"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.