Luc spun furiously around to her, and she instantly regretted her words. But just as quickly, his anger vanished, defeat creeping in. He looked over his shoulder.
“Itzy, that was no hansom cab. If you see one again, promise me you’ll never, ever get in.”
“I promise,” she said. She wanted to take it back—she preferred his anger to defeat any day. She preferred kissing him to all else.
“There are others. Far, far worse. And I can’t protect you from them all.”
“Other carriages?”
A doorman was positioned beside a pair of thick glass doors behind them. Luc glared at him.
“Servants. Spies,” he said. “But it’s too late, of course. She is already here. I can smell her.”
“Who, Luc?”
Luc was suddenly close again, his body looming over hers. He looked down fiercely. The doorman nervously retreated into the small foyer of the building, talking to someone on a handheld radio.
“The Divah is known by many names,” he whispered, his golden eyes squeezed shut. “But I knew her last as la Reine.”
“La Reine?” Itzy repeated. The word felt foolish on her tongue.
He opened his eyes—he looked feverish. She preferred them shut. “La Reine des Démons,” he whispered.
“The Demon Queen?”
Itzy stared up at Luc’s face uncertainly. She turned, looking for the doorman, but Luc was upon her, grasping her shoulders. “How is your French, Itzy? Better dust off those textbooks and polish it up.”
“You’re crazy.” Itzy tried to laugh, but her voice sounded distant, scratchy.
He let out a stream of expletives in antiquated French. She recognized few words.
“That carriage before—that was but a taste of what’s to come. They are amassing—drawn to her like moths to a flame. They come, slithering out from their lairs to worship at her feet. Burnt offerings. Incantations.” Luc leaned in, whispering in her ear. “She will be weakened from her journey, and she must be nourished. But once she has regained her former power, she will be unstoppable. Do you hear me?”
From his breast pocket, he brandished a crumpled and burned card. She recognized it at once, and all questions died on her lips.
Itzy nodded her head in a daze. His eyes flooded with relief and he carefully curled a lock of her dark hair behind her ear.
“But—” she mumbled. A thousand questions raced through her brain.
“Best get going.” He nodded at her camera. “Tomorrow there will be little time for exploring.”
16
“There you are,” Johnny said, rounding the corner.
“Ah—here comes the young Hermes now.” Luc smiled cruelly.
Hermes is the guide to the Underworld, Luc’s words in the car came back to her. He carries the souls of the dead to Hades.
She turned to Johnny. He had changed from his uniform and looked younger, even cuter.
“Hey—you look like you saw a ghost! And I haven’t even begun my tour yet,” he said.
Itzy was suddenly shivering, hugging herself to keep warm.
“I’m sorry I’m late. Dinner hour at the asylum.” Johnny laughed at Itzy’s expression. “We’re in VIP mode,” he explained. “Someone’s got them all worked up.”
“Who’s the VIP?” Itzy asked. With some annoyance, she found her teeth chattering.
“No idea. They’re all the same in the end. Rich and crazy.” He looked pointedly at Luc. “Evening, Mr. Beauvais.”
“You two know each other?” Itzy asked, looking between them.
“Here—take my coat.” Johnny unbuttoned his jean jacket and draped it over Itzy’s wet shoulders. It was warm from his body, and Itzy was grateful. “Were you waiting long?”
“Long enough.” Luc scowled. “Never keep a lady waiting.”
“Or let her stand shivering in the rain.” Johnny eyed Luc’s overcoat.
“No worries,” Itzy said quickly.
“I’ll take it from here.” Johnny grinned. He turned to Itzy. “Got your camera?”
Itzy nodded, indicating the bag on her shoulder. Luc was eyeing Johnny fiercely. Itzy turned to him.
“Mr. Beauvais.” Itzy’s eyes twinkled at the formality. “It’s been a pleasure.”
Luc’s gaze met hers, his eyes staring deep inside her. Her stomach flipped over as she remembered the kiss. Luc leaned into her then, his eyes smoldering, and she held her breath. His mouth found her ear.
“Like moths to a flame, Itzy,” he said. “Like moths to a flame.”
