayid once guided Sir Penhew on an earlier expedition to Egypt.
This message was last edited by the GM at 20:42, Fri 07 Oct 2011.

Darlington takes up a position by the bar. He asks the barman for a pint of stout, but is disappointed to hear they do not serve such a beverage. He makes do with a Gibson cocktail. Whilst sipping at his drink he scans the club, looking for the face of the spice dealer who Barrington had interviewed. Darlington had only seen the Egyptian's face on a police photograph, so spotting him in this crowded club could prove difficult. Also, all these damn Arabs look the same to me, thought Darlington as he drained his cocktail.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:32, Fri 07 Oct 2011.

Inside the Club

No one except serving staff seemed to pay any attention to him as he sat at the bar. There was a good crowd in there although not a lot of traffic in and out. Of the 40-50 people crammed into the space, maybe a dozen were white and this segment was the one that saw the most change over time. A belly dancer started her routine, sensual and yet somehow precise.

Darlington didn't see Tewfik al-Sayid anywhere inside. He could taste the Gordon's gin and guessed the bar staff either figured him for a gangster or cop and decided not to water his drink down. Well, that was something, at least.



Outside the Club

Approaching the entrance, the doorman recognised another group out on the town and held the door open to the investigators, beckoning. "Come in, there is good food inside! Strong drink! And the mysterious dancing of the Orient!"

Charing Cross and Shaftesbury

"Getting a wiggle on", Phil easily disappeared into the crowd. Foot traffic in Soho on a Thursday wasn't exactly "Coney Island summer night" heavy but pulling a fade was easy-peasy. He doubled back up an alley, stepping over some dead soldiers in the gutter that spilled out of a rubbish bin. Nearby, between him and the mouth of the alley, an old hag dressed in a Gypsy shawl plied her wares and talents. "Ey! Come 'ear Madame Georgescu speak about the FUTURE! Oi've got the soight, Oi do!" It seemed to him that Soho was practically overrun by Gypsies and other purveyors of the occult and supernatural.

"That was a bloody decent bevvy, mate. Fill 'er up." Darlington said to the swarthy-looking bartender as he placed his empty glass on the bar. "Busy in 'ere tonight, ain't it? I'm surprised, what with all that scaremongerin' nonsense in the paper about your sort gettin' done in by some kind of Arab Jack The Ripper. Did you know any of the poor sods? I suppose a fair few of 'em must've been regulars in 'ere. Stuffed to the rafters with Arabs in 'ere, init?"

Darlington kept all his senses alert to see if the bartender or anyone within earshot reacted in a suspicious manner to mention of the Egyptian Soho Slayings. Years on the Force had honed his senses when it came to detecting whether people had anything to hide.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:03, Fri 07 Oct 2011.

In reply to Albert Darlington (msg #26):

Inside the Club:

The bartender was thin and wore glasses, white shirt and bow-tie. As Darlington talked he nervously washed a glass. He looked up with intense eyes, then refilled his drink with a generous pour.

"Yes, sir. Many of our customers are missing, some assuredly were victims of this madman. It has been bad for business, let me assure you. The police have been of no help. No one cares because we are merely "wogs" to them."

His voice was accented but somehow sounded educated to Darlington's ear. Unlike most of the Arabs in the club, he lacked a moustache.
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:20, Fri 07 Oct 2011.

"Terrible business. The bleedin' rozzers oughta get off their lazy fifes and 'elp you Arabs out. I bet if it was a bunch of us whiteys gettin' bumped off they'd pull their finger out faster than a greyhound outta the traps."

Darlington fixed the bartender with his steely eyes and said, "They said in the paper that they found another dead body just yesterday! Just think, me old china... Tutenkahmun The Ripper could be right here, in this club, TONIGHT! Looking for his next victim!" He drained his drink. "Guess I'm safe. I ain't no wog."

In reply to Albert Darlington (msg #28):

The bartender smiled, showing crooked teeth.

"Bismallah, I should hope a gentleman like yourself is very safe. I am Rahman. The owner here, Mr. Nawisha, assures the staff we are safe, inshallah. So far he is right. As for those who have gone missing, some have been of a certain class. Irishmen, Pikeys, Gypsies, Hungarians."

For some reason he looked up at the current dancer, expression unreadable. She was shaking her hips too fast to follow. He moved away to pour some cocktails, then moved back.
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:52, Sat 08 Oct 2011.

"Yeah, well... pikeys deserve all they get, init? You know what we oughta do with them pikeys? Well I tell ya, mate, the army _oughta......"

Darlington followed the bartender's gaze to the dancer and his words trailed off into the air as his eyes were hypnotized by the whirling and sensual undulation of her hips.

"Blimey," he uttered, "she can move some." He licked his lips to whet them and pursed them together to blow a loud wolf-whistle in appreciation of the dancer's obvious talents. The gin was quite going to DS Darlington's head.
This message was last edited by the player at 00:52, Sat 08 Oct 2011.

In reply to Albert Darlington (msg #30):

The dancer moved close, smiling beguilingly at Darlington. Rahman the bartender gave a frown, which was gone in an instant. Finger-cymbals clashed and the patrons around them clapped in time to the music.

After getting out of the car JM adjusts and smooths his coat, surreptitiously making sure is 455 was properly concealed, and with a hand extended to help the ladies out of the cab he heads to the door.  He greets the doorman with an odd flourish and a short greeting in Arabic.  "Masa il Kheer" his accent, to a native speaker, would be easy to pinpoint, and is reasonably fluent.


He lets the doorman do his job and upon entry he heads for the bar himself, eyes momentarily distracted by the scantily attired dancer, a smile playing across his lips as his eyes follow her.

He waves lightly to Darlington as he approaches the bar, and somewhat elaborately. 

Then he takes a seat next to him and orders a beer, at least that is what comes, since he used a short line in fluent sounding Arabic to do so, and then in a rather chipper voice. He turns to Albert with a slightly guarded expression, eyes watching the man, until they wander back to the dancer again.  "I do say, I have to applaud this place as a location for dinner, good atmosphere!"
This message was last edited by the player at 15:20, Sat 08 Oct 2011.

