What this card does
Each night you pick a player. The moderator reveals their faction: City or Mafia.
The City Night Investigate Each night 2 in the deck
What this card does
Each night you pick a player. The moderator reveals their faction: City or Mafia.
How to play
When the host calls the Policeman, open your eyes.
Pick a player each night; the moderator reveals their faction.
Close your eyes. You learned a team, not a role name.
Tips
The Policeman is one of the mafia roles in the mafia party game.
In the box
Published mixes that seat this card. Pick the list that fits the room, then deal.
When only six friends could make it, you still light the lamp and put the lancet on the table. One knife is plenty in a room this close.
Someone found a seventh chair in the hall and the evening grew a little kinder. Same one knife, one more neighbour to talk to.
The teaching deal. Eight chairs, one lamp, one lancet — and two knives that already know each other.
Still one lamp — but now one door hits back. Call on the wrong house at night and you will wish you had sent a note.
The classic table of nine. Two killers, a cop, a doctor — and the vote does the rest.
For tables that like clues. Read the dead, check a team, and mind the Duelist’s duel.
One lamp, and it can be lied to. The Yard filed him under City, and the Yard is never wrong.
She points first, and somebody’s night simply does not happen. And the man at the door duels his callers.
The Bishop taxes the Assassins’ knife. The Terrorist’s exit does not go through the parish.
One seat raises the recently dead. One seat burns them off the roll. And the lamp may be lying.
Gunn and Henry both in chairs, and a slab for everyone else. Two checks a night — while they live.
The client cannot be summoned. The job never happened. And the house still hits back.
A soldier with two shots, and a room daring him to spend both. The Lawyer would rather nobody stood trial at all.
Minutes are read at the end of the evening — and some names have been made unavailable.
The Oracle dies pointing. The Vigilante has two arguments of his own. The Terrorist needs only one.
Two checks a night. One of them may still be a kindness from Sabini.
Warzone-sized, different firm. Two Assassins, a man the Yard already cleared, and a Bishop taxing the wrong knife.
Write every wake. Call them in the same order. The quiet ones in the dark are not all done with the evening.
Every useful face in a chair. Two more chairs take the last Citizens. After that the box really is empty.
The deck
Policeman has 2 printed faces. The job is the same. Only the person on the card changes.
East End lore
The City has two Policemen, and only one of them belonged to the Force. Sir Edward Henry is the institution: the filing system, the thumbprint, the record. Richard Gunn is the half no drawer can do. A tailor's son who learned to box at a dockside club among dockers and lightermen, he spent fifteen years reading men across a few feet of canvas and lost exactly one fight doing it. That is the Policeman's ability at its simplest: point at a person and learn which side they are really on. Gunn never needed a badge to ask. He only needed to stand close enough to see the answer.
In the lore, it was Henry who found him. By the spring of 1900, Henry and Galton knew that anything carrying Darby Sabini's name went up the chain and was never heard of again, so the one man they could not recruit was a policeman. Gunn had been amateur champion of England, worked a trade, and knew every street east of the Tower, and everybody down there knew he had never worn a uniform. Henry called him an honourable ruffian: he would hit a man, but only after telling him he was about to. On the night at the Three Harpies he came in at nine, took up a place by the door, and did not sit down once. The rest of them came for the meeting. Gunn came for the room.
“A man with a medal gets watched. A man with a black eye gets a drink.”
Richard Gunn
Street
Uniforms and fingerprint men walked these streets. The City wanted a name it could trust — and a man who could keep it.
Meeting
Someone at the table is trying to tell friend from killer without showing a badge. The work is quiet. The fear is not.
The room
Once the table thinks it knows the cop, the killers have a chair to hunt. Being believed can be as dangerous as being right.
Inspired by
1871–1961
He won an Olympic gold medal at thirty-seven, twelve years after the sport had asked him to stop. That is the actual sequence. He was so far above every other man at his weight in Britain that the Amateur Boxing Association requested he retire and give somebody else a chance, and he agreed, and he sat on their council for over a decade. Then the Games came to London in 1908 and he came back and won the featherweight title. He remains the oldest man ever to win an Olympic boxing crown. Nobody has taken it off him in more than a century.
The whole tournament was settled in a single day — the only time in Olympic history boxing has been run that way. Three fights, one afternoon. He stopped a Frenchman in the second round in the quarter-final, outpointed a countryman in the semi, and took the final on a decision two rounds to nil. The final round that year was extended by a full minute specifically because the organisers wanted a harder test, and the hall expected the old man to fold in it. He did not. In fifteen years of boxing he lost one fight.
He came out of a tailor's shop. His father ran the business in the East End and Richard joined it as a young man, cutting and stitching, and he took up boxing in 1893 at a club attached to the Surrey Commercial Docks — the timber wharves on the south bank of the river, where the men who trained beside him unloaded ships for a living. That is where he learned. Not a gymnasium for gentlemen. A dock club, at the end of a shift, among dockers and lightermen, in a trade where knowing which man in a room is dangerous is not a sporting question.
He hung up the gloves for good after the gold and lived another fifty-three years, dying in Lambeth in 1961 at ninety. There is no monument. The record stands in a table.
Forget the medal and the fifteen years and the single defeat. Remember only this: he spent his life learning to read a man across a few feet of floor and know exactly what he was — and he learned it in a tailor's shop and a dockside gym, among people who never suspected they were being measured.
Mafia is easier to play than it looks. Everyone gets a hidden card — most of the table is City, a hidden few are Mafia. At night the killers quietly pick a victim while a doctor tries to guess who needs saving and a cop digs for the truth. By day the survivors argue about what happened, put someone on trial, and vote. The City wins by finding every killer; the Mafia wins by surviving until they can win a vote. The walkthrough takes you through the whole game, from the deal to the last trial.
How to play mafiaYour first game should be The Lamp and the Lancet — eight players and only three night wakes, so nobody gets lost. With a ninth chair the same deal becomes, naturally, The Ninth Chair. All twenty published deals, up to twenty-seven players, are on the setups page.
The teaching deal. Eight chairs, one lamp, one lancet — and two knives that already know each other.
City: 1 Policeman, 1 Doctor, Citizens to fill Mafia: 2 Assassins
The classic table of nine. Two killers, a cop, a doctor — and the vote does the rest.
City: 1 Policeman, 1 Doctor, Citizens to fill Mafia: 2 Assassins