Play@YSDC

[img]http://cdn.c.photoshelter.com/img-get/I ... 0337fs.jpg[/img]
A quiet pub at 103 Charing Cross - slightly dingy and a bit smoky these days, but so is London - The Palace Tavern is where the bookmen of the neighbourhood go for a pint, fish and chips, a ploughman's lunch, and trade gossip. Local history buffs know that there has been a pub on this site since the 1750s, when it was called the Bull's Head. A good place to hunt up who might be buying or selling what.

Jory:

It being a start and stop kind of morning, Penhalligon decides there is enough small change in his pocket (just) for an early Ploughman's, pint and game of darts at the Palace.

He ambles in happily whistling some military air to himself, doffs his hat, orders his lunch and a pint of the finest, and looks for someone to chat with or compete against, listening in to the general conversation as he does.

Lets get this party started,Jory is keen to pick up any book hunting clues etc. He has his Book Scout special ability to sound out gossip and trails of books, and will also spend a point of Streetwise if he may!!

Jory:

OOC: Specifically, of course, Jory is looking for information about Irving's writing desk and writings up for auction at Christie's. More generally, any gossip about the Christie's auction would be of use.

As Jory sips and stands at the dartboard, a fellow by the name of Ralph Plomled, carrying his own pint, sidles up. "What's happenin'? Darts hey? Mind if I join ya?"

Ralph you know as a bookscout and tout, rather fond of the neddies and check cravats. He doesn't shave very successfully, and has his ear to the ground, but possibly not his eye on the ball.

Ralph twiddles a dart nervously between his fingers. "Say, Jory, could you spot me two bob 'til next Thursday? I gotta pay, well, a man. Who'd a thought that horse would break its leg, hey?" He unconsciously rubs his belly, wincing slightly, as if he was bruised beneath his shirt.

Jory:

"Yes of course old boy, till next Thursday? Not a problem, don't want to leave you in - ah - discomfort."

Jory fishes the requested two bob out of his pocket and discretely passes it over.

"Now, onto the serious business, let's have a quick game of darts."

"Heard any interesting tales about books, old man?"

"Oh - yeah, yeah. What did you want to know?"

(Assuming you ask about the books at the Christie's auction)
"Big one, that, hey? I heard Fletcher, Maggs are sending agents, Ted Allen's boys too. Lot of interest from the Yankee buyers, some bird called Berg from New York, sounds like a Yid. One of Fletcher's backroom boys let slip he'd heard that Maggs were going to settle some on the Knock - make sure some of the money stays in old Blighty instead of slipping into the Yank's pockets, eh squire? Your man on the Knock?"

On derogatory terms,Just to be clear, any racially derogatory terms like "Yid" are included strictly for period flavour. If they make anyone uncomfortable, I am happy to strip them out.

Laura had avoided the Showroom: the sheer "richness" of the place had turned her off. She much more preferred to be near the taverns, where there was some quiet.

She stood a fair distance away outside the tavern and looked into the windows to see how the others were doing. Darts. She liked darts. She wasn't allowed in the tavern though. She sighed and sulked around some more.

Jory:

Taavi wrote: "Big one, that, hey? I heard Fletcher, Maggs are sending agents, Ted Allen's boys too. Lot of interest from the Yankee buyers, some bird called Berg from New York, sounds like a Yid. One of Fletcher's backroom boys let slip he'd heard that Maggs were going to settle some on the Knock - make sure some of the money stays in old Blighty instead of slipping into the Yank's pockets, eh squire? Your man on the Knock?"

"Ah, no, old boy, not this time." Jory makes a show of considering while getting ready to lob a projectile at the dart board.

"Although, perhaps I should make sure that my colleagues don't derail the plan, what? Could you give me a name we could chat with, find out what's being Knocked? Don't suppose you know which items are for the Knock yourself?"

