Prequel: Assembling the team

December 31, 1924
Garden City, New York
St. Steven's Memorial Hospital
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Dr. Kenneth Davis, it's about 8 PM when you finally finish your last case for the day and begin to wash-up. Thank God, too, because you had plans to celebrate the New Year's with your brother Marcus and his family out in Hoboken, and what with the weather and everyone heading into the city for the night, you'd be lucky to get there in under 3 hours, and that's if you managed to catch the next train.

After packing-up your doctor's bag and grabbing your coat, you make you way downstairs and through the lobby when Margie, the receptionist, flags you down. "Doctor Davis! Telephone call for you!" she says in her thick Brooklyn accent. She hands the transceiver over to you from across the desk with a slight smile. Listening into the earpiece, you hear the cheery voice of the switchboard operator chirp through on the other end, "Doctor Kenneth Davis? Please hold while I patch you through."

January 1, 1925
Greenwich Village, Manhattan
Willowbrook Lodging
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Morgan O'Neil, you awake with a mild headache, no doubt a consequence of the free-flowing, illicit booze from the Bixby, a local cabaret and speakeasy here in the Village. 1925 promised to be, you thought, a departure from the dreary ennui that marked 1924 for you. The time would come very shortly when you would gladly trade the quiet tedium that defined your old life for the cosmic horrors that would come to define your new one.

You rub the sleep out of your eyes and grab a quick shower and hot shave before heading out into a typical frigid and gray New York January morning. A few blocks down is Antonio's Cafe, where you'd eaten several times over the past few weeks that you've been in New York. It was, in your opinion, the best coffee you could get outside of your native Boston.

A bell atop the door chimes loudly as you enter the cafe and cross the black and white checkered tiles over to a wooden table that buts-up against the wall. You order your usual - fried eggs and bacon with strong black coffee - and open a copy of the New York Herald. A few moments later, a pretty 30-something waitress lumbers over to your table, tray in hand, and asks in a cheery tone, "You Morgan O'Neil? Got a telegram for you this morning. Sorry about the coffee stains," she adds with a slight smile and hands you a slip of yellow paper with the rest of your order:

Akila had made the drive drown from Providence to his hotel in Manhattan just yesterday and had left his car with the hotel's staff to store while he was in town for the conference. He had eaten a late dinner in the Hotel and had a good night's sleep. He was on the front steps of the hotel waiting for a cab and thinking about the presentation he would be making later that day. There were no real surprises in what he had to say, it was mostly previously revealed knowledge, but connection he would be making to other cultures may shock some people.

Kenneth says, "And you as well, Jackson!" Jackson hangs up the phone before Kenneth is even halfway done saying it. He hands the phone back to the nurse and shakes his head. "What have you gotten yourself into now, Jackson?" he mutters to himself as he makes his way to the hospital administrator. If Jackson needs him, he's going to need to take some time off to help him out.

I guess he only bluffs in cards Morgan thinks to himself.

January 14, 1925
Midtown, Manhattan
The Chelsea Hotel
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Akila, you manage to hail a taxi from the steps of the Chelsea Hotel which, like most other attendees and speakers, is where you're staying for the duration of the conference (room 450 to be exact). The 14th Annual Conference on Antiquities and Anthropology is attracting a lot of the standard names - peoples like Winters, Von Kluck, Evans, and the like - all fairly dry academics, but the one you're really interested in seeing is Jackson Elias. It's rumored he's returning from another expedition to the Kenya Colony with new findings on some of the local blood-cults there. Sure, some of his stuff is sensationalized and embellished for commercial purposes, but it's largely factual, and, frankly, his ability to spin a fantastic tale is part of why you like him.

You give the cabby the address for the conference - a few blocks down Broadway - and the Checker cab delivers you a few minutes later along with a $0.30 fee.

Akila gives the cabbie two quarters and tells him to keep the change. He strides into the Conference Center and stops for a moment to take in the momentous expanse. He finds a registration table and approaches hoping to get an agenda of the day's events and perhaps a map of the venue.

Paying for his meal, Morgan stands-up, preparing to return to his apartment to pack his equipment and clothes, when a chime on the on the door signals another customer entering.
----------------------

Kenneth, you enter Antonio's Cafe in search of the man Jackson had mentioned on the phone last night. The cafe itself is a rather small affair, with about half a dozen Jacobean-styled tables sitting atop a white and black checkered tile floor. You spot only a few patrons, which makes sense given that it's New Year's: two older, working class bearded men drinking coffee, allowing the steam of which to wash the red from their puffy eyes, and one younger gentleman, stout and young with the look of a soldier about him. The lattermost stands as if to leave when you lock eyes with him.

Kenneth nods at the other man and in a moderated voice asks, "Are you O'neil?" He pulls off his coat, hanging it on one arm as he takes another step into the restaurant.

You turn northward and look at the municipal building before you where the conference is held - an art deco affair of dull, gray concrete with a central stair leading to the main entrance. Upon entering, you find yourself in a crowded concourse of tile and concrete; to your left you see a concession stand serving coffee and pastries, to the right you see a sign naming the entrance to the African Exhibitions, and straight ahead, where the crowd is slowly shuffling, you see a sign pointing you toward registration. A severe-looking bespectacled woman waves you forward to the desk and asks your name. You give it, and after signing in, she hands you a map of the conference:



You also ask about the agenda, and she points to a small pamphlet on the table in front of you. You pick up a copy and move to the side to allow the other attendees access to the registrar and peruse the contents:

It seems Jacques Marot will be speaking shortly after lunch on findings in French Indochina. If rumors are true, then recent excavations north of the Sangkhae suggest a connection to the famed Ankor Wat, which could be interesting. Von Kluck is speaking at 3PM on the Sudanese pyramids. You make a mental note to check this out, given its proximity to your own field of expertise. Speaking of which, it looks like you're to speak this evening at 6PM. You flip through the remainder of the pamphlet and see that Jackson Elias isn't to speak until the 15th, the last day of the exhibition. You frown at this last piece of information, but it makes sense for them to save the best for last.