Darlington is out of his seat and swaying drunkenly with the exotic dancer when he notices the unfamilar man waving at him from across the dancefloor. He staggers slightly, then steadies himself by placing his hands on the dancing girl's shoulders. She flashes him a stern, disapproving look and he holds his hands up apologetically and backs away to the bar, ordering another drink.

Whilst waiting for the bartender to pour his cocktail, Darlington turns at the bar to face the man who'd been waving at him in such a peculiar fashion. "Oiright china. Nice ta meet you. Name's Darlington, Albert Darlington." He extends his hand for a handshake and says loudly over the din of the crowd, "Dunno 'bout no dinner but the booze is strong and the birds sure can shake their bits in a pleasin' way!"

Lampton assists Cynthia out of their cab and follows John-Marc into the club. He glances around with a prim smile for the decor and the dancer, which turns to a disapproving frown as a great bear of an Englishman in a bad suit begins to dance with her and then commits a serious breach of manners by touching her.

He asks the maître d'hôtel for a table, indicating that there are five in the party.

He notices the English bear speaking with Falcon at the bar.

Singh pays off the hacks and follows the others into the Blue Pyramid. His mouth tightens in faint disapproval at the sight of the barely clothed dancer flaunting her charms in such a public place.

In reply to Albert Darlington (msg #33):

"My grandmother was Chinese, well, 56 years ago." He smiles faintly and offers his hand  "John-Marc Falcon"

Inside the Club:

Darlington immediately recognised some of the investigators from the descriptions that Barrington passed to him. Specifically: Singh, Lampton and Miss Holloway.

Reactions to Darlington's dancing are mixed. Most of the whites and some of the Arabs don't seem to mind, some shout encouragement. A significant minority of Arabs scowled but didn't move.

The corpulent owner of the club, Abdul Nawisha, was talking with a few bouncers. They were looking at him and nodding. He reckoned he could take the biggest one, or the smaller two, but anything more than that would be a challenge.

No one (yet) seems to have noticed any firearms carried by the investigators, due to the darkness and close atmosphere.

Outside the Club:

Phil skulked around the rear of the club in the sub-alley off the alley connecting Litchfield and West. Rubbish bins overflowed, evil smells permeated the air. It was too early for the stink of vomit but urine was another story.

An old ragpicker rummaged through some bins across the alley. The stubble-chinned man gave him an evil look, then moved on towards West. A sozzled young man wandered into the alley off Litchfield. Fumbling with the buttons of his trouser fly with one hand and the other placed on the wall for balance, he relieved himself a few feet away from Phil, sighing in contentment as his steaming piss spattered the brick wall. He stumbled back onto Litchfield and was gone.
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:29, Sun 09 Oct 2011.

After embarrassing himself with his energetic yet ungraceful display on the dancefloor, Darlington returns to the bar, loosens his neck-tie, and uses a creased and dirty handkercheif to mop the perspiration from his brow. He then downs his cocktail in one thirsty gulp and loudly announces to anyone within earshot "Right! I really gotta go take a slash in the bogs".

He withdraws a wallet from his inside pocket and flambouyantly slaps a banknote down on the surface of the bar. "Barkeeper! Pour a stiff bevvy for me and my old mate Falcon 'ere. I'll be back in a jiffy."

He stumbles off through the crowd in the direction of the bathrooms, barely able to walk in a straight line.

In reply to Albert Darlington (msg #38):


"Of course, sir," said the barkeep. Rahman poured another Gibsons for Darlington and asked Falcon, "what is your pleasure, sir?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 09:09, Thu 13 Oct 2011.

In reply to Blue Pyramid Barkeep (msg #39):

"Pour me a stout.. and I will make sure the gentleman doesn't.... drown"  He nods and follows Albert off with a bit of a worried look.

In reply to John-Marc Falcon (msg #40):

Rahman replied to Falcon's receding back, "ah, sir, we have no st... Oh, bugger it." Instead, he poured another Gordon's for Falcon.
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:58, Sun 09 Oct 2011.

In reply to Blue Pyramid Barkeep (msg #41):

Darlington made it out of the main room to a very small rear corridor. There was a latched (but not locked) rear door, to the left was probably to the kitchen/office/store-room, to the right was a partially-open door marked "W.C.".

Inside the foul closet-sized space was a stained older-style toilet with overhead tank and pull-chain, a wash-basin with rubbish bin beneath, filthy towel on a hook. The toilet paper roll was on a ten-penny nail, down to the last few inches.

Along the way he noted the bouncers and staff giving him a conspicuously wide berth.

JM arrived in the same small corridor second later, although it would be rather cramped for both men to stand there.

In reply to Howard Lampton (msg #34):

The maître d'hôtel was a thin middle-aged man in a jacket and tie. "Of course, of course! A table. One moment as one is cleared."

Inside the Restaurant

As the rest waited for a table, John-Marc made his way over to the bar. After talking to the man who'd drunkenly danced with the belly-dancer, they both went towards the bathroom at the rear, next to the kitchen.

A table was cleared by a gaggle of busboys. Plates with familiar Arab dessert foods were cleared away; remains of baklava, basboussa, small china cups of Turkish coffee. Howard listened to the conversations around him, easily recognising mostly the Egyptian Masri dialect of Arabic, which he spoke like a native. He heard nothing untoward or suspicious.

Miss Holloway, Singh, Lampton and Dr. Weston were seated at their table and given menus printed on cheap pulpy paper. The spelling was atrocious, prices reasonable. Cynthia was currently the only white woman in the club, but she didn't quite feel people were staring at her. If anyone had any suspicion as to what the bulge in Singh's pocket was they weren't saying.

The room was thick with cigarette smoke, plus the sweetish smell from what Lampton and Imran Singh recognised as flavoured tobacco smoked in shisheh (hookah) pipes wafting from the private rooms.

Outside in the Alley

Various people came and went in the alley, Phil ignored them and they ignored him. A few unshaven men bundled up in shabby clothing, fingerless gloves, hats and long scarfs wrapped around their necks against the cold. They wandered down the alley from West St. towards him, laughing and talking about a cricket match and racehorses.

