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.