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Post by Beelzebibble on Mar 27, 2010 20:47:14 GMT -5
OOC: Here we have a real ground-breaker: the first invitational RP to which no one is invited! Okay, not quite. However, for the moment I’m asking that nobody else enter this RP. Before long, the main character will exit the building and then other people will have the chance to jump in. And then I’m really hoping that people will join and mix things up a bit, but I’ll expound on that a little later.
For now, if no more characters can enter, then WHAT IS THE POINT? To learn the answer, maybe you’d better go have a look at this topic.
Yes, in true Andrew Hussie style, what I offer up before you now is a character fueled entirely by reader suggestions. More detail on that in the other topic. But what it means is that this is going to be an RP about as unlike Ishkabibble as possible in terms of planning ahead. I’ve got a very definite idea of how this story will end, but virtually no clue how it’ll get there. That’s for us to work out together. Soon you’ll be able to influence the story by bringing in characters, but for now, just read the rest of this post and then head over to the Registre to make some suggestions[/color]. That’s important so I’ll stress it again: No suggestions in this topic please! They should all be over in the Registre instead. All right awesome. Here we go. Are you guys excited? I’m pretty excited.[/i] Iridescent bubbles drifted lazily up to the ceiling to burst on the points of the iron chandelier overhead. Though the chandelier’s many bulbs were unlit, the bubbles gleamed well enough from the sunlight streaming in through the open window. An image charming in its way, Renard thought, but perhaps not life-changing enough to merit the future inconvenience of wiping the chandelier down with a rag. Nonetheless he’d need to stand on a chair if it came to wiping off the ceiling so really if the bubbles had to pop anywhere the chandelier was doubtless the easiest option. Of course as far as probing and insightful questions went one couldn’t do better than to ask why the pipe was producing bubbles when he had plainly packed it with tobacco and lit it with a match a moment earlier. However, this might have been a question rather too probing and insightful. The empirical fact was that every pipe Renard had ever packed with tobacco and lit with a match had subsequently produced bubbles. He had experimented with many pipes, many brands of tobacco, and many, many matches, with results perfectly uniform. Accepting this as immutable had been, ultimately, the last available choice. To investigate further might broach some grievous cosmic aberration and Renard could only broach so many of those before lunch and just now it was not even eleven o’clock in the morning. A more mundane but quite pragmatic and certainly much safer question was why Renard had packed the pipe with tobacco and lit it with a match a moment earlier if he was aware that the result would not be that which is commonly expected and desired when a pipe is packed with tobacco and lit with a match. As memorable a metaphysical faux pas as this ought to have been, the sad and noble truth was that Renard’s mind functioned on altogether purer and less error-ridden planes and that it was really very easy for him to lose track of what he was doing at any given moment, a problem only exacerbated by the fact that for some reason he had elected to set the small box of tobacco with enclosed matchbook and the tiny plastic bottle of pink bubble juice next to each other on the table before him. Obviously if he’d been thinking on the level of worldly concerns he would have filled the pipe from the bottle instead of the box. But never let it be said that Renard was a man easily weighed down by the regrets of the past. Let it not even be considered that he was now chastising himself for filling the pipe with the wrong material. All he could do was allow the bubbles to run their course and then move on. He could always pour out the pipe into the sink but that would be a waste of good tobacco. He tried to put a bit of space between the small box of tobacco with enclosed matchbook and the tiny plastic bottle of pink bubble juice, yet found it difficult: there were so many items scattered over the wooden table that little surface area remained unoccupied. Assorted dishes, cutleries and drinking vessels rubbed shoulders as it were with notepads, loose sheets of paper and writing implements, while salt and pepper shakers flanked vases of faintly downtrodden-looking flowers, the magnifying glass looked poised to collapse from where it had been delicately stood against the outstretched arm of a miniature chevalier statue, and the camera lay half-obscured by a striped towel all the way at the opposite end of the table from the smattering of grainy photographs it had most recently produced. Surely the element that really set this whole thing off best was the centerpiece, a precarious stack of newspapers nearly two feet in height. Renard dearly loved reading the paper but he had been disappointed with his haul from the last couple of weeks. There was very little of interest in the headlines but the continued investigations into the attacks that had occurred at that restaurant and the hotel downtown. Child’s play. Why Renard thought the solution to this mystery was quite obvious and it was a wonder to him that no one had yet accepted his hypothesis. Clearly the bombings at the hotel had been engineered by someone with a vendetta against hotels and therefore against travelling in general. A radical nationalist and isolationist, this fellow would have been trying to send an ultimatum to the other countries of the world: Take your tourism elsewhere! The Archipelago has no taste for foreigners! Doubtless the damage perpetrated upon the cars in the garage would have reflected the other aspect of this plan: the culprit meant to encourage the denizens of the Archipelago to stay in and not expose themselves to the impurities of the outside world. Granted it was already impossible to leave the Archipelago by car but Renard was helpless to account for the maniacal logic of these bomb-brandishing fanatics. The instant he figured out how the restaurant attack factored into the equation he would be submitting his report to the grateful authorities and another mystery would be solved. All in a morning’s work. Quite tiresome really. Renard hoped mightily that today’s newspaper would bring some more interesting news. He was prepared to take on a new case at the drop of a hat.
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Post by Beelzebibble on Mar 28, 2010 21:46:28 GMT -5
Find a small aside in the newspaper that becomes the case. Uncover a mysterious trail of blood! Renard picked up the topmost newspaper on the stack, yesterday's, and rifled through it rather aimlessly. He had already combed the material quite thoroughly for potential leads and since this was a matter to which he always devoted the extent of his considerable brain power he doubted there was anything he might now find promising. He was glancing idly at the real estate section when he noticed an odd bit of discoloration around the bottom left region of his field of view. He looked at the floor. There were small drops of some dark red substance on the wooden floorboards. Why in fact they might have been drops of blood. Now this was interesting. Renard held very still and, puffing his pipe silently, listened for any unexpected noises within the apartment. If there was an injured person bleeding freely somewhere in here, Renard was certain their suffering would be telegraphed by some manner of moans or groans. But there was not a sound save for the rumble of the cars without. His eyes moved along the floorboards, following the tiny red splashes, which formed a zigzagging line out of the living room. Renard glanced over at the bedroom door, but it was still shut and the blood didn't approach it. A small blessing. There were sensitive materials on the floor of the bedroom and he would have been considerably distressed to learn that an unknown party had gotten inside and was now bleeding liberally all over Renard's collection. No, instead the drops led into the kitchen, and Renard followed. He was expecting to find a fresh corpse on the tiles, perished perhaps in the act of reaching out to spell the name of his murderer with the alphabet magnets on the refrigerator, but instead found that the drops went as far as the umbrella stand and then ceased. Renard considered this. Oh, actually, yes, the pieces coagulated in his mind. He distinctly remembered scraping his ankle on a sharp corner of the angular umbrella stand when he had been fixing coffee in here earlier. Yes and in fact that went a good ways toward explaining the dull throb that had been lingering at his ankle since. He looked back into the living room. The trail of blood reached the table under the chandelier and then doubled back alongside itself to where he was now standing. Really quite inconvenient. He wondered why he'd placed the umbrella stand with the massive black-and-white-striped umbrella here in the kitchen in the first place. Possibly he'd meant to leave himself a weapon in the event that one of his cooking experiments gained sentience and reared up from the oven to attack. At any rate, the umbrella and stand were far from the only objects here whose placement in a kitchen seemed somewhat dubious. For instance, the box of fingerprint powder next to the telephone on the counter (in the event that he suspected someone else had used his telephone without his consent?), the tape measure on the windowsill over the oven (to measure the maximum width possible of a burglar who had exited through the window given the known width of the object with which he'd absconded?), and the lockpick threaded through the handles of the refrigerator's and freezer's doors (to prevent unhealthy snacking?). Altogether Renard was sure that at some point he would have to call upon his powers of diplomacy to negotiate an exchange of goods between the kitchen and the living room and sort everything out. Not the bedroom, however. The bedroom's contents belonged just where they were. After yanking open a few creaky cabinets, he eventually found the medical kit and applied a bandage to his minorly injured ankle. Then he located a rag and set about wiping the blood off the kitchen and living room floors, his mind on too lofty matters to notice the parallel trail of soapy bubble juice leading over his head between the kitchen and living room ceilings.
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Post by Beelzebibble on Mar 29, 2010 17:39:46 GMT -5
Be interrupted by a phone call. From the arthouse. Or anyone. Open the window and smoke his pipe through it so the bubbles don't dirty the chandelier. Renard would have enjoyed being diverted from his scrubbing by the intrusive report of the telephone in the kitchen, perhaps signalling the distress of a frantic potential client who'd fallen victim to the city's considerable criminal element. Unfortunately he had slipped behind on his phone bill as of late and the service appeared to have been cancelled until payment was to resume. As such Renard was forced to finish wiping the droplets of blood off the living room floor in peace. As he stood up, he cast a critical eye over the blurry photographs at one end of the table. They'd come out horridly. As strapped as Renard was for jobs and therefore funding at the moment, it didn't help that he kept tossing money at the employees of Albarello on the expectation that they would actually manage to develop the photographs taken by his antique folding camera. They were running him into poverty with these smudgy indecipherable returns. He had half a mind to lodge a formal complaint. It was around this moment that he noticed he'd been letting the bubbles pop on the ceiling, leaving wet rings up out of his reach. Muttering a curse in his original tongue, he hurried to the window over the chaise longue and pulled it open. He leaned forward on the windowsill and poked his head through to puff the remaining bubbles out into the open air. Thus positioned, Renard gazed down from his third-story apartment onto the city street. The early afternoon was still gray, with a fleecy sheet of clouds overhead, yet Winstone City was as busy as ever. The street was carpeted with cars, some personal but many of them taxicabs, from within which issued muffled music and the occasional impatient honk. Pedestrians scurried on the sidewalks back and forth between the businesses on the ground level. Though many of the buildings rose well above Renard's eye level, he could occasionally make out in the gaps between the imposing steely structures some glimpse of the older Japanese-styled towers at the city's northern fringe. Tranquil, serene, they seemed to stand many miles away from this crowded city block. But their beauty didn't beckon to Renard. The only mysteries in that oldest part of town were the ancient ones, passed down by the native citizens of the Archipelago. Here in the heart of the city was where his calling truly lay. His reverie was interrupted in the happiest of ways. A familiar, beloved mechanical growl came up to him from the street directly below. The mailman was here. Beaming, Renard paused to watch the last bubble pop on the metal staircase overhead before withdrawing into the living room (pocketing the pipe). His favorite time of day had arrived. Surely there'd be something in the newspaper to catch his interest! He couldn't wait to dash downstairs and greet the mailman in the lobby. He'd be off at a run the very moment that he found his shoes. He stopped. He couldn't find his shoes. Renard wheeled slowly on the spot, his bare feet (except for the bandage on the one ankle) making a circle on the living room floor. There was the camera, there was the magnifying glass, there was the notepad... there weren't the shoes. His heart pounded. To exit the apartment unshod was out of the question. The lobby floor would be too dirty even for socks, and besides, it was unbefitting a gentleman of his caliber. His fine black shoes had to be somewhere. He looked in the kitchen. Nowhere. Quite vanished. He couldn't have left them in the bedroom, could he? Non. Inconceivable. The very suggestion that Renard might take such impure artifacts, forever seared with the stench of Winstone's gutter, into the bedroom was almost too much for his delicate mind to bear. Why the air in the bedroom had to be pristine and perfect! How else could he preserve his collection? How could he possibly sully the atmosphere with such odious odors? Even if his thoughts hadn't been on such matters when he'd returned home the previous evening, he should not have been able to tread into the bedroom with his shoes on even unwittingly! The very muscles under his skin should have protested with an instinct honed over the years and years since he had begun his collection! He should have been rendered paralyzed on the spot! He stood stock-still in front of the bedroom door. At this point his heart was threatening to put a dent in his ribcage. He would not, could never, dare to believe that this might be true. OOC: Once Renard locates his shoes (wherever they might possibly be!) and goes downstairs, he’ll meet the mailman. So we’ll have the first opportunity for someone else to jump in if they like. Right now, if anyone wants to RP the mailman/mailwoman/postal service worker, I’ll give them like 24 hours to write a post, right here, the next post in this topic, in which that character of unspecified gender gets out of the mail truck and enters the apartment building’s lobby to distribute the mail.
