Chapter Ten
I check my watch and get going. Easiest way to the archives is to jump on the subway, then head to Dupont Station. Just the right timing.
The Toronto Archives is modest. It’s just over thirty years old and designed by Zeidler Architecture, who designed the Toronto Eaton Centre in the seventies.
Outside the archives, I pass under a welcoming metal archway, then through the front entrance.
The atrium is a lovely space with neat displays and photographs.
A dusty rose stairway rises through the centre, toward the main archives.
Upstairs, I check in, get a locker for my things, then tell the receptionist I am there to meet with Mr. Buchanan.
She frowns slightly. “Mr. Buchanan is expecting you?”
I nod, picturing a bespectacled old man hunched over a desk or spinning through a microfiche, barely aware that he’s in a public building in the twenty-first century.
“I see. One moment, please.” She picks up the phone, gives my name, then hangs up with an apologetic smile. “Sorry for my hesitation. It’s just that Mr. Buchanan doesn’t usually hold meetings. He says he’ll be right up.”
I stand back, taking in the sterile plainness of the reception area, basically the brown paper wrapping around what I imagine is a treasure chest of information.
Most people come here for personal research, like finding out house and property values, but there’s so much more.
I know from googling on my way over that the building itself is a marvel.
It contains 144,000 boxes of records, worth well over $32 million.
It is climate-controlled, completely fireproof, and monitored by CCTV cameras every hour of the day.
Most of those, I assume, are stationed throughout the warehouse.
For some reason, my mind offers a memory of the warehouse where Indiana Jones lost the Ark of the Covenant.
“Ms. Kelly?”
I turn. “Yes?”
Matthew Buchanan is neither ninety years old nor stooped, though he does wear glasses and a tweed jacket. He’s mid-thirties, probably, with medium-brown hair and a hesitant smile. He dresses—incredibly—much like Professor Jones, Indiana Jones’s alter ego.
“I am Matthew Buchanan,” he says. He takes me in shyly. “Nice to meet you.”
The receptionist notes his hesitation and smiles to herself, pretending to be engrossed in her computer screen. I would be distracted, too, working with such a handsome, interesting man.
“Thank you so much for giving me a little of your time, Mr. Buchanan,” I say. I wonder if we’re supposed to shake hands, but he makes no move, so I don’t, either.
“I hope I can help with your questions,” he replies.
I follow him through a door, down a flight of stairs, left, then right past more doors, until he reaches his own. It’s marked by a brass nameplate.
His spotless office is exactly what I imagined for an archivist: a plain desk for his laptop and a closed white binder, beside which I spy a magnifying glass.
An ancient, cast-iron, goosenecked lamp is switched on at the corner of his desk.
I think it’s ancient, anyway. They make some pretty convincing fakes these days.
Three of the room’s walls are floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with identical binders.
The fourth is a tasteful red brick, which makes the office feel a little less barren.
There’s no sound at all in the room, other than us. It almost feels like a vacuum.
“So you’re interested in the Dominion Hotel?”
“I am, yes.”
I’m a little nervous introducing myself.
He is quiet and introspective, different from so many of my business contacts, and he is clearly intelligent.
I want to explain while projecting myself as professional as possible, even though my curiosity is purely amateur.
It’s my own personal quest to learn more about the hotel, and I don’t want to waste this expert’s time.
“I’m with Vale’s, and I am inspecting the ongoing renovations. Making sure all is up to code while remaining true to the original historical concept.”
“ ‘The original historical concept,’ ” he echoes. “Yes, I see. How can I help?”
I have a rough list of questions. “May I sit?”
He sees the problem and panics. “I’m so sorry. Yes. Uh, would you…” He glances around, flustered. “One moment, please.”
He darts out of the office, and I hear him knock on the next door, then speak with someone inside.
He returns, carrying a chair, which he places in front of his desk.
I move in while he stands behind it—as if he’s a waiter, ready to push in my chair before dinner.
Only after I’m seated does he return to his own chair.
It’s old-fashioned, but perfectly charming. I appreciate the chivalry.
“How may I help, Ms. Kelly?”
