by Claryn Vaile
“Of course not. That would be unethical.”
“Yeah, and illegal. Lots of things have disappeared from here over the years, though, you know. Pretty easy to get away with. Can’t watch every inch of the place every minute of the day and night. Lots of spaces without security cameras”
Max turned and looked her in the eye with unnerving directness. “Ever think of hiding some of it? You know, to keep it from being lost to folks who don’t give a damn about the hotel history?”
Caught off-guard by the frank interrogation, the historian returned his unflinching gaze. Did Max know what Lochlan and she had been up to? Suspect their plan? It almost seemed as if he were offering a suggestion.
Rebecca hesitated before replying cautiously, “I suppose some might consider that justifiable -- if it were the only way to preserve The Keep’s treasures, make sure they’d still be around for future employees and guests to enjoy and learn from.”
“Hmmf,” Max snorted once again. Beneath his gruffness, Rebecca sensed that her answer had somehow satisfied him. “Got somethin’ to show you,” he said, starting off across the sub-basement in the opposite direction from which they’d come. “Leave yer box here, just on the floor. We’ll be back.”
The padlocked room Max led Rebecca into housed banks and banks of electrical panels.
“What do all these panels control?” Rebecca asked.
“Dunno,” Max said. “Stuff in the hotel. Doesn’t matter. Follow me over here.”
They came at length to the far side of the electrical room. Whitewashed stone blocks comprised the wall. A wooden doorframe set flush in the stone outlined cement bricks, also whitewashed, that appeared to block off a former entrance.
“Was this a doorway leading somewhere?”
“Of course it was,” Max said impatiently. “Opens into a tunnel. They closed it up sometime in the ‘40s. But a little person can still get into it through this vent.” He pointed to a nearby opening in the wall, about three feet off the floor and 3½ feet square, framed in aluminum and covered with a metal grate. “Here, use this to pry it off.” He pulled out a pocketknife and handed it to her.
The grate seemed stuck in several spots, but Rebecca persevered and managed at last to loosen it and pull it off. She leaned the metal piece against the wall on the concrete floor.
“Now what?”
“Now ya crawl in there,” Max directed, handing her the flashlight.
“You’re kidding.”
“Hell no, I’m not kidding. I used to be able to do it. It’s small, sure, but so are you. Ya crawl in there about 10 feet and you’ll see an opening on the side into the blocked off tunnel. Follow that about 15 yards and see what you find. Go on. Be adventurous. You’re gonna thank me.”
Chapter 16
Rebecca paused to consider who was crazier – the old man who gave insane instructions for crawling into a dark hole or the historian who followed them. Into the shaft which lay beyond the grate hole, she shone the flashlight beam.
“There’s something in there,” she said uneasily. “What is that thing?”
“Something in there?” Max repeated, momentarily confounded. “Oh, that. Yeah, that’s some Denver Power electrical transformers. High voltage. Be careful. You should turn off into the tunnel right before them. I think…”
Rebecca tried to hand back the flashlight. “Don’t think so,” she said, moving to pick up the grate and replace it in the opening.
“Hold it, hold it,” Max said, refusing the flashlight. “I wouldn’t’ve brought you here if it wasn’t important. Important to The Keep’s history. You care about that, right?”
“You know I do.”
“Then get yer fanny in that hole and don’t be a baby.”
The historian drew a deep breath, stood on tiptoe and put a knee into the opening in the sub-basement wall as Max directed. She leaned in and pulled up her other knee. She could hear the high voltage hum of the transformers further down the passageway, like angry bees swarming.
Keeping low, she was able to crawl along the dirt-floored shaft slowly, carefully. Her boney knees ached. Then there it was, on her right -- another passage, veering off at a ninety-degree angle. She slipped out of the shaft and into the tunnel. Here she could stand. She brushed loose dirt from her black pants and beamed the flashlight all around. The walls of the tunnel were lined with stone. Limestone, she guessed. Guiding herself with a hand along one wall, she ventured into the chilly passageway she would never have dared to navigate without a compatriot watching her back. She shivered.