If no one seems interested I’ll just auto the mailperson myself, but I wanted to toss the option out there in case anyone’d like to have some fun with the part. I don’t have any ideas about the mailperson’s person…ality, except that presumably they would recognize Renard as a familiar tenant, whether they’d look on his nineteenth-century demeanor as quaintly amusing or distinctly off-putting or whatever.
In general I guess you guys might be better off not thinking of this as a normal RP in the sense that the main character starts up an adventure and is promptly joined by a handful of companions who stay by his side for the duration of the story. For Renard to have anyone following him around will necessitate that those characters also must, to some degree, comply with reader directions and I imagine that’d just get kind of ungainly and vexing. And, I’ll admit, I kind of like the idea of Renard taking on the overall story by himself. Particularly for the ending I have in mind, he’d be better off alone.
I said that I hoped other people would join and I totally mean that! But what I’m thinking is that instead of other characters entering as members of Renard’s party, they would be better enrolled for individual scenes based on their function in the story, associated with particular locations/occupations/etc. Intersecting with Renard for their one or two scenes, but not running parallel to his for the whole story.
No, that doesn’t mean that every other character in this story needs to be the likes of a lowly mailperson. There should be opportunities later on for other peoples’ actual established RP characters to weigh in. But, again, these would probably be for single scenes, so just know that that’s the ideal situation. All right so anyone want to be the lowly mailperson or what? Like I said, right here, next post.
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Mar 29, 2010 18:15:49 GMT -5
brupbrupPAPbrupbrupbrupPOWbrupbrup
‘Come on, you old bitty, keep it together.’
bruppbrupbrupGNNNNKrupruprruprpBAP
The mail truck was nearly as old as he was, a post-war Jeep that appeared to still run on the Cosmoline it had been packed with at the assembly. With every cough and splutter, the Jeep would seize and lurch, jarring his hunched back and aggravating the sciatica that plagued him when the weather turned.
‘Too old for this.’ How long had he been saying that? Last he’d thought of it, he’d been too old for anything for about ten years now.
The truck was long overdue for an alignment, so he took the corners in wide, sweeping arcs, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles as it threatened to pitch out of his hands and send the whole machine end over end into the offices and townhouses that lined these commercia-dental Winstone blocks.
As the Jeep leveled out, he glanced up at the yellowing scrap of paper taped to the molding, quivering sunflap. ‘Neither rain nor sleet nor snow..
‘Ah, shut up.’ he muttered, slapping the flap with a mottled hand and shutting the mantra out of his sight.
The Jeep puttered to a pitiful halt in front of the apartments, gave a great gasp, backfired loudly, and died. The mailman sighed and grabbed his bag.
‘Morning, Waylon.’ he nodded to the young colored doorman as the boy swung the teaked and glassed door wide open, gloved hand extended to help an old man up the steps. He beamed, and his dark face seemed to vanish into a brilliant display of immaculate teeth.
‘And a fine morning to you, Mr. Breck. How’s the day treating you?’ Always chipper. Algernon never forgot to tip. He knew the value of forced kindness.
‘Fair, fair. These clouds are gonna break my back.’ he gave a half-hearted wave towards his backside, and his sciatic nerve throbbed in response. He clenched his jaw as the ripples traveled up his spine and into his shoulders. ‘Just come to drop off the bills.’
‘Of course, Mr. Breck.’ Waylon flashed another thousand-watt smile and turned to tend the next tenant, thrusting the door wide, extending the white gloved hand in the same fashion. The routine of it all.
Algernon turned and began to tend the mailboxes.
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Post by Beelzebibble on Mar 30, 2010 14:04:30 GMT -5
With a cold, bright clarity of vision, Renard slowly scrutinized the bedroom door from top to bottom, his eyes tracing every individual streak that ran up and down the dark gray wooden surface. The four panels of the door formed the outline of a cross, symbol of the, yes, the nearly religious suffering and humiliation he was about to endure. For he had violated his own creed and committed a blasphemy any god would condemn. The hairs at the tips of his moustache bristled tensely. He scarcely dared to breathe. This could not be. Centimeter by centimeter, weighted by the dread that permeated every nerve of his body, the dread that he would open this door and find his collection ruined, ruined, by the ghastly pestilence of the shoes, one hand reached out for the black iron doorknob. Find shoes under the umbrella. Oh wait. There they were. Why, the shoes had been stashed away under the umbrella this entire time. How could he have missed them? His search of the kitchen must have been very perfunctory indeed. Allowing himself a deep and pleasurable sigh of relief, he stepped away from the bedroom door into the kitchen and picked up the shoes. Honestly they didn't even really smell particularly terrible in the grand scheme of things. He returned to the living room, fetched a fresh pair of black socks off the bookshelf, obviously, and clad his feet with meticulous care, making quite sure not to upset the bandage as he slid a sock over one shin. Nonetheless Renard worked swiftly as much as attentively, for he knew that at any moment the friendly growl would recede and he would have missed his daily salutation to the mailman. Whipping his coat on last of all, Renard threw open the door onto the hallway with far less trepidation and bounded out of his apartment. Get coat caught in door when trying to exit. Although he only succeeded in traversing a few feet before he realized he had gotten his coat caught in the door when trying to exit. He doubled back, dislodged the fringe of his coat from the doorknob, shut the apartment door, turned back to bound again down the hallway, and promptly banged the unbandaged shin on the magnificent potted plant he'd left outside the door for some reason. Muttering another curse, he hopped up and down a bit to stay limber while admiring the potted plant. Strelitzia reginae if he remembered correctly, or what was more commonly referred to as a "bird of paradise". The beak-like spathe and crown of petals, or what were they called, those weren't all petals, formed the semblance of an elegant waterbird streaked with brilliant orange, yellow and blue. Perfectly marvelous. A testament to the design, to the deliberation, of nature; a simple, graceful argument against the notion that all evolution boiled down to was a lot of random forces butting against each other for billions of years on end. Yes, this bird was a real treasure. Renard could not for the life of him remember why he had left it just outside the apartment like that. He was lucky it hadn't been stolen by now. No matter. Renard resumed his poise and, despite limping slightly, nonetheless managed to bound down two flights of stairs to the lobby. Ah, there he was in front of the mailboxes. Renard's dearest friend. Renard greeted him with hands outstretched. The arms of his baggy coat slid back almost to his elbows. " Bonjour, monsieur Algernon! Bonjour! And how are you this fine day?" OOC: Biscuit, Renard’s mail includes, above all else, the Winstone Post, and past that… I don’t know. A few envelopes if you like. Or you can surprise me with something else. The only essential item is the newspaper. Thanks.
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Mar 30, 2010 17:34:37 GMT -5
Algernon heard him long before he saw him; the hollow thump and clatter of Renard's footsteps sounded more akin to someone flinging a grand piano down the brassed and veneered stairwell with considerable prejudice. He slid the letters in his hand through a mailslot and reached in his bag for the twine-bound bundle of far too familiar items. With some effort, he produced a folded edition of the Winstone Post, with several red-rimmed envelopes of varying thicknesses tucked snugly into the center crease.
'Why anyone would be so excited over late bills is... ah, here we go-'
"Bonjour, Monsieur Algernon! Bonjour! And how are you this fine day?" He looked particularly eccentric today. Breck gave a warm chuckle as his biggest fan came caterwauling off the banisters into the marbled lobby.
'Trying to survive, my boy, trying to survive. Don't ever get old.' he joked as he patted the bound parcel. 'Let's see what the city's got to say to you today, yeah?' With a single, practiced tug, the string fell away and the Post unfolded like a great gray flower in Breck's hand. He licked his thumb and began separating the bills - so many bills.
'Late notice. Late notice. Second notice. Late notice. Final notice. Better pay that one, Renard. Late notice. Census. Ah, here we go.' Algernon picked up a large blue envelope and held it to the light. 'Correspondence from a Mister... Mister... Missus? Oh, hell.' His eyes were fading, just like the rest of him; he handed the letter over to Renard. 'Mister or Missus Somebody. Either way, that's the first personal letter for you in a while, isn't it? Could be more work!' He puncuated this statement with the soft clap of the newspaper snapping closed in his hands; he presented the bundle to Renard with all the ceremony of a knight presenting a sword.
'Your mail, sir.'
