Play@YSDC

Smith tenses, moving to the balls of his feet as Jory reaches into his pocket, then relaxes - slightly - as the cigarettes are produced. He warily accepts one from Jory and puffs it slowly, his eyes flicking slowly, lizard-like, between the two men.
"So, Mister Grant" he says, "where's this book about 'orses then?"

"You haven't given me much to go on, Mister Smith. The only books I can think of that mention horses are all military histories about the cavalry. Can you tell me the name of this cove, or the name of the book? I can check the daybook."

Turning to Captain Penhalligon, Grant tries to explain.

"Mister Smith here tells me a customer of ours has used a book we sold him to fix a horse race! It's like a story about the Pelicans in the Pink 'Un of my youth, but Mister Sabini isn't laughing. He's down a horse. Mrs Grant isn't going to laugh when I tell her about it either."

Jory:

Jory exhales tar-filled French tobacco happily, and tries to concentrate on what he's hearing.

"I heard a paper boy hollering some headline about four race horses falling at once, are we talking about the same thing?"

"Quite enjoy a flutter at the races myself."

"You must see, Smith old son, that we trade in rare books, not books on how to conduct criminal enterprises like fixing races. Frankly, I doubt any such books exist. Unless Mr Sabini's predecessors ever published their memoirs, and I can't think why they would."

"How were the poor horses brought down, drugs in their feed or some such?"

"And I'm forgetting my manners, would you like to come in for a bracing Sunday afternoon whisky, or a tea if you wish? I'm sure Mr Grant won't mind."

A glance is directed Grant's way suggesting approval would be a good idea.

Grant opens the door wide and beckons Smith inside.
"Yes, yes, do come in before it gets any chillier, Mister Smith. I'll put the kettle on for myself at least, and Captain Penhalligon can handle the drams."

OOC,I don't think I've got anything appropriate for a point spend.

Smith turns things over in his mind, like a farmer turning over clods of loam. " 'is name's 'enry" he says "'Enry Rickmansworth. An' yeah, woz in the paper."

I'm going to call for a point spend to persuade Smith to come in and accept your hospitality, since it enables you to pump him for more information and it's not the sort of thing that the muscle usually does.

Jory:

Jory is once again amazed at how often the rare book trade brings him into conflit with those with violent tendencies. Faced with an uncertain proposition, Jory reverts somewhat to type and recalls his many conversations with NCOs and private soldiers in his Army days. Find common interests, show appreciation for what they are good at...

With this in mind, Jory starts amiably chatting with Smith about Smith's boxing exploits, other current notables in the field, the pros and cons of bare knuckle boxing, and so on. Jory attempts to politely steer Smith inside the bookstore and into a chair (and a scotch for each). Whether Smith comes in or not, Jory will turn the conversation towards the horse fix with a view to finding out anything and everything.

Points Spend,[b]Jory [/b]will attempt to spend a point of [i]Oral History[/i] if possible to get [b]Smith [/b]talking. Failing that, [b]Jory [/b]will attempt to spend a point of [i]Streetwise[/i] and discuss common underground figures, demonstrate he is a man of the world etc, to relax [b]Smith[/b], or perhaps a point of [i]Credit Rating[/i] to start handing over notes in exchange for gossip.

Walking toward the back room to put the kettle on, Grant calls back over his shoulder. "Henry Rickmansworth! I banked his cheque for a pretty sum just yesterday. Come in and we'll check the daybook to see what he bought."

andyw666 wrote:Jory:
Jory starts amiably chatting with Smith about Smith's boxing exploits, other current notables in the field, the pros and cons of bare knuckle boxing, and so on. Jory attempts to politely steer Smith inside the bookstore and into a chair (and a scotch for each). Whether Smith comes in or not, Jory will turn the conversation towards the horse fix with a view to finding out anything and everything.

Lured by the prospect of a free dram and a friendly chat about violence, Smith lumbers through the door and into the offered chair. After some preliminary sparring discussions, Smith confides that the horse races was "rum. None of 'em sick befor'and, so there weren't no scratches - an' then, some fell, some didn't leave the gates, some ran the wrong way - two races it 'appened in, an' this 'Enry git, he bet 'is winnin's from backin' th'long shot inna first race on th'long shot inna second, and walks away wiv fifty thasand pound an' a pile of dead 'orses behind 'im. Well, Mr Sabini, 'e was fartin' flames! An' I asks 'im, should we fix 'enry good an proper, but 'e says nah, 'e says 'tain't a good look if we goes an scraggs people 'oo get lucky onna races, cos the papers luv those stories. 'E says, jus' go lean on 'im a bit, like, suggest 'e not make any more 'orse bets inna forseeable future, an' find out 'ow 'e dunnit. 'Cos 'enry, 'e's no wide-boy, 'e looks like a wet fish, ain't wiv the Whites or the 'effalumps Castle mob. So me an Merv, we go an' ask'im peacable like. An I tell ya, 'e's a nutter! Don' put up no fight, but then 'e starts on abaut th' "Lord o'da Pillars" this and "Baalmelkarth" that an I dunno wot else. But 'e says that this book 'e got from youse tells 'im allabowt'it. An' 'e says 'e dunno where the book is, neither."

