When the chimes of the Savoy Hotel clock struck six, Shane stood at the polished brass handle of Crocker's suite. The ebony door gleamed like a mirror, reflecting his careful adjustment of his tie.
The door opened. Crocker stood inside, pinstripe suit immaculate as always, but his bow tie sat askew—a subtle betrayal of his unease.
"I noticed," Crocker said, nodding toward the documents spread across the coffee table, "that the Duke of Devonshire's investment advisor visited Gaumont Film Company today."
His gaze flicked to Shane's lapel, where a brand-new Cambridge University commemorative pin gleamed faintly. Shane calmly picked up the papers, fingertip pausing over one particular number.
"Seems we've all received… some new information," Shane murmured, his gray-blue eyes steady and unwavering.
Outside, the Thames River shimmered in the twilight, catching the last rays of the dying sun. Across the street, theater workers replaced posters for next week's performance.
A clown in a bowler hat on one poster seemed to glow faintly in the evening light, a small, mocking figure overlooked by everyone but Shane.
Crocker's cane lightly tapped the contract. "Forty-eight percent…" Twenty years of industry experience told him this defied every rule he knew.
But before he could protest, Shane's gaze—calm, certain, almost prophetic—stopped him. And reports from earlier in the day confirmed what Crocker already feared: Shane had visited the editor of The New York Times, lunched with the program director at WNYC Radio, and subtly persuaded influential figures in less than six hours.
Crocker's tapping ceased.
"This number…" His own voice sounded distant, tinged with reluctant concession. "It is… indeed more in line with market expectations than we anticipated."
As the words left his lips, Crocker was startled at his own compromise, but instinct told him Shane's vision for the industry reached beyond what others could see.
Shane lifted a crystal glass, swirling amber whiskey inside.
"Given the peculiarities of the European market," he said, eyes drifting to a row of newly delivered etiquette books, "appropriate adjustments serve both parties."
A carriage rumbled past outside. Crocker hurried to the window, silk curtains swaying behind him.
"The Duke of Devonshire's carriage…" he muttered, adjusting his tie reflexively.
The telephone rang sharply. Crocker picked it up, face paling.
"Yes… Duchess… Of course I remember tonight's appointment…" His eyes flicked to Shane, suddenly alert. "Professor Monkton from Cambridge will attend as well?"
Shane produced a folded program from his inner pocket—the Royal Opera House schedule for the following evening. With a slow, deliberate motion, he revealed a gold-embossed invitation tucked inside.
"Coincidentally, Professor Monkton has extensive research into film projection," Shane explained, fingertip resting lightly on a note about the 24 frames-per-second projection standard.
Crocker's cane slipped; the ebony shaft rolled across the carpet. As he bent to retrieve it, Shane noted the faint beads of sweat on the back of his neck.
Shane straightened. "It seems we've reached an agreement." He casually smoothed his cuffs as if adjusting nonexistent wrinkles.
Crocker hesitated, eyes darting between the contract and the gold invitation, finally nodding.
Once the door closed, Crocker reached for the phone. "Connect me to an international line… Zurich, Switzerland. Yes… Mr. Charlie Chaplin."
After a pause, Chaplin's voice came through: "Harry, any good news?"
"…Forty-eight percent?" Chaplin's tone betrayed restrained emotion.
"Charlie, allow me to explain," Crocker said, taking a measured breath. "Shane secured endorsements from seven major theater owners in London and is covering all marketing risks. If presale fails…"
Static crackled over the transatlantic line. Chaplin's voice sharpened: "If it fails, will we then sell European rights cheaply to that young upstart?"
Crocker relaxed, lighting a cigar. The orange-red flame danced over the tip.
"The contract contains full protective clauses," he said, exhaling a perfect smoke ring. "He visited The Times, The Guardian, and the BBC today—editorial reactions were unusually enthusiastic."
Chaplin's voice softened, hesitant: "If he fails…"
Crocker flicked the ash leisurely. "He has agreed to grant us three-year exclusive European launch rights for the three-color film process."
A long silence followed, only the faint hum of the transatlantic cable breaking it. Finally, Chaplin muttered, half-mocking: "May God help this young man who underestimates the immensity of the world."
Crocker leaned back, cigar glowing dimly. "Charlie, premieres without stars are like symphonies without lead violinists." He paused for effect. "Lady Diana has reserved her treasured 1911 vintage champagne for the premiere."
In the corridor, Shane met Mikhail, who had been waiting quietly.
"All arranged?" Shane asked, voice low, eyes sharp.
Mikhail handed him a note. "Professor Monkton will attend, and… the art editor of The Times will 'happen' to be in the Duchess's adjacent box tomorrow night."
Shane held the note to the wall lamp; flickering light revealed a seating plan faintly printed on the reverse.
As the night deepened, the eight-day chain clock in Suite 506 ticked steadily, its hands slowly approaching the dawn of a new day.