Morgan stops as the stranger asks him about his name. "I am Morgan O'Neil, bit you have me st a disadvantage sir. I'm not sure who you are?" Doing his best to appear non-threatening Morgan waits for the stranger to speak.

Kenneth holds out his hand, "Dr. Kenneth Davis, at your service, sir. I was told to meet you here by Jackson Elias. Have you spoken with him recently?"

Morgan visibly relaxes as Kenneth introduces himself. Shaking the offered hand, Morgan responds in kind. "It's good to meet you sir. I indeed know our mutual friend. Jackson Elias. I've ran security for him on a few of his expeditions. As far as speaking with him, it's been a while on that one. I did in fact receive a telegram this very day from him."

Morgan takes the telegram and shows it to Kenneth.

Kenneth quickly reads the note and then snorts a laugh and hands the note back to O'neil. "Well, he certainly does have a way with words, doesn't he?" He shakes his head. "So, it seems we are both in the dark. He told me he found something, but couldn't discuss it over the telephone. He told you he needs a team. I wonder if he gave any other bits of information to anyone else?" Kenneth looks around, as if expecting someone else to walk in at Jackson's invitation.

Caleb Murphy, the sounds of Jelly Roll Morton flow down the back-step and into the back alley. You rub your swollen eyes and taste the acerbic mixture of bile and whiskey on your lips. Placing a hand on the damp ground, you attempt to stand upright, waver, and then vomit in the gutter. As you stare up at the night sky, the stars begin to spin, and your blinking slows. Something stirs you a minute (or was it an hour?) later, and you lift your head off the pavement to see several figures approaching. Their build and faces are masked by the blinding car lights behind them. Your head is hazy, but somehow you know you’ve seen them before, and they mean to harm you.

Morgan, having accompanied Jackson on more than a few expeditions, you believe you know the types of people he might be after. There are two in particular that come to mind: a gumshoe named Lucas Ellis, former NYPD turned PI, and in your opinion, one of the best investigators in the City; the second is a mystic that goes by the name Madame Natasha Koshkin - knowing Jackson's interest in the occult, she'll be invaluable.

January 13, 1925
Queens, New York
Helmsburg Rare Books
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Arthur Helmsburg, it's a Tuesday, but your shop is closed the next three days so you can attend the 14th Annual Conference on Antiquities and Anthropology, over in Manhattan. The conference is attracting a lot of big names - standards like Winters and Evans - but you're particularly excited to hear from Jackson Elias, the famed explorer. You've read most of his books - Sons of Death was a particularly revealing expose of modern-day Thuggees in India - and it's rumored he's returning from another expedition to the Kenya Colony with new findings on some of the local blood-cults there. Still, before you can enjoy that, you have presentation to give tomorrow. You grab your notes and throw them in your briefcase before glancing at your watch: it's currently 9AM, and the conference is down in lower Manhattan, probably an hour from here.

No, the note was just for squadfather44, so just sit tight :).

Caleb has never felt so bad since... well, he can't really remember, but right now it's like somebody is inflating a balloon inside his skull, threatening to burst it at any moment. He blinks slowly, once or twice, trying to clear his head, but without much success...

When he notices the shapes approaching, something primal kicks in, a self-preservation instinct he didn't know he possessed. He lets out a barely audible whimper, and tries to crawl backwards deeper into the alley, hoping to perhaps find a dumpster he can hide behind.

"It would seem that our dear friend needs us to form a team and meet with him on the 15th of this month.

As luck would have it there are two in particular that come to mind for this type of endeavor. A gumshoe named Lucas Ellis, who was a former NYPD turned private investigator, and in my opinion, one of the best investigators in the City.

The second is a mystic that goes by the name Madame Natasha Koshkin. Knowing Jackson's interest in the occult, she'll definitely be invaluable." Morgan says in reference to Kennedy's question.

It was just after noon on a Sunday when Natasha woke up, the sun had just begun to peek in through her windows and was shiningin her eyes. Laying face down on her bed in her favourite cream colored silk pyjamas she could feel each and every heartbeat as the blood slowly forced its way through her brain, her breasts ached from sleeping on them, her mouth tasted particularly foul and her right side of her abdomen burned like fire.

There had been a party the night before, or perhaps it had been two nights ago, at the home of a Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Sanderson, Sanderingham, something Sandy, Natasha had always been terrible with names. There had been music and dancing, costumes and jewelry, champagne and caviar.. Natasha sat up slowly holding her aching head, perhaps a bit to much champagne then again it might have been the whiskey. Everything felt askew, her hair, her brains, her pyjamas and her breasts.

"Iris," she rasped struggling to her feet, "Iris, little help."

As she made her way towards her bathroom she tugged on the front of her pyjama top trying to straighten it out. Pain lanced through her right side and she was forced to grab the edge of her bureau to keep from collapsing.

The door to the hall swung open and an irritated looking Iris Adler walked in carrying a polished silver tray with biscuits, a white bone china cup and saucer set emblazoned with the blue willow pattern and a miniature silver samovar filled with coffee. The look of irritation was replaced with one of concerned when she glanced over at Natasha.