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Post by Beelzebibble on Mar 31, 2010 16:31:28 GMT -5
Read the paper noisily in the lobby. With a conscious yet seasoned effort, Renard restrained himself from seizing the Winstone Post out of Algernon's hands as the elderly mailman removed the string and revealed that magnificent sheaf of paper. What a bundle of glorious promises folded endlessly upon themselves was the Post -- promises of secrets, conundrums and enigmas without measure, just waiting to be unraveled by the application of a mind like his own! But he couldn't read the paper here in the lobby. That would spoil his enjoyment. Renard saw nothing wrong with indulging in a habit or two, and the routine of perusing the paper back upstairs in his own well-worn rocking chair was one he had no intention to break. Instead he nodded along as Algernon counted off the bills. "Mm, oui, yes, yes, ah, oui, mm, epouvantable, yes," he murmured in syncopation with the mailman's rhythm. But their duet trailed off once Algernon held up the envelope in pale blue. "Mister or Missus Somebody. Either way, that's the first personal letter for you in a while, isn't it? Could be more work!" Algernon handed the letter to Renard, followed by the rest of the bundle. Renard scrutinized the scrawl on the envelope, his curiosity about the newspaper for once overwhelmed by this unexpected gift. Ah but he recognized the handwriting immediately. "A lead? Oh, I doubt it. Most likely she simply wants to check in..." Renard drew a finger across the last name on the return address. Her handwriting was dreadful, but Renard could tell by the change in Algernon's expression that he'd seen the connection. "She worries about me a great deal, you know. Well, so it is..." Renard moved back toward the staircase, shifting the entire heap into the crook of one arm so as to wave a cheery goodbye to his benefactor. " Merci beaucoup, monsieur Algernon! Until tomorrow, then! Good luck in the rest of your travels!" When he was out of view of the lobby, he began ascending the two flights of stairs much more quickly, two stairs at a step. He was even more excited to get back to the apartment than normal. Two pieces to examine! Furthermore a windfall of bills but those could wait until after he'd had his fun. Up the wooden stairs, past the first floor, and finally onto his own hallway, where he expertly avoided bashing a foot on the bird of paradise's pot as he rushed to the door and turned the doorknob. It didn't budge. Renard hesitated, then tried it again. For the sake of thoroughness he next tried turning it the other way. The door was locked. Had he really not been paying attention at all when he left the apartment? He'd locked the door as he'd left? But he wasn't -- He set the mail down on the floor and patted down his pockets. No, there was the pipe, but otherwise he wasn't carrying anything. He'd left his keys inside the apartment. He took off his coat and inverted the lining of every pocket. Nothing. He was locked out. Half a moment. That couldn't be right. The image of a loose key, not on a ring, floated up in his mind. He was sure he'd stashed a spare key somewhere in this hallway. A backup planted precisely with an eye toward this kind of eventuality. Tres bien. There was a key somewhere within reach. He merely had to find it. He rubbed an eye and pondered where to look. OOC: Thanks again, Biscuit! I guess we can bid adieu to Algernon Breck now, although you're welcome to send him off with another post if you like. As for Waylon, keep him in reserve if you don't mind. Once Renard first leaves the apartment building, I suspect he'll find reason to come back later in the day...
No, Pohatu! Don't say that! They'll suspect how much of the overall plot you've worked out since first starting this RP!
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Post by Beelzebibble on Apr 1, 2010 12:35:44 GMT -5
Examine the bird-of-paradise to see if the key is stashed away in its beauteous leafy depths. Renard raised a foot up with the intention of delivering a stout and masculine kick that would surely blast the door in off its hinges with the strength of a battering ram. However he thought better of it when he remembered that this was the foot he had cut earlier on the umbrella stand and that he really shouldn't exert any unnecessary force on it until it had healed. He lifted the other foot up with the same intention, only to lower it again when he remembered that this was the foot he had bruised against the bird of paradise's pot and that he really shouldn't put this one through too much work either if it came to that. Grievously disappointed by the state of his podalic extremities, Renard spent a few moments calculating the angle and speed necessary to smash through the wood with his shoulder when he realized it. Of course. The bird of paradise! He must have buried the spare key inside the flowerpot. Why else would he have left the thing on the doorstep instead of taking it into his apartment? With a mental clap on the back in praise of his superb foresight and cunning, Renard knelt down by the bird of paradise and scrabbled around in the dirt with a couple of fingers, expecting at any moment to come up against a metallic object. Nothing. Frowning, he began to paw at the dirt with both hands, prying the Strelitzia reginae's roots aside in the hope that he'd find the key entangled among them. There was no key. There was nothing at his fingertips but dirt and plant matter. He sat back on his haunches and thought about it for a bit. Then he took hold of the entire ceramic pot and lifted it. There was a small black key sitting on the floorboards underneath. Renard sat the flowerpot back down a few centimeters displaced and took the key. He stood up and pushed the key into the doorknob. With a click and a turn, the door opened. At once, Renard hurried to the kitchen sink to wash off his sullied hands, grateful that he still had running water at least. Then he returned to the hallway to pick up the mail and his coat, and to hide the key again under the flowerpot. As he completed this last action, he noticed that he seemed to have upset the Strelitzia reginae a bit in his search. The old bird looked distinctly off-kilter. With his free hand, Renard gently nudged the flower upright. It promptly listed back to its inclined position. Ah well. It was a living being; it could take care of itself. And Renard had much more pressing matters to attend to at the moment. He stepped back into his apartment and shut the door. He tossed the bills onto the living room table, where the native herd of bills promptly took the newcomers in as their own after a minimal period of social adjustment. Then Renard fetched the tiny plastic bottle of pink bubble juice off the table and settled into his rocking chair with his two new treasures, the pale blue envelope and the day's newspaper. He procured the pipe from his pocket and filled it with juice from the bottle, then took a gentle puff. The first wisp of smoke curled up into the living room. Then, holding the pipe in his mouth, he sundered the pale blue envelope and extracted the letter from within. Of course, she had written it in French. My dearest and only son,
How beautiful this morning is! From my window I can see the tiny farmers down in that flaxen valley at the foot of the hills. As I write these words, you must be asleep, but I hope you’re dreaming of this land. You used to run up and down the slopes barefoot every morning to feel the dew under your little soles. How was it I could never persuade you to bathe, yet you so loved the cleansing water on each blade of grass?
By now I must have tried to ring you once in every hour of the clock. Your poor mother’s woken up at three in the morning to stir herself to the telephone! You see for the life of me I can’t remember what is the time difference between us. Please tell me you’ve been kept from the telephone by work and not that the line has been disconnected. I hate to think of you living in rags there in that tiny little apartment. You know I’d happily wire some funds, I keep telling you this – but you’re so proud! Ah, well, I suppose I can’t fault you for it. Your father had such a stubborn way himself.
Assure me, please, that you don’t still blame yourself for what happened with Annette.
Remember a forgotten love. She was a sweet girl but I never felt that she was the right one for you. She simply didn’t recognize your genius for what it was. Because you are a genius, Renard, my brilliant darling infant. Oh, forgive me. You can see I revert to dusty old memories when you don’t remind me how time has passed.
If you cannot call, then write, and if you cannot write then you must soar here and visit me in dreams. I yearn to hear from you. How is the work? How is the case you’re investigating? Or are there many at once? Humor your old mother and spin her a tale. Intrigue her with a good mystery. Encode your words if secrecy is paramount. The good Lord knows my rotting brain might do with the exercise.
Please reach me soon.All the love left to me in the world is yours. With adoration,
P.
[/blockquote][/blockquote][/blockquote]
Renard puffed the pipe pensively, perceiving a palpable pang of peccability. He looked over into the kitchen at the telephone, but of course it was still out of service. He wondered what he would have told his eighty-four-year-old mere if he had been able to talk to her, just now, at this moment. Probably very little. What could he have told her? That he was out of work? That he was inundated with bills and utterly without a single new mystery to solve? But -- non -- he was giving up hope too soon -- he hadn't even read the Winstone Post yet! After setting the letter from mother carefully upon the mantel, he unfolded the first section of the newspaper with replenished enthusiasm. The topmost headline, five bold words screaming across the gray page, did not disappoint him.
TRACELESS GALLERY THEFT CONFOUNDS POLICE [/center] RHYS WHITTICKER Investigators are at a loss to explain how a painting by seventeenth-century French artist Bon Boullogne was stolen from the Winstone Gallery of Art two nights ago.
Cameras positioned in the relevant room appeared to record the painting vanishing off the wall at approximately 2:30 a.m., with no trace of an intruder. No external signs of a break-in were visible when employees arrived at the museum yesterday morning, nor had any of the building’s security systems been disrupted.
The police have not yet identified any suspects, although Commissioner Perry Williams has gone on record with the prediction that one or more Powers are responsible for the heist.
“We just need to accept as soon as possible that there’s gotta be a Power behind this,” said Williams when interviewed yesterday at the scene of the crime. “The more time we waste scraping together theories about how ordinary humans could've somehow defied all natural law and stolen [the painting] without setting a [expletive] foot in the building, the more time the real robber’s got to make his getaway.”
Added Williams, “The natural laws just don’t [expletive] apply to him.”
The painting is Le roi Midas, finished c. 1693 by Boullogne, depicting King Midas of classical mythology on the shore of the river Pactolus. Previously on display at the Musee des Augustins in Toulouse, France and moved to the Winstone Gallery of Art in 1982, its value is estimated at…
Renard finished the article at a dash, his fingers practically trembling. He had to catch the pipe as it fell from his lips after he broke into his first real wide grin of the day. He was able to stay in the rocking chair long enough to read the article another couple of times before leaping up onto his feet. " Incroyable!" Here it was, in all its glory, exactly the case he needed. He began pacing the room, rapidly murmuring details from the report: "...stolen from the Gallery of Art... vanished off the wall... two-thirty a.m.... no evidence of a break-in... no disruption of security systems...!" He was looking at a proper quandary! Confounded the police, had it? Renard waved a hand in dismissal. That was only because they needed an expert. Yes, the policemen with their guns were all well and good for apprehending criminals and flushing them out of their hiding places and engaging in standoffs, but what this case required was a mind with subtlety. With some real sophistication. A mind able to find something Commissioner Williams couldn't see. Very good. This, then, was his mission. He would proceed to the Gallery at once and make an inquiry. They would be reassured, naturellement, to know that he was on the case. He couldn't wait to see their smiling faces as he pledged his service in the name of art. Truly, the tables had turned at last for Renard Rouletabille. Renard Rouletabille and The Case of the Burgled Boullogne Renard seized his full ring of keys off the chaise longue. He plucked his wallet off the bookshelf. Merely to remind himself, he folded open the wallet and peered inside. It was empty. Damnation. He couldn't very well conduct a proper investigation without any money on hand. Before he could proceed further he needed to come up with a way to turn up some cash quickly without a great deal of fuss. A non-criminal method if at all feasible. Picking pockets on the street struck him as a somewhat hypocritical prospect. He looked throughout the living room. Perhaps there was an item, or set of items, which he had found severely lacking in quality and for which he might manage to coax a cash refund from the establishment that had supplied this item or set of items to him. This was an oddly specific idea to pop into his head all at once like that yet the more he thought about it the more he suspected that it was a positively ideal notion requiring a minimum of effort on his part and that he was sure to come up with an item or set of items which qualified if he only set his mind to it.
