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Ben barely even acknowledged Wallenstein's revelation that it was Frankie Seccharini who had Artie King in his pocket. Like Jo, he had been exposed to far too many near-death experiences and seen far too much of Fiona Muirenn's shooting skills to not be desensitised to any warning Wallenstein could give them about the Italians.

He looked at the file over Jo's shoulder and pointed to a line that caught his eye.

"Coburn?" he said, moving his finger over to the figure next to the Mayor's name. "And that much? Coburn doesn't strike me as the type to donate that amount of money to his own police department... At least, not without publicising it."

He sat back and bit his bottom lip in thought.

"You know, Levard, I don't think Seccharini's, if it is Seccharini," he added, mainly to piss off Wallenstein, "paying King the jack direct... This must go higher up..."

As he spoke, he took the hairpins from the corner of his mouth and, after carefully tucking the sheet of paper with the expenses inside his jacket, shut the drawer and deftly turned the barrel of the lock back with a sharp click. Then, he stood up and went over to the door. Beyond the frosted glass, the corridor was empty.

"Where's Coburn's office, Wallenstein?" he said, addressing Charlie directly for the first time since they'd come upstairs. He glanced at Jo, realising his heart was pounding with the sense that they were going to get a scoop. And a big one, if all went well.

Bernie Reiner was having quite a time at this rather grand shindig. It was always fun for him to listen in on some of the latest gossip (which really was what he was suppose to be doing anyway) and chat with old acquaintances. There was even some of his favourite drink here, and he swung himself a glass of excellent 1902 French sherry. Oh yes, quite a party, though he soon remembered what he’d initially left to do, and began his search again for their table. Eventually he found it, and spotted a rather good looking man sitting there. He looked rather familiar, though he couldn’t quite be sure with the masks.

“Jack Weathersby, is that you?” Bernie asked good naturedly, his big brown eyes smiling from behind the simple black mask he wore.



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Just arriving through the doors, a rather debonair looking pair entered the party. The man had a sleek fashionable build with short, but styled platinum blond hair. He wore a white tuxedo with gold buttons and tie with a white mask covering the top half of his face. Behind the mask was a pair of icy blue eyes showing just a hint of aloof boredom. His companion was just as stylish as he was, wearing her semi short red hair in glossy curls, while accompanied by a brilliant midnight blue and heavily beaded dress that stopped just shy of her nee. Her eyes were sky blue, though infinitely less bored. Oh no, the fact was Amelia lived for these sort of affairs.

Louis St. Clare however, was not as amused, though he did enjoy the finery. He’d actually been quite frustrated the last few days, as he’d been receiving nothing but failures and setbacks. The grave robbing circuit in France was going though undisturbed as usual, and at least his New York addition had gotten back on track now that Gordon Dawson had left the country, but that wouldn’t last long. Truthfully he’d been in a bad mood since he’d gotten to New York and learned his little nuisance wasn’t. He’d been intending to deal with that thorn in his side quickly and efficiently, but he’d quickly received the news he’d left for Cairo mere days before he’d gotten there. The Dawson boy had been looking for any excuse to meddle in his business, from leaking tips to local authorities, to actually confronting his ‘workers’. It was not just costly, it was irritating. Gordon Dawson had always had that effect on him the cocky American pilot!

Ah, but then he’d learned that his sister was in town. He remembered the raven haired sheba quite well, not bad on the eyes, intelligent in her field, and as infuriatingly stubborn as her brother. It was no accident why she was in town, though he’d originally had the rather rare tang dynasty vase stolen to lure Gordon to New York, the fact she’d rolled into town was a welcome sight. Getting his hands on the raven haired vixen would just raise the stakes a bit, and that hot headed brother of hers would come running. He’d had it all planned out, but somehow, she’d managed to stay low after that disaster of a kidnapping attempt! How hard was it to find one woman in one city with the kind of resources he had?! Apparently a lot more than he’d anticipated. He’d only come to this affair to relax a bit, at the beckoning of a few of his ‘associates’, but hopefully the night would prove to be entertaining.