The series of wall-mounted lanterns spaced at 8-foot intervals surprised her. Probably kerosene-lit at some point in the past, the dead, dark sentinels marked her progress with reassuring regularity. Judging by the cobwebs, there must be spiders everywhere. Could there be rats? What the hell was she doing?
Then up ahead, on the right-hand side of the tunnel which continued further into the fathomless dark, her beam illuminated a rough-hewn wooden door. Did she dare open it? She felt like a lab mouse in a maze. Was Max trying to trap her? To scare her? Had she been a fool to trust him?
She’d come this far. She couldn’t resist the mystery. The splintery door had a cast iron handle and hinges, but no visible latch or lock. It opened at her push, and Rebecca beheld a large room, about the size of a three-car garage with a 9-foot ceiling. Aiming the flashlight into the space, Rebecca could scarcely believe her eyes.
The collection of objects cluttering wooden shelves that reached floor to ceiling dwarfed the displaced archives. The beam splashed over ten times the china and crystal pieces formerly housed in the rooftop depository. Other shelves held gilded antique clocks, ornate table lamps with fringed shades, silver coffee pots and pitchers. Against the opposite stone wall leaned a dozen filigree panels like those that ringed the atrium balconies. Beside them, rows of stained glass windows with fruit and flower designs -- from the demolished eighth-floor ballroom?
Remnants of decorative stone trim from the building’s exterior lay on the concrete floor to one side. A strangely fringed chandelier and faded red, white and blue bunting hung from wooden beams criss-crossing the ceiling. From one dark corner, the dead glass eyes of a stuffed trophy elk shone back at her in the flashlight beam. An old barber chair. A billiard table with ornately carved legs was laden with cake stands, multi-tiered trays, assorted serving pieces, and folded linens. Large trunks and wooden boxes stacked against the back wall could contain almost anything. Could that really be a music stand from the old Aladdin Room orchestra?
Who assembled all this? When? And why? It was too much to process. Max had led her here. Max would know.
Rebecca hurried back through the tunnel to the transformer shaft and scooted back through the opening into the electrical room where Max, seated on an old wooden cable spool, awaited her return.
“It’s…it’s amazing!” she said breathlessly. “How do you know about this place, that room? Was it you who collected and hid all those Griffins Keep artifacts? Does anyone else know about them?” The questions tumbled out on top of each other in a rush. She looked at Max and shook her head in astonishment. “I’m sorry. I’m just…flabbergasted!”
At this the old man smiled. He put a finger to his lips, warning her to keep her voice down, though they seemed to be quite alone. “Pretty great, isn’t it?” he said. “I know everybody around here thinks I’m just a crazy old coot, full of bullshit. But I sure as hell can keep a secret – when it’s important.”
“Why is that tunnel even here?” Rebecca pressed him. “Where did it go?”
“From here to the Capitol,” he said, “sub-basement level all the way. Guess it’s gotta be about three, four blocks long. Feels longer when you’re in it. Other end’s been caved in since before I came to The Keep. But I’m told it handled traffic right up into the 1940s. Big wigs and politicians and special interests, all that.”
“What about the room with all the old stuff?”
“They used to store
liquor in there before – and during – Prohibition. When they moved that elsewhere, the little museum you saw was born in that space.”
“Who started it? Why? And how?”
“It was during the Kuhrsfeld years, when they were changing everything, making it ‘modern.’ Kinda like now. Some longtime employees were sick about them removing so much original stuff, selling it or just pitching it – like it was nothing. Made it their mission, I guess you could say, to save some of it, tuck it away where it wouldn’t be found. Only a couple guys knew about it. And when they left, they passed the secret on to a colleague they trusted.”
“And eventually, you became that colleague.”
Max nodded. “About 30 years ago, right before he retired, my old Pub boss, Ernst Huber, brought me down here, just like I brought you. Every now and then I’d find a way to add something to the collection. Things that shouldn’t be lost.”