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Post by Beelzebibble on Apr 2, 2010 11:49:53 GMT -5
Return your umbrella stand, it ripped your ankle wide open and is clearly defective! Sell the bird-of-paradise. Sell the telephones. They serve no purpose now. Non, non, non, non. These were poor ideas. The umbrella stand was still useful to him: it was where he stood his massive black-and-white striped umbrella, and also apparently where he kept his shoes. Where would he even find his shoes if he could not be sure that they were beneath the umbrella stand? Likewise, what would he do with the spare key if he couldn't stash it beneath the bird-of-paradise's flowerpot? Tape it to the ceiling? Not a bit of it. As for the telephone, while it might not have been functional as things currently stood, Renard was sure that cracking the Boullogne case would bring in enough compensation to allow him to attend to the bills and restore that service. If nothing else, at the moment the telephone was an investment. Entertain the notion of pawning your pipe since it's no good for smoking, and then recoil in horror at considering such blasphemies. Non, non, non. What a hideous proposal. The very thought! For him to hawk away either the pipe or the small box of tobacco with enclosed matchbook, or even for that matter the tiny plastic bottle of pink bubble juice, would constitute a blow against the very fiber of Renard's being. A sacrifice of some small but fundamental fragment of his soul upon the towering altar of capitalism! He recoiled in horror at considering such blasphemies. Sell the newspaper, claiming a typo as the glaring defect. Entertain the notion that there may be something of value in his bedroom to sell. Non, non! These were worse ideas still! One was speaking of one's very livelihood. One was suggesting that one traffic in one's very past, present and future! One was a fool and a churl for permitting this conceit to so much as take form in the recesses of one's mind! Non! Renard was already poor enough at handling pans in the kitchen, merci beaucoup. Taking such activities out onto the street would only lead to shame, disgrace and humiliation, separately and in combinations! Go to Albarello's, and demand a partial refund for how the prints came out without actually giving them the pictures. N--Hmm. Why actually... actually, mais oui. Renard stopped short and regarded the stack of clipped-together photographs on the living room table. Yes... yes of course. He'd been reaping this crude, bleary crop for much too long. It was time to take a stand. Surely if he conveyed all the accumulated photos to Albarello and brandished them tactfully, the employees would be forced to concede their inferior quality and requite Renard for his inconvenience with a fair discharge. Propriety demanded it. Renard seized upon the top photo for his exhibit A. Indecipherable. Absolute visual sludge. Had the man on the street been captured for posterity in the act of peddling opium to naive schoolboys or merely in enacting a base biological function? Or was he a man at all? Could he be an artfully-draped curtain? Perhaps a coat rack caught in profile? The answers were not worth the questions. Ah, for his wondrous years back on the continent, with his own blackroom and all the equipment necessary to draw out from a slide like this a real story, bold, detailed, beyond dispute! What an insult to his craft, now to be forced to render payment unto these Albarello philistines for such shoddy developing work as this! Yes. The course of action was clear. He would take the photographs to Albarello immediately. His wallet thusly sated, he would be able to commence his investigation into the case of the burgled Boullogne. All he needed to do now was equip himself for the day ahead. He took stock of his attire. Between the trousers and the overcoat, he had perhaps six or eight pockets at his service. He was already taking his pipe, the small box of tobacco with enclosed matchbook, the tiny plastic bottle of pink bubble juice, the stack of photographs, his wallet, and his keys. That left quite a bit of room for other items of importance. He strode into the kitchen, back into the living room, and back again into the kitchen, taking note of all that he saw. It was time to decide what else he would need to carry on his person as he plunged headlong into this perplexing mystery.
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Post by Beelzebibble on Apr 3, 2010 17:43:51 GMT -5
Magnifying glass. Fingerprint dust. Various glass evidence tubes. Lockpick. Tweezers. Bring the camera to document the crime scene. Renard set about fetching these items from their stations in the living room and kitchen. The notebook, pencil, and two pens he picked up off the table and stashed in an internal pocket of his coat. Likewise the magnifying glass and folded-in camera although these were rather larger and therefore had to be stored in the outer pockets. In the kitchen, he removed the box of fingerprint powder from its place next to the telephone, and the lockpick from its place through the handles of the refrigerator and freezer, and tucked them into the pockets of his trousers. With the refrigerator and freezer doors thus operable once again, he opened the refrigerator and procured the various glass evidence tubes and the pair of tweezers. They had been called into service now and again for culinary experimentation but fortunately all were clean at the moment. He dropped them into the outer pockets of his overcoat. Upon further reflection, Renard also resolved to equip himself with a small yet capable serrated bread knife. It would do to have some form of personal defense in the event that his search should lead him to cross paths with a pugnacious loubard or two. Of course armed criminals would not likely be intimidated by the sight of a blade in hand, but Renard could never carry a firearm. On this point he was unwavering. The things were simply beneath him. He was a detective, not a vigilante. He had no business shooting anyone. The knife would suffice as a last resort. He pressed it very gingerly in between the covers of the notebook in one of the inner pockets to ensure against undue harm to himself. A matchbook from Le Chat du Noir, a small jazz club. The matchbook from Le Chat du Noir was already conveniently enclosed inside the small box of tobacco. Renard had no need to fetch another one. Of course the establishment was nothing like so famous as that Montmartre cabaret of the nineteenth century whose name it must have been meant to evoke. Nonetheless Le Chat was an entertaining enough place to spend an evening. Perhaps after he'd collected his reward for recovering the Boullogne and paid a few bills, he'd still have enough money left over to visit. A hat. You always need a hat/spare hat/supply of spare hats. Bring the umbrella. Also, don't forget his shoes. Lastly Renard took his well-worn trilby off the top of the refrigerator and picked up the massive black-and-white-striped umbrella (another possible means of self-defense, but Renard was also looking at the cloudy sky outside) from out of its stand. He certainly didn't need to remember his shoes, which he was still wearing, of course. Although on second thought just for safe measure he had a look at his feet. Oui, all right, the shoes were still on. Renard took a last look at the apartment before stepping out the door and locking it behind him. He sidestepped the bird of paradise and strode down the hall and the two flights of stairs, aware of a greater weight and, oh how might it be put, jangliness to his person as he moved. He didn't feel burdened, however. Quite the opposite, really. It was a satisfying sensation; he felt complete, as if he had just conquered a large meal. Without all these items in his pockets he'd felt almost too light. A stiff breeze could have blown him away. He descended into the lobby, where that perpetually smiling young concierge held open the door for him. " Merci, Waylon, merci," Renard said. A bit untoward perhaps that he couldn't tip the man a dollar or two, but the wallet was quite destitute and he wasn't at all sure that Waylon would appreciate being tipped one of the various glass evidence tubes. Ah well, he'd try to remember to come up with a little something when he'd return later.
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Apr 4, 2010 2:00:25 GMT -5
'A fine day, Mister Rouletabille - despite the weather.'
He'd pronounced Renard's name perfectly; in fact, he'd made a point to. It was the mark of a professional, and Waylon Bell was exactly that: a professional. No man could take that from him, though they might try. Let them play at setting him in his place; a lowly bellhop, a civil servant of his superior masters. Let them clip his paycheck and extend his hours. They would never be able to say that Waylon Bell had not done his job. In this he was immaculate. In this, he was perfect.
He smiled knowingly at Renard, turning the power up with his widening grin. It was a smile of pure joy, unyielding glee at the sight of one of Rotheca's many sterling tenants.
The motion was smooth, practiced and well-oiled. The gloved hand slid over the polished brass rail and pushed, rotating the heavy door on inset hinges that glided without so much as a whisper. His body moved with the door, framing Renard on one side. His balance was low, steady. His free hand followed Renard like a shadow, floating inches from his coat as the detective moved through the Rotheca portal and into the windy grays of Winstone, ready to seize at a moment's notice should Renard take an errant step off the granite steps. Another perfect execution. Waylon flashed the million-dollar smile and let the door slide back into its frame. He resumed his post next to the door, becoming once again another piece of furniture, next to the umbrella stands and the coat racks.
Would he be more than this? Of course. Night classes at Winstone Community would net a degree in a year's time. Waylon Bell would let them play at keeping him down until then. He was not another piece of furniture. Waylon Bell would own this town one day.
The push, the hand, the smile. Another tenant passing through. A job well done.
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Post by Beelzebibble on Apr 4, 2010 20:04:19 GMT -5
With a wave to the concierge, Renard descended the front steps and crossed around to the parking lot alongside the apartment building, where his abominable black car sat in one of the spaces. Vexatious little buggy. Terribly unreliable. He hoped this was going to be one of its good days. He wouldn't be surprised however to find that his daily allocation of good fortune had run out with the article about the Boullogne in the paper. He lowered himself gently into the driver's seat, so as not to damage any of his pocketed goods, and turned the key in the ignition. To his astonishment the car started up gracefully and he was able to back out of the space and turn out of the lot onto the street. It was a short drive to Albarello, a mere seven and a half or eight minutes under typical traffic conditions, and Renard would have walked if he hadn't known he'd be driving elsewhere once he was done with his visit here. He carried on up Rotheca Avenue and then onto Bushmint Street, whereupon the red flourescent letters on the facade of his destination came into view. Renard pulled in and parked around behind the building next to a low, sleek silver vehicle whose make he couldn't name offhand. His was an undeniably superb brain but he hadn't devoted any of it to cultivating automobile mythology. As he crossed the parking lot toward the building, he approached a woman with dirty blond hair who was tucking a plastic bag with the Albarello logo into her enormous blue backpack. She slung the pack over her shoulders again without a glance at him as they passed. He frowned as the glass doors swung inward automatically to allow him entrance. Why anyone would wear a backpack into a convenience store puzzled Renard. Unless the layout inside had changed dramatically since his last visit, he doubted a stop at Albarello was likely to constitute much of an expedition. Perhaps the woman was going to spend the rest of the day hiking in the mountains to the northeast. He put the thought from his mind and entered the store. Non, Albarello was quite the same as ever: much too bright, shiny and clean. The glaring white lamps overhead were reflected on the polished tile floor, and cast the aisles into sharp focus. Renard passed the checkout counter and made the journey through one of the aisles (SKIN CARE - HAND LOTION - BAR SOAPS) to the back of the store. The thousands of bottles and boxes on the shelves formed a landscape of barely tolerable order and perfection on either side. At last, however, he emerged from the aisle and regarded the back wall of the store, where the pharmacy and photo counters were situated. Renard approached the photo counter immediately. "Hello, hello," he said to the employee who was there to greet him. He held up the clipped-together stack of photographs, to which several receipts were affixed at the bottom. "I wonder if I might be able to trouble you for a refund on these photographs? You see they came out quite poorly and I don't believe I'll be able to make any use of them. This has happened on several occasions now without exception. Assured as I am of my skills with a camera, I must regrettably presume to place the blame upon this establishment..." OOC: Albarello is a fictitious pharmacy/grocery/photo lab chain along the lines of CVS, Walgreens, etc. I could use someone to RP an employee at the photo desk. Or there’s room for multiple employees if you like. All by the same RPer or by different ones, I’m not picky.
