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.