22
New Year's Eve
Indiana Jones left the main gathering in the smoking room. Quietly and unnoticed, he proceeded upstairs to the guest bedroom where he was staying in Allenby's house. There he changed out of his suit and bowtie, exchanging the formal attire for his more comfortable Khakis and leather jacket. In fact, Jones was taking no chances. After pulling on his leather jacket he hooked his coiled bullwhip onto his belt behind his back. Then he fished through his opened suitcase for his .455 Webley handgun. He opened the chamber, counted six rounds, then closed and spun it before dropping the weapon into his right hand jacket pocket. He struggled a bit using his one useful arm and the fingers protruding out of the cast on his left to zip up the jacket, but managed. When he was done his left arm, with cast, was enclosed inside the leather jacket; the empty sleeve hanging limp. Finally Jones placed his fedora squarely on his head and proceeded out the door.
He took the back stairway down to the kitchen so as not to arouse anyone's attention. A few nods to the surprised kitchen servants was better than having to explain himself to Marcus or Allenby. This was something he needed to take care of on his own and he didn't want to alarm them.
He left out through the back kitchen door and crossed the modest garden to the street. A few moments later the one armed archaeologist disappeared into the thick London fog.
As he proceeded down the slick sidewalk through the fine mist of fog Jones glanced at his pocket watch in the filtered light of a street lamp. It was fifteen minutes after eleven; forty-five minutes left in the year 1937.
Jones was feeling a mix of emotions. On the one hand he was gravely concerned for the safety of the gypsy woman Vadoma ...if she was really in danger. But on the other hand he was wondering if it all was just some kind of game, and he was the pawn. Just what was this woman trying to pull? Or more importantly, why? And how? There was no better way to find out than to go and confront her, up close and personal in her Scotland Yard jail cell and Jones intended to do just that.
But if what the note said was true...?
Though the night was warmer than the previous one it was still winter, and there was a damp chill in the air. Indiana Jones placed his hand in his jacket pocket to keep it warm. The feel of the Webley handgun was comforting. The archaeologist had a sixth sense when it came to smelling danger, and tonight the aroma hung as thickly in the air as the London fog that swirled around him.
He had to walk all the way to Bloomsbury Center before finally finding a taxi.
"Victoria Embankment, Scotland Yard," he said as he slipped into the back seat.
A few moments later he was headed south towards the Thames River, and the headquarters of England's most famous police force. When he arrived, he paid the driver and got out in front of the main gate to the complex. There was a small guard shack with a policeman on duty and Jones walked up to him.
"Good evening, um, I'm here to see Inspector Davies," was all he could think of to say; a little bit angry with himself for not thinking of something better on the way over.
The young policeman looked at Jones strangely, then looked at his watch, "Sir, are you aware that it is nearly midnight, on New Years Eve? I've no doubt Inspector Davies is probably either at home, or maybe celebrating somewhere."
Jones tried to play cool, "Oh yes, of course. I, um, I don't mean that I actually want to see him. I'm sorry, what I meant to say was that I ...have a very important message for him...it's about the Malboury case."
The man continued to study Indiana Jones as one would a mad man.
Jones continued, "So...maybe if I could just go on in to the front desk, um, maybe they could help me to contact him or at least leave a message?"
"Can I see some identification sir?"
Jones fished out his wallet and brought out some ID.
"Doctor Henry Jones Jr. Oh, you're one of the gentlemen who was here yesterday."
"Yes, that's right," Jones said.
"All right sir, you may go in and speak with the officer at the front desk, he will be able to help you I'm sure."
"Thank you," Indiana Jones said as he proceeded towards the main building.
As he ascended the steps towards the entrance Jones stopped and turned around. The guard in the shack had gone back to reading the newspaper as before.
Indiana Jones made a sudden move to the right and disappeared behind one of the tall pillars that stood on the front courtyard. After a few seconds he peered around to take a second look. The man was still reading the newspaper and Jones calmly stepped out and walked away from the main building and into the fog where he headed straight for the smaller building containing the jail cells; where Vadoma was.
A minute later he opened the door and entered the jail building. The guard at the small wooden table this time was not Will; it was another young policeman on duty and Jones approached him.
"Good evening," Jones said as nonchalantly as possible.
"Sir?" the guard appeared surprised by the late night visit from the khaki clad man with the fedora.
"I'm Doctor Henry Jones Jr. ...I've been working on the Malboury case with Inspector Davies."
"What are you doing here sir?"
"Well, I'd like to speak with the prisoner for a few minutes."
