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Not all the Village has a nice sensibility about it. Some corners run deep towards dingy, resistant to the gentrification brought by students, idealist dreamers from the Midwest, and artists out to make their big break. In some places it can feel like going back in time a decade or two or four. That's where any would be client goes, anyways. A certain investigation firm has a brownstone all to itself, stuffed into the thicket of one-way streets where the light can't quite penetrate through the trees or buildings set too close together.
Happy hour in the summer comes a bit later than winter. The sun doesn't begin to stoop on its celestial course, putting the 'five o'clock somewhere' notion to bed. Try 6:30. Down the way a dive bar caters to the locals unimpressed by the long-hairs named Janis or Bob. They get their pours and disregard the businesses next door or half a block away. In short, the visitors are ignored until they show up at Glory and King.
As it stands, there's no trace of King though the psychometric residue might be there if someone needs confirmation. Barely. There also lies a much heavier weight around the place that comes with despair, long hours worked, fighting against obligatory demons and drink. Glory herself plays secretary, sitting at a desk and punching at a typewriter unhappily.
*
Logan arrives alongside Jean. The two had done some poking around on their own, but Logan's rough looks and Jean's youth hadn't exactly opened a lot of doors. Logan could, of course, ask his questions more roughly, but they were trying not to make a racket. Truth be told, much as he loved his Chandler, Logan knew he didn't have what it takes to be a proper gumshoe. Sure, he could scent-track a mook across the damn city, but he couldn't play by even the rules of noir. Sam Spade didn't leave a lot of bloody corpses in his wake.
Logan is going to let Jean take point, though, since she knows more about it. He's happy to play the muscle. He lights a stogie and pulls out a chair for her and then settles in next to her. A quick whiff tells him a few things about the woman on the other side of the desk, "Ain't no secretary affordin' that perfume. You're either more'n you seem or you got a sugar daddy payin' fer yer toilette," he says, doing an admirable pronunciation of the French.
*
Appearances can be deceiving. A well-dressed young woman fronting the business is not a new concept, and neither are particularly lovely people chosen for looks over skills. Elizabeth is definitely no iron-haired mistress of the typing pool. She taps at the keys, banging out a letter on good paper devoid of any visible letterhead. More substantially though, her face gives her away to anyone looking at a magazine in the last five years or so. She's not Twiggy or Jean Shrimpton, but lovely enough to rival them in ways. And Elizabeth Braddock, English model at large, works for… An investigation firm. Sam Spade somehow secured himself a hell of a doll for the front room.
The others entering cause her to look up from her work. She hits the carriage return with a satisfying ding! from the metal body of the machine. "Good evening, sir, ma'am."roper English veers right for OxCam, the sort of posh accent one gets working for the BBC. "Welcome to Glory and King. An interesting observation, sir, one I can neither confirm or deny."Confidentiality and all that.
*
Compared to Elizabeth, Jean was no looker herself. She did at least wear a nice little hat to cover the red bun, black rimmed glasses that sits low upon her nose. She herself almost looks like a secretary in the making, if it wasn't for the silly little dress that she wears, high socks and black and white dress shoes to match. The small clutch was held with bare fingers, set right into her lap.
In another world, she looks almost like she could be Logan's daughter.
"Pardon my companion.." Jean says with a smile, slipping forward with a half lean and a lift of her hand to tilt her hat. "..he's the forward sort. But, we came here today in hopes of you helping us. Well, not me perse but a friend. Uh.. a family friend?" Jean sighs a little. "It's.. complicated somewhat."
*
Logan snorts and looks over at Jean, "No need to make excuses fer me, darlin'. The young lady ain't offended. And it ain't so much me bein' forward as not having much interest in bullshit," he says, taking a drag on his cigar and dropping the match in his pocket.
"Ain't that complicated. We're lookin' fer somebody, want to ask 'em a few questions. Yer in the business o' findin' folks. Straight business," he says.
