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Post by Beelzebibble on Apr 17, 2010 15:54:13 GMT -5
Go out for breakfast at his favorite coffee joint Proceed to a coffee shop. Get coffee, for God's sake. And you call yourself French. Go to coffee shop to get a caffeine boost for the coming tasks. The answer came to Renard in an overwhelming, almost democratic surge of inspiration. His favorite coffee shop, Demitasse, was only a block away from the Gallery. He wouldn't even need to drive. He stopped by the car only to retrieve the massive black-and-white-striped umbrella. Then, after ensuring that the driver's door was locked, he set off down the sidewalk, leaving the car on the street in front of the Gallery. The umbrella seemed a wise companion on this pedestrian jaunt through Winstone. There was a light sprinkle coming down from the adamantly dense and gray clouds overhead, and Renard suspected that would not be all the weather had to say today. Should a proper thunderstorm break out he wished to be prepared, even despite the brief duration of this stroll. En fait upon further reflection he decided to open the umbrella now, even while precipitation remained only the faintest of drizzles. The great black-and-white canvas blossomed and Renard held it over his head with both hands. Those passing by through the puddles on the sidewalk gave him a wide berth. He couldn't blame them. This umbrella really was enormous. Renard imagined he could accommodate an entire battalion of the Chasseurs Alpins under here. He tilted the umbrella up enough to watch the people walking by. Although a few of them had sidelong glances to spare for the great dome over his head or for his attire, no one seemed interested in making eye contact. They bustled past with their eyes on the increasingly-sopping ground, for the most part. Exasperation, anger, despondency and worry circulated around him; perhaps guilt, too, intermingled with the crowd? Was the burglar close at hand, hidden in plain sight? Renard supposed, as he stepped down off the corner onto the crosswalk, that it might be unfair to expect the thief to reappear within a mile of the Gallery... The painting he sought appeared before him, not the one he was seeking in the overall sense but the one he had been seeking most immediately: the steaming mug painted onto the sign over Demitasse. A welcome sight! This was one of Renard's best-loved places in the city, a little French flower in this vast Italian garden. After collapsing the umbrella, he pulled open the door. At once the familiar mixture of aromas swept around and beckoned him inside. Vanilla, chocolate, hazelnut, caramel, almonds, cinnamon, even cherries and peppermint: all formed an olfactory orchestra whose symphony delighted the nose. Demitasse was a cozy retreat against whose spare brick wall space were squeezed great wooden black bookshelves. The close-set tables and chairs, taller than they were wide, could afford only one aisle of passage to the counter. Renard performed a quick assessment of the customers huddled in with their drinks. Certes, here and there were open computers, small shrines of promise guarded by elbows and half-empty cups. He compared their owners, trying to decide whom to approach first. To buy some time, he moved into line. He would order the usual. Renard Rouletabille was not opposed to trying new things but he was also a man who valued his habits, and Demitasse was one of the most prized of all. What a humble paradise! OOC: Here is an ideal opportunity for an already-established character to nab a cameo in this RP. I welcome anyone to put a customer here at a table with their laptop before them. I haven’t got any particular character in mind although it seems fair to point out that the cast has been kind of Skewed toward the Dudes up until now and that this is a good chance to try to bring the female ratio up a little.
So let’s have the next post be someone showing their character here in the coffee shop. Oh and I guess someone can RP an employee too but that’s not really necessary. Your contributions in this way are always extremely appreciated but I can get along fine if no one picks up this one. Totally go ahead if you have an idea though. (Plus you get to pick what Renard's "usual" is.)
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Post by Tout-Perd on Apr 20, 2010 17:42:50 GMT -5
click.click.clickclickclick.Her hands moved as if on autopilot, one finger darting across the trackpad with mechanical assurance while the other hovered the click button. Every few seconds, it would twitch a fraction of a centimeter, and then draw back. She was evidently playing some kind of game, most likely one involving plenty of gunplay if the titanic armament dominating her screen was to be trusted. Enemies (presumably) would appear from time to time, but it was difficult to figure out exactly what they were. Typically, within a frame of appearing, they’d explode into gruesome chunks. There was some green to their countenance, so a dedicated observer would probably be able to narrow it down to aliens, zombies, or possibly men in camouflage. The girl took her right hand away from the buttons, and reached aside for her drink. It was only a small cup, but it was mounding over with a titanic load of whipped cream. A shaking of cinnamon touched right side of the confection, looking for all the world like minute Sherpas making base camp before tackling the peak. The cup was raised to her lips, and then lowered again. She set it down, brushed a few cornflower shaded hairs away from her face, and then made another attempt at taking a sip from the brimful beverage. After several ungainful approaches, she settled for a lick of the whipped cream, and then set it beside her computer once more. The entire time she had been fiddling with her drink, her left hand had continued to play the game, using the ball of her wrist to click when necessary. She shifted her position slightly, and let her fingers resume their predatory stance over the buttons. Despite the exacting movements of her digits, her shoulders had a most unladylike slouch to them. OOC: Eh, feels kinda incomplete compared to the works of others in here, but I don't think Lacianus has any reason to lapse into exposition about why she'd be there. Heck, maybe I'll just leave it hanging and let the readers guess as to why she'd be killing time around town.
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Post by Beelzebibble on Apr 21, 2010 12:14:00 GMT -5
Count the people in line, and try to calculate the ammount of time until your order would be ready. If it comes true, be satisfied with the precision and familiarity you hold with the store. Ponder the enigmatic DVD and its contents. Three people stood ahead of Renard in line. He checked his watch. It was now one thirty-two in the afternoon. He estimated it would take four minutes and thirteen seconds for the three people ahead of him to place their orders, conduct their transactions, and stand aside to collect their drinks. In the meantime he continued to survey the customers with laptops, though he found his mind slipping away toward the metallic disk in his pocket. Quels secrets il pouvait taire? And how to unlock them? What might catch his attention that would not register with Inspector Landsvale? But there was no use devoting too much of his cognitive energy to these questions just yet, runneth over as his cup might with intellectual horsepower. Before he could glean the disk's mysteries, he needed an assistant. He took another look through Demitasse. No shortage of interesting personages had gathered here but on the whole he had to admit it was the young woman with bright blue hair who kept catching his attention. Fiddle with the stirring sticks as you place your order. Your usual is a Café Noisette, shy on the cream, with a dash of toffee. Two cinnamon pirouettes on the side. Order something different for a change, then love/hate it and resolve to always/never order it again. If hate, throw hat down in disgust. At one thirty-six and thirteen seconds in the afternoon, Renard stepped up to the counter and fiddled idly with the stirring sticks as he placed his order of "the usual", a beverage so obvious that it need not even be specified in this narrative. The employee regretted however to inform him that they were out of cinnamon pirouettes, for which reason he ordered a croissant on the side instead. The employee fetched a croissant off the rack and placed it on a tiny plate while Renard procured his wallet and extracted some money. After he had paid for the coffee and the pastry, he stood aside and awaited his cup. To pass the time, he picked up the croissant and took a bite out of one end. Ugh. Degoutant. How soft and soggy. How unlike the crispy crescents of his youth. Was Demitasse really to disappoint him in this unexpected way? Ah, well, he would see it through. Possibly this cafe's cozy atmosphere, in contrast to the sterile Albarello, was what prevented him from wanting to make a fuss about the matter. All the same if he had thought to bring his well-worn trilby along from the car outside the gallery he would certainly now be throwing it down in disgust. Ask Lacianus to show you how the DVD works. Cup in one hand and plate in the other, Renard turned and took one more look around the coffee shop. Oui, his first choice was clear. The rest of the computer users were merely gaping at their screens and tapping on their keyboards at intervals. This blue-haired young woman's fingers drew across her computer's surface with a series of rapid-fire movements and forcible clicks, her face furrowed in intense concentration. Quelle assurance. She obviously knew how to use a computer better than anyone else in the room! Granted, with her computer orientated away from him, Renard couldn't see what she was doing and whether she would be able to divert herself from this activity to help him. Nonetheless he approached her and cleared his throat rather awkwardly. Her eyes shot up to meet his for a second, then flicked back down to the computer. Then, after another instant, she looked back up at him. " Mademoiselle," he said, "you are plainly an expert at using the computer. I wonder if I could..." He set the plate with the half-eaten croissant down as tentatively and noncommittally as possible on the very far edge of her round table so that he could retrieve the colorful metallic disk from a pocket. "I wonder if I might persuade you to show me how to combine this item with a machine such as yours in an effort to... to release whatever information lies therein or -- or thereupon, or..." He faltered, looking down at the disk in his hand. He really had no idea how to express the spatial relationship between this disk and the footage it was supposed to contain.
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Post by Tout-Perd on Apr 26, 2010 15:12:10 GMT -5
CTRL ALT DELETE! The sneering visages from her opponent receded from view, revealing a mountaintop with a stunningly blue lake ensconced in its center. A small white building was visible to the side, while boxy corners of a larger structure peeked from just out of view, hints of something on the far side of the mountain. Her mouse, trailing clones of itself, flew down to the bottom bar and cued up a menu. A moment later, the game was closed. She glanced at Renard warily, and then tilted her head slightly. Her shoulders, briefly straightened, lowered again. “I'm not an expert at computers. Not really. I'm a really good pilot, and really good at games, but I'm faaar from the best you'd find at using a computer. About the only thing I can do is make them play videogames or such.” The man didn't seem disappointed. He pressed the assault. And then the pseudo-technobabble started coming, fast and hard. Information... Item... Combine... Was he expecting her to build him a computer or something? He was waving some sort of disk around. “Okay, okay, okay, first things first, buddy...” She tried to meet his gaze, and made sure to speak as slowly and clearly as she could muster. “Am I correct that you want me to play this, uh, errr... whatever that disk is, using me computer?” Tentative nodding. It was a start. Kinda like asking Lassie if Timmy was in the well, really... “And there isn't a virus or anything dirty on there that's gonna get me in trouble, is there?” She cocked an eyebrow at the newcomer. Sorry about the delay. Weekends are a bitch to get good web access, since after Friday, there is only a two-hour window of time to hit the library, and the college is locked up. But here we are, and I should be at least somewhat computer-capable until Friday rolls around.
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Post by Beelzebibble on Apr 27, 2010 12:24:40 GMT -5
Put your sleeve in Lacianus' drink. The word "virus" caught Renard off-guard. He was more or less certain that this object in his hand was not an organic being and that it was therefore unlikely to be plagued by any manner of disease. The blue-haired woman's suggestion could hardly have been serious, could it? Possibly she'd been joking. Renard laughed hesitantly. "Oh -- ha, ha, non, nullement! Nothing like that! I -- ah..." Her cautious expression did not soften. Renard resolved to start fresh. "I may certify that this disk is a perfectly legitimate piece of--" (was the word "hardware" or "software"? Renard had never properly learned the difference. However the disk was quite rigid and unyielding so after an instant of deliberation he chose the more appropriate-sounding alternative) "--hardware which was just entrusted to me by the curator of the Gallery of Art. I highly doubt he would have knowingly tampered with this material, for tu vois it was originally to have been placed in the hands of the police. The curator would have necessarily feared retribution and possibly imprisonment if he had presented Commissioner Williams with a gift which would have, as you said... contaminated him or..." Well! He might have lost a bit of steam at the end there but even so Renard believed he had just strung together a rather elegant argument for the integrity and purity of the rainbow-colored metallic disk. No doubt the blue-haired young woman had been equally impressed by his deductive reasoning. He took the liberty of hoisting himself up, overstuffed coat and all, onto the high chair opposite her own. The various glass evidence tubes tinkled in protest. " Permettez-moi expliquer. I am investigating the matter of the Baroque painting by Bon Boullogne which disappeared from the Gallery two nights ago. This disk holds the film from the security cameras of the day leading up to the disappearance. But alas, I have no means to observe it. What I seek is someone (like yourself, mademoiselle) with the patience and good will to share the use of their computer for a brief period, only long enough to make a rudimentary survey of the disk's contents..." He paused for breath, noticed that there was an element to his story he'd forgotten, and quickly added it. "Additionally, my name is Renard Rouletabille." After transferring the disk to his left hand, he reached the right hand out to shake hers. Then he noticed that the baggy end of his sleeve was perilously close to dipping into the lady's beverage. With a smooth, practiced maneuver, Renard rotated his elbow up and out of danger without impolitely drawing the offered hand away.