I hold up my phone. “Would you mind if I recorded our conversation? I’m sure I will forget things otherwise.” I flash a smile. “Nothing you say will be held against you in a court of law.”
His eyes widen briefly behind his lenses, figuring out my weak attempt at humour. They’re pale with long, dark lashes.
“Of course,” he says.
I can’t help thinking that it’s a shame to hide this man away in a basement office.
But I’m not here to daydream. I discipline myself and get back to business. I press RECORD on the phone and set it on the desk.
“I’m not sure where to start, but I did want to say how glad I am that the hotel has been brought back, as much as possible, to its original splendour.”
“That was a major undertaking. Five years of work. Do you like the clock?”
I blank, startled to hear him ask a direct question. “I’m sorry?”
“The lobby clock. The new one. It’s one-of-a-kind, by the Rockwell Group in New York. They call it the ‘Ninetieth Anniversary Clock.’ ”
“It’s stunning. So is Clockwork, the cocktail bar. The whole lobby glitters.”
He agrees. “It glittered then, and now it does again. The hotel is an icon.”
This feels like an invitation to gush a little. “There’s something so understated but luxurious about the exterior. The Chateauesque style is regal, then to blend it with Art Deco influences… The design is inspired.” I pause, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I’m sort of a fan.”
“Please go on,” he says. “I rarely get to speak with fellow history buffs.”
“I thought people interested in history requested your help all the time.”
“You’d be surprised how rarely that happens. Most people are motivated by need, not interest.”
“It’s just that, well, I know the Art Deco style was popular for hotels around that time, but the Dominion really did it in a big way. Then there’s the inside, with the hand-painted ceilings, the gold and bronze accents, all that oak and marble. That lobby…”
“It is spectacular,” he agrees. “And the art as well. Did you see how they decorated the check-in counter with scenes depicting moments in Canadian history? I appreciate how it honours the Canadian Pacific Railway’s role in creating the country.”
“It’s magnificent.”
A shy smile peeks out. “So, how can I help? Are you interested in stories about the hotel?” He’s a little more confident now. “Or specifics?”
“Both, I suppose. Whatever I can discover.”
He opens the binder on his desk to three photos of the iconic lobby clock, then spins it around to face me.
He points at a black-and-white photo. “My favourite of the clocks. Before men shipped off to the Second World War from Union Station, they often asked their wives, girlfriends, families, and whoever else, to ‘meet me at the clock’ when they got home. I always thought that was romantic. This one”—he indicates a double-sided two-storey bronze clock featuring Art Deco elements—“was commissioned to celebrate the hotel’s ninetieth anniversary and evokes the Golden Age of Rail, but I like the original. ”
He speaks with a fondness that I understand.
“How many guests have stayed in the hotel, do you know? Over the years, I mean.”
“More than forty million.” He starts turning pages, showing me glamourous, shiny people dressed in tuxedos and gowns. “So many celebrities and politicians, including Sir Winston Churchill.”
“Who else during the Golden Age?”
Another page flips, and his expression warms with nostalgia. “Cary Grant, Marlene Dietrich, Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Ginger Rogers, Jerry Lewis, Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, and Tony Curtis.”
Slowly, so I don’t miss anything, he turns another page, then another, passing so many famous faces. “Imagine being there for the likes of James Brown, Tina Turner, Phyllis Diller, Peggy Lee, and Eartha Kitt.”
His finger moves slowly along the photos.
“These days, it’s still the choice hotel for Annie Lennox, Wayne Gretzky, George Lucas, Queen Latifah, and TIFF actors like Susan Sarandon and Nicole Kidman,” he murmurs, then he glances at me.
“You know, at one time, the hotel had its own orchestra and concert hall. Its own radio station, even. There was a seven-thousand-pipe organ, and a film projector as well. Cool fact you probably didn’t know: in the hotel’s first year, the Canadian Opera Company gave one of its first performances in there. ”
“I had no idea. Think of the space and sets they would have needed for that. And their own orchestra?” I sigh, imagining it all. “So much more than a hotel.”
He relaxes, increasingly comfortable as he loses himself to the history.
“When the hotel first opened, it was Canada’s largest hotel kitchen. They could produce over fifteen thousand French bread rolls in a day.”
