July, 1927

The impressive red brick mansion, built in Colonial Revival style, occupies most of the north side of 92nd Street, between 3rd Avenue and Lexington. The uptown neighborhood, now named Carnegie Hill after its most famous resident, the recently deceased industrialist Andrew Carnegie, has attracted a number of wealthy and influential individuals in the past two decades. Among them are the Hargrave family, the owners of the stately, three story home.

Most have heard of Jonas Hargrave, at least in passing. A shrewd businessman, with a reputation for occasional ruthlessness, he has found great success in the world of international cargo shipping, having become noted for bringing a variety of luxury goods from Europe to American shores. However, it was not Jonas who had requested your presence at the family home this afternoon, but his wife, Susan.

Each of you had received a polite call from the Hargraves’ head servant, asking that you meet with Mrs. Hargrave regarding an urgent matter in which your professional skills could prove especially useful. You were assured that, even if you decided against accepting the offered employment, you would be compensated generously for your time.

A light rain has begun, providing a momentary respite from the growing July heat. At the door, a neatly dressed butler greets each of you, leading you into a nearby sitting room which is amply furnished and decorated with airy watercolor landscapes, which complement the pale patterned wallpaper. Two tall windows provide a view of the street.

The balding, dark haired servant invites each of you to take a seat, assuring you that Mrs. Hargrave will be downstairs momentarily. In the meantime, he offers coffee or tea to any that want it, then departs to gather the requested beverages, leaving you in the quiet room, the only noise that of the rainfall, steadily drumming against the windows.

Arthur's first thought when he received this offer was that he must be wanted for ad photography. But, then, it probably wouldn't be urgent, right? No, businessmen like this don't call in professionals of any sort on short notice for run-of-the-mill professional work.

So, Arthur got to thinking. He had asked his friend Ray about it, and received a sage piece of advice: You'll have to go to find out.

So he found himself here, politely greeting the butler, feeling a bit out of place. He had good style, but his clothes were well-worn, even beat up--in the sort of condition that the Hargraves of the world would never allow their own clothes to be, Arthur thought.

He did like the rain against the window. And...he was apparently being compensated whether or not he agreed to this work. So it was worth it, he supposed.

"Thank you, my good man," Sully murmurs, as the butler relieves him of his coat, "Oh! thank you," he adds as his hat is also lifted from his head.

He gazes at the quiet opulence of the foyer, marble floors, paneling of exotic woods, fine paintings on the wayered-silk walls, obets d'art on the hand-crafted tables inlaid with yet more marble, coffered ceilings. So very impressive, as it is intended. The man leads him with a quiet tread a short distance along the hallway and shows him into a sitting room with yet more tasteful and costly decoration. Quite the showplace.

Sully has seen it all before, having been, at various times, in several of the homes of the moneyed elite of the city, sometimes in the process of being firmly escorted out. He enjoys seeing such finery, although he has rarely had an opportunity to inspect it firsthand, outside of museums and galleries. He goes about this room, peering closely at the items on display, not quite touching them, as he pays no apparent attention, besides an occasional nod and quiet smile, to the other occupants of the place, though, as he catalogs them, he notes that they seem as unused to these surroundings as he.

Morris hunched his shoulders against the rain, cursing the luck. Called out on the possibility of work, so he had to wear his best -- his only -- good jacket and the least stained pair of trousers he could find on short notice, and now his clothing was getting soaked right through. Even if he did get paid for just showing up, it was going to get sucked up repairing the damage to his attire. Or maybe he could just chuck the jacket in the donation bucket at Salvation Army and fish around for something better.

The snotty butler also sets his teeth on edge, though as he fidgets in the sitting room and eyes up the other two fellows, he has to admit to himself that the one with attitude is him. The butler's just doing his job. The fact that he looks good doing it and speaks with a plumy upper-crusty accent is hardly his fault. Instead, he turns his irritation to the other guys sitting on the plush chairs., wondering if they are competition for the same spot -- whatever that spot might be.

Urgent matter covered a lot of options.

From "My kitty is caught up that tree. Climb up and bring her down to me." to "I want to murder my husband and I have it on good authority that you can be extremely violent for not very much money."

As the rain slashes across the window panes and the moments tick by, he clears his throat.

"Hey," he croaks, not used to speaking this early in the day. "I'm Morris, Jake Morris. Private Dick. How about you guys?"

Best to know the worst right away.

He muttered curiously at the previous introduction, suppressing a nervous chuckle, which represented itself as more of something that might have been a cough than anything else as his face crumpled into what was its more usual cast - a stern look. Last name, first name, last name again, then occupation. Is that how the young people were doing things these days? Things were always changing and he could never keep up. He figured that he would follow suit to fit in.

"Wells, Anthony Wells. Professor of Anthropology and oh, all manner of things I suppose." The professor appeared to be in his later years on first glance, but a more than cursory inspection would reveal that he simply aged poorly. He offered what might have passed for a hesitant smile, but looked to see if the others would similarly introduce themselves.

Sully turns from where he's not quite touching a small statue of a man on a horse.

"I am Sullivan Quinn of the New York Tribune, pleased to meet you." He takes a step toward the others. "Weren't you with the police a few years ago, Mr. Morris? I seem to recognize you.

"And Professor Wells, I took a first-level Anthropology course with you a few years ago. At Columbia University. It was most interesting."

The professor narrowed his eyes a bit as he studied the man who claimed to have known him, an expression familiar to any who had been in his classes. After an awkward moment of staring, he widened them again to their normal proportion and offered a smile.