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Post by Tout-Perd on Apr 27, 2010 17:54:34 GMT -5
Lacianus paused, watched the man bumble on in English spattered with a liberal helping of French. She was getting bits and pieces of his intent, but for the most part, it seemed like he was recounting a story to somebody who already knew the situation.
She didn’t, beyond the fact that he had a DVD, and she had a computer, and the man seemed to suddenly be convinced that DVDs were some sort of venomous predator in disguise that only she was qualified to wrangle.
Her mouth was hanging open. She deliberately closed her lips, and tried her best to look sharply attentive as the man went tearing into another ambling dissertation about his day thusfar. Something about a theft and such… Things were getting a little clearer. So this man was an investigator, though probably not working the case in any real official capacity.
That was proof enough for her, then. The man seemed harmless enough, and worst came to worst, she’d just need to requisition a new laptop from the Obsidian Hearts if this one got bricked.
She extended her hand, carefully taking hold of Renard’s. She was careful, her easing her strong grip to avoid injuring his hand. There were notable calluses on her fingertips and palm. She nodded slightly.
“Lacianus Garrelcette. It’s not real French, my crea- hem, parents just liked the sound of it,” She broke the grip, and took the disk from his other hand.
“Most people just call me Lacy for short,” She pressed a button on the side of her laptop, and a tray slid out with a harsh grinding noise. She quickly removed the prior disk, one with a dingy, boxy title and a faux bloodspatter painted onto it, and slipped it into her pocket. Might scratch the disk, but if the old man saw what she had been playing, he might have a heart attack. She glanced at the DVD for a moment, discerning which side had the video on it, and then set it into the tray.
She snapped it shut with a click, and the laptop set to whirring. A moment later, a stylized red window with smooth, curving lines forming its borders popped up. She tapped her fingers on the table, waiting for the content to load.
A black and white image from an odd angle appeared on the screen. A small number of people were milling through. Alongside it, twelve titles popped up, the first highlighted.
“Cool, cool. These guys have it set to record each hour as its own individual scene…” She glanced up to Rouletabille.
“Which hour do we want to check?”
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Post by Beelzebibble on Apr 30, 2010 18:53:07 GMT -5
Make a mental note of the girl's nickname. "Lacy"? Because that doesn't allude to a secret stripper/pole dancer/prostitute career at all. Find the busiest time and insist on pausing every second in order to observe the scene entirely. A potential thief may have decided more people means less chance of being identified. The name "Lacy" certainly did seem to conjure up a handful of images from seedier parts of town, but Renard didn't suppose there was any harm in taking it as a nickname against such an extravagantly Latin (and somewhat discordantly masculine, if he remembered his lessons) given name. And en verite Renard didn't really know anything about the seedier parts of town anyway. He was simply glad, above all else, that he and Mlle. Garrelcette had properly met and that she was being so cooperative. This was something of a surprise to tell the truth. He sipped from his Cafe Noisette and considered her question. It wasn't particularly difficult to arrive at an answer based upon the conditions of his search. There was one individual whom he knew to have been here at the Gallery on this day. Why, he still had the torn-out page from the visitor's log to prove it. The best way to start ascending this mountain of film was to take advantage of that already-established foothold. So Renard would find this individual. Alors. Quite obviously she would not have visited the Gallery when it was closed during the nighttime, and the footage from around 2:30 had doubtless been scrutinized enough already. Furthermore, it seemed distinctly unlikely to Renard that she would visit during the evening; this was, after all, when she conducted her business at the Passione Rossa. Additionally, her nocturnal work schedule ensured that she likely slept in as a routine, and there was no reason to think she would sacrifice her sleep to make an early morning visit to the Gallery. Clearly the best time to search for her was in the afternoon. But while this logical progression might have been able to flicker through Renard's powerful brain at the speed of light, attempting to explain it all to Mlle. Garrelcette would be a waste of both of their times. So he simply said, "The afternoon would be busiest, I imagine. More potential crowd cover for the thief to plan his burglary undetected, non? Shall we say three o'clock?" "Got it." Mlle. Garrelcette briefly brushed her finger across an empty stretch of plastic below the keypad. Renard watched as a tiny white shape, mostly triangular, darted across the screen and onto the title reading "3:00:00-3:59:59 PM". The people on the small camera view vanished and were replaced with a new, larger crowd as the view expanded to fill the screen. Renard was rather satisfied with his understanding of what had just happened. Perhaps he might eventually solve the puzzle of computers after all. Recognize someone on the DVD. Stab at the screen with a finger, eliciting a wrathful response from Lacianus. Renard's eyes swept quickly across the wing of the gallery. Yes, there was Le roi Midas in its intended place on the closest wall. A couple, arm in arm, were gazing at it. The man said something to the woman, who nodded, and they walked on to the next painting. Not terribly suspicious. Renard let his gaze wander elsewhere in the crowd. Was she here just now? No, it didn't seem so; he couldn't see her, at any rate. He looked back at the Boullogne. A father was hoisting the smallest of his three children up for a look while the other two observed on either side. Renard reviewed the room again. None of what the Commissioner would have called "acting funny", nor any trace of the person Renard was looking for. He took a bite of the disappointing croissant and glanced for a moment at Mlle. Garrelcette. She was watching the screen gamely enough, but one finger tapped distractedly on the table, again and again. It occurred to Renard for the first time that he had been working under the unconscious assumption that he would be permitted to watch all twelve hours of footage, and he was promptly struck by how absurd this proposal was. Mlle. Garrelcette obviously wouldn't relinquish the use of her computer for that long, and even if he were to use a public computer, il etait capital qu'il s'hatait.So he said, "You know, I won't object if you should deign to, ah, hasten the proceedings? I mean if you can make the thing go more swif--" But Mlle. Garrelcette required no further instruction. With a few clicks, she brought up two small white characters in one corner of the screen: "2x". Again: "4x". The people in the gallery were now milling aimlessly through the wing at a positively breakneck pace. Renard thought it a somewhat uneasy sight: these figures moving as quickly as if they were running, yet taking normal steps. They made jerky gestures and rocked back and forth slightly as they stood in front of the paintings, and all in unearthly silence, since the camera had not recorded sound. Altogether these visitors to the gallery looked more like shambling automata than graceful human beings. Renard would readily confess, in retrospect, that he must have prodded the screen with his finger a bit too emphatically, but this was merely an expression of relief following such built-up tension. He prodded the screen with his finger emphatically, drawing it back as soon as he saw from Mlle. Garrelcette's reaction that he had crossed a line. Nonetheless his excitement did not diminish. "Could you--? Oui, merci!" he exclaimed, as she made another click which replaced the "4x" with "1x". The film returned to normal speed and the automata turned back into humans. Renard fixed his focus upon the point where his finger had touched the screen. Yes, there she was, in her dark pea coat and dress, with the scarf draped around her neck. Renard grinned. He saw no reason not to take pride in the fact that he'd correctly guessed when Madame Mangjeol had come by to visit. She was approaching Le roi Midas. Renard watched her without blinking. She stood before the painting and cocked her head slightly. She looked down at the folded-over paper, likely a brochure, in her hands. She looked back up at the painting and nodded with a tiny, barely visible smile. After another moment, she broke away and moved on to the next painting. That was all. Mais non, there was something else. Another figure, who stood in front of the painting toward which Mme. Mangjeol was now moving, had turned sharply away as soon as the information broker had started to leave the Boullogne. This was a person of indeterminate gender, facing away from the camera, whose hair was hidden beneath a baseball cap and whose torso was obscured by a large backpack. This person, who had been circling the wing in the opposite direction and who therefore would have been about to cross paths with Mme. Mangjeol, instead doubled back quickly and started retracing his or her circle, giving Mme. Mangjeol a wide berth and not looking back. The figure was soon off-camera. Renard laid an elbow on the table, rested his chin on one hand and gently gnawed a knuckle with his front teeth, not noticing that the action was tantamount to nail-biting. He watched Mme. Mangjeol, who didn't seem to have noticed the other person, proceed along the paintings and eventually glide out the doorway into the next room as if nothing unusual had happened. Renard would not have known quite what to make of this if that had been all to see of the encounter so it was fortunate for him that in another couple of minutes the other figure re-entered the frame from the other direction and stood directly in front of the Boullogne. She was another woman, that was now obvious: certainly younger than Mme. Mangjeol, but perhaps a bit older than Mlle. Garrelcette. The baseball cap, it was now clear, crowned a head of dirty-blond hair. She wore a striped shirt and a pair of pants with an unnaturally great many pockets. Renard knew the name for this variety of trousers but he couldn't think of it at the moment. Honestly all those pockets looked tres utile and he wondered if he ought not to pick up a pair of his own. But all this was irrelevant to what transpired next. She stepped up very close to the painting and looked intently over it, seeming to take in every brushstroke. After a few moments of this, a small boy darted past, accidentally striking her backpack with an outstretched elbow. The woman dropped her own folded-over paper ( oui, a brochure) onto the tiled floor. To counterbalance the weight of her tremendous backpack, she instinctively reached out a hand as she bent over to pick it up. The hand might have leaned against the wall, or against the little plaque next to the painting which Renard had read earlier. Bon Boullogne Le roi Midas (King Midas), 1693 Oil on canvas
But it didn't. In fact, the hand came to rest momentarily on the frame of Le roi Midas itself. The woman picked up the brochure, straightened up, and briskly moved on to the next painting. Before long she was off-camera again. Renard sat back in his tall chair and finished his coffee. He felt slightly dizzy. A curious feeling had arisen within him that, purely by chance, he and Mlle. Garrelcette had stumbled onto the most important five minutes and fifty-one seconds of the entire film. This should not have seemed to be a remotely critical sequence except that Renard could not dismiss the nagging sense that he recognized this woman; he had seen her somewhere before, without the baseball cap perhaps, but absolutely with the backpack. Why did she seem so familiar yet unknown? What could it be that had touched off in him this sensation of deja vu? OOC: Sorry 'bout the Lacy autoing.
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Post by Tout-Perd on May 3, 2010 20:15:07 GMT -5
Lacianus bit her tongue to avoid shouting at the man when he prodded her screen. The colors wobbled and turned into a stew of rainbows under the invading digit for a moment, but quickly returned to normal, bar a faint lightened spot.
She sighed under her breath.
The first rule of technology was that it worked for you as respectfully and well as you worked for it. Of course, this gentleman seemed to lack any of that understanding, but still…
“Fragile,” She muttered, hoping he had caught the point along with her barbed gaze. They had fragile stuff in the eighteen-hundreds, right?
“Speaking of fragile, whoa…” Lacianus saw Renard’s eyes spark when the woman fell over.
“You’d think they’d have a better barrier in there or something. Some punk gives his buddy a shove, and they’d go right through one of those wicked expensive paintings. If I’m not mistaken, those are pretty hard to replace, as far as I know.”
“Maybe they should upgrade the security out the museum. I mean, Winstone has the third highest rate of Power disturbances in the Archipelago, after only Whelkshore and Goldenrod…” She fell silent, musing to herself. It wasn’t typical business for her group to be on the legal side of things, but they could make some respectable cash selling high-tech defenses to the museum here-
Her silence allowed her to realize Renard’s state. He seemed distant, almost as if he was looking through the screen and into the mystery itself. Or he fell asleep with his eyes open.