“But all those big things – the barber chair and the elk – they never would have fit through this little vent. And the room’s not even locked!”
“Course it’s not locked,” Max said impatiently. “Who’s gonna go in there? But you can bet it was locked before the tunnel was closed off, back when all the big stuff was stashed there.”
He paused for a moment and looked up at her earnestly. “So now you know about it. In case you ever need to hide anything for a while. But you gotta promise to keep this place secret. Wouldn’t wanna hafta kill ya.”
“This is so fun!” Rebecca whispered as she and Lochlan dug through the treasures hidden in the sub-basement secret room the following night. Impulsively, she wrapped herself in a gold damask drapery panel. Lochlan reverently placed an inverted sterling silver ice bucket upon her head and proclaimed, “Her Royal Highness, Queen of The Keep.”
For the first time in ages, Rebecca felt beautiful – and young.
As she continued to scan the space with her mini-flashlight, its beam glinted off something half concealed under another folded drape. Withdrawing it from the cover, she caught her breath. “It’s a sword!” she exclaimed as she examined it more closely. “In fact, I think it’s the bronze sword of the long-lost Third Griffin, the one that once guarded the lobby fireplace. God bless whoever managed to snatch it from the Kuhrsfelds when they pilfered the griffin itself for their private garden!”
She raised the bronze implement triumphantly and turned to her crusading cohort. “Kneel, Sir Knight.”
Solemnly, Lochlan obeyed and bowed his head before her. She touched the sword first to one shoulder, then the other.
“I dub thee Sir Lochlan of Griffin, defender of The Keep and guardian of her secrets.”
He lifted his gaze and gently kissed the tip of the blade without taking his eyes from hers. “The Power of the Past compels me to pledge my troth to this castle and to her Queen,” he vowed.
The vaguely remembered sensation was as unmistakable as it was unexpected. Thrilling, heady, ravenous. The flush that rose in Rebecca’s cheeks and radiated throughout her body was menopausal by no means. A furtive glance, as Lochlan slowly stood, revealed her temperature was not the only thing that was rising.
A sweep of their arms, an avalanche of folded linens, and half the billiard table was cleared.
Rebecca cast aside her weapon and surrendered utterly.
“Your mimosa,” Rebecca announced, handing her housemate the frothy drink in a stemmed goblet. “Fruit salad in that bowl. Hash-browned potatoes in the skillet. I’m just about to whip up the blender Hollandaise for Eggs Benedict. Would you like one English muffin half or two? I’m having three myself.”
Maureen took a sip, then set down the glass and tied her robe around herself. “You’re up awfully bright and early for someone who didn’t get in until after 1:00.”
“Yes, Mother.” Rebecca couldn’t stop smiling. “If you must know, I was with Mr. MacKenzie in that secret sub-basement room I told you about.”
“Doing what, may I ask?”
Rebecca turned away, slowly pouring hot melted butter into the blender. “Oh, you know. Going through rescued hotel artifacts, playing on the billiard table.”
“Must have been strenuous,” Mo observed. “You seem to have built up quite an appetite.”
“I’m famished. Haven’t eaten since yesterday lunch,” Rebecca admitted, switching on the blender. When it finished, she dipped her little finger into the sauce, licked it and beamed with satisfaction. “But I did have quite the gourmet experience last night.”
The afternoon before the archives auction, all the artifacts up for bids were displayed on long tables around the lobby for public inspection. Rebecca cringed as curious potential buyers pawed through historic banquet menus, leafed through crumbling scrapbooks, and perused the pages of guest registers with splintered spines.
Among the preview shoppers, she noticed an obviously wealthy man with his daughter. Spying the military band figures, the girl tugged her father’s sleeve.
“Look, Daddy! These dolls could be boyfriends for my Barbies.”
Inspecting them briefly and noting the starting bid, her father disagreed. “No sweetheart, they’re old and dirty. Look, there are little holes in their jackets, their hats and boots are coming apart. Their arms and legs don’t even move.”
“I don’t care. I want them. They’re just Barbie’s size and they’re handsome. Pulleeeze, Daddy? Pretty please?”