"Dear god. Don’t you look a fright, are you alright my dear?" Iris spoke in a slow, deliberate cadence and a refined British accent that made Natasha weak in the knees.

She had wavey copper colored hair that she kept pulled to one side and pinned back behind her ears, her blue eyes sparkled with an inner light and a thin band of freckles ran across the bridge of her nose. She was 23 now but at 16 Iris had spent 11 months working as a nurse in Amiens during the Great War.

Natasha ran a hand down her side, to where the congealed ichor from her bayonet wound had soaked through her pajamas. "I does not feel so good." She spoke with a particularly thick Russian accent that worried Iris, Natasha was usually pretty good about hiding her accent.

She gestured towards the bed, "Is Fred, Frank, Felix, Francis?" Iris shook her head at every guess.

"Francisco," Iris said bitterly putting the tray down on the dresser, "and no, Mr. Butler and I took out the trash yesterday."

Iris knelt down next to her and slowly lifted the top of Natasha’s pyjamas up until she reached the point where it was attached to her abdomen. "Oh dear," she said quietly, "you’ve made a right mess of it this time. We’ll need to get you out of those pyjamas and clean this up."

A thin smirk crossed Natasha’s face, "Already you are wanting me undresses."

Iris held up a hand just as Natasha bent over to kiss the top of her head, "Stop! Right there just, stop. One: the word is undressed not undresses, two: I’m rather cross with you at this particular juncture and am not in a mood to be trifled with, three: we need to treat this before it goes septic again and four: I’m sorry but you smell like the north end of a south bound Clydesdale right now, I mean you’re really quite revoltingly pungent."

Natasha smiled weakly, "And you are always smelling so good." Her head swam for a moment as she straightened back up, darkness pushed in from the corners of her vision, "I thinks I am going to be fainting now." Her legs fell out from underneath her as she collapsed on the floor.

"Mr. Butler!" Iris’s voice called through the darkness, "Mr Butler!"

Kenneth nods as Morgan describes the other people that they'll need to gather. "Well, I must say that this will be the first time I join him on one of his excursions. The idea excites me. Where and when can we meet the others?" he asks the other man.

"Well, my guess is that the team itself needs to meet with Jackson on the 15th. So we have until then to recruit them and get there."

Morgan pauses in thought before proceeding with his next question. "The real question is who we should go talk to first. What do you say doctor, shall we be chivalrous and speak to Madame Koshkin first?"

Caleb manages to roll over onto all-fours and spots a dumpster about 10 yards behind him. It's unclear, at this point, if the darkened figures have seen him, but he scampers behind the dumpster and shuts his eyes tightly, silently mouthing the prayers from his youth to preserve him from the horrors at the end of the alley.

Stealth 50%

His breathing slowing, Caleb starts to believe, for the briefest of moments, that the figures hadn't noticed his escape, until he hears a thickly accented "There he is!" from the end of the alley. Despite the cover of darkness, the intense glare of the headlights and his own drunken stupor were apparently too much an obstacle to overcome. Looking behind him, the other end of the alley looks clear, at least for now, and there are, of course, several back doors within the alley itself he could try his luck with in order to escape.

Akila decided to visit the African exhibition first and paid close attention to the collection of Eqyptian origin. After about an hour he made his way to the Oriental exhibition hall but paid little attention to what was contained there. His mind was lost in the presentation he was to make that evening. His premise was the similarity between Egyptian hieroglyphs and Sumerian cuneiform. The were both thought to have come into use in the 32nd century BC. As the clocks around the halls struck the noon hour Akila made his way to the Conservatory. (assumes that lunch would be served there)

Caleb barely suppressed a curse when it was clear the shapes had spotted him. He tried to crawl further backwards into the alley, but his foot got caught in an empty discarded paint can. He tried to get up, tripped on the can, and fell back to the ground with the loudest possible clatter of metal on cobblestone.

Any hope for a safe retreat seemed to be completely lost...

Kenneth nods and gestures to the door, "As you have more experience in these matters, I will defer to your judgement. After you."

We'll make our way to the Brownstone.

Caleb and Kenneth hail a taxi just outside Antonio's and give the address for Ms. Koshkin. The cabbie wends his way northward through the streets of midtown Manhattan, into an an obviously well-to-do neighborhood just off Central Park. The Checker Cab delivers you to a 3-storied brownstone several minutes later, along with a $0.30 fee. Ringing the chime out front, the two of you see through the frosted windows the outline the front door the silhouette of an older lady ambling her way down the stairs to greet you. "May I help you?" she asks with Received Pronunciation.

Lifting your head off the ground, you see the oncoming figures brandish strange curved knives that glint menacingly in the moonlight.

January 3, 1925
5th Avenue, Central Manhattan, New York
Residence of Madame Natasha Koshkin
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Natasha, from a great distance you hear a low chime, a muffled woman's voice, and shuffling feet (you assume). There is a gentle rocking sensation that recalls your time aboard the SS Majestic, and you also suddenly become aware that you're surrounded by something pleasant and fluent. Your eyes flutter open, and the florescence of white tile that surrounds you is blinding and exacerbating your pounding headache. You glance down to see your naked body submerged in a warm bath, the blood and serous fluid from your wound now fully cleaned, and there's a cotton robe hung on the wall that you recognize as that which Iris dresses you in after your bath. Speaking of which, you realize that you have no idea how you got here, or where Irene is: the door the bathroom is open, and there are no attendants in sight.

Caleb quickly scanned around for an open doorway to escape through, but, as luck would have it, they all seemed very closed. Upon noticing the strange weapons in his assailants' hands, Caleb started to panic and to run blindly to the other end of the alley...