"Oh yes! Mr. Quinn! Your paper on Morgan's study of the Iroquois was quite astute. I'm glad to see that you've landed well and that you're still employing your skill with the written word."

Jake nods at the introductions, though he scowls when the reporter brings up his past life as a police officer. He doesn't like to think of those days too much. But he feels reassured that he will not be competing with these mooks for a job. They all do completely different things. Though there is an underlying thread of investigation for each of them, of widely different things in very different ways.

"Either of you gents met this Mrs. Hargraves before? She's sure got a nice place here."

He shook his head in the negative. "I haven't had the...heh...pleasure of meeting either of the Hargraves. I spend most of my time with books...and students and family when I must."

Arthur took in the conversation, and added at the end of the lively exchange the following: "Hello. I'm Arthur Flatt--I'm in ad photography. I have never met the Hargraves, or else my clothes would likely be newer and more expensive. I wouldn't have been surprised if one of you fellows had met him, actually."

This all just confused him more. Archaeology? Private dicks? A journalist? Flatt found it hard to imagine what he had in common with these people, and he was astounded.

"Photographer? That's very interesting. Where have I seen your work, Mr. Flatt? Do you work for an agency or are you a free lance?" Sully sounds genuinely interested.

He takes out a cigarette from an inexpensive case and fiddles nervously with it before putting it back and slipping the case into his pocket.

"For myself, I've never met the Hargraves either, though I know them by reputation, of course."

"Hey, buddy, can I bum a smoke from you?" Jake asks.

Accompanied by the butler who admitted each of the visitors, Susan Hargrave steps into the parlor. She is a handsome woman in her mid-fifties, her dark hair swept back from her face, her gaze sharp and perceptive. She is dressed in a finely made, but simple, black dress, and wears no jewelry save for a wedding ring. A folded piece of paper is clasped in her left hand.

She surveys the group and smiles politely. ”Good afternoon, gentlemen. I appreciate each of you taking the time to meet with me today. My husband had wanted to be part of this discussion as well, but I’m afraid that much of his time has been consumed with trying to obtain information from uncooperative city officials.”

She takes a seat, sighing as she does so. ”I understand that your time is valuable. With that in mind, I will come straight to the point of our meeting. One week ago, our daughter, Jennifer, was murdered. Her body was discovered in an alley on the Lower East Side. From what little I have been able to learn, her remains were in…horrific condition.” She swallows thickly. ”The police have not yet allowed Jonas and I to view her body, thus we are still waiting on making arrangements for Jennifer’s funeral.”

“What we have been able to learn is that Jennifer is the fifth such victim to be found in that neighborhood of Manhattan in the last four weeks. The police have been unwilling to release any details about any of the murders. Their official reason is that they are trying to protect the details of their investigation. Although my husband has not succeeded in gaining much more information about the case, what communications he has been privy to have strongly suggested that detectives are baffled at this stage. They seem to have no credible leads. At the moment, it appears that the prevailing theory is that this is the work of a mental patient who has escaped from a hospital.” She holds up the folded paper in her hand. ”That particular detail came from the press.”

“I am hoping for your help in uncovering and documenting some additional facts in Jennifer’s murder. Please do not misunderstand. Neither I nor my husband harbor any ill will toward the police. We are both convinced that, with all of the crime plaguing New York, especially surrounding Prohibition, they are simply unable to give these murders the full attention that they merit.”

She looks down at her hands. ”Apparently, based on what Jonas has been able to glean from City Hall, violent deaths and disappearances in the Lower East Side are not a new occurrence. It may even be that what happened to Jennifer is part of something that has been taking place much longer than anyone realizes. Whatever the case, it is our hope that you might be able to locate some facts that the police have overlooked. Evidence that might enable them to bring whoever did this to Jennifer to justice.”

She looks back up at her visitors. ”We are, of course, prepared to pay you generously for your efforts.”

Mrs. Hargrave's appearance is quick enough to startle Sully. He reflexively closes his cigarette case in the act of offering it to the investigator, mashing the white cylinder and drawing it back from the man's fingers as he stuffs the case back into his pocket and rises to his feet with a murmured, "Good afternoon."

He sits again at her gesture and realizes his cigarette lighter is still in his hand. He drops it into his jacket pocket. He listens attentively to the woman's explanation of her need for assistance, his face carefully composed in an attitude of respectful interest, nodding from time to time. He is amazed at her composure.

When she finishes speaking, he turns his gaze to Morris, who seems most likely to be of assistance.

Before Mrs. Hargrave's appearance, Arthur was about to respond to the question from Sully--he did work for an ad agency, but at the moment he hadn't the time to explain about his agency.

Then, Susan Hargrave spoke for a while, and Arthur's face contorted with sympathy, confusion, and...interest.

With the conclusion of her speech, he sat for a moment, mouth agape, and he looked to Morris as well for a second, before standing up on his own and stepping forward. "Could I see that paper, ma'am?"

Morris reaches for the cigarette . . . and it is gone, like the grapes receding from Tantalus's grasp. He grimaces and settles back to listen to what the lady has to say. He's sympathetic to their loss -- a kid? Jeez! That's hard. And something nasty happened to her too, by what she's telling them.

Though he's surprised by the fact that the police are keeping the body under wraps. Even if it was tore up and bloody, the detectives usually like to watch the parent's reaction when they "first" see the body. Especially the dads. They watch their faces like hawks. Positively scary how many dads do their own kids, usually after a rape or some such.

