McGrave's Hotel (7 page)

The revolving door turned slowly.

Even before the actual darkness, before
he
actually entered the building, an overwhelming sense of melancholy spread like a shadow through the Grand Lobby, into the Boneyard Club, through the Pearly Gates Gallery, into the administrative offices and kitchen, and up and down the real and phantom floors of the building—from the deep wine cellar where the ghost of Henry Hudson moaned to the rooftop terrace where the gargoyles nested. As reports would later attest, every inch of the facility was affected.

In the Boneyard Club, Count Otis Monroe switched from “Pennies from Heaven” to a mournful rendition of “Red River Valley,” and many of the women in the restaurant wept. In his deep sandpaper bass, Count Otis sang of terminal separation:
“From this valley they say you are going.”

The Beaumonts drifted off the dance floor and into the lobby.

“Blaine, dear,” said Mrs. Beaumont. “I’m not happy here. Let’s try the Rainbow Room or the Copacabana. Or El Morocco. Anywhere but here.”

“You’re right, Martha. I’ll get your coat.”

They both dimmed, fading from view.

Miss Charles exited the Boneyard Club and approached James with tears in her eyes. In her hand she waved a card showing the familiar hooded skeleton astride a horse. The Death card.

“Look, James,” she said. “No matter how I shuffle, I can’t make the cards stop coming up Death. What’s
happening
?”

When Mr. Nash’s VIP himself issued from the revolving door, he was so black he seemed to suck the light out of the room. It was as though someone with a rheostat turned all the electric lights to dim. Most looked away, not daring eye contact. Dr. Otto suddenly needed to peruse his paperwork. Walter Quinn stared at his own feet. Thaddeus McGrave, up on his painting, averted his eyes. When James dared to peek, for he couldn’t help it, the creature looked at first glance like a dark cloud, an indistinguishable concentration of blackness. But if James looked slightly cross-eyed at it, and squinted, he could make out a cloaked figure, its face hidden by the hood, and its extremities, when they showed, nothing but fleshless skeleton parts. When it walked, everyone could hear the clattering of bones on bones.

James had the feeling he had seen this dark specter before, a long time ago now, before James had come to McGrave’s. Lately, everything in James’s life before McGrave’s seemed a long time ago.

“Who—” he dared.

“It’s Death,” whispered Dr. Otto. “Death himself. The Big Sleep. The Grim Reaper. He rarely makes such a public appearance. I’m afraid we’re in for it.”

They watched, fascinated, as Death made his way across the floor to sign in with a shaken Mr. Nash. The bones clicked against each other like castanets.

The revolving door spun again, and a new figure emerged. He was a small but fit Chinese gentleman, immaculately attired in a brown suit topped off with derby hat with a little feather in its hatband. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee, and he reminded James of the famous movie detective Charlie Chan. He had intense eyes and seemed to be surveying the room with great care.

Something small floated in the air across the lobby floor, possibly, James thought, one of the flies that had escaped from Chef Anatole’s kitchen. The Chinese gentlemen watched it as a hawk might watch a mouse, then suddenly reached out and snatched it between his thumb and forefinger. He examined it closely, then allowed it to drop to the floor.

“It’s the bodyguard,” said Dr. Otto.

“The bodyguard?” James wondered aloud. “Why would Death need a bodyguard?”

“It isn’t for him. It’s for
her
.”

The door spun again, and James’s life turned upside down.

The little girl who walked through the door and did this to him appeared to be about James’s age. Eleven, he decided, judging from her height and poise. His overwhelming impression was that she was the most magnificent object he had ever beheld.

She wore a long navy blue coat with a red scarf around her neck, and she carried a small valise. Her eyes above a small upturned nose were dark and mysterious, accented by the razor sharp edge of the bangs across her brow. The hair itself, short and curly on the sides, carried midnight shades of panther and raven. By contrast her face, an adorable sum of its features, was pale as milk: this was a girl who knew more of the moon than of the sun.

James’s notion that he didn’t like girls crumbled. He realized suddenly that he had always liked girls, but never quite so much as this one.

“It’s the daughter,” Dr. Otto whispered. “Death’s daughter.”

This preposterous information caused James’s mind to reel with questions. How could Death possibly have a daughter? What were they doing here? Was someone really going to die?

The girl set the valise on the marble lobby floor and looked about, confused. She didn’t seem to know what to do next or where to go. Eventually her eyes fell upon James with a look he interpreted as clearly one of disapproval. Bellhops were usually taller, after all. Nevertheless, she was apparently in need of assistance.

“Boy!” she said. “Fetch my bag.”

Startled at being addressed, James jumped to his feet. The shock of being spoken to required a dramatic response. Although he could not put his emotions into words, for the emotions were wholly unfamiliar to him, he had fallen violently in love with this girl and could not bear the prospect of being employed as her servant or of her addressing him as a child. He had never felt so insignificant.

“Sorry, miss,” he said crisply. “I’m off duty. Ask one of the others.”

He gestured toward the other five bellhops who, visibly terrified themselves, couldn’t take their eyes off Death.

James spun about on one foot and stalked toward the elevators. He would go to his room and begin packing his things. He would resign this very night.

“Boy!” she called after him.

But James refused to turn around, and the flood of his new feelings frightened him. He had no idea where they would lead.

Screams in the Night

The phone erupted in a loud shrill ring, startling James out of his dark reverie. If he resigned from McGrave’s, where would he live? He considered lingering with his own inner monologue and ignoring the device’s cry, but that would have been rude to the ladies at the telephone switchboards.

It was Miss Frobish. “Hello, James,” she said. “It’s Mr. Nash calling. I’ll connect you.”

