"So, here we are, Mr. Grey." Claudia Mackenzie opened the door of the cab and stepped out onto the sidewalk. "The Chestnut Mansion Hotel, in all its faded glory."

Martin Grey hefted his attaché case and got out of the cab, wincing at the cold blast of air that hit him as soon as he emerged. He pulled his overcoat tighter as he stood beside Claudia, and looked up at the ten-storey frontage of the old hotel. "It certainly looks impressive."

The Yellow Cab driver leaned out of his window. "It's a great old place, folks. Lots o' history there. Watch out for the ghost!"

He flashed them a grin and drove off.

Martin looked ruefully at Claudia. "Does everyone in New York know our business?"

Claudia grinned. "Guess so. You'll find that in this neighborhood, all right." She laid her hand on his arm. "Don't worry! It took me some time to get used to it."

Martin looked again at the old hotel; his next mission. He felt the familiar surge of excitement at the prospect of the new challenge.

He took in the boarded-over windows on the ground floor and the patches of wall where stucco was peeling off in scabrous flakes. Generous layers of graffiti covered most surfaces reachable without a ladder. Ten stories above, pigeons stared down at them from their roosts along the carved molding, their droppings ugly grey stains stretching down the wall almost to the ground. A decrepit, faded red candy-striped canopy over the main door offered some protection from the wind and the odd spot of rain. The whole structure had an air of moldering gentility that sat at odds with the thriving commercial neighborhood. Overhead glowered the dull skies of late fall in New York.

"It looks better inside," Claudia reassured him with professional ease. "C'mon, let's go in."

She led the way to the revolving door and knocked, peering through the glass into the shadowy interior for a sign of life. Eventually a middle-aged man in a dark blue uniform appeared from the depths carrying a torch, which he switched off as he neared the doors. Claudia held up her company ID card, and the man unlocked the doors and let them in.

Martin stepped inside, grateful to be out of the cold air of the street. The foyer was dark and still; the cool air held the musty smell of dust and damp.

"What happened to the lights?" Claudia asked the man.

He shrugged. "The power's out, ma'am. This'll be the third time in two days."

"Not again? I thought the power company fixed it last week."

"So did they." He sighed. "I'm going down to the basement to check the fuses. I don't think I'll find anything. Last time this happened, they were okay."

Claudia fished in her purse for her cell phone. "Have you called it in?"

"No, ma'am."

"Okay, I'll do it," she said, pressing the keys on her phone. Even as the little screen lit up, the foyer lights flickered and came on. "Guess the lights fixed themselves, unless the ghost decided to give us a break," she said and grinned at Martin.

He smiled. "Stranger things have happened."

She gave him a direct look. "I guess you could tell some stories, huh?"

He nodded. "I have a few."

Now that there was light, Martin could see the foyer was cavernous. Dull brass-work gleamed from the elevator cage at the far end, on either side of which swept two broad stairways of smooth, dark wood. The foyer itself was floored in a red carpet, sadly worn and stained almost to oblivion in places. To his left was the reception desk, beyond which doors marked with boards indicated the manager's office and staff room. He could hear a radio burbling from the office, showing where the watchman spent most of his time.

To the right was a restaurant, separated from the foyer by a glass and wood partition. Art deco motifs frosted the glass and a sign over the double doors displayed the legend “Chestnut Grove” in a swirling script. Martin wandered over to peer in. A maitre’d’s lectern stood just inside the doors, a worn track on the carpet showing the tread of countless feet.

Claudia finished her call and walked over to him. "Okay, that's fixed. Now, where would you like to start?"

Martin looked round, and let his instincts guide him. His eye was drawn to the stairs. "Upstairs first, I think."

"I'm going to go check the fuses," the watchman called over to them as they made their way to the stairs. "Watch yourselves if you go on the roof garden, folks. It's kind of cluttered up there in parts, wouldn't want you to fall off the roof or something."

"Thanks, we won't," Claudia replied.

As they climbed, Martin glanced at the tall young woman by his side. Her long, rich dark-copper hair glowed like embers in a wood fire and her poise was elegant without being studied. The tight skirt she wore accentuated every movement of her hips and butt. He stared briefly before tearing his gaze away and clearing his throat.

"I presume your company's having a problem selling this place," he said.

Claudia grimaced. "Yeah, you could say that. The local zoning laws say we must sell, or maintain it until we do, which is starting to cost the company several thousand bucks a month. Rather that than risk a lawsuit because masonry fell on a pedestrian. It's all very awkward. The Chestnut Mansion's a good-sized building in an increasingly successful area." She shook her head. "Honestly, Martin, the right people with the right cash would jump at the chance to buy and refurbish it, put it to some new use; yet we can't move it off our books."