Nevertheless, he still thinks he has some connections that he can get the inside story on what the cops think really happened, no matter what they're telling the family. And that malarky about not having enough resources . . . case like this, high profile family, pretty girl ripped to bits -- any captain worth his salt would have a half dozen eyes on the investigation.

And that bit about the escaped loonie? Pure bull, he's certain. Smokescreen leaked to the press to be leaked to the Mom. Most lunatics wander around asking the way to go home in his experience. They might get mad and scratch and bite a bit when you try to shove them in the patrol car. But tear up a girl? The gruel they feed those poor sots, they'd be lucky to have the energy to wipe their own bums, let alone dismember a healthy woman.

Still, it sounds like a juicy case. And the lady did mention money.

"Sorry for yer loss, Mrs. Hargrave," he speaks up, unable to stop himself. "But can you define generous for me?"

"A terrible tragedy, Mrs. Hargrave. My most sincere condolences on your loss." A family man himself, the professor couldn't contemplate the enormity of the loss that must be facing the woman.

He couldn't immediately think about why his expertise might have been sought in the matter. A journalist and a former police officer...they made sense. A photographer, perhaps there was something in photographic evidence to examine, or that he might be able to capture. An old professor? It wasn't obvious, he was certain that there must be something that she was holding back that would eventually be made known to him. The Hargraves hadn't come to their fortune by being fools; f he was here, there was a reason.

"As far as I am able to be of help, consider my expertise at your disposal." He lived well enough on his salary that money wasn't his primary concern, as much as aiding a grieving family - and perhaps furthering his own research in the process.

Mrs. Hargrave hands the paper to Flatt. Unfolding it, the photographer sees that it is a newspaper clipping, a story from the New York Pillar-Riposte.

Fifth Slaying Baffles Police

(Special) The mutilated body of Miss Jennifer Hargrave, 23, was found by police shortly before dawn in an alley off Clinton Street in the Lower East Side.

Investigating officers are withholding all details of this new outrage, and the area is completely cordoned off. The Commissioner announced that a statement would appear this afternoon. Such was the condition of the victim that police refused permission for the press to view the remains. A witness shakily told reporters that “blood ran across the sidewalk and down the gutter.”

Police believe that Miss Hargrave is the latest victim of a madman thought to have claimed four other lives in the past four weeks. At present, this paper has no information concerning the identity of this fiendish murderer, and advise readers to maintain constant vigilance.

Though they decline to state why they believe it, police have privately indicated that the Slasher, as the killer has come to be called, is a lunatic escaped from a hospital!

A check of institutions within fifty miles of New York City shows no escapes, and this newspaper’s search for answers has been widened to Upstate, New England, Pennsylvania, Virginia, Delaware, and Ohio.

”Jonas and I remain convinced that there have been more killings like Jennifer’s, and that some of those who have disappeared in the area may be victims of this person as well.” Her voice turns bitter. ”I’m not especially convinced by the theory the police have publicized either. I think that the idea of an escapee from an asylum is a convenient explanation. One that the police are making use of since they likely don’t possess any other solid information.”

”Professor,” she says, addressing Wells, ”Your talents as a researcher are widely respected. I had hoped that you might be able to examine the recent history of the Lower East Side, to see if Jonas’ and my suspicions are correct, and there are other deaths or disappearances that could also be the work of this individual.” Nodding to Flatt she adds, ”And, Mr. Flatt, I wanted the participation of a capable professional photographer like yourself to capture images of any evidence that was uncovered. To create a permanent record of all that was learned.”

“Mr. Morris and Mr. Quinn both possess reputations as seasoned investigators within their respective fields.”

She pauses, then says, ”Generous, Mr. Morris is a five hundred dollar retainer paid to each of you who choose to look into my daughter’s murder. We will, of course, also cover any expenses that you accrue in your efforts to uncover the truth. Should you locate evidence that points to the culprit behind these acts, we are prepared to pay each of you an additional twenty five hundred dollars.”
This message was last edited by the player at 20:54, Tue 26 Oct 2021.

Sully reaches across to the photographer when he has finished with the clipping, "May I?" he asks quietly. He doesn't appear impressed by the source or the coverage. He listens to Mrs. Hargrave's words. "Generous indeed," he murmurs.

"Mrs. Hargrave, your request puts me in a bit of an awkward position, since it is my professional responsibility to make the facts known to the public, or at least, to my editor.

"I will undertake not to attribute anything to you or Mr. Hargrave in anything I write for publication nor to connect my reporting to your daughter's name. In return, I ask that you or your husband grant me a brief interview, nothing intrusive I assure you, once our... investigations... are completed to your satisfaction."

He gives the grieving woman a small and sympathetic smile.
This message was last edited by the player at 04:02, Tue 31 Aug 2021.

"Kind words, Mrs. Hargrave. I will do my best to put my abilities to the task in the hopes that we can shed some light on the truth and find the culprit," he said. He didn't speak to the offer, because it went without saying that it was indeed quite generous. From the trappings of this location, he presumed that he would have been satisfied with any remuneration these two offered.

Morris perks up and beams at the dollar amount mentioned. He's already cataloging who he can reach out to on the police force to get access to their side of this story.

"Sorry fer yer loss," he repeats, "but I think we can find out a deal more than you know already."

He wrings his hands, but he has to ask the next questions.

"Can you tell us why your daughter was in that part of town last week? Is it somewhere she went on a regular basis or was there something in particular that took her there? The Lower East Side is not noted for its restaurants or posh boutiques. It's kind of a . . . sleazy part of town." He searches for a delicate word.