Phil was familiar with guys like this, much like him if maybe a little coarser. They stopped nearby to light up cigarettes made from scavenged butts, the largest one taking the stub of a half-lit cigar out of his pocket. After searching fruitlessly in his pockets for a match, another turned and asked Phil,

"'Ey, Berk, you got a Lucifer for me fag?"

The man's mates grinned at each other, sharing some private joke, hands in their pockets.
This message was last edited by the GM at 13:25, Mon 10 Oct 2011.

In reply to The Keeper (msg #44):

With one hand on his knife, Phil locates a matchbook in his pocket with his other hand.  He then tosses the matchbook to the man asking for a light.
"Here ya go mate. Keep'em.", Phil utters with as good of an accent as he can. He keeps an "adequate" distance from the men.
This message was last edited by the player at 15:47, Mon 10 Oct 2011.

JM returns to the bar, first, to pick up his stout and look around to see how things have settled out, idly turning a ring that appears to be a wedding band on his left ring finger.

"What a colorful place." Dr. Weston said as he looked about the club.

"Reminds me of a few places in Vienna. I hope the food is good."

In the alley outside the club:

The man deftly caught the matches. "Much obliged, squire. Park Lane 'otel? Fancy digs, innit?" Taking out a match, he lit his and another man's cigarette, then blew it out and struck another to light the third.

Phil noted they'd boxed him into the dead-end alley behind the Blue Pyramid. He could still barge by if needed as his back wasn't quite to the wall. The man put the book in his pocket.

"Now look 'ere. I'm Blackie and this is me alley, see? Maybe over in America they don't mind people coming into peoples' 'ouses wi'out permission and taking what they bloody-well like, but we do things a mite different 'ere, savvey? Go on, beat it, Berk."

As if on cue the men moved aside to let Phil pass. One even removed his shabby bowler hat from his greasy hair in a mockingly courtly bow.

Inside the club:

Outside in the main room, Imran Singh, Miss Holloway, Howard Lampton and Dr. Weston were being served. Service was swift and, to Dr. Weston's delighted senses, smelled delicious. Plates with Hummus bi Tahini, baba ghanoush unleavened bread were being placed in front of them, soon followed by the main course of kushari (rice, lentils, chickpeas and macaroni with a garlic sauce) and rice-stuffed pigeon.

John-Marc returned to the bar and was disappointed to discover there was no stout waiting, as they didn't serve that here. The bartender smiled apologetically and nodded towards the Gibson's cocktail (gin and vermouth) waiting for him. "Deeply sorry sir, we don't serve beer here. You might want to try the pub down the block?"

Looking around the bar, JM noted this seemed to be true (there was no beer or similar beverages on tap) but even so many of the Arab men were enjoying alcoholic drinks similar to his, which certainly went against strict Muslim beliefs. Howard noted the same, reflecting that exposure to British culture seemed to be having what would be considered a corrosive effect on peoples' morals in the Orient. Lampton wasn't at all surprised at the lack of beer, as it had disappeared from Egypt and other Arab countries after the Muslim conquest and never caught on again, even after exposure to European tastes.

There was a moment of mutual recognition between Singh and Darlington as Darlington walked up to the table as they were being served. Of course, during his drunken dancing Darlington had previously marked Singh as he came in the entrance with his group, and vice-versa. For their part, the group immediately saw a beefy European man come up to their table, obviously expecting some kind of introduction.

JM takes the offered drink with a slight shake of his head and a shrug, followed with a smile, he takes a sip and heads to the table to take of the repast, partaking of the hummus and bread until the main course arrived, then eating with a bit of surprising manners, for one of such rough reputation at times, he could be very refined.

Doctor Weston was quite pleased to being having such an exotic meal. But even as he began to smile he thought of his brother and the loss of him brought the good doctor back to focusing on the work at hand.

In reply to Doctor Phillip Weston (msg #50):

Inside the Club

Aiyesha was nowhere to be seen when Darlington and JM returned from the loo. The club owner had disappeared into the kitchen. Quickly and politely, John-Marc introduced Detective Sergeant Darlington to the rest of the diners at the table.

"Detective Sergeant Albert Darlington, this is Miss Cynthia Holloway, Mr. Singh, Mr. Howard Lampton and Doctor Weston. Please, Detective, do have a seat." John-Marc looked around a little uncertainly at the packed, smoky room. "Uh, should we talk here or wait for later?"

Nothing jumped out at Dr. Weston as being unduly suspicious, although unlike Howard (and John-Marc, although he didn't know this) he didn't speak Arabic and thus couldn't understand the comments going back and forth around them. No one paid them any particular attention other than a couple Arab men were covertly or not so covertly ogling the fantastic-looking Cyntha in her double-knit dress and cloche hat.

Cynthia had been glad to hear that the dress's designer, Elsa Schiaparelli, had been recently hired to work for a small house in Paris and was getting notice for her avant-garde designs for the New Woman. Elsa was a good friend from New York and had been abandoned, penniless and pregnant, by her caddish husband the Count Wilhelm Wendt de Kerlor. He'd taken up with Russian dancer Isadora Duncan, famed in New York and celebrated through Europe. "Schiap" moved to Paris to follow her dreams and at times over the last couple of years her friend mailed her packages with dresses and other clothing, keeping in practice while she waited for her break. It was heady to know that she was wearing a dress that could only be found on Paris runways, unavailable as of yet in London or New York.
This message was last edited by the GM at 10:02, Tue 11 Oct 2011.

Singh rises to greet Darlington with a slight bow, then resumes his seat and his meal, quite enjoying food that was a bit similar to home.

His gaze is restless, moving about the room (at least that portion he can see without turning his head very much), alert to any hint of a threat.

Inside the club

They sat and ate for a while, enjoying a meal that was exotic to some, familiar to others. Imran avoided the pigeon, as it could be halal and thus forbidden to him. (Even though it likely wasn't as the Blue Pyramid didn't strike him as a particularly pious establishment.) Baptised Sikhs such as himself only had one dietary restriction: they could not eat meat that was prepared in a ritual way, that is, meat could be neither halal nor kosher.