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Post by Beelzebibble on May 4, 2010 13:10:53 GMT -5
Be exceedingly happy with your fortuitous stumbling upon this footage; tweak moustache. Discover that this achievement has made your disappointing croissant less disappointing. Ponder who that woman was! " Oui, vraiment, without a doubt," Renard muttered while administering a purposeful tweaking to his moustache. He was trying to think along two tracks at once and though this should not ordinarily have been a problem for a man of his positively dazzling intellect, he found that the line of thought which Mlle. Garrelcette had initiated temporarily prevailed. "Yes, their nighttime security system is in my understanding rather sophisticated, but during the day they could certainly employ better defenses against, ah, mm, les saccageurs..." He couldn't think of an appropriate English word. "Barbarians" sounded almost right but not entirely. His hand made an unexpected dart for the remaining half of a disappointing croissant on his plate. He hadn't thought much of the thing at first but quite suddenly he found himself wondering if it wasn't all right after all for croissants to be so soft throughout. Actually this tasted rather delectable. Renard was still hungry enough to consider ordering another one to confirm his suspicions that the croissants might be in fact the jewel in Demitasse's crown, but the supply of cash remained limited and time hardly any less so. The other line of thought took hold again. Renard concentrated on what he had just seen, the details of the blond woman's face and appearance. Yes -- he'd seen her recently. He must have. There was no ancient, decrepit recollection of her to dredge up from the ocean of his memory, only one of the lighter and fresher thoughts skimming over the surface of the water. All that was required of him was to pluck the... Ah. Combien facile.Why, he'd seen her earlier today. THE WOMAN FROM ALBARELLOOOO Renard pushed back the chair from the table, at least as far as it would go without colliding with one of the chairs at the next table over, and stood up. It was a wonder to him that he had managed to settle in comfortably there a moment ago. He felt restless. He had acquired a new objective. He placed the mug onto the plate and picked it up. Thank Mlle. Garrelcette profusely. Attempt to refer to the laptop/DVD/etc. using computer-y lingo and botch it horribly again. "Mlle. Garrelcette," he said, "I believe I must now be on my way. Merci beacoup! I am indebted to you. It's quite possible that we have just discovered the identity of the thief. Though it may seem only a faint clue, I am emboldened by instinct to act maintenant upon this discovery. Please accept my sincerest thanks, and... ah... perhaps I could retrieve the disk somehow?" Renard noticed the minor smudge upon the computer from where he had touched it and quickly added, "And please accept my apologies as well. That was a moment of weakness. If I had been thinking properly, I assure you that no finger of mine would have come within an inch of your window."
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Post by Tout-Perd on May 6, 2010 17:21:29 GMT -5
"Glad to help you. More interesting than just sitting here, killing time, and being bored. Friend's in meetin'. Sure you know how that goes," She nodded slightly, her blue locks covering her face for just a moment.
"Sure, I can retrieve the disk... You have a screw driver, right?" She noted the expression in Renard's face, as if he were musing over some way to come up with one.
"I'm kidding, I'm kidding! Jeesh, you just hit the button-" Lacianus gestured to the side of the computer.
"See this? Right here? That little nub there? You push that-" The computer let out a grinding mechanical growl as the tray slowly emerged, bearing the disk upon it like some kind of automated waiter. Lacianus slipped her finger into the hole in the middle, and slid it partway free. It snagged on the inside of the tray.
Lacy gave an embarassed sigh, and turned her wrist slightly. She slipped the disk free, and handed it over to Renard.
"See, now you know how to put one in and take it out. You're halfway to being Bill Gates," Her smile was simple, straightforward, and showed lots of teeth.
"Good luck with the case, there. I hope you catch whoever it was," Lacy discretely slipped the other disk out of her pocket, and planted it in the open tray.
"How do you guys say it again... Bonne chance or something like that, right? Well, bonne chance, Mr. Renard."
And with that, Lacianus turned back to her computer, and began waiting for her game to load.
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Post by Beelzebibble on May 8, 2010 16:30:28 GMT -5
Renard accepted his disk with a chuckle at Mlle. Garrelcette's words. " Tres bien, tres bien," he said. "Your French is splendid. Thank you again! I hope I can someday repay you... well, au revoir!" Leaving the young blue-haired woman to her diversions, he deposited the mug and plate at the front counter and then pushed his way through to the exit. More people were seeking refuge inside Demitasse than ever, and Renard was sure he could safely presume why. The forecast in the Winstone Post had predicted rain today and he trusted the forecast in the Winstone Post absolutely. Regard the sky. Speculate on coming weather or recall the forecast and trust it absolutely. Well, yes, in fact, it was raining fairly heavily at this point. As Renard reluctantly pushed open the door and left the warmth and scents of Demitasse behind him, he opened the massive black-and-white-striped umbrella to shield himself against the downpour. Now his was not the only such umbrella engaged on the sidewalk, and in fact Renard had to excuse himself to several parties into whose umbrellas his own accidentally bumped as he hurried back toward the Gallery of Art. He knew just where he needed to go next but the prospect of walking there under these conditions did not exactly tickle his fancy. When the gallery came back into view, Renard noticed the Commissioner standing just outside the enormous front door, between two of the pillars that made up the facade, apparently giving orders to several other officers who moved down toward the police cars in the parking lot. Why, surely Commissioner Williams would be pleased to hear of Renard's discovery! Renard splashed up the granite steps to meet him. Try to reach the police with the info you have. Get ignored. The Commissioner's eyes widened at Renard's approach. "That was quick," he commented. "Didn't watch the whole thing already, did you? Or were you just coming back here to ask how a DVD works?" Renard drew himself up to full height in protest beneath the umbrella. " Sir. Let me inform you in all politeness that my knowledge of how a 'DVD' works is exempte de toute faille. I merely wished to bring to your attention a Significant Lead which I was able to glean off the security footage." "Oh yeah?" That seemed to have caught the Commissioner's attention. He shifted his feet to face Renard fully. "What're we looking at? 'D you find a Power in there? Something unnatural?" "Ah..." "Come on, go ahead. Someone who didn't look human? What?" Renard swallowed. He was no longer sure he was about to tell the Commissioner anything he particularly cared to hear. "Well, at a few moments past three o'clock in the afternoon, I observed a woman with a large backpack who--" " Oh. Backpack lady. Yeah, Landsvale caught her too." Most likely in recognition of the change in Renard's expression, the Commissioner clarified: "I mean he noticed her, Christ. Look, we took down the details but -- how big a deal you think that was? She lost her balance, what was she supposed to do? We're not putting that at a priority right now. Maybe if her hand had gone through the frame I'd be a little more worried." "Well..." "What else, Rouletabille? Anything else?" Renard looked at the puddle on the top step. " En ce moment, Commissioner, that is all I've discovered... en ce moment..." He found that he was mumbling. Renard frowned. He disliked mumbling, particularly on his own part. He would have gone on to speak with greater clarity and conviction if the Commissioner hadn't cut him off. "Yet I--" "Okay. Whyn't you go home and take another look? And tell me if you see anything serious." The Commissioner trailed off for a moment; he was looking beyond Renard onto the buildings on the street. He must have noticed that Renard's car had been here the entire time. "Where'd you even--?" But a sudden ringing ended his question and the conversation. It was coming from his pocket, from which he procured one of those cellophones Renard heard so much about. The Commissioner turned away from Renard and lumbered back indoors, muttering, "Honey, hi, what is it? I'm kinda..." Return to Albarello to inquire about the woman's purchases/mannerisms/attitude/appearance/odor. Try and surmise what the young lady with the backpack bought from Albarello based on the size/shape of the shopping bag and your calculated estimate of the storage capacity of the particular compartment in which it was stored. Renard splashed back down the steps to his automobile, unlocked it, and got in. The massive black-and-white-striped umbrella, folded down again, went onto the passenger's seat next to his well-worn trilby, which he would certainly be sure to bring along with him the next time he had to do any substantial amount of walking outdoors. Before attempting to start the car, Renard withdrew the notebook from his coat. ______________________________ __Enraged curator covering something?_____ ___review security footage for Williams____ __MME. MANGJEOL'S NAME IN LOG!_____ Reasons why doubtful -______________ 1. very intelligent___________________ 2. well-known (famous/infamous)________ 3. exceedingly cautious.______________ 4. as wealthy as ever________________ 5. not a Power.___________________ ___________Demitasse:___________ _Lacianus "Lacy" Garrelcette__________ ____blue hair, somewhat owed a favor____ [/font][/blockquote] ______________________________ Mme. Mangjeol and unknown woman, ~3:00 __unknown woman touches frame of Boullogne! __________suspect??______________ ______from Albarello??_____________ _Williams doubts import. & tech. knowledge!_ ______________________________ ______________________________ ______________________________ ______________________________ ______________________________ ______________________________ ______________________________ [/font][/blockquote] The automobile, mercifully, was generous enough to start again without any trouble. Renard confessed himself grateful and suspicious simultaneously: all of this convenience and functionality had to be building up to some kind of catastrophic blowback. Car karma, as he believed they termed it in the Republic of India where he had once spent a balmy, dusty, scented year, was bound to set in. He set the windshield wipers going to sweep away most of the raindrops that had obscured the glass. Then he pulled out of his spot and left the gallery. Apropos of water, he could tell he was soaking the front seat a bit, but Renard paid no heed to this triviality as he drove through the city. His eclatant intellect had far more pressing matters to attend to. He focused on his memory of the fleeting sight of the woman in the Albarello lot, and of the plastic bag she'd carried. It hadn't been dangling limply, no; the bag had been bulky and taut. The contents must have filled it nearly to the brim. But what had exactly had those contents been? Ah, it was no use; Albarello's plastic bags were an opaque dark gray like the clouds overhead, not transparent. She'd been stuffing it into the backpack's largest compartment, he remembered that much. Not material that could be compressed easily, therefore... At the final traffic light, Renard tweaked his moustache in the manner of one revisiting patched memories in an effort to extrapolate more than one reasonably could. Then he turned back onto Bushmint Street. Albarello's bright red signage came once again into view. Renard didn't allow himself an instant's hesitation as he parked, entered the store and moved directly toward the photo booth to speak with the employee who'd helped him earlier. He was prepared to face Albarello's menacing florescent lights and towering palisades of merchandise a second time. "Hello again!"
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Post by Ninety on May 10, 2010 14:14:28 GMT -5
Tom barely managed to cap the prescription he was filling in time to meet Renard at the counter; the Frenchman's gait was even more purposeful than usual and he seemed to be in a much better mood than when he had left the store earlier in the day. "Welcome back, my friend! I'm glad you came back before I left for the day. Wait right here one moment while I grab the photo you left behind." Tom hustled to his station and pulled the manila envelope he'd put the photo in from beneath the counter. "We're lucky it didn't get shredded with the photos you returned earlier. It's quite a bit..." better "...different from the usual photos you bring in so it caught my eye. Here you go." Sorry for the wait; final week of classes!
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Post by Beelzebibble on May 14, 2010 16:57:47 GMT -5
Suppress your befuddlement as you glance at the photo inside the envelope. "Oh... ah... oui?" Not entirely certain of how best to react, Renard did the simplest thing and took the manila envelope out of Tom's hands. He didn't recollect bringing in any photographs for which he hadn't intended a refund. Perhaps one had gotten bundled in with the scrap by mistake? But that shouldn't have occurred. Renard was far too meticuleux about compiling albums to simply leave valuable photographs lying around. Unless he'd simply misplaced this one... He unfastened the metal seal, opened the envelope and tipped it upside-down. A single print slid out into his hand. Why. Quelle surprise. He hadn't laid eyes upon this one in years. He'd taken it to have gone permanently astray. Very funny how these things sorted themselves out. It was another photograph of a man taken from behind, but developed at far superior quality to the rubbish Renard had held forth as his Exhibit A back at the apartment. The backdrop was different, however: not a grubby alleyway but a posh if rather dimly-lit gambling den. The man, who was checking the time on a silver pocket watch in one gloved hand, was clad in a coat and hat reminiscent of Renard's own. Indeed the man's stature and shape was overall quite like Renard's, with his narrow face, high cheekbones, tapered chin and trim moustache. The man was not Renard. But it was no coincidence that they looked so similar. In fact, at the time, perhaps fifteen years ago, Renard had been snapping photographs of any man he could find whose physical appearance resembled his own so strongly. It would be a pleasure to say that this was part of an ultimately successful endeavor to find a long-lost father or brother but the truth was a bit different. He'd been after a high-profile criminal responsible for a string of robberies. Indeed, Renard had had something of a vested interest in bringing this particular miscreant to justice. After all it had been very difficult to conduct his other investigations when authorities on all sides had been accusing him of being the King of Clubs. Renard's brow softened. Those had been his glory days, chasing wrongdoers across Great Britain and the continent. Or at least, he was fairly certain those had been his glory days. To be honest there were some conspicuous gaps in his ordinarily airtight memory from around that time. For instance he really wasn't sure what had transpired on the day that he had taken this photograph in the gambling den. He lacked the context necessary to frame the picture. He couldn't even tell whether, at the time, he had known this fellow's name. Mais soit. A lesson in subtlety, this was how he now viewed that investigation. Since then he had been very careful to drum up as little public fuss during his searches as possible. He'd handled things poorly then. Only natural that so much suspicion would have been reflected upon his own naive self as to eventually send him packing from Europe. The moral was understood. All the same, merely for the sake of justice and certainly not for the sake of personal vindication, Renard deeply regretted that he'd never managed to work out the true identity of the King of Clubs. But this was no time to wax nostalgic. The King of Clubs was plainly uninvolved in the mystery at hand. Renard slid the print back into the manila envelope, which he then folded over itself and dropped into one of the outer pockets of the coat. " Mon Dieu," he muttered. He spoke up. "Thank you immensely, sir. I'd thought this photograph lost to time! A dreadful shame, as you say, if it had been shredded with the rest. I'm very grateful." Proceed to make the inquiry you had rehearsed prior. Ask Tom about the woman and all pertinent identifying information. Renard then leaned a lanky elbow on the counter in what he suspected would be a posture inspiring intrigue, circumspection, and perhaps quiet awe. "But I'm afraid I have to ask another favor. You see I in fact never realized I'd left this photograph with you and returned here with the intention of inquiring after something else." His voice dropped to a murmur again, somewhat needlessly he admitted considering that there was no one at the photo booth but Tom and himself. "I wonder if you might recall, shortly before both my own arrival and that of the rather, ah, enerve bespectacled fellow with the shampoo, doing business with a younger woman of blond-brown hair with an overstuffed blue backpack?"