Natasha works her way slowly to her feet in the massive, cast iron claw foot tub, the porcelain finish is particularly slippery when damp and she’d rather not fall and drown in her own tub. A wholly undignified way to die.

She stepped cautiously out of the tub and onto the thick white terry mat gripping the edge of the tub a moment to solidify her balance. Water rolled slowly off of her dripping onto the mat and the decorative blue persian tiled floor. Splat! The milky white perfumed water turned black and viscous as the drop hit the floor. Splat splat splat! Darkness spread across the floor pulling in the light and color from the the decorative leaded glass window that overlooked Vanderbilt Avenue.

Natasha's head swam for a moment and she was forced to close her eyes, when they reopened the darkness had retreated and the light and colors had returned. She took the robe down from its hook and pulled it on pausing a moment to inspect Iris’s remarkable handy-work before pulling the robe closed and tying it off. A couple of minutes later, after drying her hair and brushing her teeth Natasha made her way downstairs.

Kenneth gives a small bow with his head, more of a nod, and smiles and says, "Good day, to you. My name is Dr. Kenneth Davis and this is my companion and we are looking for Madame Natasha Koshkin. Is she in?" he asks.

Dr. Davis and Morgan O'Neil, just as you are asking the question, you see a young woman - dark and dangerous looking, but beautiful all the same - amble down the spiraled stair toward the front door. She looks particularly pale and requires the assistance of the handrail, seemingly to keep herself upright.

Natasha, you see Iris below you speaking to two men at the front door - one a well-dressed professional (you assume) of some sort, and the second a proud looking man who stands tall, like a soldier.

The three of you make eye-contact with one another.

Natasha offers a half hearted smile and checks to make sure her bathrobe is adjusted, "Gentlemen, welcome." Her voice is smooth and calming with a Russian accent, she clearly favors her left side coming down the stairs.

"I thought I told you to get some rest," Iris whispers pushing her crimson curls behind her ears.

"You fuss to much darling," Natasha replies with a smile drawing out the "r", "I walk across Siberia, I thinks I can walk downstairs." She glances about, "Mister Butler…"

A thin, middle aged man in a black suit with a receding grey hair and a pinched nose appears at the parlor door with a silver tray. There are 3 large tumblers of whiskey and a cup of tea on the tray. He offers the drinks to the men.

"Thank you Mister B," Natasha says reaching for one of the whiskey glasses, Iris slaps her hand and directs it towards the china cup.

"Tea, because you don’t listen." Iris takes the tumbler, "whiskey, because you don’t listen."

Natasha looks at the two men seriously, "I do not do readings or seances on a Saturday…"

"It’s Sunday love," Iris says taking a sip of whiskey.

"On a Sunday without appointment, do you have appointment?"

Kenneth quickly clears his throat and says, "Ah, no, we don't, I'm afraid. However, we are here at the behest of someone I believe you're acquainted with? Jackson Elias?"

"Ah Mr. Elias," Natasha says with a smile fanning herself with her hand, "so very tall, dark and handsome. He has terrible habit of asking questions to which he does not want answers. Reminds me of that Cinema fellow."

"Charlie Chaplain?" Iris offers.

"No."

"Buster Keaton?"

"No."

"Valentino?"

"We should be so fortunate."

"Lillian Gish?"

"I would not kick her out of bed for eating biscuits."

"I believe the chap you’re thinking of is Douglas Fairbanks mum." Mr. Butler says quietly.

"That’s the one! Have you seen Thief of Bagdad yet?". Natasha wiggles her hips, "So good."

She gestures towards the parlour, "Where are my manners? Come sit, tell us what it is Mr. Fairbanks..."

"Elias," Iris whispers.

"...Elias is wanting."

The next long while is a complete blur, but you awake, sweat-soaked and wrapped in white bed sheets in what you recognize as your apartment. The taste in your mouth is foul, your eyes are puffy, and your head is swimming. You vaguely recall the the blinding lights of oncoming traffic, a fall on the icy pavement (and there's a cut on your hand suggesting the memory's veracity), and the feel of sleet finding its way behind the upturned collar of you overcoat to your bare skin from the night before. You turn over to check the time on your bedside clock and notice your leather-bound notebook opened to the following page:


You have little memory of composing it, though it does look like your handwriting.

Caleb feels totally dreadful and instinctively starts reaching for the half-empty bottle of moonshine on his nightstand. However, something inside of him seems to shift, and at the last moment, he manages to pull his hand back. Instead, he makes his way to the bathroom, groaning. He avoids looking in the mirror, and resolutely puts his head under the cold running water. He gasps, curses and splashes water everywhere, but at least the fog in his head starts lifting...

He makes it back to his bedroom and takes another look at his notebook. He scratches the stubble on his chin, trying to remember in what context he wrote this down, but to no avail. In any case, provided he wasn't completely delusional when he wrote this down, things don't seem to look so good for this Mr Elias, and he has a feeling he should probably try to warn him. The Chelsea, wouldn't that be some sort of hotel or apartment building, where they would have a room 400?

After finding the only halal offering at lunch - an admittedly rather tasty chicken curry concoction - you find your way back to the African Exhibition to hear Von Kluck speak on Sudanese pyramids. Some of it is rather dull - geometric comparisons of the 60-70° angles vs. those found in Egypt during the Old Kingdom - but of particular interest is a comparison of cross-sections, which suggest not only that the pyramids of the Sudan are far more ancient than those of Egypt, but that the latter also may have borrowed its structural designs from the Nubians. This revelation runs completely counter to the prevailing wisdom of the day - it was well-accepted that the Black Africans lacked the ingenuity to build on this level, let alone instruct the patriarchs of Western Civilization - and it elicits loud gasps from the attending audience.