"Because of the ghost?"

"Because of the ghost. We can't think of any other reason." She paused on the stairs, her long fingers stroking the fine teak handrail. "Martin, I tell you, ghost stories are nothing new here in the States. People are even attracted to them. Sometimes we can even sell a place on the strength of a haunting. But here, there's something different, something that's really turning prospective clients away."

"So you mentioned in the e-mails you sent." Martin produced a folder from his attaché case. "Yet you also say here that no one would comment on what they allegedly saw?"

"Not one who wanted to be named in my report." She shrugged apologetically. "Does that make it difficult for you to get a handle on this?"

"Not necessarily. I work by feeling, intuition if you like. That, and a few instruments."

"I'd like to see you work."

He shrugged and gave her a wry smile. "You're more than welcome to, but most of the time, there's nothing to see."

"What about now?" She stared at him intently. "Do you feel anything?"

"I feel... something," he said softly, looking up at the broad landing. "There's certainly an atmosphere here."

Claudia shivered visibly. "Well..." she began, just as the lights flickered and sank to a faint yellow glimmer. "Aw, what is it with these lights?" She sighed and got her phone out again. "I'd better call the power company again and make sure they're on the way." She peered at the screen. "Lousy signal here." She moved upwards a few steps, checked again and shook her head. "No better. I'll go down to the foyer, phone them from there. Are you coming?"

"No, I think I'll press on. The ballroom's up here, yes?"

"Yeah. The windows aren't boarded over, so you should be okay for light. Will you be okay on your own?" she asked anxiously.

"Oh, yes." He smiled. "I'm not nervous."

"Glad someone isn't around here," she said with a grin, and headed downstairs.

Martin continued up to the broad landing and found a tall set of double doors. A plaque bore the legend 'Ballroom' in ornate gold script, and he pushed them open.

The chamber beyond was huge, the ceiling seeming to loft far overhead. Brass rosettes marked the mountings for long-gone chandeliers. The floor was of sprung maple, the sumptuous rich yellow of the wood coming through the thick layer of dust that covered everything. Tall windows shed a pale, mote-laden light, creating pools of greater brightness crisscrossed with the shadows of their frames. The walls still wore a coat of flock wallpaper, the heavy printed swags of foliage bordering each panel little more than dark stains on a faded green. At the far end was a stage, with threadbare velvet curtains tied loosely to either side.

As Martin walked out onto the dance floor, he could picture the scene of days gone by, when the room would have been full of music, chatter and laughter, the swirl of bright skirts beneath the blaze of the crystal chandeliers, the sober hues of uniforms...

He pinched his nose and shook his head, surprised at the intensity of the image. Delving in his coat pocket he brought out his micro-cassette recorder and switched it on.

"Chestnut Mansion Hotel report, entry one," he said into the microphone. "First location, the ballroom. I'm getting an impression of a dance here, perhaps a military ball. Claudia's report mentioned something about this room." He put his case down and flipped through the folder. The light was too poor to read where he stood, so he moved to the nearest window and laid the folder on the sill. He began to flick through it. "Page ten..."

A bright shaft of sunlight suddenly lit the papers. Astonished at the intensity of the light after the dullness of the day, Martin glanced out of the window at the street--and froze.

Horse-drawn carriages thronged the cobbled street below, the drivers and passengers wrapped against the cold in mufflers, scarves, tall stove-pipe hats and bonnets. Steam rose from the mouths of humans and horses alike. Piles of snow lay at the side of the road where they had been swept, the slush mingling with mud and horse dung to make life difficult for the pedestrians on the boarded sidewalks. At the far end of the street a company of infantry marched past, their uniforms the rich blue of the Union. The sunlight gleamed on fixed bayonets and brass buttons, and positively shone off the flanks of the grey ridden by the heavily-bearded officer at their head.

Only the faithful cassette was on hand to record Martin's words.

"Oh dear! Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!"

* * * *

Claudia found a very thoughtful Martin Grey sitting on the top step of the rise to the ballroom, his chin resting on his hand. As if to highlight his pose, the lights had come on fully once more. She stared at him, a quizzical smile playing about her lips. He seemed totally unaware of her presence, and she took advantage of the moment to explore her initial attraction to him.

Martin Grey was tall, perhaps six feet compared to her five-nine, with neatly-cut, short dark hair, and a body she guessed to be in very good condition beneath the plain dark suit he wore. They'd climbed two flights of stairs and he hadn't been even slightly out of breath. Not bad for a guy in his early thirties, certainly compared to some of the guys she worked with in the office, who wore their paunches with pride.