Meanwhile, Mr Grant consults the daybook. Yesterday, there it is - "An Investigation into the Oracle of Sidon, Ludwig von Domenstein, 1843" sold for an extortionate sum to Mr Henry Rickmansworth. Something about the handwriting in the daybook strikes Mr Grant as odd.

Mr Grant needs to make a Sense Trouble check. There is now a dice-rolling function built into the YSDC forum instead of needing to use Invisible Castle. It works like this: where you just write your die roll (plus points spend, obviously) inside the "dice" square brackets)[/i]

Sipping his tea, Grant says "Yes, here it is. Now who's handwriting is that?"

OOC,[url=http://invisiblecastle.com/roller/view/3712958/]Sense Trouble test 1-point spend (1d6+1=3)[/url]

Only staff are supposed to write in the daybook, of course, but Mr Grant can't recall whose handwriting this is. Someone who used to work here, was it? What was that young man's name? Mark? John? something Biblical. Didn't he leave for America? or was it France?

Abruptly closing the daybook, Grant puts it down on the table along with his tea. The cup rattles on the saucer, betraying his agitation. “The von Domenstein, eh? I’d only skimmed it, but I don’t remember anything about horses in it. It was a beautiful volume, though, so it was kept in the display cabinet.”

Grant walks to the Globe-Wernicke bookcase, expecting to see a gap like a missing tooth in his carefully arranged display.

The von Domenstein is indeed no longer there.
From his skim read some time ago, Mr Grant vaguely recalls that the book had a fair bit to say about fate, luck, and influencing them by making offerings to various Powers - the sort of thing that might appeal to a gambler, perhaps?

Jory:

Jory listens with surprise, as he swirls amber goodness around his glass. "So, we're saying this was done by black magic?"

"You must realise Smith Old Son, no one really expects those books to work. But please assure Mr Sabini that that was our only copy, and if we ever happen across another, we shall be very careful indeed about selling it to anyone."

"Probably will avoid ever buying another copy, if one exists."

"I say, Grant Old Thing, who sold this copy yesterday? I'd be interested to hear what they made of young Henry."

"Dat won't wash" says Smith, reverting somewhat to his previous menacing attitude. "I'wl tell Mr Sabini I fink youse is square coves and ain't makin book onna hosses. But Mr Sabini don't want dat book out there makin' strega trouble. 'E's gonna say, youse are da book finders, find 'im that book. Or find 'im the price of 'is raceorse. Or you'll be findin' youselves inna deep dark 'ole".
His final threat delivered, Smith jacks himself up and lumbers towards the door. Before he gets there, some corroded reflex jerks him to a halt. "Er - goodnight to yer. And fanks for the drink". He pulls his hat on and departs.

Asking Mr grant about the book stirs a memory in Jory who nneds to make a sense trouble test.

Grant locks the door behind Smith and stands with his back to the door as he recovers his composure. He takes a deep breath, and says “I can’t remember their name! They must have been in the shop yesterday, but he went abroad, and now their name has gone from my head! Who was here yesterday? Run through their names for me, Captain, please!”

Taavi wrote:Jory rolls a [dice]135422:1[/dice]

passing his sense trouble.

Jory distinctly remembers Luke, boasting in the pub yesterday about havng sold a book for a ludicrous sum to "a sucker called Harry" - and that is Luke's handwriting - but oddly, he can't remember Luke's face - it's as if his memory of The Palace Tavern is a photo, with a cigarette burn hole where Luke's face should be. He thinks of doctored records - a story in the war that the generals lost so many regiments through sheer incompetence that they deleted some of them from the rosters of battle, pretending they never were raised from the green fields of England and marched out into the mud to be mown down by the reaper, mothers and sweethearts told their boy never joined the army, or deserted, or died of flu - and now Mr Grant can't remember Luke at all - what's going on?

Jory:

Jory sips whisky and puzzles.

"I'm afraid, Old Boy, that making an enemy of Sabini and his boys is what Sun Tzu would describe as being on Encircled Terrain. And on Encircled Terrain, Sun Tzu advises we make strategies. Or, as I put it, negotiate."

"Ah Grant Old Boy, you remember Luke, don't you? He sold the book yesterday. Told me so himself, but for some reason, now I can hardly remember his face."

Jory peers at Grant to judge his reaction.

Jory:

Jory hastily pens a note for the others, in case Grant remains a bit addled:

"Chaps, our catalogue agent and purveyor of gentlemen's books, Luke, is in trouble. Am heading to Seven Dials. Come if able. Head to pub Laura mentioned."

Then to Grant: "Old Boy, I'm off to see what's happened to Luke, this is all very odd. But he might have something to add about this book Sabini's after, if nothing else. I have a sense he's in deep trouble. You're welcome to come if you wish."

Jory pats his jacket to make sure the little gun is still there, grabs his satchel, and races off at best possible speed for Seven Dials, and some pub in the square with a sign of a blind man holding an unlit lantern