“We’ll see, Vanessa. Now put that one down.”
“I can’t watch anymore,” Rebecca whispered to Dawn. “You take over guard duty for a while. I’m begging you.” She had been directed by Ms. Jordan to be on hand to answer any questions about the items. Rebecca had had enough. She went in search of a place to disappear.
Some of the things are safe, she reminded herself. Some of them are safe – Thanks to Max. How was she ever going to make it through tomorrow’s auction when she would be expected to supply historical context for The Keep’s treasures and to watch without comment as they were carried from the building that gave them meaning, likely never to return?
As she fled the lobby, Rebecca stopped at the far side of the Front Desk and looked up to the seventh-floor atrium corner where the mediums had reported sensing powerful entities that oversaw the hotel in some mystical fashion. She folded her hands together, as if in prayer, and whispered, “Help.”
No bolts from above. No divine intervention. No paranormal prevention. Despite Rebecca’s desperate plea, The Keep’s guardians, whatever they might be, did nothing to stop the public auction of hotel artifacts the following evening. More than 200 invited guests took their seats in the Grand Salon. Champagne was served, hors d’veoures were passed. Denny, one of the hotel’s five talented pianists, entertained before the proceedings got underway.
“Despite the festive face they’re trying so hard to put on this travesty, it’s a sad, sad day for the Griffins Keep,” Denny confided quietly to Rebecca when he finished playing. “I’m so sorry you have to go through this.”
Rebecca had to excuse herself after the first half-hour, claiming she was ill. She was.
“I know you’re in no mood to hear more about the auction,” Lochlan said the next morning, touching her gently on the shoulder, “but after you left last night, there were a few positive developments.”
When Rebecca said nothing, he continued. “The Colorado Historical Society bought the old registers in one lot. And the set of blueprints – the remaining blueprints,” he added with a conspiratorial wink, “went to the Western History department of the Denver Public Library. Great news for researchers, right? And they’ll be digitally scanned and preserved professionally, just as they should have been all along. Oh, and Denny outbid everyone for those old record albums by the Griffins Strings.”
“Could be worse, I guess,” the historian conceded sullenly. “I’m almost afraid to ask…What about the military bandsmen? Did that little girl get them for her Barbies’ beaus?”
“No…wait, what?” Lochlan said, confused.
“I don’t know about any little girl. But I can tell you for sure that the bandsmen weren’t auctioned off after all.”
“What are you talking about? They were expected to draw the highest bids of anything from the archives.”
“That they were. But apparently someone with very deep pockets made such a generous offer before the event that management agreed to sell them outright, without even putting them on the block, so to speak.”
Rebecca tilted her head quizzically. “That seems very weird. Who would want them that badly? They must have had some sway with the management, as well as ample funds.”
“It’s a mystery, to be sure. But I have to believe they’ve found a loving home, and that’s what really matters, right?”
Rebecca smiled despite herself. “You make them sound like rescue dogs.”
“When you think about it, they are like pound pups, in a way. Saved from an uncertain fate, adopted by someone who can obviously afford the professional care they deserve.”
At that, Rebecca managed a slight smile. “I hope they live happily ever after, wherever they’ve gone.”
Lochlan gave her a reassuring squeeze and seconded her sentiment. “To the lads!” he said, raising his coffee mug. “We shall never see their like in the Griffins Keep again.”
His premature conclusion was, as it turned out, wrong.
Once again, the beast emerged from hibernation -- just in time for the holidays. The decorating team wrangled the holiday chandelier in the center of the lobby. Drifts of glitter scattered across the floor evidenced their struggle. A sturdy cable attached to its crown suspended it from a winch in the center of the steel support frame below the skylight, eight stories above. Six ropes restraining its uppermost arms spread out across the space in a hexagonal web as the team endeavored to keep it level. Other workers festooned its appendages with dangling lantern-like fixtures, gigantic red balls and bows. Only when balance had been achieved was the LED light fixture raised a few more feet for the next round of assembly.