“My goodness, Jim, boy,” Mr. Nash said over the line. “What are you doing in your room? I’ve been checking everywhere. Are you feeling well?”

For a lost half hour, James had been concocting a speech about how fellows couldn’t be expected to represent a world-class hotel when little girls didn’t address them respectfully, and he had barely begun to convey his displeasure when Mr. Nash cut in again.

“Never mind that,” he said. “We seem to have a bit of a problem in 3913. Mr. Lesley’s suite. Guests have been reporting screams. I could send one of the other lads up, but I trust you are more familiar with the situation.”

Reluctantly, because a damsel in distress outranked a boy’s being flabbergasted by first love, James returned to the fold and commandeered the first available elevator. Why, he wondered during the elevator’s ascent, couldn’t a fellow be left alone with his
own
problems? When the doors finally opened on the thirty-ninth floor, he could hear the girl’s scream from all the way down the hall.

“No!”

Several guests were peeking out their doors as James strode down the hall to address the situation.

With his hand closed into a fist, he gave door 3913 three sharp raps.

Whatever was going on within suddenly stopped.

“Yessss?” came Victor Lesley’s voice.

The actor bristled as James marched in, while Miss Fields at the same time looked as if the cavalry had ridden to the rescue, its bugle announcing a full-out charge. A pair of scripts lay open on the coffee table.

“I am taking my leave,” she said. “Good-
bye
, Mr. Lesley.”

Then to James: “This old fool tried to
kiss
me. He should be ashamed of himself.”

James looked askance at Mr. Lesley.

“A total misunderstanding,” the actor said. “Dracula is supposed to bite Lucy’s throat. The kiss was an interpretation. Poetic license. It’s called acting.”

He peered up at the posters, as if expecting confirmation from his fellow actors.

But Dixie Ann Fields was already out the door, thank you very much.

Mr. Lesley scurried after.

“Thank you, Miss Fields,” he shouted. “We’ll be in touch.”

The folks still curious in the hallway looked on in astonishment. It was like watching a show with a Broadway star—for free.

“Just as well, Ace,” the actor said to James as he returned to the room. “The next one is due any minute. Well, off you go. Off you go. I shouldn’t need your services anymore tonight. Privacy is the watchword.”

Victor Lesley, admiring himself in the mirror, reached up with both hands and seemed to give his hair a corrective wrench.

Rolling his eyes as he passed through the door, James left the actor to his devices. He hoped that would be the end to the disturbances.

He also hoped to be in time to warn the next young lady that a private session with Mr. Lesley might not be the best career move. Alas, when the doors opened on the Grand Lobby level, there stood Roderick with a lady who looked even younger than Miss Fields. She had blue eyes and a wholesome fresh-off-the-farm look, like Daisy Mae in that new
Li’l Abner
comic strip.

Roderick glared, as though James might be offending his guest.

“Roderick,” James blurted. “Who is this? Where are you taking her?”

This outburst astonished even Roderick.

“Sorry, sport,” he said. “Not that it’s any of your business, but this is Miss Pepper O’Toole, Broadway’s next big discovery. Her name will soon be up in lights. Miss O’Toole,
this
… is James.”

“Delighted,” she said. “Gosh, you’re a little guy.”

“You aren’t taking her up to Mr. Lesley’s suite? You can’t do that.”

“Sorry, sport, but you don’t get to escort
all
the pretty girls. This one is
my
turn.”

“You can’t—”

“No
can’t
, sport. This way, Miss O’Toole. I apologize for my young friend. He’s still more or less in training, don’t you know?”

James watched helplessly as the arrow above the elevator swung through its arc, indicating that Roderick and Miss O’Toole were rising to the thirty-ninth floor. Dracula’s lair indeed. He hoped Mina would fare better than Lucy.

Moments later, like a sheriff turning in his badge, James removed his cap, placed it on the Front Desk, and slid it over to Mr. Nash.

“About earlier, Mr. Nash. When that girl came in with You-Know-Who? I should have been more professional. I submit my resignation.”

Mr. Nash looked up from his paperwork, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “You do go on about the strangest things, Jim, boy,” he said. He slid the cap back over to James. “Have you had your break yet?”

When the bellhops worked all night, they each received a one-hour break for dining. Usually, they spent the hour at a little table in Chef Anatole’s kitchen, feasting on his fabulous French cooking. If James had his way, he would gorge nightly on the desserts—the crêpes suzette, the profiteroles, the crème brûlée. Chef Anatole was a wizard.

James shook his head to the question. He had forgotten all about such mundane things as food.

“That girl you spoke of. You gather correctly that she is a Very Important Person. I hope you are in the mood to be more accommodating, because she has requested that you escort her to dinner, at our best table in the Boneyard Club. She wishes to dine with you.”

“What? Me? That’s crazy.”

It was staggering to know that anyone so lovely existed at all and that she was actually in the same building. James had secretly hoped to merely catch sight of her once more. That he might get to dine with her, that he might get to
talk
to her, was beyond his wildest fantasies.

“But why?” he added. He did his best to feign nonchalance.

“Her party has been traveling for many hours, days actually. The young lady hasn’t had time to dine at all lately, much less enjoy a decent meal. Apparently, Jim, boy, she singled you out as someone she would rather dine with than with her bodyguard. We shall have to chalk it up to your personal magnetism.”

“Um, okay,” he said. “It seems most unusual, dining with a guest, but I
guess
I can eat with her.”

“Thank you, Jim, boy. Given the young lady’s family connections, I was hoping you might approve this assignment. You are expected and may go on up. They are staying in the penthouse, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And, James—”

“Yes?”

“The girl. Her name is Fawn.”