Ralph puffs air out in a sort of quiet half-whistle. "Well, it'd be the Irving manuscripts, innit? That's what's got your collectors hot 'n' bothered. But geez, guv, Mr Maggs don't discuss the Knock wiv the likes of me." He looks downcast for a moment, then perks up. "Say, Fletcher's boy gave me a name, one of their clients for the auction I think. Spanish. Don Alejandro something. Alejandro Glencoe de Unamundo, that was it. Wants the Irving books." Pleased with himself, Ralph tosses the dart, hitting just to the left of the bullseye.

Jory:

Jory beams affably at Plomled. "Would you pardon me for one second old chap, too many cups of tea this morning, what? Hold our game, I'll be back shortly."

Jory ambles towards the 'Gentlemen's' room but out of Plomled's sight detours outside to Laura.

"Laura, old bean, I need to get a message to Harwood and Grant at Christies. Bit of intelligence on our mission. Be a love and pass this to them, only to their hands of course, don't want anyone else to see. Fastest way you can get to them."

Jory pulls out a notebook and pencil and scribbles a quick note:
"Other players: Fletcher, Maggs; and Ted Allen's boys too. Some Yank called Berg from New York. F,M & TA planning to knock our item of interest. F,M's client - Spanish. Don Alejandro Glencoe de Unamundo. Wants the Irving books."

Jory then skips back inside and reappears from the vicinity of the Men's. "Sorry Plomled, back to the game."

OOC,(OOC: Sorry guys, meant to write a post a few days ago, been busy.)

Laura nods, takes the note and flits into the London crowd, anonymous as a sparrow.

Jory:

Jory will return to the game of darts and see if there are any other amusing tidbits of gossip on the book trade he can extract out of Plomled, particularly regarding the Christie's auction. When Jory's ploughmans shows up, he'll politely excuse himself and happily devour it.

"What else is moving? Well, Maggs are still greasing the wheels for the Sinaiticus appeal. What ya wouldn't give for a piece of that sort of action, eh? And a fair-bit of spinoff interest in other inky Bibles. Bit more interest in the Medievals and the Irish Monks since the new edition of James' Wanderings came out a couple of years back. And we're starting to see a fair bit comin' out of Germany - out of the fire into the frying pan, eh? Sell'em before the brownshirts burn'em." He chuckles at his own joke.

Luke walks the short distance up Charing Cross Road to the Palace tavern, beaming at passers by and tipping his cap to any woman without obvious facial hair. With the sale concluded, he's intending to treat himself to some hot food and a celebratory pint. He opens the door to the public lounge and scans the tables, looking for anyone familiar.

He sees Penhalligon talking to someone over near the darts board and tries to weigh up whether or not to interrupt. He's itching to tell someone about the old book he's just sold but he doesn't want to ruin things if Penhalligon is involved in delicate negotiations. Eventually he decides to wait for the conflab to finish of its own accord and instead walks over to the bar and orders a pint and some fish and chips. He tries to catch the Captain's eye as he does so, just so he knows Luke is here.

As soon as his ploughmans' is ready, Jory will politely excuse himself from Plomled's company, and then discreetly beckon Luke over to a quiet table for some lunchtime chat.

His food order made, Luke sidles over to join Penhalligon at the table and watches the Captain eat his food.

"So, Jory," he says, lighting a cigarette. "Have you found out anything useful about this auction? We don't want to walk in and get skinned. More importantly, how long did they take to get your food ready? I'm starving."

Luke coughs hoarsely and swallows a mouthful of ale.

Between bites, Jory quickly recounts what he has picked up from Plomled. As he draws to a close, Luke's lunch arrives.

Unashamedly eating while he talks, Luke smiles maliciously. "There's nothing I like better than ruining a knock. I reckon this is something we can take advantage of; maybe hold our interest until the last second, like. Leave 'em guessing and no time for a second plan?"

Luke acts like he's never connived to fleece an auctioneer before, even though he doubts anyone is convinced.

"Did you say they're only interested in the writings? Maybe we can get the desk cheap? What do you think?"

He takes a healthy glug of ale while waiting for an answer.