"Did she go missing during the day, or was it at night? Did she live with you and your husband, here, in this house, or did she have her own place?

"When you last saw her, did she seem worried about anything? Did she have a boyfriend? Or anyone else in particular who might know her a bit better than her Mom?"

The questions are tumbling out now that his old hunting instincts are waking up, and forces himself to wait for some answers.

”Mr. Quinn, one reason that my husband and I elected to reach out to you was because your reputation as an ethical reporter. And your dedication to uncovering the truth,” Hargrave answers, ”I am quite certain that Jonas would have no objection to sitting down for an interview with you at the close of your inquiries.”

She nods in thanks to the Professor.

Sighing heavily, she says, ”I assure you, Mr. Morris, you needn’t be sensitive regarding my feelings. I appreciate straightforwardness.”

“I am well aware of the Lower East Side’s reputation. Although I cannot account for why Jennifer was there, I am certain it was for no good purpose. Jennifer was a free spirited, adventuresome girl and I fear that her father and I made the mistake of allowing her too much freedom, beginning at an early age.”

“She resided here with us. Although Jennifer did not disclose her true destination to us or any of our staff, she had left the house in the early evening, reportedly to meet with friends for dinner. So I am certain that it was after dark when she went to the Lower East Side.”

“Jennifer had begun taking courses at City College, something her father and I both supported. She was very intelligent and…opinionated. She did not have a suitor. The last young man she went out with had aspirations of making her his trophy wife, a role Jennifer was decidedly unsuited for. She had friends. Three young women that she grew up with and some additional acquaintances she had made at school. Her best friend is named Charlotte Fisker. I can provide you with her address and phone number if you like. If Jennifer was keeping any secrets, Charlotte would likely know them.”

Mrs. Hargrave shakes her head. “I have thought often of the last conversation that I had with Jennifer, Mr. Morris. I spoke to her in the early afternoon on the day she disappeared. She seemed perfectly normal. In high spirits, enthused about her studies, talking about George Gershwin and some of her other favorite music of the moment. I didn’t sense any worry or upset on her part at all.”

"You are too kind," Sully responds, "Thank you."

He listens to the rest of the woman's information, noting down a couple of points.

"Would it be possible for us to see Jennifer's room? To look through her possessions? Did she have her own bank account and funds?"

Flatt found himself dumbstruck. After all, he wasn't some investigator, and it seemed like his photography was the only skill he had to offer.

He thought of a few questions, but they all seemed very dumb to him as soon as they came into his head, so for a while he stayed silent and passed the very flimsy newspaper article over to Sully.

Now, Quinn was someone he could imagine joining in. A journo was just a few steps away from a private eye, after all.

But the fee was undeniable. Arthur was not a rich fellow, he was well-regarded by his colleagues, but not respected widely in his field (at least, he knew many photographers with greater success or capability than himself, and felt unaccomplished in comparison). He wondered if this might actually be work referred to him by someone at his agency. (He couldn't figure who it could be, at any rate.)

Without even thinking, he had brought out a cigarette and lit it. He did, finally, think of one question which didn't seem inane to him. "If we might look at her possessions, can you say if anyone's touched or disturbed any of her things since she went missing?"

A second one followed it. "Did you know these friends she was supposed to be meeting?"

“You may certainly visit Jennifer’s room upstairs,” Mrs. Hargrave replies, ”The only person that has entered that room since her death was Cameron MacBrady, a detective with the Police Department. He did take a few items. He provided Jonas and I with a list of the things he removed, which I can show you.”

“Jennifer did have her own bank account. Her father had access to her financial records, which he reviewed periodically. I know that she had some recent withdrawals that Jonas was curious about.”

“Jennifer had told me that she was meeting a friend from college, Mollie Pratt, at a coffee shop in Upper Manhattan. The Sunset. Neither Jonas nor I have spoken with Miss Pratt, but I know that Detective MacBrady has. Although he has not shared a great deal of information with us, he did not suggest that Miss Pratt was a person of suspicion.”
This message was last edited by the player at 22:21, Sat 04 Sept 2021.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hargrave. I don't think I have any more questions just now," he says, standing, "I'm ready to have a look at Jennifer's room, if it's convenient." He looks to the others.

"Yes, I think since we're here, that an understanding of her room and its contents, along with the list of items taken by the detective seems prudent. Even if we cannot see them, knowing what they are might direct us as to what the police believe to be important. I'm certain that should help provide us some guidance."

He felt a little bit out of his depth, but it seemed a rational suggestion.

"Yeah," growled Morris, " I know MacBradey. He'll play ball with us if we need to see what he took." And five dollars changed hands, he didn't add.

"You say this Molly Pratt was a college friend, Mrs. Hargrave. Do you know her very well? What kind of girl she is? Do you have an address or a phone number? And the same for Charlotte Fisker, if you please. Friends often know more about you than parents do."

He will follow upstairs, looking around the house as they move from room to room for signs of the daughter's presence, photos, clothes that likely belonged to her, and so on. Not really searching for clues but trying to create a picture of the young woman in this house - if she had been at ease here, welcome, a regular presence. If he sees a good picture, such as a portrait, likely to be her, he will ask if they may take it. If he does not, he will ask for one before they leave.

“I have met Miss Pratt on a few occasions. Her father is a professor at City College. He lectures on chemistry,” Mrs. Hargrave answers, “In my interactions with her, she seemed an intelligent, well spoken young woman. Her hairstyle and clothes were in keeping with the current fashion that girls of her age seem to favor.”

