"Like time-lapse photography." Cora wandered across the lobby, turning her light this way and that. "But there's no photograph of the guests in the lobby in 1901 when the Paragon was built. I can imagine them around me. Moving calmly, speaking softly. Dresses rustle. The women carry gloves and parasols. The men wouldn't dream of going anywhere without ties and jackets. They have pocket watches on chains attached to their vests. Some have canes. Others have spats over their shoes to protect them from the sand on the boardwalk. As they enter the lobby from outside, they take off their Homburg hats, or maybe they've allowed themselves to be slightly casual at the seashore and their hats are straw. They approach the check-in desk."

Cora did the same.

Meanwhile, Rick went to the double doors at the entrance, inspecting them. "As you said, Professor, the interior doors are metal." He tried to open them, without effect. Proceeding to a window on the right, he pushed away rotted curtains, only to jerk back when another bird erupted, this one from the top of the curtains.

"Damned floor's covered with bird shit," Rick grumbled. He examined a shutter behind the curtain. "Metal." With effort, he freed a bolt. The shutter was mounted on a rail. He tried to push it but wasn't successful. "You mentioned that vandals smashed the windows. Rain and snow must have come in through the holes and rusted the rollers in place. The good thing is, nobody can see our lights."

"And if a security guard happens to pass, he won't hear us, either," Conklin said.

Rick pressed an ear against the shutter. "I can't hear the waves on the beach or the sheet metal clanging in that condo building. We've got the place to ourselves. But how on earth did the birds get in?"

A bell rang.

13

Balenger whirled.

Cora stood behind the check-in counter, her right hand on a dome-shaped bell, the brass of which would once have been shiny. Facing the group, she set her hard hat on the counter, her red hair glistening in their lights. Cobwebbed mail slots occupied the wall behind her. There were pieces of paper in a few of them.

"Welcome to the Paragon Hotel," she said. Her strong beauty was enhanced by the lights directed at her. "I trust your stay will be enjoyable. There is no finer hotel in the world." She reached beneath the counter and took out a wooden box, setting it on the counter, raising dust. "But this is our busiest season. Conventions. Weddings. Family vacations. I do hope you made reservations. Mr…?" She looked at the professor.

"Conklin. Robert Conklin."

Cora pretended to flip through cards in the box. "Nope. Sorry. Doesn't seem to be a reservation for Conklin. Are you positive you contacted us?"

"Absolutely."

"This is quite irregular. Our reservation department never makes a mistake. And what about you, Mr…?"

"Magill," Rick said.

"Well, there is a reservation for Magill, but it's for a woman only, I'm afraid. The noted historian Cora Magill. I assume you've heard of her. The best people stay here." Cora again reached under the counter and this time set down a thick ledger, raising more dust. She opened it and pretended to read names. "Marilyn Monroe. Arthur Miller. Adlai Stephenson. Grace Kelly. Norman Mailer. Yves Montand. Of course, only well-to-do people can afford to stay here." She picked up a card from next to the bell. "Our rates vary from ten to twenty dollars."

"When twenty dollars was twenty dollars." Rick laughed.

"Actually, you're not wrong about some of those guests," the professor said. "Marilyn Monroe, Arthur Miller, and Yves Montand did stay here. Monroe and the playwright were having domestic difficulties. After Miller checked out in a huff, Montand arrived to console Marilyn. Cole Porter stayed here, as well. So did Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald, Pablo Picasso, the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, Maria Callas, Aristotle Onassis, who was having an affair with Callas, and so on. In fact, Onassis tried to buy the hotel. The Paragon attracted a lot of famous and powerful people. And a few who were infamous and powerful. Senator Joseph McCarthy, for example. And the gangsters Lucky Luciano and Sam Giancana."

Balenger frowned. "Carlisle let gangsters stay here?"

"He was fascinated with their lifestyle. He ate dinner and played cards with them. In fact, he allowed Carmine Danata to keep a permanent suite here, 'a place to roost,' Danata called it, when he wasn't working as an enforcer in Atlantic City, Philadelphia, Jersey City, and New York. Carlisle gave Danata permission to have a vault put in behind a wall in his suite. It was done in the coldest part of the winter of 1935 when the hotel was virtually empty. Nobody knew about it."

"But if nobody knew about it…" Cora shook her head from side to side. "This reminds me of what's wrong with Citizen Kane."

"There's something wrong with Citizen Kane?" Vinnie asked in disbelief. "That's impossible. It's a masterpiece."

"With a big flaw. In the opening scene, Kane's an old man. He's dying in bed in his fabulous mansion. He has a snow globe in his hand."

"Everybody knows that opening," Vinnie said. "You and I once watched that movie together on the classics channel. You never mentioned anything about a flaw."

"I only realized it after you moved to Syracuse. Kane murmurs, 'Rosebud,' then drops the globe, which shatters on the bedroom floor. The noise makes a nurse charge through a door. All of a sudden, the newspapers and the newsreels are filled with the mystery of Kane's last word, 'Rosebud.' Then a reporter sets out to solve the puzzle."

"Yeah? So?"

"Well, if the nurse was out of the room and the door was closed and the bedroom was empty except for Kane when he died, how does anybody know his last word?"

"Oh," Vinnie said. "Shit. Now you've ruined the movie for me."

"The next time you watch it, just skip over that part."

"But what does this have to do with-"

"Professor," Cora said, "how could you know about a secret vault in Danata's room, one that was installed in the winter of 1935 when the Paragon was deserted?"

Conklin smiled. "You are indeed my student."

Balenger waited for the answer.

"It turns out that Carlisle kept a diary, not about himself but about the hotel, all the interesting events he observed over the decades. He was especially fascinated by the suicides and other deaths that occurred here. There were three murders, for example. A man shot his business partner for cheating him. A woman poisoned her husband for threatening to leave her for another woman. A thirteen-year-old boy waited until his father fell asleep and then beat him to death with a baseball bat. The father had molested the child for years. It took all of Carlisle's wealth and influence to keep those incidents from being publicized. After he died-"

"How?" Balenger asked. "Old age? Heart failure?"

"Actually, he committed suicide."

The group became still.

"Suicide?" Balenger scribbled a note.

"He used a shotgun to blow the top of his head off."

The group seemed to stop breathing.

"Despair because of ill health?" Balenger asked.

"The autopsy report was among the documents I examined," Conklin said. "Thanks to the strict health regimen and exercise program with which he tried to offset his hemophilia, he was remarkably fit for a man of ninety-two. He didn't leave a note. No one was able to explain why he killed himself."

"His mind must have been as sharp as his body," Rick said. "Otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to hide his intentions from his servants."

"In his last few years, Carlisle didn't have any servants."

"What? He took care of himself in this huge place all alone?" Cora frowned. "Wandering the halls."