Eventually, 6pm rolls around, and you step to the podium to begin your own presentation. The western windows allow the final rays of sunlight to illuminate the settling dust in the air; you shuffle your notes and begin...

The attendees applaud loudly at its conclusion, and several members of the attending audience come to you afterward with questions - some sincere and intelligent, others simply self-promoting references to their own work. As the people begin to disperse toward the other exhibits, you see a single man, rugged and swarthy, sitting on the back of one of the auditorium chairs in the rear of the hall. He is dressed in white linen with a well-manicured pencil-mustache and offers a few slow and emphatic claps that echo in the gallery.

Kenneth follows the intriguing young woman into her parlor and takes a seat as the others do.

"Unfortunately, I don't have much information. All I know is that he needs us. Perhaps Mr. O'neil knows more?" he says as he gestures over to the soldier with an eyebrow crooked up.

Natasha gestures towards a large nouveau inspired sofa before sitting on a matching divan. She crosses her legs before carefully adjusting her robe smoothing out any wrinkles.

"You say you do not have much information which means clearly you must have some." She smiles a little.

"I am Natasha by the way, Natasha Koshkin," she extends a hand towards Dr. Davis. "This is the eye of my hurricane, Miss Iris Adler and Mister Butler who makes sure everything in house is absolutely perfect and that it does not collapse around us."

She looks at the two men, "You are professor or doctor of some sort and he is soldier, airman perhaps, but forgive me I do not know your names."

Akila approaches the swarthy man and stops short as he introduces himself. "Ah, Mr. Elias, I've been looking forward to your presentation. And I will certainly give you my opinion on whatever you've found. How did you like my comparisons of Ancient Egyptian and Sumerian texts? I think there is a lot more to learned there. Where are these artifacts that you would like me to look at? And since it's dinner time perhaps you would join my for a bite."

Does this telegram mean anything to Natasha?

"My apologies!" Kenneth says. He also stands to shake Natasha's hand. "My name is Kenneth Davis, I am a doctor of medicine. And a good friend of Jackson Elias."

After Natasha has read the telegram, he also takes it and gives it a read. "Well, now you know all I know," he says. "When he called me, he simply said that he'd found something, and that I needed to meet O'neil, here." He points to the other man. "It seems Jackson's flair for the dramatic is complicating things for all of us," he says with a wry smile.

Natasha raises an eyebrow, "So he telegraph you Sgt. O’Neil two weeks and he phones you Dr. Davis yesterday? Today? And neither of you knows the other? Which one of you did he tell to contact me? Why?"

She sighs and leans back, "You know what this means?"

"You’re going to have to get dressed?" Iris offers.

"I am going to have to get dressed." She replies with a groan.

Natasha stands up inhaling sharply, "I hates getting dressed on a Sunday."

"She really does," Iris adds with an apologetic wince.

Natasha makes her way to the stairs with Iris at her side, "Please allow me a couple minutes to put my face on."

Mr. Butler looks at Sgt. O’Neil and Dr. Davis, "If I can interest you gentlemen in some biscuits and jam I have a fresh batch that just came out of the oven."

"Carlyle," Natasha says from the bottom of the stairs, "he is Egyptologist playboy fellow that went missing, no?"

Kenneth nods to Mr. Butler, "Yes, thank you. That would be wonderful."

Kenneth answers Natasha, even though she might be out of earshot, "No, I'd never met him before, but it's not uncommon that I meet new people when working with Jackson. He's a bit of a social butterfly, always in every circle, it seems."

You are familiar with the the name Carlyle - Roger came from wealthy Long Island stock and was known as a bit of a playboy. The expedition itself left New York for Egypt prior to your arrival, but you certainly recall the news of the expedition's demise at the hands of black African cultists - it was a rather sensational affair several years back. There were some rumors that they uncovered something important, but you don't recall what, and the search parties Roger's sister Erica sent (at no small expense) uncovered nothing but further questions.

Caleb, The Chelsea Hotel is a fairly nice 10-story lodging in midtown Manhattan. Given that you live up north in Yonkers, this is probably a good 1-2 hours by train or taxi, assuming decent weather and traffic. As the haze clears from your head, you glance over at your clock and take note that it is currently 3pm (God, how did you sleep so late?) on January 15th.

"January 15th? That's the date on the note!" Caleb quickly grabs his coat and hat from the coat stand, pulling the wooden contraption over in his haste. While still trying to put on his coat, he dashes down the stairs two steps at the time. His plan is to make his way to the hotel as quickly as possible and knock on the door of room 400. He feels a slightly silly acting on a piece of paper he doesn't really remember having written, but if the life of this Jackson Elias is at stake, he'd better take the risk. Hopefully it's not yet too late...

Kenneth and Morgan have successfully polished off a half dozen biscuits and two cups of coffee As Mr. Butler prepares several plates of bacon and eggs with toast.

Natasha shows up just as the food is plated and put down on the kitchen table. She’s wearing a geometric patterned modcloth jacket and matching skinny scarf, white trousers and a white blouse. Despite a modest application of lipstick, blush and eyeshadow she still looks pale and rather ill. She sits at the table as Mr. Butler serves afternoon breakfast for everyone.

"Mr. B, you are a life saver," Natasha says with a smile, "I would probably be dead a hundred times over were it not for your attention."

"It’s nothing madam, only to happy to be of assistance."