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Post by Ninety on May 20, 2010 0:01:34 GMT -5
Blue backp... "Oh yeah, I remember her. I remember her car even better. She pulled up in a real slick 'Vette and turned every head in the store." Tom let out a chuckle that Renard didn't join him in. "You know, I'm usually not a fan of silver paint-jobs but that thing sure looked great with it. I might just be forced to rethink my stance on the subject."
Tom thought about going on a bit more about the car but looking through the store windows at the Frenchman's vehicle led him to believe that Renard was not a "car person" so he shifted the conversation's gears instead.
"So what did you want to know about her? I feel like I should ask you why you're interested in her as well since I can't just give out people's information to every swinging dick that walks in off the street requesting it. So...what's the draw?"
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Post by Beelzebibble on May 20, 2010 12:44:36 GMT -5
Ask if they've had anything vanish unexpectedly around the store since he last visited. Renard's eyebrows shot up once more. He wasn't in fact completely sure when the last time was today when they hadn't been at least verging upon the brink of ascension. When he'd been trying to figure out how to operate the computer at the gallery's front desk, possibly. He pulled out the notepad and accidentally picked up both pens at the same time. He dropped back into his pocket the one that he thought he'd used more recently and employed the other one for the purpose of drawing a single line, plain yet full of meaning, across one of the older pages. ______________________________ ____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] So the woman with the blue backpack had been the one in ownership of the sleek silver vehicle! It had not been their angry bespectacled friend after all. "Vette", Tom had said. Ah. " Corvette," he had probably meant. Why, Renard knew that name after all. He ought to have; apres tout it came from the mother tongue. If his understanding was correct, Corvettes were rather expensive and desirable automobiles. The woman must have been a bit wealthier than her attire both here and at the museum had indicated... Unless the car did not really belong to her? Oh, well, no use jumping to conclusions. Renard would accorder lui le benefice du doute. He tapped the pen against the notepad in thought until he noticed Tom watching him. "Ah, excuse me--" he said. "You see, sir, I am investigating the case of the painting which disappeared from the Gallery of Art two nights ago. There is..." Renard coughed. "...substantial evidence to suggest that our mutual acquaintance the woman with the backpack may have had some involvement in the affair." Notepad at the ready, he went on. "So, my good man, I must presume to render audible my curiosity as to whether you might be prevailed upon to disclose her name, if you have record of such a thing about you...? Or if perhaps you've noticed that anything has disappeared from the store? If she is indeed the one I'm after, I can assure you she is quite an accomplished thief."
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Post by Ninety on May 20, 2010 14:59:51 GMT -5
"Well yeah I know her name but, like I said earlier, I can't really give out personal information like that." Tom noted how hopeful Renard had been in asking the question and lowered his eyes for a moment at not being able to give him the information he wanted.
"Look, I'll tell you her first name; it's Nicole. That's it though and you didn't hear it from me. I'll probably get fired just for telling you that so keep it to yourself, ok? As for the other part, no, we haven't had anything disappear. Nothing that I'm aware of, anyways."
Tom glanced back at his station where the prescriptions were starting to pile up then turned back to Renard.
"Look, I've got to get back to work but you'll let me know how the investigation goes, eh detective?"
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Post by Beelzebibble on May 20, 2010 22:46:19 GMT -5
Continuously tweak mustache in interest as Tom relates the information he knows. Renard unfortunately could not sustain the moustache tweaking for a long period of time in this case because the pen in his hand kept batting his nose whenever he started in. He let the moustache rest for the moment and focused his attention on adding to his notes as Tom spoke. Much to his deconvenue, however, the employee's revelation was somewhat more sparse and contracted than he had expected. Renard felt briefly betrayed, yet after a moment's effort was able to remind himself that Tom was under no obligation to tell him anything and that even the smallest and vaguest assistance was a favor. And at least he now knew the woman's first name. Nicole! A nice French name, just like "Corvette". It was quite possible this would prove enough to get Renard's foot onto certain doorsteps or whatever the idiom was. So Renard decided not to press the matter further. Much as he might have hoped to bring Tom around into divulging this Nicole's last name (or perhaps what it was her shopping bag had been so full of), Renard was capable of conceding the struggle. "Forgive me," he said. "It was by no means my intention to put the security of your employment at risk. You have already helped a great deal. Merci beacoup, and for the photograph as well! May Albarello prosper! And may you very soon learn that you helped bring a criminal to justice!" Tom gave a faintly embarrassed-looking wave. Several customers looked their way. It occurred to Renard that his voice might have risen slightly in volume as this speech had continued. He smiled around briefly before ducking his head under and fleeing through the cosmetics aisle. Find the hygiene product the angry fellow was looking for by sheer happenstance. Renard's final singular visual impression of Albarello, which his downturned eyes happened upon on the way toward the sliding glass exit, was a bottle of pale red elixir toward the bottom of the lotion shelf which bore the image of a pomegranate. The rain at this point was coming down quite heavily. Renard lingered under the awning overhead the entrance to the drugstore for a moment and poured some bubble juice into the pipe. The smoke drifted up around his face as he reviewed his notes. ______________________________ Mme. Mangjeol and unknown woman, ~3:00 __unknown woman touches frame of Boullogne! __________suspect??______________ ______from Albarello??_____________ _Williams doubts import. & tech. knowledge!_ ___Albarello (2):__________________ ___________NICOLE______________ __actual owner of sleek silver Corvette_____ ______surname, purchase still unknown___ ______________________________ ______________________________ ______________________________ [/font][/blockquote] Not the rich addendum he'd anticipated, but surely a significant one. Renard tucked the notepad back into the coat and leaned back against Albarello's brick front wall. He attempted to blow a smoke ring to see whether he still possessed the knack. Well. Faible, mais suffisant. The wispy ring dissipated quickly once it had passed out from under the awning into the raindrops' vertical path. Renard regarded the street full of automobiles and pondered his next move.
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Post by Beelzebibble on May 26, 2010 11:07:08 GMT -5
Consider tweaking mustache, decide that mustache has been overexerted. The raindrops dotted the cement, making a sound like applause. Renard rubbed his nose and for an instant his fingers twitched downward toward his moustache, but he thought better of it. The moustache was already honed so tranchant as to be able to puncture a balloon. He blew another smoke ring, much more vivid and well-shaped this time, and watched it evanesce in the rain. This was altogether too diverting. His cervelle puissante relished the moment's respite from trying to solve the case of the burgled Boullogne. The day was getting on but he could spare another minute or minute and a half. With lips puckered and tongue pushing slightly forward, Renard successfully attempted to exhale his widest smoke ring yet. He admired the hazy halo as it drifted forward, momentarily highlighting part of Bushmint Street within a nebulous circular frame through which he happened to notice a sleek silver vehicle passing Albarello on the other side of the thoroughfare. See that strange silver car drive BY OMFGRenard pushed forward off Albarello's brick front wall and hurried into the parking lot soon enough to catch a glimpse of the figure in the driver's seat, a person with dirty blonde hair a bit past shoulder length. Heart suddenly pounding, he fumbled for his keys, clambered into the small black automobile and activated the windshield wipers. The Corvette, mercifully, had come to a halt at a long traffic light. Renard craned his neck to see through the bushes around the Albarello parking lot and took note of the Corvette's license plate number. His right hand was nearly too tense to assume proper hold of the pencil. ______________________________ ________________TL 916WR______ [/font][/blockquote] And then, tail that silver car. Obviously. And then Renard tailed that silver car. Obviously. Muttering words of religious gratitude in his native language that the small black automobile had persisted in its serviceability, he pulled out of the lot and joined the Corvette at the traffic light with all expedience. He squinted: there was something large and dark-colored in the back seat of the silver vehicle which somewhat obscured his view of the driver at this angle. Renard discerned a wheel and handlebars and realized that it was a bicycle. He couldn't confess to immediately understanding why she would need to transport a bicycle inside of an automobile. Perhaps Nicole was the outdoorsy type after all as he had first suspected although on the other hand this wasn't exactly suitable weather for a spot of cycling around the jardin public. After the perpendicular promenade had ended, the traffic light changed to green and Nicole started off. Renard rumbled behind at a healthy distance, not wishing to press too close and risk catching her attention. A pale mist had settled, but Renard had no doubt in his sharp eyes' ability to keep hold of the sleek silver vehicle. They turned off Bushmint onto Tectona and from there onto Allheal. Nicole seemed to be moving in a direction familiar to Renard; he drove this way when he had a particular destination in mind, although he couldn't be sure offhand what it was. Certainly he didn't habitually visit the docks on the eastern end of the city by the river even though that seemed to be roughly where Nicole was bound. He briefly entertained the aberrant notion that she must have murdered someone by bludgeoning them to death with the bicycle and now intended to discreetly jettison this sinister weapon into the water. He was wrenched from his reverie by an unpleasant surprise. As they approached another traffic light (such an implacably familiar intersection!), the sleek silver vehicle put forth an unexpected burst of speed and passed under the light just as it had shifted up from yellow to red. Renard was too slow in reacting to duplicate Nicole's move and was forced to wait at the traffic light while another train of automobiles passed along the north-south street. " C'est des conneries," he muttered aloud. Up ahead, he watched the Corvette pull off the street and down a narrow back alley. Well, an automobile of this size would have no qualms about alleyways. Renard started on as soon as the traffic light returned to green and followed her. Yes, as he emerged from the dingy alley, he saw the river stretch out ahead, with mountains on the other side, nothing more than great vague shapes in the fog. They had arrived at the docks. But the sleek silver vehicle was gone. Renard brought the small black automobile to a halt outside the alley and emerged, taking his massive black-and-white-striped umbrella and well-worn trilby along with him, the latter of which he pressed onto his head and the former of which he unfurled and opened to ward against the rain. Here on the rear side of the long line of buildings stood an imposing row of garages, many with their tall doors standing open to receive cargo. Renard scurried from open garage to open garage, hoping to find the Corvette parked inside, but had no luck. He cursed again. She'd been so close at hand.
