[MaC] At the Fitzroys: Hodges and Braham

[Mel Mason]

Hodges surveyed his hands, noting the dark under his cuticles.  It would 
have to be good enough.  At least he had the time to don clean pants, 
starched shirt and jacket. He straightened his tie in the oval mirror above 
the dresser before heading to the Fitzroys.  Hearing the groan of the lift, 
Hodges winced.  If guests were arriving already, he was late.  An Englishman 
was nothing if not punctual.

The gentleman climbed the stairs.  Given the current condition of the lift, 
no doubt he would reach the Fitzroys apartment first.  When he did, he 
firmly knocked on the door and announced himself. "Its Hodges, sir  Sorry 
about the time."

Marty Fitroy himself came out into the hall and directed a glower at him 
that put Hodges in mind of a swelling toad.

"So, you're 'ere at last, are?" he said.  "Well, you'd better 'op to it - 
the guests will be arriving any minute."  As if in confirmation of his 
words, the doorbell rang.  Frowning, he turned to attend to it himself, 
waving Hodges towards the stairs that led to the upper level of the 
penthouse, where the lounge was located (OOC - see 
http://www.amberpbem.net/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/~MurderAtChristmas/Main/PenthouseUpperLevel).

There in the larger room, the picture windows hung with heavy blackout 
curtains, Hodges found a long table set with bottles of gin, tonic, bitters, 
vermouth, scotch, lime juice and a few liqueurs - as well as Malvern water 
for the faint of heart.  Also present was Esme Fitzroy who looked at Hodges 
nervously, before standing and walking towards him, hand extended.

"So good of you to help out," she said colourlessly.  "You can mix 
cocktails, can't you?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Braham picked up a notebook, thought for a moment and set it promptly back
down again. No, it was best to not take notes at the party. Some people
might find the behavior distinctly odd. He knew he would if he had
witnessed someone doing the same just a few years ago. Whatever happened,
he would simply have to mark it in his memory and record it later. That
would be the easiest way. With that decided he headed for the door without
further hesitation.

Once free of the confines of his flat, he bounded towards the staircase. He
nearly flew up them, taking the steps two at a time. The exertion did not
steal his breath but it was still enough to get his blood flowing. Feeling
much more like his normally easy going self, he knocked gently on the
Fitzroy's door. I am probably first to arrive, he thought to himself.
Mother would be horrified. An impish grin met his lips as he awaited an 
answer.


The door was opened by the larger than life figure of Marty Fitzroy, 
resplendent in his black tie.  For a fleeting second, Braham had the 
impression that Fitzroy was disappointed - perhaps because he had been 
expecting someone else.  But then he beamed and took Braham's extended hand 
in his own meaty clasp, almost jerking the slighter American into the 
penthouse flat bodily.

"Welcome!" he said heartily.  "Welcome!  Come and have a Christmas drink!"

Braham again noticed that Fitzroy looked over his shoulder, as though 
checking to see if anyone else was coming before he turned and ushered him 
towards the steps that led to the upper level.

"I'll stay here," his host told him.  "Let our guests in, you know.  Just go 
up and say your 'ow do's to Esme.  Just turn left at the top.  It's a bit 
dark, and when you come to the wall you've gone too far."

He laughed, expecting his guest to see the joke.

In fact, it proved fairly logical for Braham to find his way to the lounge, 
and when he arrived, the woman in grey mauve crepe de chine greeted him.

"Good evening, Mr ... ?"