*
Naturally it is complicated. Glory and King would not exist without complications in life, ripples that distort the smooth sailing everyone wants. Elizabeth smiles, and however incongruous it might be seeing one of the more successful models of the 1960s sitting behind a heavy enameled-case typewriter, it's possibly more so when she conducts herself with typical English aplomb.
She opens a drawer in that desk, pulling out a soapstone ashtray molded with the Inuit stylings of Canada's Far North. This is set down on the corner facing Logan, since his stogie needs somewhere to be dashed unless he's burning it out on his leg for fun. "I like characters," she says lightly. "Else I wouldn't work with Mr. King. Apologies he isn't in the office at the moment, though I can take your particulars and put him in contact with you."
The typewriter is ignored as the gamine young woman reaches for a pad of paper and a pen, poised to observe storytelling for a noir age. She swivels slightly in her chair to face them, an encouraging, small smile shared again. "You want to locate someone. How many details about them do you have, and how long did you know their last whereabouts?"
*
Mr. King. That was a name that she was somewhat familiar with. With a shake of her head, she looks towards Logan with a smile, her hand reaching out to lightly pat his thigh. "I know.." She says quietly. Still, she at least wanted to be polite.
"I only have a few, by the way. I know that she has red hair. I do not know how tall she is. And I do not have a last name. Only the first. Her name is Medusa." She smiles a little again, then shrugs her shoulders. "The last I've heard, she was involved in a jewelry store robbery not too long ago. I'm unsure if it's reached the news or not. But really, that's all I have."
*
Logan nods in agreement with Jean, "Let's just say, while we don't know the lady much, we know of her and we know people who know her. An' none o' them would say that goin' around robbin' folks is in whatcha might call her normal character," he says. "So there must be somethin' more goin' on than her just needin' a bit o' extra scratch so she can buy a nice bag at Macy's, savvy?"
He's watching Elizabeth closely, curious and measuring, but reaches over and gives Jean a reassuring squeeze on the knee.
*
The details are neatly jotted down with the precision expected from anyone in the secretarial pool, even if they're wearing designer clothes and probably better suited to a shindig somewhere swanky on the Upper East Side. The dark-haired woman nods. "Out of character behaviour does cause concern. Can you tell me about Miss Medusa's associates?" she asks, her accent solidly nailing down every round vowel. "Is there anyone that she was known to affiliate herself with who might have encouraged these activities? I am thinking possibly a friend or a beau, the sort to lead a nice girl astray." It's a default position.
Logan may well pick up on the fact her physical control of herself is excellent. Her back is perfectly straight, her core engaged, her posture attentive and not afflicted by any fidgeting. Period.
*
Logan put it into better words than she could have. She watches him as he explains, then glances back towards Elizabeth. Jean hadn't considered all of this information, no. The detective novels.. she's failed them completely.
"We don't know. We only know of her sister." Jean admits. "Her sister and the rest of their family was.." She searches her memory for the words. "..ousted from their home. And I think in the ensuing confusion, they lost track of each other. While we do know that she's in New York or the state overall.. that's all we have to go on."
Jean's physical control? Complete shit. She was fidgeting. "We were suspecting brain washing or something else."
*
Logan nods, "She's high-class, that much is for sure. Definitely not a street rat or the kind of chick who usually falls in with pimps or gangsters," he says. "She can probably handle herself, too, so it ain't likely she's bein' straight bullied or forced into it. But, on the other hand, ain't nobody invulnerable - well, almost nobody," he grins for a moment. "Everybody's got their weak spots. Maybe somebody found hers."
*
"Pressure on an upper-class girl out of her depth, she might be too proud to say anything, or realize what happened until she's out of her depth," Elizabeth murmurs almost to herself, but audible enough to let the ideas trace over the company on the other side of the desk. "Also why I asked if there might be a known factor in play, like a boyfriend. The human heart is the most powerful force on Earth, sometimes. Takes all sense and dumps it on its head. But burglary and cutting off family does speak to a different kind of problem." Her quirky, small smile is back, though it's not quite warming her eyes. Another type of person would put their elbow on the desk and start scribbling possibilities. She's probably never jumped a line in her life. "Somewhat more serious, if this is so out of character for her."