He turned and walked away, a dark figure along Seventy-Seventh Street.
“You ready?” Johnny asked.
She looked once more for Luc, but he was gone. “Ready,” she said. Johnny took her hand and walked over to the doorman.
“Hi, Stan.” Johnny smiled, and the doorman nodded at Itzy.
“Wait—” Itzy asked as they entered the apartment building’s lobby. “Through here? This isn’t the Carlyle.”
“Never fear!” he said, leading them past the small entry and a low set of locked mailboxes.
They stopped beside a metal door marked NO ACCESS.
“Ever heard of Marilyn Monroe?” Johnny asked. He took a ring of keys from his pocket and flipped through them. Nervous, Itzy looked over her shoulder for Stan, but he had reclaimed his perch on the sidewalk, whistling.
“Of course,” Itzy replied, annoyed.
“I’ve got keys to all sorts of places.” He grinned. Johnny found the right key and opened the old metal door. It was warped, and it scraped against the floor tiles. Beyond, Itzy saw a few wooden stairs leading down—and then darkness. It smelled like oil and damp. Itzy’s stomach sunk.
“Welcome to Marilyn’s tunnels.”
Johnny flipped on the light switch and the stairs emerged from the shadows.
He skipped down a few steps and turned, holding out his hand. Itzy did not move.
“You’re not afraid, are you? I’ve got a flashlight.” He clicked it on, holding it beneath his chin ghoulishly.
“Cute.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” Johnny smiled.
“Why are these called Marilyn’s tunnels?”
“Why indeed?” Johnny replied.
Itzy tried to peer around the boy, but the remainder of the stairs fell away into a thick blackness.
“Aw, come on. Don’t make me ruin the surprise.”
Itzy eyed him skeptically.
“All right. They’re called Marilyn’s tunnels because it’s how she used to sneak into the Carlyle. To see JFK.”
Itzy nodded. Swallowing her mounting nervousness, she followed the elevator boy down the creaky steps.
17
“Everyone wondered how she did it—how the most famous woman in the world could rendezvous with the president of the United States in secret. Well, here’s your answer.”
They had passed though an unremarkable boiler room and from there through a small passage. They stood now in a tiny room, the low ceilings damp and bulging overhead. There was a mildewed tabletop set upon bulky legs, the remnants of someone’s workstation spread out as though their owner had left in a hurry. Rusty vices were clamped to the table’s edge and blocks of wood held scattered old-fashioned hand tools and cut nails. Off to one side, Itzy could see a set of bricked-up stairs, evidence of an old passageway. The place was draped in cobwebs.
“Glamorous. I see how it’s been hard to keep this a secret.”
Itzy watched, unimpressed, as Johnny grabbed a side of the old table. “A little help?” he grunted.
The table was surprisingly heavy, the wood bloated with decades of damp and slick with mildew. It would have been impossible to move by herself, and the pair scraped it across the floor, upending much of its contents. They set it against the far wall.
“This is how she did it.” Johnny gestured.
Beneath the table was a trapdoor made of rough wood about four feet across. A handle made of thick rope was tied in an intr
icate knot. Itzy bent to look at it.
“That, my dear,” he said, “is called the demon hitch.”
“The knot?” Itzy asked.
Johnny nodded.
“What do you know about demons?” Itzy asked sharply.
“Not a thing.” Johnny smiled widely. “But I do know knots. My father was a sailor.”
“I’ve got to load my film.” Itzy looked around the small room. The lightbulb had a rusted metal pull cord. “Can you turn that off? I need to do it in complete dark.”
Johnny raised a flirtatious eyebrow, but Itzy ignored him. “It’s really fast film—for shooting in the basement without a flash. The silver crystals on the emulsion are extremely sensitive. Don’t worry, Johnny—I can load this thing in seconds. I practice with my eyes shut all the time.”
“Hey, I’m not afraid of the dark.” He winked, reaching for the cord.
