DeWitt looks back. Elizabeth has stopped and is staring at the worker outside like she's seeing a ghost. Though given the 'quirks' of ADAM, perhaps she is. "Everything okay?" DeWitt starts to ask. She blinks. "Hey! Elizabeth!" he calls. Her head turns in his direction. For a moment, he thinks she's about to smile. Then the moment passes, and he notices a thin line of blood running down her face from her nose. "Your nose is bleedin'." he tells her.
"What?" She touches her fingers to a nostril. It's only then that he notices she's missing a pinkie. "It's nothing." she says before he has a chance to comment on it. "Let's move on."
"Fine with me." He waits for her to catch up before he asks her, "You want to wash it off?"
"I imagine people would stare if I walked about with blood on my face." she admits.
"They'd probably stare either way. There's a public restroom up the stairs in the Andalusian Arms. You'll have to go in by yourself; management's not too keen on me there anymore."
"I can handle myself Mr DeWitt." she says. Nevertheless, he escorts her through the front door. The bellhop holds up a warning hand.
"Got some nerve showing your face round here pal." he says. Elizabeth walks past him unhindered.
"Just makin' sure the lady gets where she wants t' go." DeWitt responds evenly. He leans back against the reception desk, ignoring the bellhop's suspicious glare. A few minutes later, Elizabeth returns. The blood on her hand and face is gone, as is her second cigarette. She walks past him without even looking in his direction. He stands up and follows her.
She pushes the button to call the elevator, and seems relieved when the door opens almost immediately. They step inside and she folds her arms, leaving it to him to press the button to take them to the High Street. DeWitt attempts to make small talk as the elevator starts its ascent. "So, what part of town you from?" he asks.
"Mercury Suites." Elizabeth lies.
DeWitt whistles. "That explains why I haven't seen you 'round before." A sharp stabbing pain suddenly cuts through his head. His vision goes gray and fuzzy. He sees hands, his hands, clutching a bowl of water, and then...
"Mr DeWitt." The strange woman's voice comes to him from a long way away. "Is something the matter?"
He looks up at her. A long way up. He must've fallen to his hands and knees this time. "I'm fine." he tells her. "I get these...flashes sometimes... Think I oughta slow down on the splicin'." Her face is unreadable, but she allows him to get back on his feet without further comment. By the time the doors open, it's almost as if nothing had happened.
A waiter is there to greet them. "Refreshment sir?" he asks.
DeWitt shakes his head. "Better not."
The waiter looks to Elizabeth. "Madam?"
"Thank you, no." Elizabeth says. The waiter disappears in a cloud of red. He reappears a few steps away, creating cool mist inside a customer's glass, then disappears again, only to show up behind the bar to light someone's cigarette with his fingers the same way DeWitt had done.
"It ain't real teleportation." DeWitt explains as he and Elizabeth make their way through the lower level of the establishment. "Just looks like it. They're invisible, is all."
"How do you know?"
"One of 'em tried to jump me a couple of months ago. Junkie. Wasn't as sneaky as he thought he was; forgot to take his boots off. I waited til he used it, then I punched him in the face."
"Very observant. I can see how you found your calling as a detective."
As DeWitt leaves Le Temps Perdu, he's struck with the sudden realization of just how monumental a task he's undertaken. Finding one little girl in the whole of Rapture looks increasingly like sheer and utter folly. He takes the photo from his pocket and stares at it, forcing himself to remember everything he can about her. "First things first." he says, as much for his own benefit as for Elizabeth's. "If livin' in Rapture's taught me anything, it's that if you want answers, you go straight to the top. Let's find out about that party Andrew Ryan's going t' be at."
"One of the shopkeepers might know something." Elizabeth suggests.
"Good thinking. Let's start with Mister Schmidt. We have a...longstanding arrangement."