As with the mailman, I’ll auto the part(s) myself in 24 hours if no one’s interested. But I think Biscuit proved quite handily with his all of two Algernon Breck posts (not to mention Waylon Bell) that you guys can potentially add way more depth to the story by filling in these supporting roles than if I just wrote them all myself. So I hope I can keep getting volunteers for bits like this. Anyway, the employee(s) should have a slightly meatier part to play in the story than Algernon did.
Also as with the mailman, the employee(s) are presumably familiar with Renard as a regular customer, but past that, you’ve got the right to interpret them as you see fit. Do they pity Renard and his antiquated attempts at photography, or does he frustrate them with his refusal to buy a damn digital camera already? And so on. No matter their stance on him, though, they should eventually concede that the photographs are hella mad shitty and refund him the sum of the prices on the receipts, probably somewhere in the $20-$25 range (a figure specific down to the cents would be more likely than a rounded sum).
There’s also plenty of room for other characters here, customers that is, which can include actual established RP characters if you want. Not sure how they’d come to interact with Renard, if at all (they could just observe him bemusedly), but I’m sure you guys can work something out.
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Post by Ninety on Apr 5, 2010 18:59:44 GMT -5
Tom had seen the Frenchman's familiar face at the photo counter and moved from his pharmacy station to wait on him since the usual staff of two startlingly inept teenage girls had retreated into the darkroom as soon as they saw Renard emerge from the cosmetics aisle. They hated dealing with his requests for a refund, partly because the task actually required thought to perform but Tom knew a large part of it was that they simply didn't understand the man. Renard's accent and penchant for the grandiloquent often led to his intentions being buried deep in their midst. Tom enjoyed Renard's affectations though and greeted him with a smile while he listened to Renard's roundabout way of telling Tom that the store sucks and he wants his money back.
"Good to see you again Mr. Renard! I'm terribly sorry that your photos didn't turn out as you'd hoped; I'll get that return done for you right now." Tom wasn't actually sure if Renard was his first or last name as Renard simply referred to himself as Renard. He attached the title anyways so as not to offend the man's sensibilities. He opened the register after a perfunctory glance at Renard's receipts. In all his visits, he'd never neglected to bring the necessary paperwork.
"Here's the twenty-six thirty-six for your return and I'd like to apologize once again for the substandard performance. If there's anything else I can do for you, sir, I'd be happy to oblige."
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Apr 5, 2010 19:13:06 GMT -5
'God's balls, where's the... c'mon...'
He'd been looking for ten minutes now. Surely they hadn't discontinued it. He muttered his disgust beneath his breath.
'God... goddammit I don't want Kiwi Madness, I want the fucking Pomegranate, just show me the Pomegranate.'
Daniel couldn't believe it. It was going to ruin his whole day. It didn't help that he had to stand in the Soap aisles, haggard and unshaven, dressed for range work in heavy cargo pants and a weatherproof Magellan. It didn't matter, he reminded himself; looking like a chickenfruit in an Albarello was nothing compared to the wrath he'd incur from Julia if he brought home the wrong lotion.
Shit. Someone was coming his way. Huckabee shoved his hands in his pockets and withdrew a cell phone, hurriedly flicking it open and placing it to his ear, turning his face away from the stranger. It was a reflex of embarrassment - God forbid he should make eye contact, give away his defenses and show this passerby that he might be some fruit-salad flutist.
The man rushed by, oblivious. He looked even stranger than Daniel, clutching what looked like photos of photocopied oil slicks in his hands. He sighed with relief. At least he wasn't the only kook here. He turned back to the rack of indecipherable potions.
'Ah, hell with it. Orange Blossom Special will have to do. All smells the same.' He grabbed the neon bottle from the rack and hurried to the counter, where he wound up behind the same nutcase from before. He stared at the neon gay-juice in his hands, feeling his frustration rise. 'Can't a guy just pay...' he whispered under his breath.
The nutcase was getting a refund. How could you refund pictures? Aren't they -yours-? If they're screwed up, then it was your fault, wasn't it? Daniel had taken thousands of surveillance pictures, and he knew when he'd screwed up a shot.
This was taking forever. He tightened his considerable grip on the bottle, causing the plastic screw-top to wheeze in protest.
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Post by Beelzebibble on Apr 6, 2010 10:12:13 GMT -5
Accidentally drop the change. Make some innocuous comment about the lotion that may suggest something about Daniel's personal preferences. " Merci, merci, no no, please don't worry about it, I will surely have to... oups--" For the thirty-six cents, a quarter, a dime and a penny, had slipped from his hand and fallen to the counter with a tintinnabular clatter. Renard plucked them off the vinyl surface hurriedly, aware that there was a fellow behind him in line. Then he dropped the dime again and had to retrieve it from where it had fallen into a box of cheap film rolls to one side of the counter. He hastened out of the approaching man's way. " Pardonnez-moi, monsieur! Je vous prie." He winced. He didn't like dropping into French around complete strangers but it happened on occasion when he lost his nerve. Of course there was really no need to lose his nerve in this situation which contributed to his general feeling of being an oaf. He stood awkwardly by the counter, scrabbling to redecorate himself with the change and his wallet (now at last containing a few bills) while the other man conducted his transaction. He felt the necessity to say something to alleviate the problem of his still standing there. He looked over at the other man's purchase. It was a bottle of pale orange shampoo. Oh, Renard recognized the brand name. He'd seen it in an advertisement in yesterday's paper. "Is... Is it good, that line?" he asked the other man. "If I remember, the lady in the advertisement said that it added a certain bounce to her curly..." He quailed slightly. The other man had shot him a lethal glance. Be alarmingly afraid of Daniel.
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Post by Ninety on Apr 6, 2010 19:03:45 GMT -5
Jesus, mister, he's just making small talk. No need for Medusa's gaze.
Tom smiled through his distaste for the customer, an indispensable tool for those in the service industry, and scanned the man's single bottle of lotion.
Guess he's going to have a..."...good day, sir! We hope to see you again!"
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Apr 6, 2010 19:12:25 GMT -5
If Daniel could have set the Frenchman on fire with his glare, he would have. He had intimidation down to a science; he could charge the air with fear simply by walking into a room a certain way. There was an art to his work, a practiced craft. Even with this, the most cursory and fleeting of glances, he could feel the wormy little man squirming under its weight.
The cashier had said something to him. He wasn't paying attention, but he could smell the lie. Time to get scarce.
He swiped his debit card, punched the pin, stuffed the shampoo into his pocket and turned sharply on his heel, beelining for the door.
'It's no Pomegranate.' he hissed as he walked away.
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Post by Beelzebibble on Apr 7, 2010 10:06:55 GMT -5
Renard recoiled and let the other customer brush past as he charted a direct and unequivocal course for the door. Perhaps he was simply in a hurry, but Renard could not help but wonder about the single purposeful purchase and the man's harsh tone. Perhaps the shampoo was intended to later scrub out the dye which the man was soon to apply to his hair as he disguised himself for his imminent bank robbery? Was it even possible for shampoo to accomplish that? Renard couldn't be certain. He was not in the practice of dyeing his hair. Nonetheless he felt around in an inner pocket for the notebook and one of the pens. After surreptitiously dropping the knife from between the pages into his pocket so as not to alarm the employee, he flipped the notebook open to the first available page and wrote in French: ______________________________ ____Albarello:____________________ _____Suspicious individual at checkout____ _Mid-forties? fifties? Greying blonde______ ___spectacles. beaked nose.____________ ______Purchase: Orange Blossom Special_ _____impatient, brusque demeanor_______ __INCREDIBLY DANGEROUS GAZE!!______ ___Possible something to hide?__________ ______________________________ ______________________________ ______________________________ ______________________________
[/font][/blockquote] He might have punctuated this with a rough scribble of the man's face, but he decided not to dawdle. The city, apres tout, required him. He tucked the notebook back into his pocket and nodded at the employee. "Very good, then," he said briskly. "My apologies for the trouble with the photographs. I appreciate very much your helpfulness in this regard... We should be able to work toward a more mutually profitable relationship in the future, non?" With a wave, he departed back through the aisle of personal hygiene and out of Albarello. Once again in the parking lot he moved toward his car, noticing as he did so that the sleek silver vehicle which had earlier caught his attention was gone. Perhaps it had belonged to the shampoo-purchasing man. He made an addendum to the notebook page. Then he unlocked the car and got in. It was all too obvious where he should proceed next.
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Post by Ninety on Apr 7, 2010 14:18:26 GMT -5
Tom took up the stack of photos Renard had left on the counter and took them to the shredder in back. Even if they were indecipherable they had to be destroyed as per the store's privacy policy. He fed them in one by one until he came upon one that was much clearer than the others. It was the last in the stack and Tom could easily see a man in a large coat and an old-fashioned hat. The picture was taken from behind so the face wasn't visible but his shadow was cast on the wall in front of him in such a way that it was quite obvious he was examining something in his hand, possibly a pocketwatch. It certainly looked like there was a chain attached to it.
Tom thought that the man looked an awful lot like Renard but the Frenchman had never before submitted a self-portrait before or anything that could be considered artistic, unless you counted poorly composed photos with even poorer exposure and focus. Though he worked in the pharmacy, Tom was an amateur photographer in his spare time. This photograph was of a markedly better quality than anything Renard had ever dropped in the bin.
Tom held on to the photo and into the darkroom where they kept the negatives in limbo in case the customers decided they wanted additional photos developed. As Tom opened the door the ditzes inside stopped their conversation and left the room before the door closed behind him. Opening one of the file cabinets, Tom parsed the tabs until he came to the Rs. He found Renard's file and noted that someone had tried to take down his last name but scratched through it in frustration and simply scrawled "Ruhnarde" on the envelope. Tom emptied the negatives onto a clean sheet of tissue paper and began holding them up towards the dim red bulb hoping to find the roll containing Renard's abnormally passable shot so he could see if there were perhaps others that he could salvage for the eccentric customer.