More than a few songs into her evening, Dorothy cued the band to continue without her for a number or two. She was less in need of a refreshment, and more so in need of a pair of arms to loop around her on the dance floor. A certain pair of arms that she wouldn't be able to locate, she would soon find out. Once she exited the stage, she maneuvered herself through 'hello's and polite compliments to the side of the dance floor she'd seen not only Charlie, but Ben, Jo, and another man disappear from.

She'd been well fooled by the distraction this man had caused on the dance floor, and had tried to use whatever skills she'd gained in maintaining the cool of a crowd at the Gin Blossom, here. Little did she know that his ruse was a cover for the very individuals she was looking for.

Her furrow of her brow hidden behind her mask as she once again let her green eyes slowly drag across the dance floor. Jo, Ben, and Charlie weren't the only ones missing; Fiona and the glass masked man were absent the scene as well. Dorothy tried not to be worried.

While she wouldn't be dancing with Charlie, neither was she ready to return to stage. Couples were enjoying the slow paced music that the ensemble had to offer, and Dorothy decided to make the best of it and perhaps find some comfort in doing so. She wove her way through the dancers to the table where her brother in every way but blood relation sat, and placed a hand upon his shoulder.

"I know it's not customary for a lady to ask, but..." Dorothy grinned, and reached for Hugh's hands. "May I have this dance?"

Ben muttered something under his breath at Wallenstein then allowed Jo to pull him out into the corridor and upstairs. The piece of paper felt like it was burning a hole in the inside pocket of his jacket. He wouldn't like to think about what would happen if one of Coburn's goons (or any of the Italians, for that matter) caught it on him. He was pretty sure they'd be a better shot than Wallenstein's brother.

"About now would be the time to zip it," said Ben, venturing up the stairs cautiously. The corridor beyond was empty but around the corner, the slight shuffling of feet on the marble and the murmur of low voices could be heard. Unfortunately, especially since Wallenstein was here, Ben didn't have a clue how he was going to manage to tear the bimbos away from Coburn's office for long enough for him to pick its lock. He was decent enough with a set of picks (or in this case, Jo's hairpins) but it would take him a good couple of minutes to get inside. However, the very fact that they were there was otherwise a good sign; the mayor obviously had something he didn't want other people seeing in there...

Ben looked around vaguely for inspiration and his gaze alighted on a nearby door. 'Secretary to the Mayor' was inscribed on the frosted glass and, when Ben turned the doorknob as quietly as possible, the door clicked open.

He beckoned the other two inside and then prodded Jo's shoulder, pointing to the window. It looked out from the back of the building, a good fifty foot drop below, but its ledge jutted out promisingly.

"Wonder if Coburn leaves his window open..." he said to her.

"Coat closet? Why oui, dat sounds 'bout righ'." He stood completely still, waving to Patrick and Bridget before he was dragged off toward the closet. Regardless of his concealment, he still felt and suffered from paranoia, looking around at all the people he had met, ducking and dodging a few of them in the crowd. All sorts of cops and robbers, he even saw of of his more pesky rivals. Remy was slightly dazed when he saw saw a woman in black waving at him with an animal grin. Interestingly enough, she was wearing a black mask with slanted eyes. She was petite, and tightly dressed. There seemed to be a tail and cat ears were sprouting from her short hair. "Who else would it be.." He said under his breath.

The Cajun was relieved when Fiona shoved him into the closet, making him tumble and trip inside. He lifted his head out of a fur coat that found its way onto him. "You know, dere is plenty clothin' for da poor in here," He muttered. Fiona kept nudging him further in until they reached the wall. When he leaned against it, she began fiddling with his tie and teasing him. He pushed his hat up, and slid his mask of. "You're cruel." He thought he heard something moving, but he didn't want to stop Fiona. "I was merely askin' who in dis joint is worth investigtin'. However..." He went to give her a kiss when something poked through one of the coats, eyes glowing. Remy flew back into the wall in shock.

"Hiya kids, can I play too?"

Ben was tempted to agree with Charlie's first assessment of Jo. He hadn't expected her to climb straight out of the window, especially in the heeled shoes she was wearing, not to mention the pretty, admittedly, but impractical gown she was wearing.