As he waited for the CID detective to reveal (or not) his purpose for being with them at the Blue Pyramid, Imran scanned the room for threats. The crowd numbered around forty Arab men, but none appeared eager to molest Miss Cynthia whilst she was surrounded by a coterie of protective-looking men.

For a short while they were the only non-Arabs in the club, then two couples came off the street. There were 2 bouncers at the front door (one inside, one out) another one by the bar. There was a bartender but he looked a little bookish and could be easily handled, and three servers, barely young men. The servers were attentive to them (and seemed even more so once Darlington joined them) but the bouncers mainly ignored them save for the odd look.
This message was last edited by the GM at 11:32, Tue 11 Oct 2011.

Cynthia is pointedly aware of how conspicuous she is, and is again very pleased for the cadre of large, capable men sitting on either side of her, which permit her the luxury of apparent disinterest in the other bar patrons.

The Blue Pyramid offers a cornucopia of exotic foods, but Cynthia does not wish to risk any sort of distress, should events require her full abilities and  attention. She selects lamb chops, a small salad, and a manhatten cooler, as she withdraws a cigarette to wait.

When Darlington arrives, she holds her tongue. While some of her party may recognize him, to her, he's just trouble.

Politely greeting the group, Darlington takes a seat at the table. For someone who was cavorting with a bellydancer and stumbling drunkenly through the club just a minute ago, he seems rather sharp, lucid, and sober.

Looking around to make sure no Arabs are eavesdropping on the conversation, he leans forward and introduces himself. "My name is Detective Sergeant Albert Darlington, of the London Metropolitan Police. I'm 'ere tonight for the same reasons as you. I'm followin' up some cold leads in the Egyptian Soho Slayings. My superior, Inspector Barrington, made me aware of your enquiries into the case. Whilst I applaud members of the public being interested in bringing criminals to justice, I must warn you not to interfere with official police business. These are dangerous circumstances for civilians to get mixed up with. Your turbaned pal 'ere was followed this afternoon by a suspicious lookin' Arab bloke, I saw when I was observing the place from my surveillance outpost. Also, I've clocked that at least three of you fellas are packin' shooters so it's no leap of faith to think that others 'ave noticed too. I wouldn't be surprised if that's why there are a dozen or so dodgy lookin' Arabs watching us right this minute."

Darlington reclines in his chair and lights a wooden pipe, puffing on the tobacco smoke. "If we wanna talk freely 'bout matters, I suggest we get a private room."
This message was last edited by the player at 13:56, Tue 11 Oct 2011.

"Detective Darlington, with all respect, I believe the police have already had their opportunity for any business the department wishes to pursue. I suspect this case is already considered 'closed'. I respect your position; you clearly are not content with any decision to ignore murders, be they of civilized people or not. I wonder though, how much are you willing to risk to bring this killer to justice?"

She looks at her surroundings, "and I'm not sure there a room in this place that you and I might consider 'private'. I fear we may have to play things by ear."

Lampton had stood to shake hands with Darlington and waved over a waiter to bring another chair (though he did not request a place setting).

Now he picks at his food (not that it isn't delicious) and wonders whether Darlington imagines that the staff and clientele haven't figured out that he's a copper.

"Quite right, Miss Holloway, we're on the enemy's home ground and can trust only ourselves."

Doctor Weston listened to the words of the police officer.

"Sir I think we all want to do nothing more than support the police in their investigation. I work with the criminally insane and Broadmoor Prison and as such have an expertise with the minds of the kind of mad men that would be responsible for these killings."

JM does not hesitate to eat fairly well, but not so much as to be uncomfortable.  He shakes his head slightly and puts in, a bit low, during a lull.  "We can retire back to the hotel for a nightcap after the meal, for much better privacy."

"Tell us, Mr Darlington," Singh says quietly, "What would the police have us do? Beyond 'not to interfere' of course."

Darlington says to the group in a hushed tone, constantly checking that nobody is listening in, "To be dead 'onest, as long as you don't get in my way or end up gettin' yourself killed by the Soho Slayer I don't care what you get up to. This case had run into a dead end, the Met really don't 'ave any leads to follow up. Barrington is worried, cuz his predecessor in this case turned up dead as a doornail a year ago with one of those spiked clubs buried in his back. He's worried that if he don't solve this case sharpish, he might be next on the killer's list. That's why he called me in to investigate. Do things through the back door, 'ush 'ush if ya know worra mean."

Inside the Club

Staff immediately brought Darlington a chair, and also set a place for him without being asked. No one seemed to be eavesdropping. A waiter stood ready to take his order.

There were private rooms (with doors) off to the right, but someone could always be listening at the thin walls.

"Good God! A senior police official murdered and still no progress made a year after?" Howard is shocked to his backbone, "What is becoming of this country?

"And we thought Barrington might be of assistance to us."
This message was last edited by the player at 22:22, Tue 11 Oct 2011.

"I'm 'fraid to say that Barrington ain't hidin' nothing from ya. The Met really ain't got nuffink to go on with this case, all avenues of investigation 'ave run into dead ends. I'm following up on the spuice dealer bloke here in Soho, who is known to frequent this place, and that bloke Gavgin from the Penhew Foundation. There's a fishy link between them two and this place I reckon."

Darlington pauses for dramatic effect and puffs on his pipe, exhaling a plume of blue smoke directly into Doctor Weston's face. "Another thing... The official body count of the Soho Slayer as reported by the Met stands at 4, but the real truth is nearer what the Scoop 'ave reported.. at least 20 odd murders in the last few years. The Met 'ave tried to hush it up to stop the public panicking. Barrington sees me as his last chance to shut this case, and I'm prepared to go to any lengths to do so."

John-Marc eats and listens, his gaze looking over each person variably, often the speaker.  He is gentle with his drink, and even gets an additional water that he drinks far more of.  He knows the effects of alcohol well, and generally tends to avoid it except in fairly small doses at prudent times.

"I think it might be better to have the conversation somewhere more private as well. You can't trust these people." Weston said speaking of the Arabs around them.