Itzy still slept with the lights on, and as the room plunged into blackness, she felt her heart pound. Squeezing her eyes shut against it, she imagined herself, as she always did, in her most favorite place: the gardens of her father’s small cottage in Brittany. It was her father’s retreat, the place where he’d go when researching or writing a book. It was where he had first given her the Leica—to keep her busy, and out of his hair—and she had spent all the daylight hours outside learning to use it. The sunlight there had a particular quality to it, a paleness that she could recall even here—in the dank workshop—perfectly. It was her trick for surviving the dark.
Eyes shut, she unfastened the camera’s baseplate and put it into a pocket of the borrowed jean jacket. She had done this hundreds of times. Now the camera’s backside opened easily, and she pulled a few exposures out of the film cartridge, dropping it into the camera’s well. Sliding it along with her thumb, she felt the film catching in the camera’s take-up chamber, and she tensed the advance lever to feel it take. Retrieving the baseplate, she hooked it on, and, after advancing a few exposures, was done.
“Okay—” she gasped.
The light clicked on again.
“All set.” Itzy smiled shakily.
But Johnny wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at her camera bag by her feet.
“Why, Itzy Nash!” He smiled, one corner of his mouth upturned in mock seriousness. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you never to leave your bag on the floor?”
“Yes, you’d be surprised.” She snatched up the bag. “I thought you didn’t know anything about demons, Johnny.” She thought of the Blue Room, of the click-clacking of the horrid creature she’d seen.
Might be a little late for that piece of advice.
18
Johnny pulled the demon hitch and the door slid open. Itzy took a picture of the intricate knot.
“Certain cultures believe having your picture taken will steal your soul,” Johnny said.
“Yeah? Where did you say you were from?”
“I didn’t.”
They stood side by side, looking down the yawning hole.
“What’s that smell?” Itzy asked.
“Fire and brimstone,” Johnny said. He reached down and pulled on a rope ladder secured to the damp wall with a pair of rusted bolts. He soon disappeared down into the darkness. He paused, turned on his flashlight, and called up to her. “Come on—it’s strong enough for both of us. Besides, if you fall, I’ll be here to catch you.”
Itzy gulped a lungful of air and reached down for the rope ladder. She tried to imagine Marilyn Monroe maneuvering down this dark passage. Steadying herself on the top rung, she let her foot drop into the shadows.
Johnny was waiting for her at the bottom, where the final few rungs were missing. When he could reach, he guided her over the treacherous drop and then helped her to the floor. Itzy noticed his hands around her waist were strong.
They were in some sort of bricked-up storeroom, dust-covered and forgotten. The floor was uneven, and Itzy found herself slipping on rocks underfoot. Ahead, a door was outlined in a blue-white fluorescent light.
“The coal room,” Johnny whispered. “From back when they used to heat with it.”
Itzy nodded.
From somewhere nearby, a small avalanche of derelict coal rumbled, eventually settling at her feet.
Johnny trained his flashlight on the coal-stained brick to one side.
“Look.” He nudged her.
A pair of matching letters had been blacked on the wall with coal. They were written with a confident hand, curves and loops and graceful arcs. The beam of light framed them in amber. Itzy stared.
“Is that—?”
Johnny nodded, a twinkle in his eye. “I told you these were her tunnels. Some say she never really left them.”
He clicked off his flashlight and the letters vanished. “You ready?” he asked. “Stay by me—they branch out and can get confusing.”
“Wait.” Itzy raised the camera and took a picture of where she last saw Marilyn Monroe’s initials, now burned in to her mind’s eye. “Okay.”
Johnny cracked the door and a dagger of light lay at their feet. He listened for a moment and then nodded.
“All clear,” he said.
All clear of what? Itzy wondered, looking over her shoulder.
They emerged into a shaft-like tunnel, also brick, but studded with florescent lights along the domed ceiling.
“The Carlyle was built in 1929, by one Moses Ginsberg, just before the stock market crash.” Johnny turned to her. His face was smeared with coal dust, and she laughed. “And he spared no expense.”
“Was Mr. Ginsberg aware of these tunnels?” Itzy asked.
“It’s unclear.” Johnny considered. “But no more interruptions of the tour, Miss Nash, or we will be here all night.”
Itzy zipped her lips closed with her fingers.