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Post by Beelzebibble on May 30, 2010 22:34:55 GMT -5
Throw hat down in disgust. Punch the wall in your unbridled rage. Put a hand against a damp wall and sigh with your unbridled disappointment. A stiff breeze picked up at precisely the moment when Renard seized his old chapeau and tossed it down onto the soaked wooden pier. This dank gust picked up the hat and swept it into the air, where it richocheted off a post before twirling over the side and off the dock. With a brief, choked cry, Renard watched as his well-worn trilby was carried off by the churning water and eventually bubbled down out of sight. He would have pummeled the brick wall behind him in his unbridled rage but Renard was concerned that he might inadvertently cause property damage. So although the hand which was not holding the massive black-and-white-striped umbrella over his head did momentarily curl into a fist, this soon relaxed into an open palm which he rested somewhat feebly against the rain-darkened mortar and clay. No hidden passageway into the building slid open. Le ciel gris et nuageux above took no notice. Renard permitted himself a sigh. Give up the chase, go back to the police, and cash in your plate info. Possibly fabricate something about SEEING them with the Boullogne. He conceded that there was no use attempting to pursue Nicole from here. Although upon further reflection perhaps there was no need to. Why, Renard had recorded her license plate number, hadn't he? Surely the Commissioner could appreciate that! A first name, a physical description and a license plate number: what more could the Winstone Police Department possibly require in order to apprehend at last this depraved criminal! Filled with a newfound energy and sense of purpose, Renard promptly hurried back toward the small black automobile. Of course it was true that Williams seemed to consider the "backpack lady's" significance dubitatif to say the least, and Renard wondered whether he might in fact do best to claim that it was the burgled Boullogne and not a bicycle which he had identified in the back seat of the Corvette. An inconsequential fabrication if Nicole was not the thief, and if she was... well, Renard suspected St. Peter would forgive him that little white lie. Yes, here was a very pragmatic course of action. He collapsed the massive black-and-white-striped umbrella. The only worrisome element in his view was the fact that he'd never seen the painting; he would be in a tenuous position if pressed for details. When he stepped up to the small black automobile however Renard was somewhat surprised to discover that his concerns on this point had been neatly dispelled. Le roi Midas was propped up on the front passenger's seat. Discover the burgled Boullogne unexpectedly sitting on the couch car seat. A frameup! There was King Midas, though haggard, not in his royal attire but in a spare tunic. Actually altogether this was not the scene Renard had expected: the king was not standing in a golden palace, gaping perhaps in horror at his accidentally-gilded daughter or whoever it had been in the old story, but kneeling on a riverbank, dipping both hands into the water. The sand below the surface, though mostly painted in dark shades of beige, was streaked with ripples of gold that emanated from his fingertips. The old man's hands were gnarled, his face withered, but there was an astonished joy permanently dawning upon his countenance much like that which must now be coming over Renard himself. Atop the painting was a small triangular scrap of paper, even along two sides but ripped on the hypotenuse. It had obviously been torn from the corner of a larger sheet. There was handwriting on the visible face.
Hey, you. I can tell you’ve been following me. I just wanted to say that you’ve helped me see the error of my ways. Take the painting. Give it back to the gallery and apologize to them for me, would you? I’m too ashamed of myself.
Renard could not move for several moments. He was getting rather drenched and he made a motion to reopen the massive black-and-white-striped umbrella but as soon as his hand came up he instead dropped the umbrella onto the dock heedlessly and unlocked the automobile from the passenger's side. It was either the cold and damp or his avide trepidation that caused Renard to tremble as, to be sure his eyes did not deceive him, he picked the painting up. It vanished in his hands. Renard cried out again, this time at a rather less soft volume, and clawed ineffectually at nothing as the scrap of paper drifted down unconcerned onto the seat. There was another scrap beside it, which had previously been obscured beneath the portrait. This one had apparently been ripped off another corner of the same sheet.
Just kidding.
Sorry, pal. I need to hold on to this for a little while longer.
Ought to see your face right now.
[/right][/blockquote]
There was a clatter up ahead. Renard managed to tear his eyes away from the place where Le roi Midas had just sat. From one of the garages which had previously been closed, a sleek silver vehicle had emerged. The Corvette wheeled, kicking up splashes of water off the wooden planks, and rattled off toward the street, its red taillights glaring through the haze. Immediately Renard slammed the passenger's door, seized the massive black-and-white-striped umbrella off the dock, hurtled around the hood of the small black automobile, threw open the driver's door and catapulted himself into the seat, which was when he noticed the complete absence of the steering wheel. He looked around stupidly for the steering wheel in the back. He even felt around under his seat in a moment of mindless abandon. There was nothing. A few wires dangled at tortured angles from the hole where the steering wheel had been fastened. The steering wheel was, not to put too fine a point on it, ailleurs. Renard slumped back against the headrest in complete bewilderment. Eventually he noticed that there were raindrops pattering in through the windowpane. Excellent, he thought miserably, exactly what he needed. He didn't remember rolling down his window earlier but was perfectly willing to accept this additional insult on top of everything else that had just transpired. He swiveled the crank by his knees. No window rolled up. He swiveled it the other way. No window. He looked around by his feet and the pedals for bits of broken glass. There were none. He looked on the dock outside. None there, either. The driver's window had vanished, too. Renard closed his eyes and muttered a few words of prayer. He was legitimately beginning to come to terms with the possibility that he might have gone utterly insane. Eyes still closed, he felt around for the two scraps of paper on the passenger's seat, too afraid to look and see that they had disappeared, too. Non, in fact, his right hand fell upon them. He picked them up and, no longer afraid to look, held them out above the dashboard. The handwriting of Nicole. She'd been taunting him, the upstart. He squinted. There was text on the other face of both scraps. He flipped over the first one, which had begun with "Hey, you."
omplete rules for the payment of rities are available at all airport ticket cations. Some airlines do not apply these consumer travel from some foreign countries, although other consumer s may be available. Check with your airline or your travel agent.
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loss of or damage to baggage parts hooks or other items attached to baggage. As set fort checked or unchecked baggage: money, jewelry including w electronic equipment, including computers, valuable papers or documen described in more detail in the Contract of Carriage.
The print was too tiny for Renard's tired eyes to focus upon. He couldn't be bothered to ponder its importance. He tucked both scraps wearily into his inner pocket and, resting an elbow on the empty windowpane, leaned his head on his hand. By this time the rain was beyond disturbing him. He looked down the dock to the street where Nicole had escaped. It did look like a familiar street. This whole area seemed familiar, although Renard had never been on the dock before. He sank a little lower into his seat. However, he straightened up a few moments later when he remembered why he recognized this part of town. He was within walking distance of the Passione Rossa. And as the evening was just beginning to overtake the sky, no doubt Madame Mangjeol had by now made herself available for consultation. Bien.Let the archaeologists of future civilizations, sifting through the scattered ruins of this crumbled city thousands of years from now, never conclude based upon their assemblage of the fragments of the relics of his life that Renard Rouletabille was a man who could be induced to abandon his goals and withdraw into oblivion after such an absurdly infinitesimal setback as the dismantling of his automobile. "Car," he said unceremoniously, "it is here that we part ways for the moment." He opened the driver's seat and stepped out, taking with him only the massive black-and-white-striped umbrella and the contents of his pockets. He shut the door and looked in at the desecrated interior. The rain would soak the driver's seat through to the bottom by the time it cleared. "Please know that I will retrieve you at my earliest convenience," he assured. Then, after opening the massive black-and-white-striped umbrella once again, Renard strode down the puddle-covered planks toward the end of the dock and the street, leaving the small black automobile behind him.
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Post by Beelzebibble on Jun 5, 2010 15:05:17 GMT -5
Ponder where to find a replacement for so fine a hat as that which was recently lost. Wonder if your insurance covers Power damage to your vehicles, then recall that you considered it (a quite costly add on to your insurance package) too expensive and skipped on it. In attendance of a rumble of thunder in the distance, another forcible gust of wind battered Renard's huddled form. Although this did not sweep the massive black-and-white-striped umbrella out of his hands and rattle it down into a nearby gutter, it did manage to invert the canvas, splaying the steel ribs madly. By the time Renard had corrected this malchange, his hair was a sopping mess. What had possessed him to abandon hold of the well-worn trilby even for a moment? And where and how might he replace it? He'd loved that hat. It had in fact been one of the very few possessions, along with the coat, the camera, and one or two others, to accompany him when he had exiled himself from his home country. Most of what Renard owned was very new, owing to his frightful propensity for misplacement. The massive black-and-white-striped umbrella which he now contorted back into its original form, for instance, was no more than a a couple of months old, Renard having lost its successor the immense blue-and-red-striped umbrella following une mesentente facheuse with a crimson-haired young man of Oriental design. No dissonance registered with Renard that he regretted the loss of the well-worn trilby more than the abandoning of the small black automobile. Even leaving out of consideration the far greater sentiment he had held for the hat, Renard was sure he would be able to reclaim the automobile and repair it somehow later on. Granted, his proficiency with mechanics was as limited as the reader may predict. Renard entertained for a moment the possibility that he would be able to claim some manner of insurance for sudden disappearances of integral structural and operative elements but upon further consideration he wasn't at all sure that he had ever had the automobile insured. He so hated to part with money for intangible returns. Think about what sort of Power would be able to make a painting appear and disappear, and try to deduce how such an ability might function. LANDSVALE IS IN ON IT. Why else would he have let a civilian inside the crime scene if not to distract Williams, as he's done with all the false speculations?! What investigator in his right mind would let Renard make off with a key piece of evidence like the DVD?! Entertain the thought that Nicole may have had an accomplice at the crime scene. Consider it plausible but unlikely. With the docks behind him, Renard reached Allheal Lane and proceeded along the sidewalk, welcoming the additional cover provided by the thin, darkly leafy trees cultivated at orderly intervals in front of the stores. As he walked, he entertained other possibilities. Nicole must be a Power -- this was, by now, une lapalissade. The exact nature of her talent continued to elude him although it was clearly what had allowed her to transpose the Boullogne out of the small black automobile, and most likely out of the Ecruteak Gallery of Art as well. And had her power enabled her to transpose the Boullogne inside the small black automobile as well? How was the vanishing of the driver's window and steering wheel to factor into this? Renard rubbed his temple momentarily. His lightning-swift mind had already moved on to another train of thought, an attempt to reason whether Nicole had been working with an accomplice or not. His mind flickered around the other faces he had seen today and lingered briefly on the weary-eyed visage of Inspector Landsvale. As a new arrival under the Commissioner's employ, Landsvale could have assisted Nicole remotely before surreptitiously arranging his transfer from another department to Ecruteak, specifically to mislead Wiliams about the case. Why, Landsvale might even have paid off the lunatic Powers who'd destroyed the apartment building where former Inspector Seth Davidson had been found murdered, precisement to create the gap in the workforce which he himself was later to fill! But... Renard brushed a low-hanging branch, the leaves heavy with water, out of his way, not managing to avoid catching a few displaced drops in the face as he did so. Nicole had been alone in the Corvette, he was sure of that. Her power evidently didn't require anyone else's contribution. What need would she have had for an associate? Jump in a puddle. Possibly out of frustration. Step in puddle; experience shoe-flooding. He believed the Passione Rossa was to be found on the other side of the street, so he crossed at the next available intersection. Along the walkway lay a particularly satisfying-looking puddle into which he squarely planted one foot in what, had Renard been more lucidly aware of himself, he might have recognized as an echo of the way the Corvette had kicked up the water on the docks, revealing an unconscious desire to experience that same manner of power and thrill. In any case the puddle was deeper than expected, concealing in fact a pothole in the street, and Renard's right shoe was suddenly fully submerged. He regained his balance and trod wetly across to the opposite sidewalk without looking at the halted cars whose drivers had doubtless witnessed this fall from grace. Discern that she is certainly not a native, and appears to have just recently flown in. Time to check the airports! Consider telling Williams everything so far. Disregard the notion - he doesn't need another reason to doubt your sanity. See somebody else with a moustache. Think to yourself that they really should groom said mustache better. Check reflection in passing reflective surface. Ensure optimum appearance qualities. Tweak moustache. The threat of another umbrella mishap was enough to prevent Renard from drawing the two torn-out slips of paper back out for further inspection, but he made their contents the next subject of careful consideration as he stepped up onto the curb and continued on his way. He was thinking not so much of Nicole's handwritten messages -- meaningful though they were as his most visceral proof that she was a veridique flesh-and-blood human being -- but of the fragments of printed text on the obverse which had evidently been issued by some airline or another. Should these be taken to indicate that Nicole had only just arrived at the Archipelago? But she'd clearly been here for at least three days; why, then, would she still be carrying around the papers from her flight? What need could she have not only for associates but also for "confirmation numbers" and "bar codes" and the like now that she was here? All of these questions swirled around in Renard's mind in a manner not unlike that of a piping bowl of bouillabaisse being stirred with an eager spoon. He thought about ringing the Commissioner with the news, but intuition persuaded him that if he were to tell Williams that Le roi Midas had sat in his car for a scant eighteen and three-quarters seconds, the man would conclude Renard was either lying for attention, trying to cover something up, or off his head entirely. Renard would require answers first. He noticed a pudgy man with bushy facial hair passing heavily by on the other side of the street. The mustache was so crudely tended it did not even deserve to be spelled with an o. Renard leaned the massive black-and-white-striped umbrella back to have a look at his reflection in the window of the nearest shop. His own moustache was as soaked as his hair. Quel dommage. He hurriedly tweaked it into respectability. He ran his hands through his hair a few times to get it sticking up as well but he couldn't make as much progress there as with the moustache. No matter. The moustache was the important thing. Briefly entertain how potentially dubious it is to meet a lady in a restaurant called the Passione Rossa. Most importantly, Go to the Passione Rossa. For, while meeting a lady in a bar named the Passione Rossa was not quite such a suggestive activity as it might have sounded when phrased that way, a man did nonetheless wish his moustache trim and fetching for such an encounter. He stood outside the bar, with its white stone facade and perpetually closed green-shuttered windows. Nothing of the interior was visible from without. Once Renard opened the door, he had to pause a moment to let his eyes adjust. The Passione Rossa was so dimly lit overhead that it seemed the owner was counting on the hundreds of glass surfaces all around, reflecting and amplifying the few sources of light, to enable anyone inside to see whatsoever. The rows of bottles stacked upon each other, each housing only a tiny glimmer of illumination, reminded him of a stand of small round candles at chapel. Renard looked around for the source of the music, but no piano revealed itself from the shadows; the tune must have been playing out on a record somewhere. He did, however, manage to locate the table he was looking for. He moved into the room, distractedly returning the nod from the stout man behind the bar. Madame Mangjeol had already seen him enter. Her first action was not to smile graciously at him as usual, but simply to tap the table in front of her, inviting him to sit. Her "Hello, Renard" was rather less warm and amiable than he had come to expect, as well.