Inside the Club:

Some time had passed since they entered and were served. Now they were eating and drinking, some smoking. It seemed like Barrington was reaching out to them after all. Perhaps using them for his own ends, of course, but an ally was an ally. All that remained was to decide where to congregate, either in one of the private rooms here, some other place nearby or retire to the Park Lane Hotel for a nightcap and a parley.

As the investigators talked and ate, they observed the people around them. The dancer who Darlington had put on the show for left the floor, and another took her place. A waiter he recognised but didn't know by name came up carrying a tray with some drinks. He placed another Gibsons in front of Darlington. "Here is your drink, a Gibsons. Please sir, would you like to order something to eat? I suggest the Kalamari. We received a delivery of fresh fish, earlier." Although Calamari was more of a Greek specialty both Cairo and London were on the seaside and fresh fish figured prominently in both their cuisines.

Cynthia nibbles at her food, sips her drink, but finishes her cigarette. She carries on polite, but impersonal conversation, drawing on any topic except the members or concerns at hand. About forty minutes in, she'll say "I believe it's time for me to look for somewhere to freshen up." She punctuates with a pause and a look. Anyone should recognize that she isn't looking for the water closet (nor is she distressed, just ... eager).

Shifting out of his seat to make room for Cynthia to pass, Darlington accepts the drink from the waiter and thanks him whilst lingering his stare upon the waiter's face for a fraction longer than is politely necessary.

Inside the Club:

The bow-tied white-jacketed waiter waiting for his order didn't seem particularly significant. Trimmed moustache, dark eyes and dark skin, short hair parted on the side and held with a sweet-smelling pomade. Darlington only recognised the young waiter as one who'd served the group before and not from anywhere outside the club.

"If you don't feel like the Kalamari, perhaps the Baklava then? Also freshly made."

The rest of the table weren't sure how to react to Cynthia's statement, except maybe to point out the WC. Probably there would be less chance of infection at some other place.

In the Alley Outside the Club:

Always believing that discretion was the better part of valour, Phil wordlessly took the offered escape. The mocking laughter of the ruffians who'd run him off followed him as he scuttled towards Litchfield, along with Blackie's parting words, "...we done you a favour, mate! People like us 'ave gone missing in these alleys..."

Darlington sips his drink, winces slightly, then says to the waiter, "The baklava sounds yummy. I bet some people in 'ere would kill for some baklava, right? Oh, and garcon? This drink ain't mixed right, can you send over the barman for a tick? I want a quick chin-wag with him about that quality of his cocktail mixing. Cheers, mate."

He then dismisses the waiter with a wave of his ham-sized hands and nods to the rest of the group whilst winking and tapping a finger to the side of his bent nose.

Inside the Club:

"Very good, sir, my Baklava is very in much demand. I make it myself, my mother's recipe. One order of baklava for the gentleman."

Dismissed, the waiter returned to the kitchen. He picked up a plate of already prepared Baklava from the counter, then stopped by the bar to talk to Rahman the barkeep.

Rahman nodded, looked towards Darlington, and started mixing another cocktail, presumably as a replacement.

Returning with the plate, the waiter set it down in front of him and said innocently, "there you are, my esteemed sir. You should know, there is a very special ingredient inside the Baklava. My own seed! Cumin, I grew myself! Fresh from the garden, gives it a nutty, spicy flavour, you will kindly note. Enjoy."

Bowing to Darlington and then the table, the waiter withdrew.

In reply to The Waiter (msg #72):

Inside the Club:

Finished mixing the drink, Rahman put it on a tray and brought it over, weaving through the crowd. He placed the drink beside Darlington with an apologetic smile.

"Please accept this and my apologies, gracious sir, and of course your drinks are free tonight."

After passing the plate of baklava around the table to be polite, Darlington devours three of the sticky sweets within forty seconds. He cleanses his palate by downing the rest of his cocktail in one gulp, then looks over to the barman and gives a thumbs-up sign.

In reply to Albert Darlington (msg #74):

Inside the Club:

Rahman nodded politely and bent forward to speak to Darlington.

"I am glad to hear you enjoyed the sticky, sweet treat that is Ahmed's Baklava. He's so proud of it."

"As well, Aiyesha, the dancer you, ah, met earlier, wishes to speak with you whilst on her break at midnight, outside in the rear alley. Come alone or with your friends. She and our Teacher will speak to you."

He waited for any response.
This message was last edited by the GM at 11:39, Sun 16 Oct 2011.

Darlington munches upon the baklava for a short while, then suddenly swallows the entire sugary mess in one dramatic gulp. He replies to the barman, "As long as you keep stuffin' me with bakalavey and booze, I'd be most glad to stay here until at least midnight. Then I'd probably need to go outside for some air."

Darlington engages everyone at the table in another none-too-surreptitious wink.

In reply to Albert Darlington (msg #76):

Rahman nodded. "I shall endeavour to do so, good sir. Bon appétit."

"The Dark Brotherhood is not in attendance tonight. If they were, I would endeavour to be more circumspect. You would be advised to do the same."

"I must attend the bar, any orders, gentlemen? Ladies?"

Weston ate the sweet desert and enjoyed a very dark thick coffee. He missed thise places from his days in Vienna.

Hearing the warning from the barkeep Weston knew they had been too loud.

Once the waiting staff is gone, and it becomes clear to Cynthia her message was lost, she sighs, exasperated, and leans forward. "I'm going to go look around. I'll try not to be long."

Cynthia scoots out and looks about, as though locating the WC, but actually mapping exits and staff.

n reply to Cynthia Jane Holloway (msg #79):

After taking any orders, Rahman the barkeep left after his whispered warning about the Dark Brotherhood. This reminded them all the stakes were high, although the Brotherhood didn't seem to be in attendance tonight. They would have to watch themselves in the future, if this were true. Cynthia kept this in mind as she visited the W.C.

Two belly dancers were now dancing to the Godawful Middle-Eastern music blaring from the phonograph in the corner.

No one molested her, and she got a fairly good look at the layout of the club. The main area had a main entrance and a side entrance off to the left (as you came in). This side entrance likely went to the side alley. There were private rooms off to the right, and near the right rear was the bar. In the rear wall was a door to a small corridor. On the left was the W.C., to the right was the kitchen and possibly other areas like an office and pantry, and at the end of the rear corridor was an exit to a rear alley, latched shut.