"Iris reminds me," Natasha says putting a pair of white gloves on the table and grabbing a fork, "it was cultists, or natives. His fiancée..."

"Sister." Iris corrects.

"Sister, Amelia..."

"Erica."

"Erica, she launches every expensive expedition and finds nothing." Natasha picks up a strip of crispy bacon with her fork and bites the end off, "I dislike cultists immensely, nasty folk. I wonder what Mr. Elias has been finding after all these years."

"Her English is usually so much better than this," Iris says apologetically as she dips some toast in the yolk of poached egg.

"It really is not," Natasha adds with a wink, "but is part of what makes me so delightful."

"Yes it is."

Natasha smiles wiping the corners of her mouth carefully with a napkin, "You Americans are always in such a hurry to go nowhere in particular." She pulls a small tube of lipstick out of her clutch along with a mirror and quickly touches up.

"Is what I love about this city, always rush rush rush but no one ever seems to know why. Of course in Paris, everyone is knowing where they are supposed to be going, but no one is in a hurry to get there." She smiles again.

"Come along Dr. Davis, Sgt. O'Neil, let us go see what Mr. Elias has found."

She looks back at Iris as she makes her way to the front door, "Iris, if I is not back by 9 call the police because these two men have kidnapped me."

Akila simply smiles and nods as Elias sets the meeting time. After standing by himself for a moment Akila decides to return to his hotel and seek a meal in their dining room. What could he have meant by much farther away.

Monday, January 4, 1925
China Town, Lower Manhattan, New York
Office of Lucas Ellis, Private Eye
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Lucas Ellis, you take a long drag on your cigarette and exhale the smoke across the papers scattered about your desk. You shuffle through them, mentally categorizing the cases before you: "Another cheating spouse - no, make that two...possible insurance fraud...accountant giving his employer the old 'Chinese Squeeze'...New York Giant's pitcher suspected of throwing a game - that could be interesting...." You reach for your notepad and begin to jot down some notes and a list of priorities for the day. As you do so, you scratch the scruff on your neck and realize you've neglected to shave all weekend. *Sigh*. Extinguishing your cigarette in a mug of cold coffee, you begin to walk up the back stairs to the flat over your office, when you hear a chime at your front door, signaling the entrance of a customer.

Natasha smiles and nods slightly as she adjusts the cloche hat on her head, reaching into her clutch she produces a long, wicked looking hatpin with a lantern shaped deco head which she carefully runs through her hat.

"Ellis, this name is familar, is he reporter?" Natasha winces as the car bumps and rattles its way through New York’s streets.

She adjusts her jacket several times during the ride, smoothing her pants and looking quietly out the window.

Kenneth shrugs, "I've never met the man, nor heard of him. But if he's in Jackson's circle, I'm sure he'll be useful at whatever it is he does." He watches Natasha for a little bit during the journey and then brings himself to ask, "So, what is it that you bring to the investigation, Natasha? I'm sure you're capable, but I'm not sure in what."

The money and affluence of the surrounding neighborhoods slowly fades as the taxi continues South. It slows upon entering the district as it attempts to maneuver among the the various Chinese street hawkers and grocers. It comes to a complete stop in front of a shabby-looking storefront that trades in porcelain Buddha statues, various good luck charms, and other oriental tchotchkes. The driver opens the cab door and extends his hand for the $0.50 fee. After paying, you observe your surroundings: next to the trinket shop you spy a weathered teal door at the mezzanine level of an old-looking apartment building. The lettering on the door reads:

"Lucas D. Ellis - Private Investigator"

The steam rising from the surrounding street vents pushes the noxious vapors of various Eastern spices and slaughtered animals into your nostrils, causing your eyes to water slightly.

Natasha smiles and pats Kenneth on the knee, "Dr. Davis, I drink far to much and I know things I should not. Is probably reason I drink to much."

She leans back and adjusts her scarf slightly, "I look in the dark corners of the room for the things that science does not like to talk about, I get smart men to do silly things and when I feel like it I obtain the things that people are looking for."

She hops out of the cab and Inspects the sign on the door prior to knocking.

"I still can not help but think I know that name." Natasha remarks pointing to the sign.

Got it. Adjusted.

I look at my cigarette and I think damn I couldn't even finish my cigarette or coffee. I walk over to the door anticipating who's at the door. I open the door slowly and...

Lucas Ellis looks out the door into the sparkling blue eyes of a very familiar looking woman accompanied by two men, one rather scholarly looking and the other with the ridged posture of a military man.

The woman looks Ellis in the eye and her smile turns changes into a frown, "Ellis," she says bitterly her Russian accent coming back, "I knew I am knowing this name."

Natasha gestures towards the scholarly looking fellow then to the military man, "Dr. Davis, Sgt. O'Neil, this is Officer Ellis of New York Police Department, or he was. He arrests me at some, how you say, Speak Easy? Yes? Speak Easy in Greenwich Village, first week I am in New York for some stupid rule violation."

She walks past Ellis and takes a cigarette from the pack on his desk. "These gentlemen," she says looking through her clutch for a lighter, "is looking for investigators, mutual acquaintance, Mr Elias, says he has information about old disappearance."

A smirk spreads across her face as she sits on the corner of his desk, "Roger Carlyle."

Natasha looks at Ellis and then at the cigarette as she continues to look through her clutch, "She thinks I has quit, so not one word from you."

"Nice office by the way."

i look intently at Natasha feeling the gears turning in my head oh yes I do remember you when I was a police officer at that speak easy in Greenwich Village. Ahh you like my office. What can I do for all of you?