“You see, Mr. Ginsberg—or Moe, as I call him—disappeared shortly after the hotel opened—at the exact time the banks foreclosed upon him. Now and then over the years there would be sightings of him, even sometimes as a guest in the hotel, but no one really knew for sure what happened to the man. The Carlyle flourished without him, however, and the hotel ledgers will show you an impressive guest roster—filled with kings and queens, aristocrats, and Hollywood stars. Over half of the apartments are residences, rather than rentals—no matter how important you are, if you are renting a room, you are still merely a ‘transient.’
“Perhaps because of the exclusive clientele, or perhaps due to the missing Mr. Ginsberg, the hotel developed a reputation for secrecy. Strange goings-on occur and are handled internally. The New York Times calls the Carlyle the Palace of Secrets. There have been some big celebrity scandals here—and no one was ever the wiser. The Carlyle is the perfect place to hide something.”
They had been creeping along the main tunnel when Johnny paused.
“A palace with buried secrets,” he said meaningfully.
19
They had reached a crossroads of sorts, and the tunnel wandered off in various directions, all more or less threatening. Itzy shivered. Johnny’s thin coat and her jeans were covered in coal dust.
“It’s this way.” Johnny pointed down a twisting passage to the right. “Or … is it this way?” He put a finger on his chin, pondering.
“Very funny.”
“Which way do you think it is, Miss Nash?” Johnny asked.
“I told you to call me Itzy,” she said. “And I wouldn’t dare presume to know more than you—O expert guide.”
“May I then commend you on your own expertise?”
“In what?”
“Why, on your expert taste in guides. If I do say so myself.”
Itzy smiled. “Say, O guide, do you know anything about that unmarked room near my aunt’s suite?”
“Unmarked room?” Johnny asked, turning to her.
“Yeah. Someone lives in there—and I think they’re watching me.”
“Now you’re creeping me out. There are no unmarked rooms in the hotel, Miss Nash. What would
Moe say?” He turned, gesturing grandly. “This way, mademoiselle.” Johnny took the third tunnel, the one that burrowed down in a winding spiral, the mortar missing here and there and the joints of the bricks dripping with murky water. “Keep up. Those who lag behind get eaten.”
“Say, how many other girls have you tried to frighten … I mean … given this tour to?” Itzy asked, as she crept along the slick brickface.
“None that lived to tell about it.” Johnny turned, pointing the light down at their feet. He squeezed her hand in the dark. “Why, is it working? Are you scared?”
Itzy tried to sound otherwise. “Me? Not yet. Besides, nothing’s more scary than Pippa and Mrs. Brill.”
“You might have a point.” He laughed.
There was a gap in the bricks here, a small jagged hole evident in the middle of the wall.
“Through there?” Itzy hoped she didn’t sound as nervous as she felt. Whatever lay on the other side was hot, and the air was musty, and she heard the unnerving sound of water dripping around her. A deep, distant rumble pierced with an occasional mechanical clank. “What is it?”
“The dungeons,” Johnny said solemnly.
They squeezed themselves through, and Itzy was hit with a blast of heat that made her eyes water. Squinting, she saw a long, low hall open up before them, the ceiling a maze of pipeworks and valves. Caged bare bulbs perforated the darkness at even distances, but did nothing to illuminate the far walls. These stretched on in either direction for what seemed far more than a city block. It was the inner-workings of the hotel, if not the entire city, she thought. She took several photographs. The noise was louder, too, and the heat had grown more intense. Talking was impossible. Somewhere ahead was the origin of the awful clanging.
“This is where they put people who can’t pay their bills,” he shouted, indicating one of the bricked-up recesses. “The king of Prussia stayed here for years—until a distant relative paid his debts.” He signed for her to follow him, and, casting one last look at the dark opening behind her, Itzy did.
The pipeworks chamber was low—low enough that the pair could not stand. The stone walls were perforated with bricked-off passages, and where the bricks were missing, darkness spilled out. A few must have led somewhere, for the air they exhaled was damp and chill, and while the heat of the room was unbearable, Itzy found no comfort in the cold winds from those parts better forgotten.
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