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Post by Beelzebibble on Jun 6, 2010 16:05:53 GMT -5
Return Yoon's greeting with too much friendliness, trying to break the ice. Make a little small-talk -- for the Passione Rossa is not a place to get straight down to business. Offer to buy Yoon a drink. That should lighten the mood! And hopefully get her relaxed enough to share any information she has. Recall past dealings with Yoon. Unsure of how to react to this unforeseen greeting, Renard decided to at least make a sterling effort to carry forward the conversation as it normally played out. As such he smiled while sitting down across from her, running his hands through his hair again in one last barely-effective attempt to dry it, and tried for a sunny tone. " Bonjour, Madame Mangjeol! How does this dismal day find you? Please excuse my, ah, saturated condition. For too much of the day I've been exposed to the..." "Consider yourself pardoned, Renard." Renard blinked. Mme. Mangjeol was not looking up at him, but down at her glass, which she twirled first clockwise and then counter-clockwise with one finger. She did not alternate between the two directions evenly; actually, Renard could discern no pattern to the oscillations. He rested his hands on the table. "Yes. Well," he said. "As a matter of fact my automobile suffered a breakdown. Not far from here, fortunately. However that did require me to complete le voyage pluvieux on foot." Mme. Mangjeol's eyebrows arched beneath her bangs, and she looked up. "Renard, I'm very sorry to hear that." If pressed, Renard would not have been able to identify with complete certainty whether she was being quite serious or not. No matter. "Think nothing of it! So great, madame, was my desire to speak with you that no amount of vehicular difficulty could possibly have dissuaded me." He thought about offering to buy her a drink, then noticed the two unopened wine bottles standing up against the wall in addition to the opened one by her glass. It seemed Mme. Mangjeol's alcohol-related needs were covered for the evening. This was the second marked departure from his coutomier conception of her. Find some way to politely and discreetly air out your shoes and socks. Trench foot is no laughing matter. He leaned forward slightly and reached down to tug uncomfortably at his drenched right sock. This footwear would require replacing once he returned to his apartment... But as soon as his right hand fell below the tabletop, a sudden change in Mme. Mangjeol's countenance caught his attention. She had pushed back in her seat with an expression halfway between alarm and accusation. Her fingers were clutching, nonsensically, the cardboard -- "beermat"? Was that still the common vocable? Her lips were parted as if she was about to speak. With a hasty application of the logical fallacy of false cause, Renard drew his hand back up quickly and interlaced his fingers atop the table. No, actually, he might have been right. Mme. Mangjeol visibly relaxed. Here was the third anomaly. Renard had never known her to react like this to such an innocuous motion. After a moment of discomposed silence, she said slowly, "I'm delighted, Renard, to be of service." Entertain the idea of using the restroom, but then disregard it based on the less-than-reputable condition of the bar, coupled with the possibility that you may never find it in this darkness. Glance around, see if you know anybody else. For a moment, think you see the suspect, then realize it's not her. This conversation seemed well on its way to being the least pleasant and gracieux Renard had ever shared with Mme. Mangjeol, and he confessed himself entirely at a loss as to why. Additionally, his wet shoes continued to bother him. He looked around in the bar for some indication of a salle de bain to which he might excuse himself to attend to the socks, but he was somewhat concerned he would be unable to find his way back to her table -- or, come to think of it, that she might have fled by the time of his return, all three wine bottles under her arms. As his eyes navigated the room, he blinked in disbelieving wonder at the sight of a figure with shoulder-length blond-brown hair, but Renard's hopes were dashed when this figure turned around and revealed himself to be of the inappropriate gender. The next comment from Mme. Mangjeol ended Renard's distraction. "That is, of course, assuming you've come here to do business?" Bring up the subject of the stolen painting. "Well, yes. That is to say... oui." There seemed no point in straining further to prolong the inevitable. "Madame, I come to you to seek assistance. You are aware, I fear offending you even by asking, of the disappearance of Bon Boullogne's Le roi Midas from the Ecruteak Gallery of Art two nights ago?" "I am." A dreadfully short answer. Renard continued regardless. "You know that the painting vanished on camera without a trace and without any evidence of a break-in?" "I do." Renard straightened up in his seat. "I suppose, then, that my first question, or rather third but I hope the first for which you will deign to charge me, must be this: Can you perhaps tell me whether you noticed anything unusual when you visited the gallery the preceding afternoon?" Mme. Mangjeol stared at him for a moment without speaking. Then she cocked her head slightly, much the same way he had seen her do in front of the Boullogne when it had still hung on the wall. "What?" she asked plainly. "The gallery. I believe you visited roughly around the hour of three o'clock in the aftern--" "I'm afraid I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about, Renard," Mme. Mangjeol said, interrupting him for the second time today. This was another action to which he was deeply unaccustomed from her. "I was in Mahogany all that day..." An awkward half-smile came into being on her face, the half-smile of misunderstandings. Renard's eyes widened as his mind combed back through the footage in a heartbeat. Had he mistaken another woman for Yoon Mangjeol exactly as he had just now mistaken someone else for Nicole? Had there been some dire meprise? Was he wrong in thinking that... Non! It had to have been Mme. Mangjeol -- he had seen her clearly! She was lying to him. There had to be a way to prove she had been there at the Gallery of Art. Ideally, something on his person there and then.
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Post by Beelzebibble on Jun 7, 2010 16:10:14 GMT -5
Wonder if the note was forged, possibly by Nicole. Ask Yoon if anybody would have any reason to frame her for being at the museum that day. Recall that Nicole can apparently appearify things (i.e. paintings into your car). Ponder for a moment if perhaps she could appearify Mde. Mangjeol at the museum. Decide that, while possible, it doesn't make an awful lot of sense. New hypotheses conjoined and splintered within Renard's brain like the bariolure of shapes in a kaleidoscope. He roundly dismissed them as too convoluted or unlikely. Who with any understanding of Madame Mangjeol's livelihood would bother attempting to frame her for this burglary? Hadn't he methodically ruled her out as a suspect as soon as he had had the opportunity to? And...? But he did not yet possess enough understanding of Nicole's power to speculate whether she might be responsible for his seeing Mme. Mangjeol in the gallery. Non, he would continue to work from the simplest possible assumption at the moment: Mme. Mangjeol had been there at the gallery two afternoons ago and now she wanted him to believe that she had not. Renard promptly began digging around in his coat pockets to procure some piece of evidence that would demonstrate definitivement her visit. Lose your temper if Yoon continues to tell more lies. Take a moment to collect yourself. Look around, possibly frantically, for a computer to play the security footage on. Fail. Consider kicking table in disappointment. Disregard the notion - you've had too many foot injuries today as it is. Then realise that you have the sheet of paper from the visitor's book that clearly states that Yoon was there on the day. Smile reassuringly, and then produce the page from the visitor's book with a badass flick of the wrist. Show Mde. Mangjeol the page from the visitor's log. "But -- but see here," Renard protested, pulling out the notebook and pressing it into Mme. Mangjeol's hands. "Your name is recorded right--" (he flipped a few pages back for her) "--there, n'est-ce pas? Surely that must..." He faltered. Mme. Mangjeol, who seemed not at all daunted by the fact that the writing in the notebook was not in English, appeared equally unperturbed by the presence of her name on one page. She looked up from the notebook with, of all the vexatious aspects, an expression of pity. "These notes are yours, Renard. You may write anything you like in them. As it happens I've been jotting down a great deal about the prostitution racket you've been running whenever the detective business has been slow... But somehow I doubt the police will accept my scrawls as incriminating evidence, will they?" She punctuated this question by lowering her face to regard him coyly. Her black hair fell forward a bit around her shoulders. She, too, was mocking him. Madame Mangjeol and Nicole both. This was yet another unprecedented occurence with her. Renard tensed: he was on the verge of losing his temper. He channeled his rogne into a redoubled search through his inner coat pockets. Ah: his fingers closed on a useful object. "The VDV!" he proclaimed triumphantly, pulling out the rainbow-colored metallic disk. Mme. Mangjeol regarded it with insouciance. "Yes?" she asked politely. Renard brandished the disk (which flashed much less strongly in this light than in the gallery or Demitasse) over the table with admittedly a kind of savage joy. "Within this disk is contained footage from the security cameras of the gallery which proves beyond the shadow of a doubt your presence in sight of the burgled Boullogne two days ago!" Mme. Mangjeol looked at the writing on the non-rainbow-colored side of the disk without taking it from his fingers. "I do see the writing," she said with excrutiating patience, "but who's to say this isn't a blank DVD and that you didn't label it yourself? I'm afraid I'm not sure how you intend to prove to me here, in this room, what information this carries... Unless you'd like to kidnap me and hold my eyelids open in front of a monitor somewhere?" Renard half-stood up and squinted around the bar, but it was just as she said. No television screen or computer glowed through the darkness to present itself. The faintly rainbow-colored metallic disk was inconcluant in this conversation. He would have kicked the table in frustration if both feet had not, individually and collectively, suffered enough today. His mind raced. She poured herself another drink from the open wine bottle. He had to show her something else. Oh. Oh but of course. "Madame," Renard said. He smiled reassuringly. "Disregard the disk, s'il vous plait, and know that I have no such violent intentions. Perhaps you could merely favor me with an explanation..." He produced the folded-up page he'd torn out from the Ecruteak Gallery of Art's visitor's log with a casual yet practiced flick of the wrist which also accidentally expelled from his pocket the two scraps bearing Nicole's handwriting. They fluttered into Mme. Mangjeol's hands in a way that didn't quite seem to agree with the room's ventilation system, but both she and Renard were more interested in the page he was now unfolding. As he sat back down fully across from her, he laid the sheet down on the table such that Mme. Mangjeol could read it. "...of this?" Yoon Mangjeol studied the page carefully for a moment, during which time Renard leaned back in his seat and poured a bit of bubble juice into the pipe. He was feeling immensely proud of himself for his foresight in removing this page from the visitor's log. It should have been the first thing he'd thought to show her. Renard had her bloquee this time, he was sure of that. She looked up. "What am I explaining, exactly, Renard?" He frowned. Could she truly still be trying to lie her way out? He leaned forward and prodded the relevant entry on the page with one skinny finger. "Don't you see? It says--" 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.Gloomy Joanne