"I'm sorry sir that's not possible."
"Look, here's my identification," Indy said, hoping his credentials might work as well here as they had at the front gate.
The young man looked down at Jones' identification, "Alright, so you're Doctor Henry Jones. Now why should I let you see the prisoner? And why are you comin' round here at nearly bleedin' midnight on New Year's Eve?"
Jones let out an exasperated breath, "Look, I really need to see the prisoner right away."
"Well I'm sorry sir but that's just not proper," he picked up the phone on his desk, "let me just call the duty sergeant and..."
"No," Jones held up his hand, "that won't be necessary. I'll ...I'll go back and speak with the front desk myself...again."
Jones turned around and breathed a sigh of relief as the policeman replaced the phone back down into the receiver. He walked out through the door and back out into the foggy night. He was going to have to think of something else, and quickly.
As he stood outside the door of the jail building Jones heard footsteps approaching. He pressed himself close to the wall of the building, and into the shadows. A moment later the footsteps showed themselves in the person of another policeman. Indiana Jones remained where he was as he tried to piece together what his next move would be. Making it up as you go didn't always work out.
Jones was well hidden, and the approaching policeman was oblivious of the archaeologist's presence.
Indiana Jones did a double take on the policeman who now stood before the door to the small jail building only a few feet from him. Something wasn't right. The man was carrying a thermos bottle, but Jones thought he saw something else, a glint of metal in the pale filtered moonlight. And there was something else. The man didn't look to be British. There was something foreign, and sinister about his appearance that didn't quite fit into the English 'Bobby' uniform that he wore. Maybe it was just overactive imagination, Jones thought.
But then he didn't imagine what he saw next.
The man set down the small thermos bottle and reached his hand under his coat. He pulled something out. Indiana Jones was certain that he wasn't imagining the P08 German Luger pistol that the man held in his hand. The man jacked the slide back on the weapon and then replaced it into his coat pocket. Jones reached his hand into his own pocket and felt the hard, cold nickel of his own Webley; and readied himself for what might come next.
Vadoma was right. And the Danger was real.
He glanced at his watch. Happy New Year.
Indiana Jones pulled his weapon out of his pocket and hoped he'd make it alive through the last five minutes of 1937, never mind next year.
New Year's Eve
Indiana Jones left the main gathering in the smoking room. Quietly and unnoticed, he proceeded upstairs to the guest bedroom where he was staying in Allenby's house. There he changed out of his suit and bowtie, exchanging the formal attire for his more comfortable Khakis and leather jacket. In fact, Jones was taking no chances. After pulling on his leather jacket he hooked his coiled bullwhip onto his belt behind his back. Then he fished through his opened suitcase for his .455 Webley handgun. He opened the chamber, counted six rounds, then closed and spun it before dropping the weapon into his right hand jacket pocket. He struggled a bit using his one useful arm and the fingers protruding out of the cast on his left to zip up the jacket, but managed. When he was done his left arm, with cast, was enclosed inside the leather jacket; the empty sleeve hanging limp. Finally Jones placed his fedora squarely on his head and proceeded out the door.
He took the back stairway down to the kitchen so as not to arouse anyone's attention. A few nods to the surprised kitchen servants was better than having to explain himself to Marcus or Allenby. This was something he needed to take care of on his own and he didn't want to alarm them.
He left out through the back kitchen door and crossed the modest garden to the street. A few moments later the one armed archaeologist disappeared into the thick London fog.
As he proceeded down the slick sidewalk through the fine mist of fog Jones glanced at his pocket watch in the filtered light of a street lamp. It was fifteen minutes after eleven; forty-five minutes left in the year 1937.
Jones was feeling a mix of emotions. On the one hand he was gravely concerned for the safety of the gypsy woman Vadoma ...if she was really in danger. But on the other hand he was wondering if it all was just some kind of game, and he was the pawn. Just what was this woman trying to pull? Or more importantly, why? And how? There was no better way to find out than to go and confront her, up close and personal in her Scotland Yard jail cell and Jones intended to do just that.
But if what the note said was true...?
Though the night was warmer than the previous one it was still winter, and there was a damp chill in the air. Indiana Jones placed his hand in his jacket pocket to keep it warm. The feel of the Webley handgun was comforting. The archaeologist had a sixth sense when it came to smelling danger, and tonight the aroma hung as thickly in the air as the London fog that swirled around him.
He had to walk all the way to Bloomsbury Center before finally finding a taxi.