Herr Schmidt, however, doesn't know anything about Ryan's supposed party. Neither does the proprietor of Le Marquis D'Epoque, one Winston Hoffner, who does however comment on not having had the 'pleasure' of DeWitt's company for a very long time. Elizabeth frowns at this, and, when DeWitt asks her why, conceals the real reason by feigning snobbery at the name. "The literal translation just serves to confuse people who might actually speak French. A better name would be something along the lines of 'L'homme Moderne'."
"Huh. Never imagined you'd be interested in France."
"I must admit I've never been. Not really. Maybe one day..." She looks back at him. "Where should we go next?"
DeWitt rubs his chin thoughtfully. "The Watched Clock's usually a good place to pick up on the gossip. If that doesn't work, we could try a couple of the high-brow places: Artist's Struggle or Rapture Records..."
"What about that Cohen character?" Elizabeth asks. There's a sign for his local club off to the left, along with a group of interpretative dancers on illuminated pedestals out in front. That nutjob's never been much for subtlety, DeWitt thinks.
Aloud, he says, "Best if we keep someone like you as far away from him as possible. The last thing we'd need is for him to take a shine to you."
"Stranger things have happened. I guess The Watched Clock it is." They take a detour off of High Street itself and turn into a side passage that leads to a surprisingly spacious diner. The interior is beautifully lit and decorated. Even at this late hour, there are a handful of other patrons scattered about, none of whom pay much attention to the newcomers. The owner looks up from wiping down the counter.
"Evening folks. What can I get ya?"
DeWitt opens his mouth to say something, but Elizabeth interrupts. "A plate of bread and cheese will be fine." she says.
"Sure." the man says. "And for you?" he asks DeWitt.
"Box of crackers." DeWitt replies, the shrug not evident as much in his body as in his voice.
"Coming right up." The man heads back into the kitchen while DeWitt and Elizabeth take a seat in one of the empty booths. A pleasant little instrumental jazz number from the radio behind them drifts throughout the room, while the smell of meat being cooked on the stove wafts in from the kitchen. Elizabeth looks at anything and everything except the man sitting across from her. She notes the lesbian couple who seem to know and love the music being played, and her mind takes her back to Columbia and Daisy Fitzroy, and the secret one of the doors had imparted to her about the erstwhile leader of the Vox Populi. Daisy died during the six months of hell Elizabeth had been made to endure. The doctors said she'd personally led an assault on Comstock House, but had only managed to launch a few salvos from the zeppelin she'd commandeered before Songbird ripped it to shreds.
Elizabeth doesn't feel like eating any more.
When the waiter returns with their food, DeWitt and Elizabeth both thank him, but they're promptly distracted upon hearing the words 'Andrew Ryan' somewhere in the diner. Casually, they look out of the corners of their eyes until they locate the speaker: a middle-aged brown-haired man wearing glasses. They probably wouldn't be able to pick him out of a crowd; Rapture's full of men like him; but what he's saying proves more interesting than his appearance. He's standing next to a booth with two women in it. From the way they're holding themselves, he seems to be a friend. "I can't believe he's hosting that party at Sander Cohen's. Man gives me the shivers." he's saying.
"He's harmless!" one of the women responds. "An eccentric! Rapture's full of guys like him!"
"Harmless as long as you don't diss his music. Or his 'humanitarian work'. Or his painting. Or his sculptures-"
"Give it a rest Phil! I don't believe a single thing that comes out of those parties. They're simply jealous he didn't offer to paint THEM instead!"
DeWitt sighs as he pries open his box of crackers. "Figures he'd set up at Cohen's. Couldn't have been somewhere down on Market Street or even in Fort Frolic, oh no; he gotta show the upper-crust there's nothin' t' be afraid of."
"I don't suppose we could just walk over and knock on the door." Elizabeth muses. "There's bound to be some kind of dress code..."
"I doubt the detective look's gonna go over well in a place like that." DeWitt says. "Well, cross that bridge when we get to it." He leaves some money for the bill on the table, plus a little extra as a tip. Elizabeth slips the last of her cheese into what's left of the bread to make an impromptu sandwich and hurries to catch up.