“However, I do not doubt that she was on her best behavior when around Jonas and myself. So, I would not be surprised if showed an entirely different side around Jennifer. As I said, my daughter was adventurous by nature.”

“I will make certain that Parsons provides you with addresses and phone numbers for both Miss Pratt and Miss Fisker before you depart.”

The butler, Parsons, escorts the group upstairs to Jennifer Hargrave’s bedroom.

A canopy bed occupies one side of the room, a matching wardrobe arranged in an adjacent corner. A vanity with an oval mirror faces the foot of the bed, a dresser just to the left of it. The wall opposite the door features two tall windows that provide a view of the avenue below. A writing desk is situated between the windows.

The surface of the vanity is taken up with bottles of perfume and various cosmetics. One side of the dresser holds several pieces of iridescent carnival glass; cups, vases, and plates. The other side is occupied by a Victrola phonograph and a neat stack of records.

The desk holds a pair of books; a text on English composition and a copy of Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway. A trio of framed photographs sit in one corner. One of the pictures is of Jennifer Hargrave, a pretty young woman with dark hair and piercing eyes, standing between her parents. Another features her with a group of four other women of the same age in what appears to be Central Park. The last is of Jennifer alone, standing in view of the Eiffel Tower, smiling.

Sully follows the butler into the room. Although the room is good-sized (as befits a princess, he thinks), with the servant and four men wandering around it still seems crowded. Between the police and Mr. Morris, he's certain nothing relevant will be missed.

He glances at the titles on a couple of the phonograoh records and checks a couple of pieces of the brightly colored glassware for any identifying marks. Drifting close to the photographer, Flatt, he murmurs, "Can you take pictures of the photographs?"

He asks Parsons to step into the corridor (to clear the way for Flatt) and asks him some inconsequential questions about how long he's been with the Hargrave family, how long he's been in service, where he's from, and the names of the rest of the staff, noting all the information down carefully.

Morris glances around, hoping to get a sense of the girl who lived here. She seems to be just an ordinary pretty college girl. Unfortunately, just the type that the creeps and lechers like to get their hands on. Probably just a case of her being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nevertheless, he knows what he's doing in an investigation like this.

He heads to the writing desk and examines it closely. He will open drawers, pull them all the way out and look underneath them, measure them with his fingers for hidden places, and so on. If there is a writing pad on the desk he will hold it up at an angle to the light from the window to see if there are shadows of impressions on the sheet from any writing on the sheets that were above it.

He will look under the pillows and under the mattress on the bed for anything that might be hidden away from casual sight -- such as from her mother.

Wells takes interest in things that likely seem peculiar to others. He ponders the volume of Mrs. Dalloway for a moment, looks at the labels on the bottles of the perfumes, and studies the collection of records that are present in the room. He also takes some interest in the various photographs, particularly noting Jennifer's wardrobe choices. There were certainly more salient clues present that he figured the journalist and the detective would be able to parse far better than he would, but anthropology was the study of people. In the field, these were the very sorts of things that he would use to construct a composite profile of individuals and civilizations long since gone. The best he could do as he studied this matter would be to try to understand this young woman.
This message was last edited by the player at 21:23, Fri 10 Sept 2021.

Quinn notes that three of the pieces of carnival glass bear marks which indicate that they came from Steeplechase Park.

Frederick Parsons, the butler, informs Quinn that he has been employed by the Hargrave family for eighteen years. He explains that he was born and raised in Rochester, then came to the city after serving in the Army prior to the turn of the century. Mrs. O’Malley, the head housekeeper, has been with the family almost as long as he. Besides her, there are two other maids, Miss Royce and Mrs. Thurber. Both came with impeccable references. The family’s driver, James Lloyd, has been employed for five years, replacing the former chauffeur, who retired.

Wells comes to the conclusion that Jennifer Hargrave was a very modern, forward thinking young woman, blessed with considerable intellect and curiosity. Her taste in music focused primarily on recent jazz recordings and while some of her clothing is suited to the sort of societal events she might have attended with her family, most of her garments reflect more recent fashion trends, some that those in more conservative circles have condemned. Her reading choices confirm the anthropologist’s suspicions. Aside from Virginia Woolf, inside the writing desk he discovers copies of Hermann Hesse’s Steppenwolf, Frank Kafka’s Amerika, and Understanding Human Nature by Alfred Adler.

Morris carefully combs the bedroom for clues. The dresser, vanity, and desk yield nothing to the detective, save for the usual garments and sundries that he would expect to find among a young woman’s belongings. The individual drawers are free of hidden compartments and false bottoms. However, as Morris searches beneath the mattress, he discovers a small object: a vial of amber colored glass with a screw top, no more than an inch in height. It appears to be empty.

Morris will show the vial to the others, and where he found it. He will carefully unstopper it and use his hand to waft any trace of scent so he can smell it. (He's not going to sniff it directly!)

OOC: Does it look like a drug container -- opium, laudanum, etc? (He would know, I think) Or perfume?

Out in the corridor, Sully thanks the butler for the information and clears his throat raspily.

"Sorry. My throat is dry as dust. Do you think you could bring me a glass of water?"

That should buy his fellow investigators a few more minutes uninterrupted and unobserved.

The books studied, after the manservant returned with water, Wells had a question for him.

"Do you know the names of the other young women photographed here?"

While the servant was out of the room, Arthur Flatt took it under his own authority to examine each of the photographs as closely as he could. He checked to see if he could dismantle the frames easily, to examine the rear sides of the photographs.