"Er... Levard," he said, going over to the open window and sticking his head out. Jo was edging along the window ledge towards the Mayor's office, where another window ledge began, with a gap of about two and a half feet between each ledge. It would have hardly been a stretch for the tall Ben but for Jo... And in those shoes...

"Maybe you should come back and let me go first," he said, nervously, as he watched her reach for the guttering that ran above the top of the window frames. Her fingers barely closed around the tin piping. The air outside was crisp and a stiff breeze ruffled back his hair and whipped around the hem of Jo's dress.

"I promise I'll haunt you when you die of old age and get eaten by your cats in the private suite in the Ritz that you get off Edison when you divorce him..." he hissed out into the December air. Oh Lord, you'd better pray that the window to Coburn's office is open, Goldberg... he thought. You can't have risked your life to save her from being shot by Wallenstein the Elder only to have encouraged her to plunge fifty feet onto an unforgiving New York sidewalk.

"For once, I agree with you," muttered Ben, as he grabbed the edge of the window frame and pulled himself through it and out onto the ledge. He reached up to grab the gutter overhead easily and tried desperately not to look down. Now that his feet weren't on the solid carpeted floor of the secretary's office, the drop outside seemed a whole lot longer. Unlike Jo, Ben did mind heights and, when a particularly strong gust of wind halted his careful shuffling along the ledge, his pale gaze involuntarily slipped downwards.

He contained a sudden burst of fear that made his stomach lurch by swearing loudly into the cold air and clutching at the guttering so hard his knuckled went white. Once he'd reached the edge of the ledge, he stepped quickly over the horrible gap between it and the next windowsill, his dress shoes thankfully gripping the stone well. After edging hastily along the next ledge, he ducked down and slid gratefully through the open window, landing with a thud next to Jo.

He exhaled and closed his eyes for a second then, embarrassed at this display, leaned nonchalantly against the wall of Coburn's office, scanning it and waiting for Wallenstein to follow him through the open window. Through the frosted glass of the door on the other side of the room, the outlines of the bimbos waiting outside were visible. They were going to have to be very quiet.

"So where would Coburn hide incriminating evidence?" he whispered, to Jo.

Hugh listened half-heartedly to the band, drinking down champagne like water and steadily getting more and more lost in his less-than-happy thoughts. He didn't even notice when a small disturbance broke out on the floor and then a little later when Dorothy had stopped singing.

Hugh looked up with a start when he felt a familiar light touch on his shoulder and heard the sweet voice ask him to dance. He grinned a little drunkenly and stood up, sliding her hand from his shoulder to his side as he wrapped his arm around her waist, ready to whisk her off onto the dance floor.

"I think I can make an exception for one as lovely as you my dear, mmm?" Hugh said in his best "hoity-toity" voice and he stiffened his frame in his best impression of the high-brows and bluebloods present. "Shall we, DAAAHHHling?" With a much too serious face to truly be serious, Hugh swept Dorothy into an exaggerated foxtrot, with embellishments and spins galore.

"So how is it going from up there? See anything interesting from your birds eye view, Birdie?"

Hugh sent Dorothy out in a spin, resulting in bringing her in close when she spun back in. Dorothy danced well and matched his lead impeccibly. Hugh loved when he got a good follow, and Dorothy was most certainly that.

"Oh, yes! I saw quite interesting things if I do say so myself." Dorothy mimicked, following not only Hugh's lead in dance but in mockery of the well to do ladies and gents around them. She pretended at peering down her nose at him (which wasn't easy, considering his height advantage), and laughed.

Once she was pulled back closely to his side, she rested a hand upon his shoulder as though to signal a dancing stance that would allow for further conversation.

"Actually, I did see a few things. You, for example, exiting the dance floor all by your lonesome." She raised an eyebrow as though to indicate her inquiry of his feelings, which he wouldn't see underneath her mask. But Dorothy knew that Hugh would understand her, regardless of her masked expression. She had quickly found that their ability to communicate wordlessly had never disappeared, and when he wasn't ganging up on her with Clyde, they used the ability often. "I also couldn't help but notice who took your place."