“It must have smelled amazing.”
“I suppose it must have.”
There’s a hesitation where we both wonder what’s next, then I ask, “What about ghost stories? I heard there are a few.”
“Ghost stories?”
I’m a little embarrassed by the question. “One of the men working in the basement told me there were ghost stories.”
“Uh, yes.” An unexpectedly alluring smile lights his face.
“Some good ones, though sometimes it’s just hot or cold pockets of air or fussy elevator doors, something like that.
Come to think of it, I suppose you would know what I’m talking about, being a building inspector.
But there is an interesting consistency among the guests’ reports in a couple of cases.
Both staff and guests talk about a grey-haired man in a maroon waistcoat who silently walks the hallway of the eighth floor.
Apparently, some of the staff refuse to work midnight shifts because they say they feel a presence when they’re working.
They also claim to have heard loud screaming and footsteps in the stairwell above the nineteenth floor.
That one is based on a tragic fact: a former employee hung himself from a railing up there. ”
“So, auditory and visual manifestations. Interesting. What about noises travelling through the pipes? Voices, I mean.”
He frowns. “That’s a new one on me. I can dig deeper, but as far as I remember, there’s nothing like that on record. Why?”
“One of the hotel workers told me. He said guests have been mentioning it for years.”
“It could just be the old plumbing.” He shifts in his seat. “But now you’ve got me curious.”
“Me too.” I hesitate. “While I was down in the basement, I saw something else that I want to ask you about. There was a door in the wall that didn’t show up in my blueprints. Do you have a copy of those?”
“I do.” He flips to the back of his tabbed binder, where he has maps of all the floors and main rooms. “You say you were in the basement?”
“Yes.”
He shows me what I want, and I lean over the diagrams, searching for where the boxes from Montey had been piled. He’s not wearing cologne, I think vaguely, yet he smells good.
I set my finger where I remember the door had been. “They had a lot of crates stacked here that they moved for me, and behind them, right about here, was a locked door. See? It isn’t in the blueprints.”
He sits back and gauges my reaction. “Here’s a thought. Movie stars, rock stars, bankers, three generations of Great Britain’s royal family… that kind of wealth and celebrity always attracts another element, right? I wonder if that might have something to do with that old doorway.”
“I’m confused. What element?”
“The criminal element. The world never really changes, does it?”
Ah, I think, pleased. He’s a storyteller. I relax back in my chair, enjoying myself more than I’d expected.
“There are criminals now just as there were criminals then, and they enjoy the high life as much as the celebrities do, I imagine. This hotel has had its fair share of secrets. There have been rumours of secret rooms and tunnels in the depths of the hotel for years. And according to police records, there was a steady smuggling trade around Toronto. Started with booze during Prohibition, but a lot of dirty money passed through here as well.” He pulls out a pad of paper, then a pen, which he taps nervously against the desk.
“I don’t know anything about smugglers’ tunnels in the Dominion firsthand, but the archives should have something.
If you’re interested, I can dig into it. ”
I’m trying to get a feel on him, to see if he’s enthusiastic about researching this or if I’m just a make-work project.
He’s naturally reserved, so it’s hard to tell.
I’m hoping he’s up for it, because this has been a great hour or so, marvelling over history with someone who is as interested in it as I am.
“I know you’re a busy man, Mr. Buchanan. I don’t want to impose. Do you really have time to do that?”
I see something like relief in his expression, as if he was hoping I’d ask, and I have my answer. “Oh, yes. I’d be happy to.”
Time has flown. When I switch off the recorder, then rise and reach for my coat, I wish I could stay longer.
“Thank you so much again. Please text me anytime.”
He walks me out, and I feel refreshed as I head toward Spadina.
Sometimes it’s easy to get bogged down in everyday things, like work, but right now I feel as if I just spoiled myself with an hour of “me time.” Almost like a pedicure, but for my mind.
And tonight is the perfect follow-up: a quiet night with Grandma.
I check my contacts, find the Wok Inn, then place my order.
I’ll pick it up on the way to her place, as usual.
An evening with Grandma is exactly what I need.