After he'd twice gone through all of the negatives and hadn't found the frame Tom slumped against the wall to rest.
I guess Renard returned one of his personal photos by accident. He has a history of absent-mindedness after all.
Tom plucked the envelope from the counter and found Renard's telephone number and address. He'd leave a message on his machine or run it by his place after his shift ended at the pharmacy.
Tom checked his watch and realized his shift ended twenty minutes ago.
Oh well, I guess I'll pay him a visit after all. It's only a few blocks out of the way and it'd be interesting to see where this guy calls home. And if he's out I can at least slide it in under the door or leave it with a receptionist or a doorman or something.
Tom hung his lab lab coat in his locker and changed into his tennis shoes before clocking out and leaving the store.
Or he would have left if the pharmacist hadn't caught him on the way out and asked him to work overtime since two of the techs had called in sick and he needed Tom to cover for them.
Changing back into his work attire and heading back to his station, Tom picked up the phone and dialed Renard's number while he typed in a Zoloft prescription.
We're sorry, the number you have dialed h-
Tom hung up before the robot in the telephone company could finish its canned response.
Looks like he'll just have to wait.
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Post by Beelzebibble on Apr 8, 2010 13:04:51 GMT -5
Take a smoke break. Ponder the next course of action. But before he started the car, Renard rolled down the window for a moment of quiet reflection. He procured the pipe and the small box of tobacco with enclosed matchbook from Le Chat du Noir. In another moment the glistening bubbles were rising up out of the car and drifting away on the breeze. He felt around in his pockets for the rolled-up newspaper, so as to consult again the article about the burgled Boullogne. He finished going through the coat and moved on to his pants pockets. The rolled-up newspaper wasn't there. He looked over onto the seat beside him. The rolled-up newspaper also wasn't there. It was possible he hadn't thought to bring the rolled-up newspaper. It was, further, possible that he had never even rolled the newspaper back up and that it was still lying flat on the rocking chair back at the apartment. Zut. He could have done with a reminder of the details. He hadn't properly committed the contents of the paper to memory yet. Let us see, the Boullogne had vanished last night... no, no, that wasn't right, it had vanished the night before. Yes, at two-thirty am. Or was that three-thirty am. And it had been a painting of... oh, some fellow from the old stories. One of the Metamorphoses, but... Tonnerre de Brest, he was out of his depth here. He stared at the cars parading past on Bushmint Street and pressed a hand to a temple. If he had only lingered at the apartment long enough to internalize the latest edition of the Winstone Post, he would not now be having this problem. But let it never go into the history books that Renard Rouletabille was a man easily ruffled by such a trifling setback. He didn't need the newspaper anymore. He had the freedom to proceed directly to the heart of the matter. The Winstone Gallery of Art was no more than twenty-two or twenty-three minutes away. He emptied the pipe, rolled up the window and pulled out of the Albarello parking lot. To the scene of the crime! * * * "...bypassed the lasers, grabbed the painting off the wall and skipped out of there without even showing up as a blip on the cameras. Huh? That's gotta be it, right?" Inspector Landsvale only shook his head somberly. Commissioner Williams grimaced. This guy was hell to work with. Couldn't give an encouraging answer to anything. Always had to be negative. "Come on," Williams said. "That's perfect. And we know there are Powers like that out there." The blue-clad Inspector finally spoke. "Yeah, we know there are Powers who can become both invisible and intangible. I'm not, listen, I'm not arguing that. But just think about it, okay? How could someone intangible pick up the painting? They'd need to get tangible again, if only at their hands. Right? Otherwise they couldn't exert any force on the painting." "So what?" Landsvale's baggy eyes fell on Williams. "So what happens when the lasers notice there are a few stray fingers hovering around Le roi Midas that weren't there a second ago?" Williams clenched a fist and let out an aggravated huff, which was his way of saying "Why yes, you're right actually." Denham Landsvale might have been a walking exercise in depression but at least he caught the little details. That was about the only thing that made working with him tolerable for Williams, but what was he supposed to do. It'd only been about a week since his best subordinate and six lesser officers had gone after a couple of renegade Powers and ended up needing to be dug out of a frozen city block piece by piece. Okay, maybe not the most respectable way to put it but Williams knew Davidson wouldn't've cared. Seth Davidson... He'd been a real cop, a guy who could take charge in a crisis. A guy who didn't need someone to hold his hand as he worked through his fucking self-esteem issues or alcoholism or whatever was Landsvale's problem. The funeral had been last weekend. He and Monica had decided to leave the kids with a babysitter. Not like it was an open-coffin deal or anything obviously, god, no. Even so. They were still young. Passing away gracefully in a hospital amid family, sure, okay, but the kids didn't yet need to know shit like that happened. And then, of course, on top of that and the d'Arcangel's attack and the colossal humiliating fuckup that was the Hotel Ansonia incident, since Williams clearly wasn't already wading through a deep enough river of factory-processed hog feces courtesy of every goddamn Power between here and Whelkshore, now he had a missing painting to deal with. He scrutinized the empty space on the gallery wall again, as if hoping that a new clue was suddenly going to emerge from beyond the plaster. He still knew a Power had to be behind this. How was a normal human being supposed to pull off this kinda stunt? But they'd combed through every file they had on every local Power who'd ever run afoul of the law, the whole freakshow. No clear suspects. There were telekinetes who could have moved the painting from a distance, but it hadn't moved away, it had simply disappeared. There were technopaths who could have disabled the laser systems and rewritten the camera output, but they'd've needed to get into the control room first, and by then they'd already have been caught. And for every Power he read about who looked even remotely promising, he had to ask himself: why just that painting? If they could have whisked one piece away with some black magic, why not all of them? How could he explain the thief's self-restraint? "Commissioner." Williams realized he had been staring at the same patch of wall the whole time. He jerked his gaze away and looked at Landsvale, who was pointing off toward the roped-off border around the area of the missing painting. A hangdog figure with a bulging coat, a broom-like shock of dark hair, and a pipe was standing there expectantly. Oh god. It was Rouletabille. Williams somehow managed to resist the urge to just smash his head through the empty space on the wall and turn himself into the Winstone Gallery of Art's latest acquisition. Instead he took a few steps toward the Frenchman and said in a loud and hopefully dismissive voice, "What do you want." OOC: Oh man look at this. Puttin' the OOC comment in a spoiler. Sooooo cooooool.
Anyway, just to be clear, you guys are still giving commands for Renard, in spite of the temporary perspective switch. I just wanted to do a little with Williams while Renard was en route to the gallery.
There are plenty of opportunities here for other people to jump in. For one thing, I could definitely use a curator of the gallery on hand, if someone feels they know enough about that kind of business to take the role (I HAVE NO IDEA WHO THAT COULD BE THOUGH). Additional policemen under Williams are also welcome. Or pretty much anyone else, including previously established characters, as long as there's some discernible reason why they'd be allowed onto the scene of the crime right now (i.e. a reporter like Rhys, etc.).
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Post by Beelzebibble on Apr 10, 2010 12:40:01 GMT -5
Talk to Williams. Offer condolences for Davidson. Talk to Williams about potential Power involvement, then come up with a cunning reply that leaves Williams baffled. " Bonjour, bonjour, Commissioner, bonjour," Renard announced, piling on bonjours on what he supposed was a dim hope that they might assuage Commissioner Williams' menacing visage. Alas they did nothing of the sort. "Yeah. Afternoon, Rouletabille. How can I help you?" The Commissioner drew closer, no doubt knowingly permitting his superior height and girth to factor into the conversation. "What can I do for you instead of working on this case? No no, take your time, I've got all day." Renard had been attempting to speak up at intervals throughout this little speech, which therefore made the Commissioner's encouragement to take his time rather confusing. However, he swiftly recovered from this loss of conversational balance and started back in. "You're too generous, Commissioner. I understand a painting has been, ah, discreetly removed from this gallery, n'est-ce pas? And you're in something of a bind puzzling out how the deed was done?" "We're not hiring, Rouletabille." The Commissioner's arms folded in front of his considerable chest. "We've got transfers moving in onto the squad tomorrow. We'll be back at full capacity. In the meantime we do not need your assistance." "Oh! -- excusez-moi, no, no! I don't mean to force my presence upon you, no!" Renard remembered quite well his brief stint attempting to work directly with the Winstone police force, the least disastrous consequence of which was that several perfectly serviceable uniforms had ended up doused with bubble juice. "A word and I shall be gone. I only hope to gather information for my own investigation into this matter. Perhaps I can help you without... ah, actually giving you my help, oui?" The Commissioner looked unmollified. Renard pressed on, remembering what he had read in the obituaries within the past week. "After all I should hardly dare to presume to work directly with you on this case. It would be an insult to the departed Inspector Davidson and the other brave officers who tragically--" "Stop, stop. Jesus Christ." The Commissioner rubbed an ear, dropping his gaze to the floor. He appeared to be considering the situation. "God, this is embarrassing. Fine. Gather information, I don't care. You figure out who's behind this, well, more power to you." The word "power" caught Renard's ear. He suddenly felt like orchestrating a very sly and fluid subject change. "That's the sort of person you expect is the culprit, isn't it? A Power?" "Yeah. Well. Who else? Not that we're looking at any real leads yet. We've got a bunch of them who seem like possibilities, but the specifics don't line up." come up with a cunning reply that leaves Williams baffled. come up with a cunning reply that leaves Williams baffled. come up with a cunning reply that leaves Williams baffled. "Ah, well, Commissioner," Renard said, "a great role model of mine once said that when you have eliminated the possible, whatever remains, no matter how probable, must be the truth." The Commissioner blinked. Then he turned away, muttering something that sounded distinctly like "lunatic".
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Post by Yoshimitsu on Apr 11, 2010 22:41:29 GMT -5
"No, no, no, no, no! This simply will not do!"
The loud voice was emanating from somewhere nearby and echoing impressively despite the fact that there should not be any such echo. Perhaps the speaker was repeating the word far too much. Clearly he was upset about something, and it did not take a genius to figure out what. Every member of staff so far had been the unwilling recipient of the Curator's Wrath. It was not even remotely an enjoyable experience.