The club seemed to be only 1 story, although there could be a cellar and as the building had an upper floor it didn't look like it was part of the club.

As for staff, there was a bartender, 3 bouncers (2 at the door, 1 near the bar), 4 busboys, a manager, and of course 4 belly dancers (1-2 on the floor at any time).

Keeper's Note: the layout changed a little as I thought about how things would be logically laid out. Sorry for any confusion!
This message was last edited by the GM at 20:43, Sat 15 Oct 2011.

Does anyone access either of the two private rooms? Is there any way to determine what is in there?

John-Marc watches everything quietly, he has little to add, though he does order a cup of strong Turkish coffee, black, but passes on the overly sweet baklava.  Whether he heard any quiet exchanges, he does not appear to have.  He watches everyone else as he sips the strong coffee.

In reply to The Keeper (msg #70):

Phil does his best to ignore the insults, after all he is trying to keep a low profile.  He WILL avoid going down alleys with only one exit, something he would (or should) have done earlier.  He now finds a convenient dark doorway, sits down and watches the club.  He wants to look and act the part of a bum.

Outside the Club:

A little rattled by the close call and warning, Phil retreated from the alley and across Litchfield to consider his options. He wasn't stupid, but he wasn't really in his element, either, and would have to approach the future with more care and forethought.

Applying a lifetime of experience drifting from town to town, "liberating" chickens from backyard coops, he realised a couple things. For one, the truth was that no matter how many exits an alley had, being alone in one would always leave you vulnerable due to the restricted space. Even two men moving in a coordinated fashion could box a subject in, if one came from one direction and another came from the other. For another, without backup or some kind of plan you were completely on your own and at the mercy of more numerous assailants. If they knew the area, and you didn't, you were even more behind the eight ball.

At least across from the alley mouth he could always escape into the street, observe the entrance and at least a few feet into the dark alley.

Outside, the fog thickened. Visibility was reduced to a block or less, even with the electric street lamps. The sulphurous air was redolent with coal and petrol fumes. After the gloom of the alley (lit only by the occasional light) it was good to get into a better-lit area, if only by comparison.

He also noted while there were pub-goers staggering about, no street people (like he was attempting to emulate) were visible.

Inside the Club:

Inside the smoky club, Cynthia couldn't really get a look at the private rooms without making too obvious a detour on her way back from the W.C. From what she could see, the room near the door was occupied, door closed. The other empty and being cleared of plates by a busboy. The empty room had a single table and a half-dozen chairs crammed into a small space. The walls and doors looked fairly substantial.

(Refer to picture posted earlier in Msg #62.)

In reply to The Keeper (msg #84):

Phil, realizing he is now out of place, locates a taxi, shows cash and heads back the hotel.  He will call up and ask someone to bring him an overcoat so he can get into the hotel.

Cynthia excuses herself and takes her time going to the WC ... taking a wrong turn and entering into the kitchen. Seeing she obviously went the wrong way, she is momentarily overcome with shyness, pulls back into the doorway, and scans the area, looking for her familiar waiter (as well as any doorways, or anything out of place).

Unless she sees something warranting additional investigation, she'll reorient herself and find where she needs to go.

Singh finishes his meal, choosing melon (or other fruit) for dessert rather than the sweets.

[ooc - I'm not sure whether we've already covered the question of how many stories the building has. Also, have we spotted the access to any upper floors (or cellar, for that matter), exterior or interior, including fire escapes.]
This message was last edited by the player at 13:29, Sat 15 Oct 2011.

Lampton orders a brandy to top off his meal, rather than a dessert. He asks the waiter to send over the manager, or the owner, if he is available.

When that individual appears, Howard provides him with a card (the one bearing his New York address). He tells the man that he is planning a large party for a group of business associates and thinks that an Oriental theme would be smashing. He asks if there are additio0nal, larger rooms available upstairs that might be engaged for a private party of twenty-five or more. If so, he would like to see them.

Outside the Club:

Deciding to call it a night, Phil stood up, stretching the cold out of his joints. He could enter the club, but was unsure how he would be received inside. Instead, he wandered over to Charing Cross and attempted to hail a taxi to take him back to the Park Lane. One stopped after a few minutes and the driver got out to open the rear door. He hesitated when surveying the ragged figure, then said, "Evenin'! Where to, Guv'?"


Inside the Club:

Ahmad, the waiter, took their orders.

Cynthia peeked inside the kitchen door, and none of the cooks or waitstaff seemed to notice her. After the horror she'd heard about at the Ju-Ju house, she was prepared for anything. Ahead in the kitchen was the food preparation area with counters, coal-burning ovens, stoves and a large ice chest for perishables, all surprisingly clean if not modern. She could see her waiter, Ahmad, busily preparing more baklava into squares and slicing up various fruit with a large knife. Off to the left inside the kitchen was a pantry. She couldn't see any other doors or a stairwell but something could be the pantry.

She made it to the WC safely. The toilet's state of cleanliness hadn't improved since Darlington and Falcon visited an hour or two earlier and almost made her doubt the existence of a kind and loving God. At least the chain was still attached to the overhead tank! The electric bulb worked so there was light.

Inside the dining area, the waiter approached the table with more baklava for Darlington and the others, a brandy for Lampton, another round of drinks for the others and a plate with figs, sliced apple, melon and pomegranates for Imran.

If this were the old days fresh fruit in England in March would have been nigh-unattainable. (Canned fruit or fruit preserves would have been the best available substitute.) Due to the modern convenience of steam-powered freighters, trains and refrigeration, produce grown in North Africa could be shipped to Europe and England and served in a week or less. (Produce grown by United Fruit Company in Central America under the watchful eye of US Marines would instead go to the USA.)

The waiter took Lampton's message to the club owner "Abdul Nuwisha", nodded, then retired. "He is a very busy man but I will be happy to pass along the message, yes!"