He would take it on himself to ask for Morris to hold the vial quite gently in the air for a photograph of his own: "Pose, if you could, Morris, I need a look at that vial."

He was being paid for this, after all, he would document the existence of this vial.

OOC: I'll respond to Sully in this edit, and say that yes, Arthur takes a picture of the photographs.
This message was last edited by the player at 08:29, Thu 16 Sept 2021.

In reply to Arthur G. Flatt (msg # 38):
Did he photograph the photographs as Sully asked?

Morris holds the vial up, using the middle finger of his left hand and his thumb so he is flipping the bird to the camera.

Parsons dutifully departs to fetch Quinn a glass of water.

Although he cannot be certain that the container originated from a pharmacy, Morris strongly suspects that it once held a drug of some kind. Waving over the open vial to catch any scent that might be lingering within, the private detective catches a faint, but distinct, floral aroma with a chemical undertone.


Upon returning with the requested water, Parsons listens to Wells’ question respectfully, then studies the photograph in question.

”The fair haired young woman just to the right of Miss Hargrave is Charlotte Fisker, Miss Hargrave’s closest friend. The woman to the right of Miss Fisker is Katrine Halvorsen. She married about a year ago and now resides with her husband in Syracuse. They are expecting their first child.”

“The first young lady on Miss Hargrave’s left is Madison Selby. Miss Selby’s parents are considerably wealthy and she has spent the past year traveling in Europe. The last of the group is Elena Santoro. She still resides here in Manhattan. She and Miss Hargrave spoke regularly. Miss Santoro works in an attorney’s office downtown.”

With photographs freshly taken of both the pictures which were the subject of conversation, and the curious vial, Arthur stepped back and asked a question.

"So, I take it that Mrs. Halvorsen and Ms. Selby are not likely to know anything about what Ms. Hargrave is up to these days?"

He felt awkward, there with a camera in his hands, not sure what sort of a question he ought to be asking.

OOC: Sorry about the spotty posting for a bit, should be back to normal.

Sully winks at Flatt and leans in close to study the faces, noting down the names in his notebook.

"Hmmm. You wouldn't happen to have addresses for these young women, Parsons, would you? Or perhaps Mrs. Hargrave might?"

"Yes, any contact information that can be provided might be nice, especially for Miss Santoro. I think we'll have Miss Fisker's already from Mrs. Hargrave," he said. He thought that speaking to those who knew her best - her closest friends - would be rather likely to turn up some credible information that might better characterize her and lend support to their inquiries as to what she was up on the night in question or even generally.

The butler nods in agreement. ”I believe that Miss Hargrave carried on a correspondence with Katrine Halvorsen, but of course, she would only know what she had been told within Miss Hargrave’s letters. I feel quite certain that the communication between Miss Hargrave and Miss Selby was only one way, with Miss Hargrave receiving occasional accounts of Miss Selby’s most recent travels.”

”Yes, I can supply you with addresses for each of them,” Parsons replies to Quinn, ”In Miss Selby’s case, I can give you the address for her family here in New York.”

“Also, Parsons, did Jennifer, Miss Hargrove I mean, have her own maid?”

Parsons shakes his head. ”No, sir. Mrs. O’Malley, Mrs. Thurber, and Miss Royce share duties within the entire household. None of them worked exclusively for Miss Hargrave.”

Morris has slipped the tiny glass vial into his jacket pocket. He's still unsure if he should share what he knows about it with the others, but he's sure as shooting not going to blab it out in front of the hired help.

"Times a-wastin'," he declares. "I've got a detective to interview, and then some young ladies to call on. You guys want to do this all in a gaggle, or break it up and reconvene later in the day to share details?"

When they leave Jennifer's room, Sully asks Parsons if Mrs. Hargrave expects to see them before they leave.

To Jake, he suggests they go to a local eatery or speakeasy to discuss their ideas and plan for the investigation.

[What time is it?]

Jake gives him a manic grin. And then shakes his head violently.

"Trying to stay off the hard stuff, these days," he mumbles. "Coffee and Coke for me.

"Speaking of coke . . . "

He tells the others as soon as they are out of the house that the glass vial he found had at one point contained cocaine.

"Recognize that smell anywhere!" he declared rather vehemently. "Girl was using uppers, fer certain. Course, she's a pretty young thing, college co-ed, playing around, trying to impress her friends. Don't mean she's an addict. But could be the reason she went somewhere off the beaten track that night.

"We should ask her friends if they ever, you know, tooted a little snow with Jenny. And if they did, do they know where she scored."

”I don’t believe so, sir,” Parsons tells the reporter, “I think that the next time Mrs. Hargrave, she hopes to hear some new insights into her daughter’s case.”

Parsons dutifully leads the investigators back downstairs to the first floor. After ensuring that all have their hats, raincoats, and other possessions, he sees them to the front door, wishing each of them a pleasant afternoon.

As the group emerges from the mansion, it is just a few minutes past one o’clock.

---

The Corner Pantry is a small, well maintained diner located several blocks away from the Hargrave residence. Business seems steady, roughly half of the tables and booths occupied when the investigators arrive. The menu consists of sandwiches and a number of familiar home style dishes. The special of the day is meatloaf.

Leading the group to a booth near the back of the restaurant, a waitress takes orders for drinks, then departs, leaving the gathering to converse and contemplate the menu.

"I should like a hamburger sandwich with onions, fried potatoes, and coffee, cream and sugar. Thank you," Quinn tells the waitress, "And what pies do you have today?"

He fishes his notebook out of his pocket and sets it on the table, prepared for their discussion.

