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.