Keeper's Note: The BP Club map has been updated a little. Also, a description of the building has been added. Scroll down to the bottom.

link to a message in this game
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:28, Mon 17 Oct 2011.

Inside the Club:

About a half-hour later, a fat sweating Arab man with short oiled hair and a trimmed moustache came to the table. He wore a clean white linen suit and red tarboosh (fez) on his head.

He looked for Howard, smiled, and asked, "I am Mr. Abdul Nuwisha, owner of this establishment. Pleased to make your acquaintance, effendi."

The group apart from Falcon and Lampton heard his full name as "Abdul Nuwisha", and indeed this was what was recorded in the notes of the police investigation. However, the Arabic-speakers (Falcon and Lampton) understood this was most likely merely his last name, "Abd al-Nawisha". "Abdul" was not a proper first name in Arabic but a modifier meaning roughly "the servant of", in this case, "the drinker" or "the imbiber", not inappropriate for a club owner. He likely had another first name.

Smiling, Al-Nawisha took Lampton's card. "We here at the Blue Pyramid would love to host any gathering. I regret the upper floor holds only flats! I should think that the main dining room would suffice for an exotic evening among the sensuous pleasures of the Orient! Belly dancers are extra." He named a price in pounds that Lampton converted to dollars in his head that came out as seeming reasonable to him. Dr. Weston thought it was dirt cheap, Darlington thought it was bloomin' 'ighway robbery considering the neighborhood.
This message was last edited by the GM at 11:35, Sun 16 Oct 2011.

"I was really looking for a private banquet room, but please give me your card and I will be in touch," Howard says to Mr. Al-Nawisha with a polite smile.

Cynthia tries the door on the office. Finding it locked, she enters the WC, without touching anything or even locking the door. After standing perfectly still for fifteen minutes, she pushes the door open with her foot and emerges, smiling and fresh. She rejoins the group, and waits for the manager to leave, all smiles and pleasantries.

Abdul Nawisha shrugged apologetically as he fished a card out from the breast pocket of his suit.

"Effendi, I assure you that renting this club will fulfill all your deepest desires. Please call me if you want for anything!"

He bowed, then left.

In reply to Cynthia Jane Holloway (msg #92):

Coming out of the bathroom Cynthia dodged around a sweaty cook lugging a coal scuttle in through the alley door. As there was no cellar (they knew of) fuel for the ovens had to be shuttled into the kitchen by hand from where it was stored the locked bin in the rear alley.

She returned to the table, having discovered a little more about the layout of the club. Nothing seemed out of place; there was no cellar, and an upper floor of flats with no inside access to the main floor.

Soon enough, it was midnight.

Rahman's message had said that Aiyesha wanted to speak to the investigators in the rear alley. She would meet them there with her "teacher".

Outside in the Rear Alley:

There was no sign of Phil outside, front, back or side.

Those who braved the outside found Aiyesha waiting by the staircase behind the club, bundled against the foggy dampness. Beside her was a bespectacled, thin, Arab man, also bundled up and in a hat.

The man said, "salaam aleykum."
This message was last edited by the GM at 05:58, Mon 17 Oct 2011.

As they leave the club, Singh speaks quietly to his employer, "I think it unwise for you to risk the dangers of a back alley, Miss Holloway. Let me get a taxi and you and I can wait for the others."

In the alley, Howard responds, "Aleykum salaam." He lets Darlington take the lead.

Cynthia's features quickly turn dark, then soften, as she recognizes the concern in Mr. Singh's voice. She considers his words carefully before she speaks.

"I will wait around the corner in the taxi. Should I hear anything out of sorts, I can bring the car around, to help our friends make a good getaway. Or if my presence is otherwise required, I can be quickly summoned. Is this a reasonable compromise?

"Unless you think me at risk waiting in the car, I think perhaps our companions will be in more need of your trusty service than I shall."

"I think you show great courage, Miss, tempered by great wisdom," Singh says, impressed yet again by this young woman Fate has bound him to, "It shall be as you say."

He secures a cab and stations it at the entrance to the alley. After handing Miss Cynthia into the conveyance, he hastens after the others, but stops befor he enters the side alley, so that he can still see the hack. His hand is on his revolver.

And Miss Cynthia waits patiently in the car, trying for all the world to hide her irritation (while searching eagerly for signs that Phil is safe -- not that she'd ever admit it to him).

In front of the Club

Imran darted out to Charing Cross to hail a taxi. The first couple were full, but after a frustrating few minutes the third was willing to wait in front of the alley.

After settling the bill, sorting out their coats and hats, the others exited the front of the club and waited somewhat impatiently as the hour crept up to, then past midnight. Finally, Imram arrived with the taxi.

Parking in front of the alley, the cabbie held the door for Cynthia, accepting the instructions with an attitude that suggested as long as the meter was running he would wait as long as you liked. The engine idled, a little roughly.

It was about five past midnight when those who were going in back of the BP Club finally departed down the side alley. Imran stopped and waited where the rear alley joined the side alley, peering in the gloom where the meeting was taking place and back to the waiting cab. It wasn't quite pitch black as there were some dim lights, but there was plenty of gloom and shadow. He could barely see the others where they were talking to the man and young woman waiting for them.

Inside the taxi, Cynthia felt the engine start to idle roughly. "Cor blimey!" exclaimed the driver, revving a little so it doesn't stall. "Sorry ma'am, always 'appens this in the damp, it does!"

The bouncer who was stationed outside in the cold looked curiously at the taxi and then away, perhaps noting that the men in their party had departed down the alley, no doubt to relieve themselves before the ride home.

     |    |
     |    |_____________________________
     |        W   D T A      Rear       |
     |   I ____J_H__[[[[________ Alley__|
     |    |Off.| |    |    |
     |    |____l |____l    |
     | S  |_WC_l_l____ Kit.|
     | i  |           |    |
     | d  E B         |    |
     | e  E           |_  _|
     |    |                |
     | A  |            [ R |
     | l  |  Tables    [Bar|
     | l  |            [___|
     | e  |            |   |
     | y  |            l P |
     |    |            |___|
     |    |            |   |
     |    |  B         l P |
_____|    |__|==|______|___|
     ______     B
    [ C    ] Taxi
    [______]

      Litchfield St.