"So, Mr. Morris, you believe Jennifer was using cocaine. Any chance it was a prescribed medication, do you think?"

"Coffee, please. Blacker than midnight on a moonless night," he said.

"I hear from my students that cocaine has become quite popular among the younger people these days. One of my former students, a young Mr. James, would describe it as 'a helluva drug,'" he said.

"Yes, I'd like to know about your pies as well, and I'll have a coffee, with a cream and a sugar." Arthur put his camera away quite gently, and sat with his legs crossed.

"Well...if it was prescribed, would it have been hidden? Certainly a prescription is something you wouldn't hide from your family, yes?"

"I would think not. I'd imagine at least her father would be aware if there were such a prescription being dispensed to his daughter," he said.

"This ain't no drugstore vial," says Morris, placing the small glass bottle on the table between them. "And it ain't no twist of paper, neither. It's some drug dealer's fancy container for his uptown customers. Maybe the cops will know who uses bottles like this to sell their snow. I'll ask around."

He inspects the bottle carefully, looking for any clues to its origin or journey. Also racks his brain for any memory from his days on the force as to whether this is a signature container or a fairly standard delivery tool.

The waitress returns with the requested cups of coffee, assuring Quinn that his hamburger sandwich will be at the table shortly. She informs the group that the diner has apple, blueberry, and egg custard pies available today.

He turned to the waitress and said: "Oh, I would rather enjoy the egg custard pie."

After she left with any orders of pie, he turned back to the others. "Well, we should talk to some of her friends, I think. Someone in the group of them has to know where she was really going and what she was really doing. Maybe we could start with the friend she said she was going to meet?"

"Coffee: cream and sugar," Jake growls, not that he's being surly, growling is his natural conversational tone. And he can't afford pie or hamburgers.

"This could have come from any high-end dealer," he comments about the vial, tucking it back in his pocket as the waitress starts laying out cutlery and napkins.

"So, back to the question, do we divvy up the investigation or do we run around in a big group? I got cops I can speak to -- I know the investigating detective a bit -- but I don't think they're going to be talkative to a bunch of guys they don't know.

"But if we do split up, we need to get together fairly frequently and share what we find out. These things always have threads that link to other clues. You gotta have a crime board to lay it all out, see it all at once.

"Any of you guys got a place to set that up?"

He's thinking that his own flophouse would be more embarrassing than he's willing to share with these men he's just met.

OOC: Did we get paid? Not that he's being too mercenary, but he's pretty skint right now.

"I think at this stage, splitting up somewhat might allow us to make more effective uses of our time," he said. He had already pulled out a small notepad and started writing down some of the information they'd learned from the family before it left his mind.

"We know the area that this incident and others like it took place. We know at least friends of the departed who might shed light on her purpose or interests in that area - Miss Fisker and Miss Santoro being the local pair, it is perhaps best to focus on them. We know that she had access to illicit substances, which might help shed light on the matter, or point us to someone involved in these things. Mr. Morris has police contacts. Perhaps Mr. Quinn has contacts in the news business. I don't have any helpful connections myself, but I could return to the university library and conducts some research on the area and various other incidents that may have taken place to attempt to correlate similarities."

"If we need a place to meet periodically, I have an office space at Columbia where I have set up for research. It could serve the purpose."

"I doubt I  have any contacts among the police to equal those of Mr. Morris and his expertise in criminal investigation is undoubtedly superior to mine. I can utilize my connections not only at the Tribune where I am employed but among my colleagues at other newspapers, including Mondale Crief at the Pillar-Riposte whose article Mrs. Hargrave shared with us.

"I agree, Professor, that interviewing the three friends of Miss Hargrave--Miss Fiskar, Miss Pratt, and Miss Santoro--should be high among our piorities.

Ascertaining the exact locations where Miss Hargrave and the other unfortunate victims were discovered may help us begin to determine the killer's stalking ground. I myself have a suite at the Allen Hotel just off DeLancey. Its sitting room is small, but would suffice, I think as an alternative meeting place for us."

"Sounds like the professor's lab might be a good spot," Morris says. "We can probably come and go without disturbing anyone. Your place is fine, I'm sure," he nods at Quinn, "but it's your home and small. We'd be squeezing past you when you're on the john. The lab sounds better."

He moves on then to tick off the items they know about the case and suggests that while he goes to see the detective, the others interview the young women who were Jennifer's friends. They have phone numbers for them and can call and set a time and place.

"I'd start with Mollie Pratt -- she was going to be with Jennifer that day at the Sunset Coffee Shop in Manhatten."

OOC: Not going to format this as speech, but this is gleaned from our thread so far

Item 1: a newspaper clipping, a story from the New York Pillar-Riposte.

Fifth Slaying Baffles Police

(Special) The mutilated body of Miss Jennifer Hargrave, 23, was found by police shortly before dawn in an alley off Delancey street in the Lower East Side.

Investigating officers are withholding all details of this new outrage, and the area is completely cordoned off. The Commissioner announced that a statement would appear this afternoon. Such was the condition of the victim that police refused permission for the press to view the remains. A witness shakily told reporters that “blood ran across the sidewalk and down the gutter.”

Police believe that Miss Hargrave is the latest victim of a madman thought to have claimed four other lives in the past four weeks. At present, this paper has no information concerning the identity of this fiendish murderer, and advise readers to maintain constant vigilance.

Though they decline to state why they believe it, police have privately indicated that the Slasher, as the killer has come to be called, is a lunatic escaped from a hospital!