Another man has entered the Tavern, whom Jory and Luke recognise as a sometime customer of Grant's.
Wing Commander Bob Curlew (retired) flew with Trenchard's Independent Air Force in the War, and has since achieved a modest fame with his English translation of General Douhet's The War of 19-- and occasional columns on aeronautics in the Daily Mail. He is an acquaintance of General Fuller's - you've seen them chatting over this and that titbit of military history more than once - and apparently shares the general's political sympathies. Like many pilots he is small and wiry, with a bristling ginger moustache.

Curlew spots Jory across the Tavern, beams and brings his pint over. "Always a pleasure to see another flyer, Penhalligon! Here's to the King's health, eh what?"

Luke watches Curlew walk over, hiding his distaste for the man's politics by taking a long gulp of ale and hoping the amber liquid masks the sneer. Still, a customer is a customer and it wouldn't pay to let them know what you really think of them. It's not like his previous customer spent any more time on the moral high ground.

"The King," smiles Luke, and he pushes a chair back for Curlew to sit on. "Now what brings a distinguished Wing Commander to a place like this?"

"Hello, Carse" says Curlew, with rather less of his previous bonhomie. "How's things on the ground?"
He sips his beer.
"Well, it is funny you should ask, because I was on my way to that shop you two lurk about in, and thought I'd drop in for a pint first. Anyway, I'm after the new German translation of Douhet's Command of the Air. I gather Reichscommissionar Goring has written a forward for it, some theory about the Aryan racial adaptibility to high altitude making us better flyers than the darkies. Have you got it? If you don't, one of the chaps mentioned a new shop with some German stock, but I'm dashed if I can figure out where it is from what he said."

Apart from a vague smile and feigned look of interest, Luke remains stony faced. He nods at the end of Curlew's request, unsure as to whether or not Grant's has the book in stock.

"Life on the ground suits me just fine, Wing Commander. I'm not sure what bookshop your friend was talking about, unless he meant Mr Goldberg's new place, but it's not a problem because we have the book in stock. Let me finish my lunch and we can go and get it."

Luke loads as much food as he can onto one fork and rams it into his mouth, wiping his lips on his sleeve and smiling disarmingly.

"Fascists," he thinks to himself. "I wish we could just stick to perverts and occultists."

Quinch wrote:Apart from a vague smile and feigned look of interest, Luke remains stony faced. He nods at the end of Curlew's request, unsure as to whether or not Grant's has the book in stock.

This is where the rules for Bookshop Stock come in. For a 1 point spend of Bookshop stock, you have the book. For a 2 point spend, you have a squiz edition of the book - eg signed by Goring and bound in red morocco, embossed with the fascist rods and axe motif. Depends how much you want to impress the client or use him to advance an agenda/the plot.

Quinch wrote:"Fascists," he thinks to himself. "I wish we could just stick to perverts and occultists."

Sadly, the three groups have considerable overlap, though Dennis Wheatley or Montague Summers will talk your ear off about how the Communists are the real Satanists if you give them half a chance.

Jory obligingly finishes his Ploughman's and stands, ready to return to the shop.

Luke fights the urge to tip the rest of his pint over Curlew. Accidentally of course. Eventually, he lets his capitalist greed overcome his righteous thirst to strike a blow for the revolution, and drinks the beer instead. He's made a good deal of money already today, but he's not about to throw away the chance of making more.

Truthfully, he has no idea whether or not Curlew's book is in stock and he could actually care less. If the fascist sympathiser leaves empty handed, so be it. He has more important customers to worry about.

Having said that, he has no idea how much the rag might be worth. He curses silently to himself and looks across at Jory, hopefully without alerting the punter. "Have we got it?" he whispers in his colleague's ear.

OOC,I don't think I'm spending my 1 point of Bookshop stock on this idiot, unless the sale is gong to be ridiculously rewarding. :)

Quinch wrote:OOC,I don't think I'm spending my 1 point of Bookshop stock on this idiot, unless the sale is gong to be ridiculously rewarding.

Important note: Bookshop stock, like other Investigative ratings, refreshes at the end of the adventure, and Bookshop Stock is a shared pool - anyone can draw on the 7 points Grants has.

Jory, Carse and Curlew make their way back to the bookshop.