"Victoria Embankment, Scotland Yard," he said as he slipped into the back seat.
A few moments later he was headed south towards the Thames River, and the headquarters of England's most famous police force. When he arrived, he paid the driver and got out in front of the main gate to the complex. There was a small guard shack with a policeman on duty and Jones walked up to him.
"Good evening, um, I'm here to see Inspector Davies," was all he could think of to say; a little bit angry with himself for not thinking of something better on the way over.
The young policeman looked at Jones strangely, then looked at his watch, "Sir, are you aware that it is nearly midnight, on New Years Eve? I've no doubt Inspector Davies is probably either at home, or maybe celebrating somewhere."
Jones tried to play cool, "Oh yes, of course. I, um, I don't mean that I actually want to see him. I'm sorry, what I meant to say was that I ...have a very important message for him...it's about the Malboury case."
The man continued to study Indiana Jones as one would a mad man.
Jones continued, "So...maybe if I could just go on in to the front desk, um, maybe they could help me to contact him or at least leave a message?"
"Can I see some identification sir?"
Jones fished out his wallet and brought out some ID.
"Doctor Henry Jones Jr. Oh, you're one of the gentlemen who was here yesterday."
"Yes, that's right," Jones said.
"All right sir, you may go in and speak with the officer at the front desk, he will be able to help you I'm sure."
"Thank you," Indiana Jones said as he proceeded towards the main building.
As he ascended the steps towards the entrance Jones stopped and turned around. The guard in the shack had gone back to reading the newspaper as before.
Indiana Jones made a sudden move to the right and disappeared behind one of the tall pillars that stood on the front courtyard. After a few seconds he peered around to take a second look. The man was still reading the newspaper and Jones calmly stepped out and walked away from the main building and into the fog where he headed straight for the smaller building containing the jail cells; where Vadoma was.
A minute later he opened the door and entered the jail building. The guard at the small wooden table this time was not Will; it was another young policeman on duty and Jones approached him.
"Good evening," Jones said as nonchalantly as possible.
"Sir?" the guard appeared surprised by the late night visit from the khaki clad man with the fedora.
"I'm Doctor Henry Jones Jr. ...I've been working on the Malboury case with Inspector Davies."
"What are you doing here sir?"
"Well, I'd like to speak with the prisoner for a few minutes."
"I'm sorry sir that's not possible."
"Look, here's my identification," Indy said, hoping his credentials might work as well here as they had at the front gate.
The young man looked down at Jones' identification, "Alright, so you're Doctor Henry Jones. Now why should I let you see the prisoner? And why are you comin' round here at nearly bleedin' midnight on New Year's Eve?"
Jones let out an exasperated breath, "Look, I really need to see the prisoner right away."
"Well I'm sorry sir but that's just not proper," he picked up the phone on his desk, "let me just call the duty sergeant and..."
"No," Jones held up his hand, "that won't be necessary. I'll ...I'll go back and speak with the front desk myself...again."
Jones turned around and breathed a sigh of relief as the policeman replaced the phone back down into the receiver. He walked out through the door and back out into the foggy night. He was going to have to think of something else, and quickly.
As he stood outside the door of the jail building Jones heard footsteps approaching. He pressed himself close to the wall of the building, and into the shadows. A moment later the footsteps showed themselves in the person of another policeman. Indiana Jones remained where he was as he tried to piece together what his next move would be. Making it up as you go didn't always work out.
Jones was well hidden, and the approaching policeman was oblivious of the archaeologist's presence.
Indiana Jones did a double take on the policeman who now stood before the door to the small jail building only a few feet from him. Something wasn't right. The man was carrying a thermos bottle, but Jones thought he saw something else, a glint of metal in the pale filtered moonlight. And there was something else. The man didn't look to be British. There was something foreign, and sinister about his appearance that didn't quite fit into the English 'Bobby' uniform that he wore. Maybe it was just overactive imagination, Jones thought.
But then he didn't imagine what he saw next.
The man set down the small thermos bottle and reached his hand under his coat. He pulled something out. Indiana Jones was certain that he wasn't imagining the P08 German Luger pistol that the man held in his hand. The man jacked the slide back on the weapon and then replaced it into his coat pocket. Jones reached his hand into his own pocket and felt the hard, cold nickel of his own Webley; and readied himself for what might come next.
Vadoma was right. And the Danger was real.
He glanced at his watch. Happy New Year.
Indiana Jones pulled his weapon out of his pocket and hoped he'd make it alive through the last five minutes of 1937, never mind next year.