Drawing herself up, she says, "Of course Mr. King will need to draw up any particulars. How we tend to handle these cases is quite straightforward. He makes quiet inquiries to check off whether Miss Medusa has been at any of her local haunts. Talk to some friends and acquaintances, if possible, as an unconnected party in case they might give a lead. Then he does a deeper dive, and we start sifting through her activities up to the point when you lost contact with the young lady. That process can take much longer; it's all based on how much information comes up, how good those leads are. We can't guarantee you a time frame, but our results are very good, and we are sensitive to Miss Medusa's particulars. It's not going to make the front of the newspaper. We don't file reports with the police unless it's quite clear her life is in immediate danger."
*
Ayup. From here on out, she was going to let Logan do the talking. She would just smooth things over. That would be her job. It was her own first mystery, and outside help was best. Since.. Jean herself rarely visited any place that had to do with 'outside'. But she keeps quiet, her fingers soon drawn together along the bridge of her clutch, her arm slightly lifted to brush her nose against her upper arm, her eyes wide as she looks back and forth to the two.
Elizabeth wasn't writing. Maybe she didn't need to or took them seriously.
'You do look rather odd, sitting here.' The voice murmurs within her mind.
Her eyes slip to the left as she stares.
'This all could be so simple. Just lean on me. We will scorch the Earth together to find her..'
Jean's head shakes a little, her hand drawing upright to draw the glasses off of her nose to pinch the bridge of it. "We understand. And payment?" She finally blurts out. Not snappish, but rushed.
*
Logan scoots a little closer to Jean. He doesn't fully know what she goes through, with the voices and the issues she faces, but he knows enough to know when something was triggered. He needed to be there both to reassure her and, if necessary, put himself between her and anything else she might try to destroy. Because he, at least, would be able to get up when it was over.
"Might have to see if we can arrange fer ya to talk with some of her family an' such - they probably know more than us. We're what ya might call interested parties more'n anything," he says.
At the mention of payment, he shrugs, "I'm sure we can work out whatever payment's necessary," he says. Chuck's loaded, after all, and probably won't miss fifty a day plus expenses or whatever this dame and this Mr. King charged.
*
"Arrangements for payment are done by Mr. King." It's like asking what size a lady wears. Elizabeth deals with it as politely as one might, not entirely dismissive. "He has a better understanding for the difficulty and any assistance he might need. I just work the front desk." A slight crack in the English façade follows, a glimpse of her dipping her head with that keen awareness for her best angles. "Not much different than the cameras, I assure you." Do what the photographer tells you, honey.
The skim of the pen over the paper fills out a few more lines. "A redhead named Medusa. That ought to interest him on basis of name alone. All right, then, mates, is there anything else unusual about the lady to document? Talking to her sister would be a great help. Not only for us, but for her, to assure we are taking steps to help."
Little voices in heads cause not a hint of a pause, but if anyone was telepathically listening in to the room, there's no more Glory Braddock to detect in the least. She's simply not there on the psionic spectrum, erased in a sweep.
*
Jean quietly nods towards Logan, her eyes nearly burning as she looks towards him to force a smile. Still, she leans a little closer. Her fingers twisting her glasses to make them dangle as she looks over towards the left again, and then towards Glory.
'You can't ignore me forever.'
Jean stands abruptly, offering up a slight little nod as she excuses herself a little politely, her fingers shaking as she reaches for the door to push it open and close behind her. Logan can handle the rest, he was more than capable.
"Why aren't you nice to me.." Jean whispers harshly, the figure of her slowly moving away from the door.