The Curator was a moderately portly man which was only emphasized by his rather short figure. He had, sadly, acquired the basic appearence of a fire hydrant. His hair was styled in an attempt to cover his rapidly receeding hairline, as much of it pulled forward and hairsprayed in place as possible, giving him an unusual kind of plumage. Unlike many of the other people present, he was wearing a bright, flamboyant sky blue suit with matching tie and white shirt. Despite his plastic surgery attempts, his skin was still infuriatingly wrinkled. Stress, he put it down to. The stress of the job.
Which had gotten even more stressful overnight, apparently! One of the Bon Boullogne paintings had simply vanished! Gone, without a trace! And the police were useless! Not a single lead! What was he paying them for? Actually, was he paying them? Was that the issue? Did he have to give them an extra bonus in order for his painting to reappear? Outrageous! No, he would not succumb to the wishes of the law this time. If those men wanted to keep their jobs, they would find the painting immediately or suffer the Curator's Wrath!
"Nothing at all? Don't bring me a report if the report has no content! This is an outrage! A scandal!"
The man was bouncing around the museum angrily, nearly smashing glass cases and expensive ornaments on display in his fury. His personal assistant followed quickly, ready to stop anything from falling if the need arose. The curator may have scoffed, if he had known. Break any of his precious displays? Nonsense. Preposterous. The thought should be taken outside and shot. Twice. With the security DVD in hand, he was making his way to the investigation.
"Mister Wood, the investigation team is waiting..." His assistant began, but the Curator quickly cut her off.
"I know they are waiting, but they can wait a little longer! If they expect a bonus at the end of this, they will be most disappointed!" He snapped back, several diamonds glittering from his teeth. People thought he was being silly, getting them encrusted into his teeth, but that bit of extra shine was simply divine.
The Curator was stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the investigation team, apparently doing nothing.
"No, no, no! What are you people doing?!" He demanded, waving the disc around carelessly. "This is an investigation, not a mothers meeting! I need results, now!"
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Post by Beelzebibble on Apr 12, 2010 15:06:28 GMT -5
"Mr. Wood -- come on, now, Mr. Wood, take it easy--" Commissioner Williams stepped heavily over the rope and lumbered over to the rather stocky apparent curator who had just appeared on the scene. The Commissioner was reaching out a hand to accept the peculiar metallic disk that glinted in the curator's palm with many colors under the harsh light. Renard overheard the Commissioner saying, in a lower voice, something like "Want to just hand that over and then we'll..." Now left standing rather awkwardly at the rope, Renard posed a question to the other policeman, the weary-faced one dressed in the blue uniform. "May I ask if you know what that is?" he said, pointing to the gleaming disk. The other policeman didn't need to follow Renard's finger to answer. "Security footage from the other day," he responded. "Williams'll want me to go through the whole thing, see if anyone acted weird around the Boullogne." This did not precisely answer Renard's question, as he had no idea how an entire roll of camera footage could be squeezed onto a tiny flattened disk like that one. Nonetheless he decided not to press too far upon the point. His keen instincts told him that the exact nature of this object was something that everyone else in the room took for granted and that he would incur an undesirable social stumble to ask how it worked. Remember that you're at the crime scene and begin canvassing the area. Use magnifying glass to examine the spot where the painting was. Use tweezers to place any trace evidence in the test tubes for further study. Renard twirled the rope idly between two fingers. "You don't think I could, ah...?" he said hopefully to the other policeman, who looked him over for a moment before nodding. "Why not." " Merci, merci." Renard gently swung a leg over the rope, trying not to upset any of the contents of his coat as he did so. He hurried to the spot where the Boullogne had been hung and pulled the magnifying glass from one of the outer pockets of the coat. Holding it up before an acute eye, he scrutinized the empty space on the wall. With his free hand he felt around in the same outer coat pocket. He was certain that he'd come upon the tweezers when he'd been trying to procure the magnifying glass. Ah yes, there they were. He would require them and the glass tubes in case he needed to pluck any innocuous scrap of potential evidence off the plaster surface. Bon Boullogne Le roi Midas (King Midas), 1693 Oil on canvas
That would have worked out superbly if there were some innocuous scrap of potential evidence to find. But he saw nothing. Only the nail where the painting had been hung, and the plaque carrying the description he had just read, marred the otherwise smooth and clean wall. Renard held the magnifying glass up to the nail and scrutinized it intensely. If there were some sign of damage to this little pin of iron... Say, perhaps, it was cocked slightly downward. This might have indicated that the painting had been roughly wrenched down off the wall by someone of short and stout stature. Someone such as, possibly, the curator? Mais oui, but of course, he might have stolen the Boullogne himself in an effort to drum up sympathy and publicity for his failing gallery. There would have been, perhaps, a donation of a new piece to hang in the Boullogne's place, and meanwhile the curator would have been able to discreetly sell Le roi Midas at a substantial profit. Parfait. A brilliant solution. Only the nail wasn't warped. And the plaster around it was not distended. Whoever had removed this painting had been free to do so with a minimum of physical fuss. "Not really looking forward to it," the other policeman said. Renard blinked before realizing that he was talking about reviewing the security footage again. "Take up the whole afternoon. Watch a bunch of people picking their nose." The man sounded bored by the prospect. Renard couldn't imagine why. He was terribly intrigued by the little disk and how one was to go about extracting information from it. But, not wishing to irk the policeman who had graciously allowed him into the roped-off area, he simply said, "Mm, yes, quite." After dropping the magnifying glass back into the outer coat pocket with the tweezers, Renard retrieved the box of fingerprint powder from the left pocket of his trousers. He opened it and unclipped the small brush and roll of cellophane tape from the underside of the lid. Even if there were no visible traces of a theft, he must assuredly be able to uncover fingerprints. He shook the brush to spread the bristles, lightly dipped it into the powder and then ran it across the surface of the wall. He powdered around the entire surface area where the painting had hung. When he was finished, he unrolled strips of cellophane tape and pressed them onto the wall. Then, with a series of swift and graceful motions, he tore each strip of tape back off the wall. The powder was completely uninterrupted. Not a single fingerprint had been rendered visible. "Still, someone's got to do it. And it's not like I can just tell the Commissioner to sit his own ass down and watch the DVD himself." "Mm, quite, yes." Renard stepped back from the wall and looked it up and down again, his brow furrowed. How could he have failed to find a thing? Might the burglar truly have evacuated the Boullogne sans une trace? He tweaked his moustache in thought.
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Post by Yoshimitsu on Apr 13, 2010 16:45:20 GMT -5
"No, I will not 'take it easy', Williams!" The Curator barked back at the man, who was rather rudely entering the important man's personal bubble. No one was allowed to invade the bubble without permission, especially not useless investigators and police officers! It was outrageous! "Step back before you really regret it!"
"Commissioner Williams," the personal assistant chipped in. "Please do as he says, or we'll be here all day."
The Curator had acquired the security disc to give to the investigation team, but not before he gave them a rather hefty piece of his mind.
"Since you're still here, you clearly haven't figured out who has stolen the Le roi Midas," the Curator deduced, using a ridiculous accent on the painting's name. It sounded more Australian than anything else. "What have you been doing all this time? Having tea? Gossiping? How much time have you wasted doing other, trivial things when this masterpiece has been stolen?!"
His personal assistant was quickly writing something on a clip board.
"And who are these riff-raff you're employing? Who's that ridiculous buffoon who's clearly just stepped out of the nineteen twenties?! This is a farce! A joke!" The Curator continued, his voice getting louder and more high-pitched as his tirade went on. Soon, only dogs would be able to hear him. "I need results, Williams, not speculation! If you don't have something conclusive to show me within the next twenty four hours, there will be hell to pay!"
He promptly thrust the DVD into Commissioner Williams' palm and stormed off.
His personal assistant took the sheet of paper from the clip board and handed it to the Commissioner.
"A letter of apology on behalf of Mister Wood. He's just stressed," she said apologetically, before hurrying after him.
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Post by Beelzebibble on Apr 14, 2010 12:29:31 GMT -5
Sneeze into the fingerprint powder, sending it everywhere. Ask Commissioner Williams for the DVD. Commissioner Williams stood in hot silence as he watched the curator scuttle away. He'd been pretty hard-pressed not to just take the DVD and stuff it down the little asshole's gullet. Unfortunately Williams didn't really think he'd be able to swing any kind of legal defense for bashing someone's face in when the victim was a greasy, chubby, altogether feeble pipsqueak half his height. The balls these people had, though. Could use a little fucking patience. One look at the badge and they thought everything was going to get wrapped up in a nice half-hour package with time for commercials. No appreciation for the fact that this crime was totally unprecedented in Williams' experience. God, no. Perish the thought. Fat chance someone like the curator could possibly shut his mouth long enough to come to terms with the difficulty Williams and his team were going to have in tracking down whatever goddamn sociopathic Power was behind-- A sneeze. Williams whipped around. Rouletabille was standing in the roped-off area, in front of the painting, wiping his eyes profusely with one hand while holding a little box in the other. He coughed. There was white powder all over his face and hair. Cocaine if Williams was lucky. Anthrax if he wasn't. "What the hell," Williams said levelly to Landsvale, "brought this on? Who let this happen?" He gestured at the bleary-eyed Frenchman. "Don't tell me you let this happen, Landsvale." The Inspector shrugged. "He wanted to check it out. Didn't think it was worth telling him no." Williams snorted in a concise effort to demonstrate his contempt for Inspector Landsvale's backbone. The Frenchman was a pushover. "Rouletabille. Out." To his satisfaction, Rouletabille quickly squirrelled the little box back into a pocket and hurried over the nearest rope. You just had to take a harsh tone with him. And Williams had quite a bit of harsh tone saved up after that little chat with the curator. In fact Williams decided to uncork a little more of the fury on Rouletabille for good measure. Jabbing a finger at the man's scrawny chest, he went on, "In fact, you're lucky I don't have you brought in for sabotaging the investigation." "Need to wipe that off?" "Oh, merci beaucoup, Mr. Landsvale." The Inspector's navy-blue handkerchief passed from his own hand to Rouletabille's. The Frenchman set about mopping the powder off his face. Williams glared at Landsvale before continuing. "So maybe you can do me a favor and piss off? Go screw up someone else's job. Give us a break for..." He trailed off. After reappearing from behind the handkerchief, Rouletabille's eyes had settled on the DVD in Williams' hand. "Actually," Rouletabille said, "I wonder if perhaps I could... help you at a distance by analyzing... That is, perhaps by analyzing the footage which you hold there..." Williams was about to cut him off when Inspector Landsvale piped up. "That is a great idea," he said. "Commissioner, whyn't you just give this guy the DVD, let him go through the film? Save us all some time and effort. So we can deal with the real work." Rouletabille nodded eagerly as he gave Landsvale's handkerchief back. Commissioner Williams thought about it. He clearly didn't owe Rouletabille any favors. And he definitely wouldn't entrust a serious task like this to Rouletabille alone... But at the same time, it would get the Frenchman off his back. If it meant he'd feel important enough not to irritate Williams further, then that was a plus. He drew a breath. "Okay," he said. "Okay. Fine. Here you go. I guess we could use another pair of eyes on this one." He handed the DVD to Rouletabille, who beamed as he turned it over in his fingers, letting the light reflect off the surface. The Inspector smiled too, for the first time in a while. Good. He'd taken the bait. Williams let the sentimentality pile up for another instant before pouncing. "I said another pair of eyes, Landsvale. How about you go find the curator and have him pop out another copy? Between you and Rouletabille, you guys'll catch everything on here." The Inspector's face drooped back down to its ordinary posture. He started toward the doorway through which the curator and his assistant had disappeared, but stopped at the sight of Rouletabille's bony outstretched hand. "Thank you again, Mr. Landsvale. My name is Renard Rouletabille. I hope very much that today our parallel searches will yield bountiful fruit!" They shook hands. "Denham Landsvale," he said. "Yeah, nice to meet you, Rouletabille. Take it easy." So he trudged out of the wing. "Commissioner, let me thank you even more emphatically," Rouletabille said, rounding on Williams. "You've done me a great honor. I am, franchement, touched. Please know that I shall attend to this responsibility with a dedication that will, if I may, make anyone on the Winstone police force proud. This--" "Yeah, yeah," Williams grunted. "You enjoy yourself. And -- listen--" He leaned in and spoke to Rouletabille in a lower voice. "If you see anyone doing anything weird on camera -- anyone who's got glowing eyes or, or who's making little fireballs in their hands or something... That's priority number one. You call the station and let us know immediately, got it?" " Je comprends." "Good." Williams straightened up. "Get going, then." Rouletabille bounded out of the wing through the other doorway, which led toward the lobby. " Merci beaucoup, Commissioner! Au revoir!" Commissioner Williams shook his head and looked back at the empty space on the wall where the Boullogne had hung. Guy was an unmitigated fruitcake. That was a comfortable stance to take and Williams felt distinctly uneasy about the prospect of having to revise that opinion on the off chance that Rouletabille might actually make himself useful today. But what the hell, if it happened, it happened. * * * Clutching the colorful metallic disk tenderly with his fingertips, Renard emerged in the lobby, a round room mostly empty save for the ring of columns at the center. He looked around. The front desk was unattended. Beside it stood a donation box, a stand with some brochures about the exhibits, and a shorter pedestal that held up the visitor's log.