Renard reeled. He spluttered and dropped the pipe. He slumped against the back of the seat. He stared at Madame Mangjeol. She tipped her glass back, her mouth obscured briefly by the glint of light, and set about filling it anew. His heart might have stopped. She smiled at him. "Shall we get you a glass, dear?" she asked. Renard was, in fact, going insane. "Or do you think perhaps you've wasted our time sufficiently for one evening?" This was the only plausible explanation left. The jazz music overhead seemed to have gained several decibels of volume or perhaps it was only new instruments piping up within the ensemble. Renard's magnificent brain thudded. The various glass evidence tubes in one of the outer pockets clinked against each other as he dropped both elbows onto the table and clutched at his matted hair. At any moment they would descend on him and carry him away to an asile de fous. No. Non. He knew what he had seen. He knew what had been on the disk and he knew what had been in the visitor's log. Renard was not a madman; Renard understood the truth. But to converse with Madame Mangjeol he needed to try a different tack. Ask Mde. Mangjeol what she knows about Le roi Midas and its disappearance, but be careful not to make it sound as though you suspect Mde. Mangjeol herself.He drew both hands down from his hair onto his face, leaving only his sizeable nose uncovered. Eventually his hands slid down his cheeks and his chin ended up resting upon his thumbs. He gnawed gently at the knuckles of his right hand again and considered Yoon Mangjeol. She was looking over the two scraps of paper carrying Nicole's handwriting, which she eventually placed upon the table without comment alongside the glass and beermat, the open bottle of wine, the two unopened bottles of wine, the notebook, the faintly rainbow-colored metallic disk, the page from the visitor's log, and the pipe. She looked at him expectantly. "Mad--" The word caught in his throat. Renard tried again. "Madame," he said. "I am... very much afraid we have labored under a misunderstanding." "It does seem so, doesn't it?" she said. "I... I fear you have been subject to the impression that I might suspect you of having stolen Le roi Midas." "The thought crossed my mind, Renard, yes." "But--" Renard shook his head. "But I don't! Madame, I assure you that I methodically ruled you out as a suspect as soon as I had the opportunity to! The -- if you..." He gestured at the notebook. Mme. Mangjeol picked it back up and read from the page where she had found her own name. "I'm sure I wrote... well, I might have forgotten the exact wording -- but I discounted the possibility of your culpabilite based on my understanding of you as being much too well-known, and too careful -- and altogether much too, ah, cunning and aware to write your own name in the..." ______________________________ __Enraged curator covering something?_____ ___review security footage for Williams____ __MME. MANGJEOL'S NAME IN LOG!_____ Reasons why doubtful -______________ 1. very intelligent___________________ 2. well-known (famous/infamous)________ 3. exceedingly cautious.______________ 4. as wealthy as ever________________ 5. not a Power.___________________ ___________Demitasse:___________ _Lacianus "Lacy" Garrelcette__________ ____blue hair, somewhat owed a favor____ [/font][/blockquote] Mme. Mangjeol read and reread the five-point list, her eyes lingering on the final two points. Then she set the notebook down with a soft sigh. She gave Renard one more smile. This one seemed familiar. Oh. It was the first genuinely warm smile with which she'd regarded him this evening. "All right, Renard," she said. "I believe you." Some great weight lifted inside Renard's head. He clapped one hand to his forehead and found himself giggling aloud with relief, which did not prevent him from hearing her next words: "As it happens, yes, I did visit the Ecruteak Gallery of Art roughly around the hour of three o'clock in the afternoon before the painting vanished." "And can you then perhaps tell me whether you noticed anything unusu--" She interrupted him again. It was possible he had not witnessed a complete return to her usual character. "We should really discuss payment first, Renard." Renard rubbed his nose. "Ah?" The warmth in Madame Mangjeol's countenance had not lingered. She was now gazing at him quite seriously. "I'm simply not sure, Renard, whether I can sell you any more information in good conscience. Considering the debt you've already amassed..." Renard was stunned. She never mentioned the debt so directly! It was true: he'd been collecting knowledge from her for some time now with only the promesse of future reimbursement, but Madame Mangjeol had always seemed to understand. She knew he was in dire financial straits and only needed to secure a large enough reward to repay her. Why would she speak so pointedly of this arrangement? Renard began looking nervously around the room again. He had once observed the stout man behind the bar train a concealed rifle upon a drunkard who'd accosted her during one of her conversations with Renard. He was deeply concerned she might be about to ask the bartender now to level the barrel at Renard himself. Make a mental note of the distance between yourself and Yoon, then the nearest tables, and the door. Calculate time and effort needed to escape in an emergency.
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Post by Beelzebibble on Jun 10, 2010 16:17:43 GMT -5
Promise that this will be the last time a monetary issue rises and you will pay off your debt as soon as the case is solved. Explain that you can't settle your debt until you solve this most dastardly caper and receive the monetary reward you will certainly earn. "Madame," Renard mumbled, "I understand that -- soucis pecuniaires are pressing on every mind. I admit I'm distinctly short on funds myself at the moment. But surely the reward which the Gallery has posted for the Boullogne would be more than sufficient to clear my debts to you! Assuming of course I were able to..." "Yes," she said almost in tandem, "assuming you were able to..." Both trailed off. Madame Mangjeol motioned for another glass. A dark-haired waitress placed it in front of Renard without managing to withhold a second glance at the marmelade of documents on the table. Mme. Mangjeol poured out some of the mahogany-colored liquid into Renard's glass without an offer before filling her own once again. She seemed already to have passed the point up to which the appearance of pacing her intake remained a social concern. The first bottle was empty now and the dark-haired waitress removed it the next time she passed. Renard sipped the wine, which tasted of raspberry. "The question, I suppose," Mme. Mangjeol said while flipping through the pages of the notebook with one barely-moving finger, "and don't take offense, Renard, please, is whether I'm to be convinced you know enough about the crime to have any hope of solving it. I'm sure you can see how my conviction or doubt on that point colors whether I might in turn feel comfortable accepting further debt from you?" She set the notebook down halfway between them, rotated perpendicularly so both could read, opened to the most recent page. "May I ask who's Nicole?" ______________________________ Mme. Mangjeol and unknown woman, ~3:00 __unknown woman touches frame of Boullogne! __________suspect??______________ ______from Albarello??_____________ _Williams doubts import. & tech. knowledge!_ ___Albarello (2):__________________ ___________NICOLE______________ __actual owner of sleek silver Corvette_____ ______surname, purchase still unknown___ ________________TL 916WR______ ______________________________ ______________________________ [/font][/blockquote] You know what you saw. Yoon's name was clearly written on that log. Realize that Nicole has been toying with you for far longer than you initially believed. Entertain the thought that Nicole's powers alter the perception of an object instead of appearifying/deappearifying items. Consider it plausible. Wonder about what other ways Nicole may have been screwing with you. Mention Nicole. Demand more information. Also ask about any Powers named Nicole who may have disappear-y/reappear-y abilities. Nicole. The King of Clubs' spiritual successor as Renard's new archnemesis. He frowned down upon his handwriting in consideration of that frustrating femme whose identity was denoted by those six letters. Was she responsible for Renard's misapprehension that he had seen Yoon Mangjeol's name in the visitor's log? But this hypothesis did not mesh with his conception of her power as making objects appear or disappear... Perhaps he'd formed the wrong idea of her? Perhaps her abilities ranged more toward illusion? Either way, Mme. Mangjeol would know, of course. "Nicole is my primary suspect," he said. "I saw her on the security footage visiting the Gallery at the same time that you did. I'm not sure whether you would have noticed her there?" "She didn't seem particularly excited to see me, did she," Mme. Mangjeol said, answering his question. "Ah, well, yes. That is to say, no, not at all." The Korean woman's eyes moved again over the second line of the page. "What was it she touched? The ' cadre', remind me what that means...?" "The frame," Renard translated. "A short while after you'd left the wing, Nicole lost her balance and subsequently leaned a hand against the frame of Le roi Midas to steady herself. She was wearing that unwieldy blue backpack, as no doubt you must recall..." "Yes, yes." Renard took another sip of wine and wiped his lips. He was on the verge of telling Mme. Mangjeol about the incident on the docks, but some more precautionneux part of his endlessly multifaceted brain warned that this might be a misstep. She would be of course far less likely than the Commissioner to take the story as evidence against Renard's sanity, but even so, he felt it wisest to hang onto that card for the moment. There was always the possibility Mme. Mangjeol would begin trafficking any story that seemed to prove in whose hands the burgled Boullogne currently rested. Renard might cease to be the front-runner toward exposing the crime and capturing Nicole. Mme. Mangjeol was rereading the notebook page once more. "How intriguing all this is," she said softly. Renard rubbed his nose again. "Quite," he ventured. "Enough to convince you, I hope? Will you make the investissement of telling me what you know about this Nicole woman?" Mme. Mangjeol handed the notebook back to him. "Let me give you one little tidbit free of charge, Renard. Her name isn't Nicole." Renard flinched. Press Mde. Mangjeol on the matter. You must get her to talk! "But -- but at Albarello--" he stammered. "The employee there assured me her name was Nicole! Why would he have lied to me?" "Why would he have? You don't imagine it's possible she might have lied to him?" Mme. Mangjeol took another drink. Renard lost his posture, defeated. "Dear, if I may, any proper detective would have assumed that from the beginning." An insult, yet? Aspersions cast upon his expertise as an investigator? This was one more unwelcome surprise. The blood was rising to Renard's cheeks although the wine might equally have affected this. "Well?" he demanded. "So her name is not Nicole. Tell me what it is, then!" She looked away toward the bar. "I'm afraid, Renard, that we seem already to have passed the point up to which information may be exchanged freely." " Please, madame." "If I provide you with this woman's name, then we've entered a formal business arrangement. And I don't intend that my generosity will extend much farther than it already has." Her gaze returned onto him. From the expression now on her face, he found it hard to believe she had mustered even one warm smile earlier. "Is this what you wish, Renard?"