"You tried to have me deported," she pulls an engraved platinum lighter out of her clutch and lights her cigarette before winking at Lucas. "Fortunately paperwork never makes it to district attorney office."

Natasha takes a long pull on the cigarette and exhales slowly, "They are looking for investigators to be looking into Redmond, Richmond? I forget, something an R. Carlyle case. You remember, good looking, adventurer, playboy, heir to the Carlyle fortune, abducted by cultists in Cairo or some other dreadfully hot place a few years back."

She regards the burning tip of the cigarette carefully for a moment, "I am just here to see what kind of story Mr. Elias can spin before I decides."

Kenneth looks back and forth between Natasha and Ellis, enjoying the peeks into both peoples' past. When Natasha finishes speaking, Kenneth steps forward, adjusting his coat, and says, "I'm afraid that we don't have a lot of information, but if you know Jackson Elias, you'll know that, whatever this is, it's something you don't want to miss out on. Has he contacted you, at all?"

Lucas, here's what you know about Jackson Elias:

Jackson Elias is in his late 30's, of medium height and build, and dark-complexion. He has a feisty and friendly air about him and, as an orphan in Stratford, Connecticut, he learned to make his own way early in life. He has no living relatives and no permanent address. He's seen the world and has written several well-regarded works on death cults he's encountered in his travels.

He's approached and asked questions of you on several occasions over the years regarding various groups and societies in New York, typically with an eye toward any sinister angle they might contain. He certainly has an interest in the occult and seems to spy something nefarious in the everyday, no matter how mundane. Some might find that type of behavior irritating and unbecoming a professional writer and explorer, but, to the contrary, you've found that you like him and value his friendship, even though months and sometimes years separate one meeting from the next.[/note]

[note="Lwunder"]Lucas, here's what you know of the Carlyle Expedition:

Roger Carlyle was a millionaire playboy who inexplicably turned from the life of a wastrel to finance and head an archaeological expedition to Egypt just after the War ended. He and his team left New York for Cairo, by way of London, where they made several excursions into the desert, though no one is clear what they found or even what they were looking for. Thereafter, the team traveled to East Africa where they vanished.

Roger's sister, Erica, organized several search parties (at no small expense) and was able to locate their encampment and their bodies. She pressed local authorities on trying their murderers, and while several local tribesmen were tried and hung, you got the impression they were afforded little more than a kangaroo court and hearing. Despite this, the matter was considered settled and mostly forgotten over the past few years.

Lucas looks at the telegram, studying the name Carlyle for a moment before looking up. "Yes, this sounds like a Jackson Elias type of escapade: occult, mystery, murder, mayhem," he says with a weak smile. "Well, looks like we have a few days before we're supposed to meet. What do you suggest?"

You head back to the hotel dining room and grab a quick bite to eat. The offerings here are somewhat limited, given your dietary restrictions, so you stick with a meat-less Cobb Salad. You wipe the corners of your mouth, and, with Elias' words still ringing in your ears (what could he have meant by that?), you head to your room shortly after 9PM. Either the recent meal or the come-down off your adrenaline high renders you completely exhausted, and you fall asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow.

Kenneth shrugs. "I suggest we ready ourselves for a trip. I have no idea how long it might be, but I would say at least a week, maybe two." He smiles and licks his lips a little. "I relish the chance to get away and get some of the excitement Jackson always brings to wherever he goes."

"A few days?" Natasha says in disbelief, "why did you drag me out of my bath?"

She groans, "I suppose we could look for information on what is his name. Newspaper articles, journal, find out where he goes and then find out what we can about this place."

Natasha takes a long pull on her cigarette and exhales slowly, "If it is a cult of some kind Carstairs has run afoul of we should be discrete with our inquiries. Try not to mention directly, look for things around locations or times but does not be specific."

"A week?" Natasha chuckles slightly, "You does not travel much Dr. Davis does you?"

"It is a week by steamship from New York to South Hampton, two more days to Paris by boat and train, Cairo is another week by ship from South Hampton. If you is serious about finding Carson, better pack fo a month."

Kenneth blushes a little at Natasha's verbal jab, but doesn't let it get to him. Clearing his throat, he nods and says, "Yes, that seems like a wonderful idea. I do wish Jackson would share more information with us. Going into this blind is not very much fun." He harrumphs dramatically, but wears a smile.

Natasha looks at Morgan, "I shall have to take rain cheque on this. Isis would be most disapproving of me mucking up her careful work and besides Mr. Butler is such a dear when it comes to my welfare. He always remembers to pack the things I forget."

"If Mr. Jackson is concerned about a cult of some kind, he probably wishes to speak directly," Natasha says with a smile to Dr. Davis, "besides telegraph charge by the character, is very expensive."

I say to the othersI am ready to investigate and go on a trip with you all. Even if we have to go a week or two let's go

Kenneth is familiar with Libraries, but they aren't where he devotes his time. Despite being a Doctor of Medicine, he has nothing more than basic training on how to use it. He tries to help out, pulling books and flipping through them, but he's easily distracted, chatting with the other people in the library.

You see you’ve said words, but they don’t really help. Percentage? Any modifiers? Natasha’s going to look for news clippings, journals... rich folk always think their thoughts are more important and tend to archive things for posterity. She will be, looking for objects around the target to get her close (physical proximity) to what she’s really interested in.