A check of institutions within fifty miles of New York City shows no escapes, and this newspaper’s search for answers has been widened to Upstate, New England, Pennsylvania, Virginia, Delaware, and Ohio.

Item 2: Mother says:
She left the house in the early evening, reportedly to meet with friends for dinner.

Jennifer did have her own bank account. Her father had access to her financial records, which he reviewed periodically. I know that she had some recent withdrawals that Jonas was curious about.

Jennifer had told me that she was meeting a friend from college, Mollie Pratt, at a coffee shop in Upper Manhattan. The Sunset.

Parsons provides you with addresses and phone numbers for both Miss Pratt and Miss Charlotte Fisker (best friend)

Also, speak to Elena Santoro, another friend in photo. She still resides here in Manhattan. She and Miss Hargrave spoke regularly. Miss Santoro works in an attorney’s office downtown.

Item 3: Jake knows the Police Detective in charge of the case who took items from the girl's room

Cameron MacBrady, a detective with the Police Department. He did take a few items. He provided Jonas and me with a list of the things he removed, which I can show you.

Morris knows MacBrady. Graded up to Detective after walking a beat in Hell’s Kitchen. He’s an intelligent man, reasonably thorough, and extremely cynical. Likely receiving kickbacks from from a handful of Irish gangsters to look the other way with regard to their speakeasies.

Item 4: Searching Room

Morris . . .  discovers a small object: a vial of amber colored glass with a screw top, no more than an inch in height. It appears to be empty. It smells of cocaine

"I am quite comfortable interviewing strangers in my line of work. I can work through my newspaper contacts today, Mr. Morris, while you consult with your former police associates. We can make appointments for tomorrow to interview these young women. If you take Miss Pratt, I'll talk to Charlotte Fisker. Perhaps Professor Wells and Mr. Flatt would each care to accompany one of us on those interviews. A second person may think of questions that a single interviewer might overlook.

"This evening, Mr. Flatt, if you will develop the photos you took of the pictures of Miss Hargrave and her friends. Is it possible to isolate an image of each person as well as to reproduce the group picture? If we each have copies it would be handy talking to possible witnesses. And Professor Wells, would you be so kind as to use your academic credentials to elicit information by telephone from the local psychiatric facilities about escapes over the past year of dangerous inmates?

"That would get us started, I think. We can then reconvene at the Columbia University tomorrow around five o'clock to exchange information on our progress and make plans for the coming days. What do you think?

"Here is a copy of my business card for each of you. A message will be taken at that telephone number any hour of the day or night. I also have noted my hotel number where the front desk clerk will take messages."

"Yes, I suppose I could accompany you on that particular interview, Mr. Quinn. We are in closely related fields, I suppose." Arthur finished eating his pie, and then carefully dabbed any food on his face away.

"I think developing those photos is a fine plan--I should be able to get prints made, so we would likely have copies. I think I should also like to see if I can capture a photograph of the location where the murder took place. It might help us to visualize the incident later on--would you all agree?" He asked this last question with a bit of uncertainty, as if the response might be a powerful and resounding "No." from each of his fellow freelancing investigators.

OOC: Arthur's place of business should be able to do accommodate him for one or several methods for printing photographs, whether photogravure or halftone. :)

"I'll see if I can get copies of the photos the cops would have taken at the actual scene," nods Morris and making a note in his notebook. "Though it sounds as if this was a nasty one and they may not want those getting out." He looks at Quinn.

"Which brings us to a sticky point, gents. We've been hired as Private Detectives," he stresses the word Private. "I'm thinking that none of what we uncover makes it into the newspapers unless Mrs. Hargrave agrees.

"Is that how you all see it?"
This message was last edited by the player at 17:04, Thu 30 Sept 2021.

Having finished his sandwich and potatoes, Sully attacks his pie.

"Certainly, Mr. Flatt, I should be glad of your company. Photos of all the known locations would prove most helpful, I think.

"As I explained to Mrs. Hargrave, it is my professional responsibility to make the facts known to the public, or at least, to my editor. However, I did undertake to her that I will not attribute anything to the Hargraves in anything I write for publication nor to connect my reporting to Jennifer's name."

Jake shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

"Here's the thing, Sully, if I manage to get copies of the crime scene photos, from what we've already heard they're going to be pretty nasty. And I don't want the Hargraves to see pictures of their daughter's dismembered and probably naked body splashed all over the Daily Yell.

"I need your word on this, or I won't ask for the pics. Plus the captain will be expecting me to keep it hush if he does let me see them. So I need to know we're good on not publishing any crime scene photos. Capiche?"

Arthur leaned back--he certainly had an opinion, but he didn't want to get into the middle of all of this just yet, certainly not to argue with one or the both of them.

After listening in for a bit, he said: "I can take photographs of the location on my own, and maybe we can return to all of this conversation in the future, after you either do or do not retrieve prints from the police. Once you do, we could discuss whether to examine them as a group. Is that an acceptable compromise to the two of you?" Arthur was clearly uncomfortable, but making an effort to navigate this to everyone's satisfaction.

Sully smiles at Flatt: "Oh, no compromise is needed in this case. I have no intention of taking any photos that Jake obtains. Of course, it may be that whoever is assigned to the story at the Trib is making arrangements to obtain such photos, not to mention all the other papers in town." He turns to Morris and continues.

"I do ask that you not give the pictures to any of the Tribune's competitors, Jake. At least not without giving us an opportunity to bid on them."

"Thanks, buddy," Jake grunts. "There ain't no way I want pictures like that published. I won't sell them."