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Post by Beelzebibble on Apr 15, 2010 13:54:26 GMT -5
Ring some sort of bell to summon front desk attendant Examine the visitors' log for any outlandish or notorious names. Use the computer at the front desk to try to watch the DVD. Renard crossed through the ring of pillars to the front desk, located the tiny silver desk bell and tapped the button a few times, producing a slightly buzzy ring. He conjured no one. Possibly the woman who had been assisting the curator earlier was meant to be here to receive visitors but if so she remained otherwise occupied. He rang the bell again. It was quite an enjoyable little sound actually. No one appeared. As he waited for an employee to emerge from a doorway and hurry behind the desk with profuse apologies, his eyes wandered. There was a large mechanical box sitting on the desk. Ah oui. A computer. Renard had seen and heard enough of these things to understand by now their name. He admired the device, with its smooth glass screen beyond which showed only black. A keyboard sat in front of the computer, its letters arranged in a way that looked familiar to Renard; this was the layout of a typewriter as well, although there were buttons here with names he assuredly did not recognize. He had no idea for instance what an "alt" might be. Renard held up the metallic disk. One thing of which he was absolutely certain was that this disk was in some way compatible with computers. Yes, yes, that was right: one simply had to put the disk into the computer to bring up whatever information the disk held. Renard congratulated himself: veritablement, he had his finger squarely on the pulse of modern technology. He ushered himself behind the desk and regarded the entire contraption. The box with the screen, the keyboard, and the little -- ah yes, the "mouse", all were wired to a rectangular box underneath the desk. But surely the box with the screen was the computer, non? Renard groped around behind the computer with his free hand, hoping that the correct place to insert the disk would suggest itself naturally. It did no such thing. Renard looked down at the box under the desk. Perhaps the disk was supposed to go in there? Renard honestly could not say. Realize you have no idea how a DVD works. Well, this was coming along poorly so far. Renard looked again over the entire setup. Something seemed not quite right to him. Weren't there... Weren't there supposed to be more blinking lights? Oh, he was sure of that. When a computer was in operation, lights would blink everywhere. Yet this computer was completely darkened. Nor did it produce any humming or whirring sounds of the kind he expected such a device to make. Why, the computer was turned off. He would need to activate it before he could insert the disk. But there were so many buttons! How could he know which one to press? A tremble of trepidation ran up Renard's spine. He had a very strong feeling that if he were to push the wrong button, the whole thing might easily go up in his face like a landmine. C'etait futile. The computer was too alarming. He removed himself from behind the counter and tucked the disk into an inner coat pocket. He would make this objective his next priority and depart from the Gallery of Art forthwith. Nonetheless, while Renard was still here... The visitor's log on the pedestal had caught his attention. Renard stepped up to the pedestal and flipped it back a few pages to review the entries from two days ago. Merely to satisfy his curiosity. Naturally he could not legitimately expect to find anything of importance. It wasn't as if the thief responsible for stealing Le roi Midas would have... Read a book and find something suspicious in it. A simply breathtaking collection. Your Baroque pieces best of all. Such poignance of visage and posture! The expressive power of a single outstretched hand. Be assured I look forward with enthusiasm to next exhibit.Yoon Mangjeol
Renard's eyebrows had ascended to the highest stratum of his forehead. He read the entry again, disbelief coming up sharply against this new piece of information. Surely he couldn't have just picked up a lead on Madame Mangjeol?Non. Absolutely not. Renard shook himself mentally; he was being an ass. He could think of at least five reasons off the top of his head why he knew Mme. Mangjeol could not have stolen the Boullogne. He whipped out his notebook and one of the two pens. After swiftly jotting down several broad observations from his encounter with Williams and the curator, Renard created a five-point list. ______________________________ ____Albarello:____________________ _____Suspicious individual at checkout____ _Mid-forties? fifties? Greying blonde______ ___spectacles. beaked nose.____________ ______Purchase: Orange Blossom Special_ _____impatient, brusque demeanor_______ __INCREDIBLY DANGEROUS GAZE!!______ ___Possible something to hide?__________ ________owner of sleek silver vehicle?____ _Winstone Gallery of Art:____________ ____no evidence of burglary! fingerprints &c. _____Landsvale (new inspector)________ [/font][/blockquote] ______________________________ __Enraged curator covering something?_____ ___review security footage for Williams____ __MME. MANGJEOL'S NAME IN LOG!______ Reasons why doubtful -_______________ 1._____________________________ 2._____________________________ 3._____________________________ 4._____________________________ 5._____________________________ ______________________________ ______________________________ ______________________________ [/font][/blockquote] The first reason why it was obvious to Renard that Mme. Mangjeol could not be responsible was that she was ______________________________ 1. very intelligent___________________ [/font][/blockquote] although really it would be enough in this case to say that she possessed two brain cells, as only someone with fewer would sign the visitor's log of a museum she was planning to rob. Even more pointedly, Mme. Mangjeol was also much too ______________________________ 2. well-known (famous/infamous)________ [/font][/blockquote] to do something like this. Hers was a name recognized throughout the Archipelago and particularly to everyone in the underbelly of Winstone -- including the Commissioner and the rest of the police force. For her to get the idea that she could waltz off with a valuable painting and escape unaccused was laughable. Indeed, the fact that she had signed the visitors' log proved not only that she herself was not responsible but also that she must not have had even the faintest notion that a burglary was imminent. Otherwise she would not have dared allow her name to become involved. For she also happened to be ______________________________ 3. exceedingly cautious.______________ [/font][/blockquote] Those three points formed the crux of Renard's argument, but since another two had also leaped to mind, he supposed it couldn't hurt to write them down as well even though he could not honestly say he was as certain of these final two points as of the first three. Even so it bore mentioning that Mme. Mangjeol was, as far as he knew, still ______________________________ 4. as wealthy as ever________________ [/font][/blockquote] in which case it was quite silly to imagine her making a nocturnal bid for a well-secured bit of portraiture. Mme. Mangjeol was a highly sought-after and relied-upon informant. He had no reason to suspect the profits from her business might have somehow come crashing down to such an extent that she would need to resort to this kind of activity. Finally, there remained the distinct and (one assumed) immutable fact that Mme. Mangjeol was ______________________________ 5. not a Power.____________________ [/font][/blockquote] And if Renard was to agree with the Commissioner on any point regarding this crime, it was that a Power had to be the culprit. Renard saw no way around that assessment. Even so. The fact that Yoon Mangjeol had been here within twenty-four hours of the burglary was a highly intriguing piece of news. Renard was tempted to drive to the Passione Rossa and seek her out immediately. He changed his mind only after he remembered that it was generally preferable not to speak with Mme. Mangjeol until one knew what one was going to talk about. Better to watch the recording first. Then, if he noticed anyone behaving oddly, he could go on to inquire of Mme. Mangjeol whether she knew anything about the suspect. For good measure, though, Renard glanced around the lobby to ensure that no one was watching and then tore the page bearing Mme. Mangjeol's entry out of the visitor's log. He folded it up and tucked it back in with the notebook and the pen. Then he rather quickly made his way out of the Winstone Gallery of Art, down the granite steps and onto the noisy street, where his car was parked. He was thinking very carefully about what his next move should be. There were places where he knew public computers to be available, such as the library, but he was still fearful of the prospect of trying to operate one by himself. Beaucoup trop difficile. Easier it seemed to him to locate someone with a computer of their own and ask for their help. Renard was perceptive enough to have noticed that not all things billed as "computers" were the same as the large, heavy contraption he had faced back in the gallery. There were people who owned smaller, folding machines you could carry in the crook of an arm. Renard pondered where to find such people. He'd seen them cropping up repeatedly in certain kinds of establishments. He had an idea that the phrase "FREE WI-FI" was somehow involved because it was commonly printed in large, eye-catching letters on the windows of the businesses where he most often spied people with small folding computers. OOC: As a reminder, Yoon Mangjeol made her debut here, in the cutscene before Scene Two. That's been her only appearance so far although we'll see her again in Ishkabibble.
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