The fifth-floor corridor of the Savoy was lined with thick Persian carpets, golden pomegranate motifs woven meticulously across their surface. Outside Suite 506, the brass nameplate gleamed under the soft morning light, polished to a warm, inviting luster.
Shane pushed the door open. The suite was bathed in gentle sunlight streaming through half-drawn velvet curtains. Flecks of gold from the Thames' reflection danced across the teak floor.
In the center of the living room, a mahogany desk stood sentinel beside an eight-day Swiss chain mantel clock. Its soft ticking seemed unusually prominent in the quiet, a reminder of the precision and control valued by the suite's occupant.
A gilded crystal decanter on the mantelpiece caught the sunlight, fracturing it against a small reproduction of a Renoir painting across the room.
The doorbell rang just as Shane finished shaving with a silver-plated razor. He set down the towel and opened the door.
Standing there was the epitome of British sophistication: oval-faced, iron-grey sideburns sharply trimmed, and a striped morning coat so immaculately pressed it seemed impossible to crease.
"Mr. Shane Cassidy, I presume," said the man smoothly, his accent refined, unmistakably West End London. "Charlie insisted I deliver this in person."
Shane stepped aside. Harry Crocker entered with deliberate poise, eyes scanning the suite before resting on the desk and the clock.
"Charlie values this collaboration immensely." Crocker produced a gold-embossed envelope from his silk-lined pocket. It gleamed like honey in the sunlight, the wax seal bearing Chaplin's iconic mustache.
He tapped the envelope with the golden head of his ebony cane. "A private screening—next Wednesday, Leicester Square Theatre. Best seats, as requested." His smile was perfectly measured, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of hidden calculation.
Shane took the envelope, noting faint indentations from Crocker's fingernails—subtle tension restrained behind the man's composed exterior.
"Seven tonight," Crocker said, tapping his cane twice on the carpet. "Welcome dinner in the River Room at the Savoy. Mr. Coward and Miss Lawrence will also be in attendance."
By nightfall, the River Room was aglow with crystal chandeliers. Shane, clad in a black tuxedo, entered with Mikhail and William Catterson, his lawyer. Light danced across silver cutlery and porcelain, illuminating a room of fashionably attired guests.
Crocker stood by the fireplace, tapping his ebony cane against the marble mantel. A gentleman in a deep blue velvet suit, surrealist brooch pinned askew—a twisted clock reminiscent of Dali—conversed animatedly.
"Ah, our transatlantic guest," Crocker said, raising a glass in distant acknowledgment. His gaze lingered on Shane before drifting to the pianist. "Ivor, perhaps 'The Merry Widow'? Marion Davies adores that piece."
Marion Davies leaned lightly against the piano, her champagne-colored silk dress flowing. She smiled warmly at Shane as he accepted a whiskey from the waiter.
"That brooch," Shane said, nodding toward the surrealist pin, "is fascinating. Time seems to be melting."
Marion's eyes sparkled. "Edward James, yes. A generous patron of our salon, and an avid surrealist collector." She leaned closer, her voice a conspiratorial murmur. "Your work in Los Angeles is already the talk of London. Negotiating between MGM and Technicolor in just two months—that's astonishing—"
Her words were interrupted by Crocker's louder laughter as he leaned to light a cigarette for Lawrence, whose entrance was marked by the golden flicker of a silver lighter on his iron-grey sideburns.
"My dear Gertrude," he said, emphasizing her nickname, "I hear you declined Paramount's offer?"
Marion's pearl earrings quivered with the motion, her glance to Shane pointed yet unreadable.
Ivor Novello's piano offered a timely interlude, playing Old Man River from Show Boat, slowed deliberately to draw out tension beneath the melody.
Noël Coward drifted toward Shane, his glass of champagne catching the light. "Notice Crocker's unusual attentiveness tonight?" he murmured. "He's preoccupied with proving his importance—but he forgets who the true guest of honor is."
A subtle nod toward Shane accompanied a nearly imperceptible smirk. "Eagerness can be revealing. Sometimes it masks more than it shows."
During dessert, Shane casually mentioned the latest three-strip Technicolor process pioneered by Pioneer Optics. A hush fell across the table; silverware paused mid-air. Crocker's jaw tightened, his usual smile freezing into a faintly rigid line. A vein throbbed at the edge of his sideburns.
Marion's champagne glass rang softly. "Chaplin's United Artists collaborating with Pioneer Optics, correct?" she asked, twirling the stem. "A sample of the film even arrived last week."
Coward's knife and fork covered the faint sound of Crocker's cane striking the floor.
Edward James leaned forward, the surrealist brooch casting distorted reflections on the linen.
"My dear Marion," he said, voice smooth, "the film—this three-color process—it's true, isn't it?"
Tension rippled subtly through the room. Lawrence's fingers paused on her pearl necklace, eyes darting between Crocker and Shane.
"Charlie is delightfully childlike," Marion whispered, half-covering her face with an ivory fan. "He even slips circus tickets into letters." Her toe nudged Shane's shoe beneath the table.
Lawrence rose gracefully. "It grows late. Rehearsal awaits tomorrow," she murmured, eyes meeting Shane and Crocker with quiet knowing.
When the last guests departed, only Shane remained with the soft hum of the self-playing gramophone. The record spun silently, the needle tracing grooves that seemed to echo the unfinished melody of Moonlight Serenade.
From the shadows, Mikhail emerged with a telegram. "Pigment storage location confirmed, sir. Awaiting instructions for the transaction."
Shane's gaze lingered on the telegram.