*
Logan is honestly more concerned with Jean than he is with anything relating to Medusa at the moment. He pushes up from his chair, "Unusual? Yeah, might say that. Hold on, lemme jus' make sure my friend's okay," he says, "Oh, name's Logan, by the way. Pleasure to meetcha," he says, going in pursuit of Jean.
*
"Please do. If she needs somewhere quiet to sit, we have a spot further back from here." Elizabeth gets to her feet from behind the desk and leaves pen and notepad. The woman can walk in heels at speeds usually reached only when flight is involved, which is to say she can strut it. Her path goes after Jean, and she thinks to snag the keys for the door just in case. "Miss? Are you feeling quite well?" These things are probably, in retrospect, a good way to explain why all the glass in a two block radius is now cracked when things go pear-shaped. She gives a worried look at Logan, but nods.
*
There wasn't an answer. Just laughter. A quiet laughter within her mind that causes her fingers to clasp hard against her glasses to seek to bend them. She also closes her eyes, attempting to breathe, to calm herself before any approach. But with Logan's arrival, her eyes snap open and she turns with a grand smile towards the man. "Hi. Everything done?"
Elizabeth's arrival as well causes her a little bit of surprise, her fingers soon uncurling her glasses to slip them right back on, crooked as they may be now.
"Yes! Why yes I am!" She rightfully lies. "I do think I'd like to have a bit of a drink and a snack.." She looks around, attempting to at least appear famished. And failing. "But.. has business concluded?"
*
Logan reaches out and puts a hand on Jean's shoulder, reassuring her, "Nah, cause turns out this broad's a decent person, so she came out to check on ya, too," he says. "Crazy, huh? I think we're almost done, though," he says.
"Cards on the table, if you got a problem with mutants or people with powers, yer gonna have a bad time on this case," he says, taking a long drag on his stogie, "Medusa's got 'em. I got 'em. You can bet your bippy that if anybody is manipulatin' or messin' with her, that they got 'em, too."
*
"Business should be fine. Anything Mr. King needs to know, he can ask. I refuse to banish good manners just for another note." Elizabeth is English, and sometimes it shows. "A cup of tea might be good, just the thing to be right as rain. I can tell you, don't bother with half the restaurants around here. All flash and no substance, but there is a good café about three blocks down which does a cracking BLT sandwich, if that's your thing." Infused by far too much British slang, she sounds so hard the part it's almost frightening.
Logan's news is met without a bat of an eyelash. Professionalism at its finest and the stiff upper lip of her people essentially render the pretty young woman unruffled. "Why, thank you for your honesty. We do appreciate the warning, at least to be aware of mitigating circumstances." It's a term like friendly fire, Orwellian before Orwell became a thing. "I have no opinion one way or the other about them. A job is a job. We conduct ourselves with discretion and a high standard, and that means no judgments. If Miss Medusa has lost herself in Mutant Town doing nefarious things, it's none of my business why or how, only to see her safely home."
*
There was a silent surprise that was written on Jean's face. Yet she had nothing to say. Logan was running the show now, she was just.. well, a hanger on. Cards were on the table and the truth was out there. "I'll.. send Crystal to see you soon." She murmurs quietly. "Ms. Medusa's sister. Is that alright?"
*
Logan nods, "Just keeping things on the up and up. Don't need you quittin' just cause somebody with wings pops up or you find a witness named Zubo the Tangler who lives in Mutant Town. Zubo's a good guy, by the way, mouth full o' tentacles 'r not," he says.
"Yeah, Crystal can fill ya in more. Just make sure yer ceiling's are high, don't want her scrapin' 'er nose. C'mon, Jeannie, let's get ya home. We'll get some red hots on the way…"
*
"That sounds lovely. You two go running over towards the green building on the corner, the cafe's right around there. I'll have Mr. King drop in and give you a quote or any further questions. If you send Crystal by, I'll… worry about the ceilings being dusted." Right. Mutants. Elizabeth can handle the oddest of things and apparently people who float at random or have very tall hair are part and parcel of it.