If Hugh found Dorothy to be a perfect dance partner, Dorothy found Hugh to be the perfect sounding board for the things that troubled her mind. He listened well, and he had heard all about both Ben and Charlie. She could only assume that Hugh would understand her discomfiture at seeing Ben again, so soon, in the arms of another woman.

"And I saw Charlie disappear off the dance floor, followed by the dancing writers and now they've gone and disappeared. He didn't say anything to you, did he? Charlie, I mean. It's awfully strange that the three of them went off together...oh! And with some other fella, who caused a drunken scene on the dance floor." Dorothy was grateful for the slowing pace of dancing prompted by the change of song. It allowed her remain held comfortably in Hugh's arms, "So, yeah, I guess I'm a bit worried. How are you feeling?"

"Under the-?" Ben broke off, figuring it was better to trust Jo than argue with her, especially when Coburn's goons could walk through the door at any moment. He just couldn't see why the Mayor of New York city would hide documents that could potentially ruin him in such an obvious place as under the cushions of the expensive-looking chesterfield that stood in the corner of the room.

He did it anyway, though, and found nothing. He stood back up straight and ran his hand agitatedly through his hair as he scanned the office, looking for somewhere, anywhere that Coburn could have hidden some vital evidence of the fixes he was taking from the Italians. Coming up with nothing, he went over to the bookcase in the corner. It was filled with the kind of books that Coburn thought would look good sitting on the shelves but had probably never read. Ben picked up a pristine copy of Plato's Republic and thumbed through it, checking inside the front and back covers. Still nothing. At random, he picked up Say's A Treatise on Political Economy. Nothing again.

"Found anything, Levard?" he whispered to Jo, casting a glance towards the door. The bimbos outside were speaking in thick, low voices and through the frosted glass, Ben could not quite make out what they were saying.

Turning his gaze back to the bookcase, his eyes alighted on Machiavelli's The Prince. That was interesting. Hardly fitting to the image of a political ruler that the expert PR-manipulator Coburn would want to portray. Ben slid it out of the bookcase.

Hugh laughed at Dorothy's mimicry of the people around them. Dorothy sidled up to him after a spin-out and rested her hand on his shoulder, making him smile. The smile quickly disappeared, however, when she mentioned Jo and a certain someone.

Hugh listened as Dorothy talked about Charlie joining the two as well as the man who had been drunk on the floor earlier. Hugh looked down at her a little perplexed when she said they had disappeared, though. He hadn't even noticed.

"No, he didn't say anything to me. I didn't even realize they had left. I guess I was too busy thinking and drinking probably more than my fair share of champagne. That's strange that they all went off together. I have no idea why. Maybe the two newshawks have a scoop? BUt why would they drag ol' Charlie along with them?"

Hugh knew he probably wasn't being much help or comfort to Dorothy, but he honestly couldn't think of any reason why Charlie would go off with Ben and Jo. And apparently a drunken man.

"Either way, I'm sure Charlie is fine. He's got a good head on his shoulders and he has a good girl to look after. It doesn't say much for Ben though, rushing into the arms of another woman so soon after you." Hugh left out the part about those arms being the arms of his flame.

"I think I'm going to have a talk with Jo whenever she gets back. I don't like being her fool." Hugh glanced sidelong at Dorothy.

The Prince fell open in his hand at page fifty-three, on the first leaf of a chapter entitled 'Reputation of a Prince'. He flicked through the book with ink-stained fingers until he came to the last page.

"Copacetic..." he said, in a low voice. Tucked inside the back cover was a slip of paper, neatly typed and detailing a list of payments; a receipt of sorts. Ben unfolded the rest of it with one hand to reveal something he was not expecting. The bottom was signed B.M. Not F.S. Surely not...

"Levard, you're not going to believe this," he said. "Coburn's two-timing the Italians..." Ben grinned in disbelief and the thrill of somehow managing a scoop that was even bigger than he thought possible. Edison was going to have a heart-attack. Then he was going to set the presses going and Ben was going to get the biggest paycheck he'd ever seen in his entire life. Then the next morning, his and Jo's names would be on the front of The Times and Coburn would be within twenty-four hours or resignation and, if Ben had anything to do with it, arrest.

Ben went over to Jo and handed her the paper.

"...with the Irish."