_____    ___________________
     |__|

[[[[ = Bottom of rear wooden stairs.


A = Aiyesha
T = Aiyesha/Rahman's "Teacher"

I = Imran
C = Cynthia
H = Howard
J = John-Marc
D = Darlington (?)
W = Weston (?)
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:17, Mon 17 Oct 2011.

Once outside in the alleyway, the cold night air seems to have sobered Darlington up no end, his stumbling and slurring replaced by sharp and clear mannerisms.

He approaches the pair waiting in the alleyway, holding a hand up to the rest of the group to indicate for them to keep a safe distance.

"Good evenin', lady and gentleman. The Blue Pyramid is a fine establishment, dontcha fink? But I find it a bit stuffy, and too noisey ta talk. Out 'ere we can talk freely, right? Is there somefink you wanna tell us?"

In reply to Albert Darlington (msg #101):

Rear and Side Alley:

Howard held back as Darlington stepped forward. They couldn't see Phil around, either, but he could be hiding somewhere in the shadows. Behind them where the rear alley joined the side alley, Imran couldn't see much up the darkened side alley but at least the slap of shoe leather on cobbles would give anyone away were they to approach from that direction.

The "teacher" with Aiyesha seemed about in his forties with glasses and a neatly-trimmed beard, his hair and other features were difficult to tell in the darkness due to the hat on his head and muffler around his neck.

His voice was cultured and clearly of an upper-class education at an English university.

"Quite a nice establishment; I believe that Abd al-Nawisha does the best he can but he is at the mercy of a band of foul infidel thugs. I will be as concise as I can. I am Imam Al-Nasir Muhammad. The dancers here are forbidden by the club owner to marry so Aiyesha's husband, Rashid Ka'im Basara, posed as a dissolute wastrel so that he may frequent the club as her suitor without suspicion. I disapproved of the deceit but understood. Rashid went missing last month from the club. The police seem to have given up looking for the missing, so Aiyesha asked me for help. How I despaired because I am a teacher and priest, not a detective! I believe you were sent by God to help us."

Taking this as her cue, Aiyesha spoke, "The infidel snake Tewfik al-Sayyid befriends a man or seduces a woman at the club. Always someone addicted to drink or drugs, someone who won't be missed. Then, four times so far over the six months I have worked here he arrived accompanied by a half a dozen fellows, Caucasians, Orientals (Egyptians, Indians). They arrive at midnight. They soon depart in al-Sayyid's lorry and turn north on Charing Cross, I know not where they go! My employer, Mr. al-Nawisha, doesn't interfere in their business and so far none of the staff have gone missing, but they grow bolder, more careless, as if they are above God's punishment."

"Three times I did not know those missing and I am ashamed I did not come forward, but the fourth time they took my darling Rashid! Perhaps he is still alive? Kind sir, can you help us?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 07:17, Tue 18 Oct 2011.

Darlington listens to the pair and nods in his most sympathetic manner. When they have finished he tells them that he is a Detective of the Metropolitan Police and he is investigating the case.

He promises to look into Rashid's disappearance immediately and will do all he can to ensure he returns safe and well.

He warns them that Tewfik is a dangerous suspect in the case, and if he finds out that they have spoken to the police their life may be in danger, so this must all stay secret. Darlington asks when Tewfik is next expected at the club

In reply to Albert Darlington (msg #103):

"Thank God you are a policeman! I am glad," she said with relief.

"It has been about a month so Tewfik may return soon, I suppose. I do not know how I may be kept safe, I must continue to work to support my mother alone, now Rashid has gone missing."

Darlington takes Aiyesha's hand in a surprsingly compassionate and gentle gesture and says softly, "If you must work in this place, be careful. Don't say a word 'bout all this. If you are ever in any bovver then call on me and I'll be 'ere in a flash to protect ya. If ya see this Twefik bloke in the club call me on this number straight away. I promise I will find your 'usband."

With that he motions for the group to leave the alleyway swiftly, making sure that nobody from the club sees their conversation with the pair.

He says to the gathered party in a hushed tone, "Right then, I reckon we just got 'anded a big fat juciy lead in the Soho Slayer case. Are you blokes gonna back me up on this? Your mate Ellias seemed very interested in whatever is goin' on 'ere. If you weant in, I suggest we meet tomorrow morning and discuss our plan."

"Quite right, Detective," Howard murmurs, "Come round to the Park Lane Hotel tomorrow morning. We can talk then."

Singh nods silently and returns to Miss Cynthia's taxi. He holds the door for Dr Weston and Mr Lampton, then flags another for Mr Falcon and himself.

In reply to Albert Darlington (msg #105):

Before Darlington and the group left, Aiyesha and her Imam exchanged contact information. Barrington was the main point of contact for the police (and therefore Darlington) as they already knew. Information about the group was withheld, at least for the mean time.

For their part, either one could be reached by leaving a message during daylight hours at a pay telephone kiosk in the Woking exchange. Care of "Abdul", they would get it soon enough.
This message was last edited by the GM at 10:35, Thu 20 Oct 2011.

Cynthia gives Mr. Singh's arm a squeeze.

"Do you think we should wait for Phil? There's a slayer on the loose, and I've not seen any sign of him."

"I'm certain that, if he wanted to be seen, he would make his presence known to us. He may be planning to stay here tonight and get information from the beggars. He knows what he's doing, I'm sure. He is very resourceful."

Cynthia is not happy, but without a better course of action, consents. (But if he doesn't turn up by breakfast, there will be hell to pay!)

Shepherded by Imran out of the alley, the investigators made it to Litchfield alive. They left Aiyesha and her Imam, hopefully they would see them again soon. It was getting a little late and so they quickly found another taxi cruising Soho for fares to take them back to the hotel. Phil would have to fend for himself, something he was obviously capable of doing.

The fog made the city seem pitch-dark, even along Piccadilly. Traffic was light but slowed a little due to the lack of visibility.

Transitional Post

Whoever hasn't posted yet to close out this RP may do so now. Then resume posting in the "London" thread.
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:51, Thu 20 Oct 2011.