His clean-shaven face was attractive, with regular features that would be unremarkable in most places. Yet there was a sense of contained energy in the way he sat, thinking, chin on fist. Behind the professorial air was a man of action.

"I hesitate to say this, but you look like you've seen a ghost!" she said at last.

"I'm not sure what I've just seen," he replied softly.

"Tell me?" she asked, sitting beside him and adjusting her sensible skirt over her long legs. She thought his friendly blue eyes looked troubled.

"I think I looked through a window onto the past," he began, and explained what he had seen.

Claudia nodded slowly. "And this is unusual?"

"Very! It has supposedly happened in other places; an incident at an Oxford college springs to mind, but it's not something I've ever encountered."

"What do you think it means?" She looked at the closed doors to the ballroom.

Martin rubbed his face wearily. "Early days, Claudia. Early days." He sighed. "This could be complicated."

"In this city, complicated usually means expensive." He looked at her askance and she shrugged. "Hey, don't worry about it; the company will pick up the bill. Kyle just wants this case closed for good."

"Kyle?"

"Kyle Marshall, the senior broker for my division. He's the one who hung this albatross around my neck. If this place doesn't get sold soon, it'll look bad for his promotion prospects." She gave him a direct look. "Can't say it'll do mine any good either if you can't solve this. Not that I want you to feel under pressure or anything!"

"Thanks!" He shook his head. "Trouble is, these things are not quantifiable; nothing's ever black-and-white where a 'haunting' is concerned."

She laid her hand on his. "Martin, I hired you because you have a good rep. Those articles on your work in Occult Times magazine fascinated me. God knows, from what I read, England has more history of haunted houses and ghostly goings-on than anyplace else in the world. So I thought, if we want the best results, get the best guy for the job. That's you."

"Thank you," he said, blushing.

"You're welcome." She grinned. "Okay, your ego-stroke's over. Let's get going on this."

* * * *

They returned to the ballroom. "I'm surprised you've even heard of Occult Times," Martin remarked as they searched. "It's hardly that well-known in England."

"Oh yeah, I've heard of it." She peered into the small backstage area. A faint smell of old sweat and greasepaint hung in the air of the minuscule dressing room. "I've loved that stuff since I was a kid. They called me 'Creepy Claudia' at summer camp; I was always reading books on ghosts. Finding Occult Times magazine on the 'net three years back was a bonus. I took out a subscription." She cast him a coy look. "Perhaps you'd autograph a copy for me?"

Martin blinked in surprise. "Certainly!" he replied, flustered, then he laughed. "Sorry, it's not something I've been asked before."

"No problem. I'll bring it in tomorrow. Just wanted to check with you first."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome." Claudia looked around. "Okay, nothing's presented itself. Where to next?"

"Downstairs, I think; the basement, restaurant and kitchens; then work our way up through the accommodation floors to the roof garden."

"Suits me," she said, leading the way.

* * * *

They reached the basement area via a set of concrete stairs through a door in the service area near the manager's office. The air seemed cold and damp to Martin, even more than he expected to find in a building left shut up for too long.

"Sure smells musty down here." Claudia followed him as they made their way down and into the lighted corridor.

"It certainly has atmosphere." He wrinkled his nose. "Can you smell burning?"

Claudia sniffed tentatively. "No, just damp."

Martin sniffed again then shook his head. "I thought I could smell something burning. My nose must be playing up after the flight over here."

"Could be. Pressurization does that to some folks. My mom's a martyr to it." She pointed to an open door further along with light spilling through it. "Looks like the watchman's down there."

When they arrived the watchman was peering at an old-fashioned fuse box, a circuit tester in one hand, unlit torch in the other. He turned and looked at them keenly for a moment, then relaxed. "Hi again, Miss Mackenzie," he said.

"Hi yourself, Mike. How's it going here?"

Mike scratched his head. "Damned if I know, miss." He sighed. "These fuses look okay to me. It's just like last time; we get a brown-out or a total outage, yet everything down here's just dandy. Are all the lights on up top?"

"Yeah. I called the power company; they're sending someone over to check it out." Claudia indicated Martin. "Mike, I forgot to introduce you to Mr. Grey, from England. He'll be working here for a while."

"You're the ghost-buster?" Mike grinned, putting his torch down and offering his hand.

"Not quite, Mike." Martin smiled. "I don't like busting anything. A friend of mine had a better phrase for it: 'de-haunter.' Have you seen anything unusual?"

"I've seen plenty in my time as a cop on the old 96th Precinct." Mike chuckled again. "Round here? Well..." He shrugged and looked embarrassed. "I can't rightly say I have."