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Post by Beelzebibble on Jun 11, 2010 17:51:38 GMT -5
Decide to try and convince her that you can solve it; you'll be more indebted, yes, but you'll get more information that way and won't tarnish your already lackluster rapport with Mde. Mangjeol. You have to have the true identity. Agree to it. Take her up on her deal; prepare to resort to pressing and pleading and the like later, when she can charge you for it. "Tell me," he said. Mme. Mangjeol gestured for the notebook. Renard gave it back to her. She took it and continued to hold out her hand. One scarlet-painted nail twitched. In a moment of stupid understanding, Renard hurriedly pulled out one of the ballpoint pens and handed this to her as well. She wrote on the second-to-last line of the page. A husky female voice accompanied by a piano and bass came on over the gramophone, if indeed it was a gramophone that was providing the music. A block of muted light, tempered both by the bouche sky and the evening hour, wiped itself into and then out of existence at the other side of the room as another customer entered. Madame Mangjeol passed the notebook back to him complete with a new addition which she simultaneously read aloud. ______________________________ Mme. Mangjeol and unknown woman, ~3:00 __unknown woman touches frame of Boullogne! __________suspect??______________ ______from Albarello??_____________ _Williams doubts import. & tech. knowledge!_ ___Albarello (2):__________________ ___________NICOLE______________ __actual owner of sleek silver Corvette_____ ______surname, purchase still unknown___ ________________TL 916WR______ ________Channery Keigler____________ ______________________________ Renard thought it best to read the name aloud as well. Ask Yoon how she and 'Nicole' are acquainted. Press further. What sort of ability does she have? How do they know each other? Why is she toying with you? "May I presume to inquire how you know her?" he asked. "Oh we've never met," said Mme. Mangjeol, "but her name's come up now and again. One occasionally hears about an inexplicable shoplifting incident and I've got two or three clients claiming to have pinned her as the common factor. No proper allegations, though, to my knowledge, and nothing so grand as a museum burglary! Of course there's also the matter of her dealings with the--" She broke off suddenly and, after an instant's flottement, began to cough. Anxiously: "Are you quite all right?" She finished her glass, winced, and then smiled. "Excuse me. Yes, I'm fine," she said. "What was I saying? Oh yes. Miss Keigler also does business, or at least has done business, with the Giarrettiera family... But my perception is that their arrangement is perfectly above the table. As far above the table as any such dealings can be, you understand." Mme. Mangjeol helped herself to another sip. If the coughing fit had been brought on by the wine, further intake could only aggraver the problem, but Renard reserved comment. The next two lines of dialogue took place far more quickly and with far less mysticism than Renard would have expected. "Do you believe she might have stolen Le roi Midas?" "I don't know." Renard blinked. He tilted his head slightly to regard Mme. Mangjeol from a new angle. She did not continue. "I, ah -- I beg your pardon?" "Don't get me wrong, please," she said. "Miss Keigler may very well have an appropriate history, her contact with the frame of the Boullogne might be relevant, and it seems she certainly didn't desire that I should see her at the gallery... but if you were expecting a complete story from me I'm afraid I'll have to let you down. You see, Renard..." Yoon Mangjeol spread her arms in admission. "I have no idea what Miss Keigler's power might be." " Vous... vous n'avez aucun?" "None at all." Madame Mangjeol had removed her cardboard beermat from under the glass and had taken to flipping it over and over in her fingers in rhythm with her words. "You'll have noticed, obviously, my assumption that she is a Power of some kind. For all of his intellectual shortcomings, I'd say Commissioner Williams is probably right about that, don't you think?" "Ah!" said Renard, pleased to have found once again a point of conversation onto which he could latch avec nettete. "You've spoken with the Commissioner, then." It must have been the wine which allowed Mme. Mangjeol's typique airy giggle to swell into a full-voiced laugh. "Oh, Renard!" she cried. She poured another drink for both of them. "Actually I suppose that must have happened before you arrived here. Forgive me. Well, let's simply say this: after what befell the last Commissioner, I imagine Perry Williams would rather pledge allegiance to the South Pole Summoners than risk approaching me directly. Not that that's kept him from sending officers to consult with me in disguise, mind you... The poor man thinks he's so clever." She'd returned to flipping the beermat over and over again. "I digress. No, I was simply thinking of the opinion he expressed to Mr. Whitticker for the enlightenment of the Post. I do believe a Power must be responsible for the burglary, and I do believe Miss Keigler is a Power of some kind, and sadly, Renard, I can't tell you more than what I believe." Yet this was hardly a sad revelation at all on Renard's end. In fact an idea had graced his peerless cognitive faculties with its presence. He tweaked his moustache in the manner of one who has just hit upon an exciting plan. Yoon's filthy rich. Surely you have something other than money that could be more valuable to her. Information, perhaps. Or your magical pipe, with its curious properties. Ponder whether or not you have information Mde. Mangjeol might be interested in; propose a trade if you do. "Madame," he said, straightening up in his seat, "how would it please you to possess full knowledge of Miss Keigler's powers? Would this improve your livelihood and grant unto you the satisfaction of curiosity fulfilled?" Mme. Mangjeol looked at him with somewhat more caution than enthusiasm. "This might." Renard rubbed his hands together. " Merveilleux! It's settled, then," he exclaimed. "I shall seek out Miss Keigler with all expedience. I shall determine the nature of whatever supernatural abilities she might possess, and thereafter I'll be able to bring this information to you. Perhaps we might negotiate an exchange? Could we say Miss Keigler's power would be a useful enough item to you that it would be sufficient to clear my debt? And we shall both be happy!" He concluded the offer with a hearty grin. Yet on Mme. Mangjeol's sallow face was etched nowhere near the degree of affirmation Renard had hoped for. "Oh no," she said slowly. "No, no, no. Renard. I need money. A discount, yes, to be sure, I'd agree to that... but full reprieve? Do you even realize how large the debt is that you've accumulated? You'll be lucky if the gallery's reward covers it! Renard, I've been charitable and I have been patient but this arrangement is not going to last. We have to readjust our business model." By this time he had quailed in his seat, eyes wide. She continued in a low tone, tapping the cardboard beermat against the edge of the table. "Should it come to me -- and it will -- that you have claimed the reward for the painting, then I'm prepared to give you twenty-four hours from that point until we balance our books. If you haven't repaid me by then, I will very regrettably be forced to give up on you. And that is when I'll post a reward of my own, Renard. Twenty percent of your life savings to the first one who brings you to m--" For an instant Renard thought Madame Mangjeol had lapsed into another coughing fit, but this didn't seem to be the reason she had broken off this time. She swallowed, gave a shudder, drew back, and dropped the cardboard beermat onto the cushion beside her as she covered her face with her hands. She was crying. Venture a question as to what's got Yoon so spooked. Comfort the poor lady, she's clearly been through an ordeal and finds everything terrifying at the moment! Turn up the French charm and seduce sweet Lady Mangjeol...No, that's a probably a horrid idea. Drink wine, think fast! Renard fluttered about in his seat without any idea of what to do. Shapes were shifting in the darkness as though heads were turning to look at them. "Madame!" he said frantically. "What's happened to you? Something's wrong, I know it!" One of Yoon Mangjeol's hands remained over her nose and mouth while the other pushed feebly against the table. Her black eyes were revealed, shinier than before even in the dim light. Thin dark lines trickled down her flushed cheeks. "Something wrong," she repeated indistinctly. She was speaking through sobs. "I'm trapped, Renard -- you don't know... they've tr-- he's trapped me -- You don't know... what he's said..." The hand over her face slid back up to cover her eyes. She rested that elbow on the table and leaned weakly into it. "All that he's -- you don't know... what he'll do... if I -- if I --" She had lost coherence. With no better course of action in mind, Renard rather awkwardly took her other hand, the one on the table, into his own. Her pale fingers clutched his palm very tightly. Actually Renard was unsure his digits would retain circulation for long.
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SV
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The Friendliest Member Of ALL TIME
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Post by SV on Jun 11, 2010 21:34:15 GMT -5
Thunder clapped grouchily above Sarosin Narita as he ambled down the sidewalk. His was a purposeful amble. It was the amble of a man who was looking for something but who was not in a rush to find it. His pace, steady, purposeful, leisurely. There was a jaunt in his step. He twirled his umbrella indolently, raindrops pittering against it and sent flying in every direction as it spun, a black and white blur. Sarosin had just recently bought this umbrella. It was a sturdy umbrella. It was a good umbrella. Under the awning of the Passione Rossa, he collapsed the umbrella and shook the water from it before opening the door.
His eyes adjusted to the dimness slowly. The bar's interior reminded him briefly of a tunnel, a correlation that perplexed him more than it made him uncomfortable. He put it from his mind. Behind the bar, a great bull of a man stood polishing glasses, as bartenders are wont to do. Sarosin approached him and ordered something with whiskey.
He sat at the bar, awaiting his drink and taking the room in. Even though he was used to the lighting by now, the room was still very dim. It enjoyed a comfortable amount of patronage tonight, neither too busy nor too empty. He could see now why Ms. Yoon Mangjeol met her clients here. Now, to find her --
Someone behind him began coughing violently. He turned; a very flustered gentleman was attempting to console a very distressed Korean woman. Ah, he thought, must be her.
The bartender set his drink down on the counter. When Sarosin looked, the stout man was watching the scene at the information broker's table, assessing the situation in case he needed to intervene.
Taking his drink in hand, he jerked his head in that direction as though to reassure the bartender that he would investigate it.
He crossed the room with wide strides, his khaki trench coat trailing behind him.
The gentleman at the table looked up at him briefly, his expression one of equal discomfort to that which his hand must be experiencing as Ms. Mangjeol grasped at it like it was an anchor. Sarosin poured her a glass of wine and set it gently before her.
"Ms. Mangjeol," he said quietly, not wanting to be too casual with her upon their first meeting, "is something the matter?"
He regarded the gentleman with a raised eyebrow, deciding that it must be something else because the Frenchman looked harmless enough.
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Post by Beelzebibble on Jun 12, 2010 16:15:12 GMT -5
Press her for information. A second mystery to solve? Sounds like a plan! In a bout of chivalry, vow to right the wrongs to which she has fallen victim! Surely your impressive sleuthing skills can prove of some assistance to the poor woman. " Je ne comprends pas," Renard muttered. "Who has trapped you? What's happened? Tell me, madame!" Mme. Mangjeol sniffled and wiped her eyes with a paper napkin pulled from nowhere. She was looking down at the table. "Excuse me," she said after a moment. "I've..." The airy giggle returned, but nothing more. She took a deep breath. "I've had quite a bit of wine this evening... Disregard my prattle, Renard, please. I assure you it's nothing for you to worry about." But her other hand was still grasping Renard's as tightly as ever. Renard frowned. "Madame, that response is inadequate. You are clearly in angouisse. Tell me what has befallen you! There must be some way I can assist you with this diffic--" She interrupted him for the final time that evening although still without making eye contact. "Renard." Her grip tightened. Her fingernails made their sharpness understood. He lost hold of the sentence he'd been trying to finish. "I've assured you it is nothing for you to worry about." She could apparently tell how this affected him even without looking, for her tone softened from the hiss which which she had spoken this last. Her grip relaxed. "I'm sorry, dear, but I don't want you involved. You'll only be endangering yourself... They'll kill you if they decide they've found a reason to." " Qui?" Wonder who "he" is, who has Mde. Mangjeol trapped. Suppose for a moment that it is the man who just arrived at the table. Perish the thought! It appears they've never met. It was around this time when the mondain gentleman in the khaki trenchcoat appeared over their table and poured Madame Mangjeol another glass. Renard watched her eyes dart upward to the man with panic and for an instant calculated that this must be the "he" of whom Mme. Mangjeol spoke... Yet after a beat she relaxed slightly, though without dropping her wary demeanour tout a fait. "Mr. Narita?" she asked. He nodded. "A pleasure to meet you. Nothing's the matter," she said smoothly. "Pardon my state. Mr. Rouletabille here was a friend of my husband's and I'm terribly afraid he always sets me waxing rather nostalgic whenever we talk, don't you Renard? Oh, may I...?" She gestured between them with her free hand. "Renard Rouletabille, Sarosin Narita. Mr. Narita, I do hope I'm pronouncing your name right." "How, ah..." Renard could not confess that the man's smile was exactly reassuring. "...do you do, monsieur?" Be 'encouraged' to leave as soon as possible. Attempt to free hand from Mde. Mangjeol's vice grip. Owing to the fact that Mme. Mangjeol chose this moment to let go of Renard's hand in order to recover the cardboard beermat from the cushion beside her, Renard's attempt was an overwhelming success. He set about scrabbling to regather the documents spread over the table, but had no sooner picked up the faintly rainbow-colored metallic disk and the ballpoint pen than Madame Mangjeol swept up the remaining items with one swift movement. In another second the notebook, the folded-up page from the visitor's log and the two scraps of paper bearing the handwriting of the woman with the backpack lay in one neat stack. "Now then, Mr. Rouletabille," she cooed, "that should be everything you need, shouldn't it? And you will let me know how things go with Nicole, won't you? I can't tell you how excited I am for you two." "Yes, of course..." Renard had nothing else to say. He understood naturellement her desire to withhold details of their conversation from Sarosin Narita, with whom she no doubt had an appointment which Renard must now be unwittingly intruding upon, and yet he couldn't help but feel somewhat at a loss. What had Madame Mangjeol really given him except a name? How could he...? But she was asking him to leave. Very well. He tucked the stack into the usual pocket, retrieved the massive black-and-white-striped umbrella from beside the booth and stood up. He'd soaked the cushion considerably but the trenchcoat-clad Narita appeared unlikely to care. "Goodbye, Mr. Rouletabille. Until next time!" " Oui, madame, until next time." She waggled a few fingers at him with an exaggeratedly coquettish smile. Renard gave a half-hearted wave in return before trundling away past the counter and the wall of bottles like candles toward the door.
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