You spend the next several days combing through the stacks of the NY Public Library and other smaller surrounding branches, looking for specific information on Carlyle and his expedition. You rather easily find several newspaper clippings like the following that highlight Carlyle's fame and the hubbub surrounding this playboy jet-setting across the globe:


There are also several that note his immediate destination, and, more importantly, the makeup of his team:

Digging a bit further, you find several international newspapers and journals that chronicle the expedition's arrival and the immediate spectacle it created:

As you proceed further forward in time, the clippings begin to take on a more ominous tone. First there are comments about the expedition's silence before articles begin to openly question whether something foul befell them:



Erica Carlyle soon follows-up on these rumors:

After nearly 6 months of searching, confirmation of the feared fate of Carlyle and his expedition begin to appear:



After this, there's significant political pressure placed on the British Government to find those responsible for the deaths of such wealthy and influential

Seemingly, only a perfunctory trial and conviction take place, sentencing 5 local tribesmen for the killing to hang:



You get the feeling from the reporting, however, that those familiar with the affair openly question whether this was all a big cover-up, or at the very least a way to quickly close the book on an unsolvable crime and a dark and terrible chapter for the Colony.

Kenneth looks more and more grave as the days pass and more news articles are found. "Truly, we venture into a dangerous place..." he mutters to himself several times. Once they've all read the articles and are all together comparing notes, Kenneth says, "We will certainly have our work cut out for us. Do you suppose he's found the site of Carlyle's grave?"

The four of you digest and catalog this information over the next several days, wary but excited as to what Jackson might have found. On the morning that Jackson had claimed to be returning to New York, the chime at Kenneth's door rings, and a courier hands you the following yellow Western Union telegram:



Again, Jackson seems to be taking a more serious tone than any of you are accustomed to. Combined with the information you've gathered on the Carlyle Expedition over the past few days, something about this doesn't sit quite right with any of you.

Akila, you spend the day perusing the various exhibits you didn't get to yesterday and answering a variety of pseudo-intellectual questions from the sycophants you typically get at this sort of thing. Nevertheless, you're having difficulty concentrating on the events at hand, eager to hear and speak again with Jackson.

At 6PM, you gather in the large auditorium for his scheduled presentation; the hall is packed, and there's a visible energy in the room.

10 minutes pass...

...now 20 minutes...

By half-passed, the room begins to get restless. An elderly gentleman dressed smartly in a brown woolen suit and bow tie ambles up onto the stage to address the crowd:

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sorry to inform you that Mr. Elias will not be joining us this evening..." he glances at the clock overhead then at the other administrators somewhat flustered before adding "...due to, um, personal reasons." There is an audible grumble in the audience that drowns out the old man as he thanks all the attendees and staff for a successful convention and good wishes until next year's. Finally, seeing that the disappointment wont subside, he grasps the handrail and descend back to the floor, pushing his way through the crowd and out the back of the hall.

January 15, 1925
The Bronx, New York
2201 Van Ness Apartments, Unit 15B
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Jimmy Serrano, you study your face in the bathroom mirror, finding one last spot of grease behind your ear to scrub-off. It was supposed to be a fairly easy courier job, but you hadn't counted on a goddamn pothole in the middle Lafayette. You sigh, dry your face, and then apply a bit more brill cream, when you hear the telephone ring in the next room. You lift the receiver from the wall unit and hear the cheery voice of the switchboard operator chirp through on the other end, "Mr. Jimmy Serrano? Please hold while I patch you through."

You glance at your pocket watch and note that it's quarter after 6:00. The Chelsea is in midtown Manhattan, so assuming you can catch the next train, you should be able to get there just in time.

You glance at your pocket watch and note that it's quarter after 6:00. The Chelsea is in midtown Manhattan, so assuming you can catch the next train, you should be able to get there just in time.

Jimmy frowned as he hung up the phone. Ol' Jacky boy sounded worried, real worried. Not sure what risks are in the writer game, but somethin' sure got him spooked. After a moments's hesitation, pulled the .38 out from under the mattress. Wouldn'ta called me if it was just a problem with a girl or somethin'. He mentioned other people; maybe he's in deep with a bookie? Might be good to have a little protection. He shoved the revolver deep in his pocket and wrapped his overcoat tight against the January chill as he made his way down to catch the train.

With a frown on his face but making no remarks Akila leaves the auditorium and makes his way outside to find a cab. He gives the cabbie instructions to take him slowly to the Chelsea. Once there he will look around to see if he recognizes anyone and then heads to the dining room for dinner in hopes of killing some time before the 8 PM meeting.

"I thought he would be here," Natasha says quietly, "is very rude to not show up."

She follows the man who gave the announcement surreptitiously just to see where he goes.

"Yes, yes it is," Kenneth says, in a distracted tone. "Perhaps he's waiting for us in his hotel room? The telegram did ask us to meet him there." With that, he gestures for the others to follow him and will go to Jackson's room and knock on the door. "Jackson! Are you in there? Are you all right?" he calls through the door.

Caleb, whether due to the harsh New York January weather or to your constant string of bad luck, a train derailment down in the Bronx delays your departure for over an hour. You stare at the page in your journal again as you wait and ponder the words and symbols. Goddammit, if only drink hadn't erased your memory from last night. You recall that you had been chasing down leads related to some sort of secret society - it seemed so many of the wealthy degenerates of Manhattan had been connected, but you don't recall anything particularly sinister. For God's sake, it was supposed to be a puff piece about high society. You rub your temples and hug your arms tightly across your chest in an attempt to shield yourself from the frigid wind.

Your trains squeals to a halt in Penn Station at a quarter to 8PM, and you turn your coat collar up as you make your way down a few blocks to the hotel. The light outside turns to a dusky gray-blue, and you shiver as you stare up at the Chelsea, its upper floors blending into the darkening sky.