"Don't worry about telling me of anything you've seen. It'll all be treated with the utmost confidence," Martin said, with a quick look at Claudia.

"There's the roof garden." Mike shrugged again. "Maybe it's just all those old things, the summer house, the plant boxes and that, all rotting away up there. There's a kind of sour smell that hangs around, even in a strong wind. It makes me think of a murder scene for some reason." He frowned. "I try not to go up there much."

Martin rubbed his chin. "A murder scene, you say?"

"Yeah. Saw enough of those, too, before I retired. Can't really explain why I feel that when I'm up there."

Claudia looked at him keenly. "Cop's instinct?"

Mike gave a short laugh. "Could be you're right, ma'am. Once a cop, always a cop."

"Smell can be important in my job, Mike," Martin said, noting the remark. "Have you noticed anything else, anywhere in the building?"

"No, nothing that I can't explain." Mike tucked the circuit tester into his pocket. "Now, if you'll excuse me, folks, I'd better get back upstairs ready to let those power company guys in."

Martin and Claudia stood aside to let him through.

Mike paused at the doorway. "Mr. Grey, I don't know what's going on here. Maybe it's something, maybe it's nothing. I'm sure you'll find out. But I can't say the place, the atmosphere, feels bad as a whole. Know what I mean?"

"Yes, Mike." Martin nodded. "If it's possible, I'll find out what's going on."

Mike nodded and moved off in the direction of the stairs.

Claudia looked at Martin. "He felt something weird on the roof garden."

"I heard." His lips twitched. "Nice to meet someone honest enough to admit to an odd experience."

* * * *

The basement yielded little. Some of the small rooms bore signs of electrical appliances having been removed; the redundant cabling was still in place. Others held heaps of dusty old furniture, including a room with a stack of chandeliers, their gilt cracked and peeling.

"All the useful stuff that was down here was taken away years ago," Claudia said, as they made their way upstairs. "The basement mostly held the utilities, laundry, boot-blacking room, all that kind of thing. I saw the figures from the hotel's heyday. The sheer amount of washing they got through in a day was awesome."

Martin nodded. "A big hotel is like a swan; all serene and elegant on the surface, paddling away like mad underneath."

* * * *

In the restaurant the aroma of expensive meals eaten long ago still lingered, overlaid by the general air of mustiness. All the furniture had been removed, apart from the lectern, leaving worn trails in the red carpet and still-plush areas where tables and chairs once stood. A mezzanine floor occupied one whole side; it was the kind of place where the great and the good came to see and be seen over the heads of lesser folks. Darker patches on the wall showed where pictures once hung.

Claudia watched as Martin turned slowly on the spot, his eyes half-closed. "Do you feel anything?"

He opened his eyes and shook his head. "I'm only getting a general sense of the past. I can imagine how busy this place once was."

Claudia consulted her notes. "'The Chestnut Grove was one of the finest restaurants in New York City in its day,'" she read aloud. "'It played host to statesmen and famous folk from all across the world.'"

"All of them long gone. So much for fame."

"Yeah, I guess so." She shrugged. "Shall we look at the kitchens?"

* * * *

The large room was empty. Old capped-off gas pipes protruded from the tiled floor like stumps in some petrified forest, marking where ovens and ranges had once been. The stainless steel hot-cabinets remained against one wall; Claudia peered into them as Martin looked around.

"Hey!" He turned to see her pulling a framed picture from one of the cabinets. When he walked over she held it up for him to see. "This is a signed photograph of President Theodore Roosevelt!"

He looked in the cabinet. "There are others here," he said, drawing out a sizeable stack and setting them on the floor. He looked through them. "Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford. Puccini. David Niven. President Franklin Roosevelt. Winston Churchill! All signed." He looked at the next photograph and frowned. "Who's this?"

Claudia peered over his shoulder, her closeness bringing a waft of warm scent that made his nostrils twitch. "President McKinley. Guess you wouldn't know him much in the UK." She leaned closer, a breast pressing lightly against his back, and he felt her start. "Whoa! It's dated 13th September, 1901!"

"Is that significant?"

"I'll say! He was assassinated up in Buffalo the very next day." She shook her head. "This could be the last formal portrait ever taken of him. What with this and the others that are signed," she pursed her lips, "they'll be worth a tidy sum!"

"It appears someone else thinks the same. I have the sneaky feeling these were hidden here for collection later."

"Wonder who hid them?" She took out her notepad and made a quick entry. "Guess we'd better find out." She looked at the pile of photographs and shook her head. "This case just gets better and better!"