In several large cities around the world, there is a social club known only to a select group of people. Simply called 'The Hunt Club', it is not to be confused with any other 'Hunt' club, where discussions of horses and hounds hold sway; rather, it is a place where the pursuit of people is the topic of the hour - for The Hunt Club is the gathering place of many a Private Investigator.
Regardless of social class, wealth (or lack thereof), or any other determining factor - except one - the Club is open to anyone, any time. All one must do to get in is to flash one's license. Once inside, cozy rooms with dark wood panel walls and deep, plushy carpet are furnished with comfortable armchairs and sofas, waiting to give comfort to a tired-footed gumshoe. Warm fires, good food, and free drinks help to soothe even the most weary soul.
Even that luxurious steamer, the Sleuthetania, has a room set aside solely for Hunt Club use. While Anikka Sevine was sailing to England at the beginning of her adventure, she spent many a happy hour there, chatting with Rosamund Clifford about the latter's exploits in Cairo. On her way back to New York, she spent many a quiet hour there, reading Agatha Christie novels and absently nibbling on chocolates.
Back in New York, Anikka unpacked her steamer trunks, throwing her clothes into a pile on the bed in a most distracted fashion. Finally, after staring blankly at the pile for several minutes, she muttered a mild curse word, changed her clothing, and stalked off to the New York chapter of the Club, where she found the smallest room (two chairs before a fire, two chairs back in the corners, and small tables to hold plates and glasses) and threw herself into a chair.
When Molly Maltese wandered into the room a scant twenty minutes later, she found her friend staring at the fire. "I heard you were back from your trip, how was it?" she asked blithely.