Produced by David Reed, and David Widger
THE GRAND BABYLON HÔTEL
By Arnold Bennett
T. Racksole & Daughter
CONTENTS
Chapter One. THE MILLIONAIRE AND THE WAITER
Chapter Two. HOW MR RACKSOLE OBTAINED HIS DINNER
Chapter Three. AT THREE A.M.
Chapter Four. ENTRANCE OF THE PRINCE
Chapter Five. WHAT OCCURRED TO REGINALD DIMMOCK
Chapter Six. IN THE GOLD ROOM
Chapter Seven. NELLA AND THE PRINCE
Chapter Eight. ARRIVAL AND DEPARTURE OF THE BARONESS
Chapter Nine. TWO WOMEN AND THE REVOLVER
Chapter Ten. AT SEA
Chapter Eleven. THE COURT PAWNBROKER
Chapter Twelve. ROCCO AND ROOM NO. 111
Chapter Thirteen. IN THE STATE BEDROOM
Chapter Fourteen. ROCCO ANSWERS SOME QUESTIONS
Chapter Fifteen. END OF THE YACHT ADVENTURE
Chapter Sixteen. THE WOMAN WITH THE RED HAT
Chapter Seventeen. THE RELEASE OF PRINCE EUGEN
Chapter Eighteen. IN THE NIGHT-TIME
Chapter Nineteen. ROYALTY AT THE GRAND BABYLON
Chapter Twenty. MR SAMPSON LEVI BIDS PRINCE EUGEN GOOD MORNING
Chapter Twenty-One. THE RETURN OF FÉLIX BABYLON
Chapter Twenty-Two. IN THE WINE CELLARS OF THE GRAND BABYLON
Chapter Twenty-Three. FURTHER EVENTS IN THE CELLAR
Chapter Twenty-Four. THE BOTTLE OF WINE
Chapter Twenty-Five. THE STEAM LAUNCH
Chapter Twenty-Six. THE NIGHT CHASE AND THE MUDLARK
Chapter Twenty-Seven. THE CONFESSION OF MR TOM JACKSON
Chapter Twenty-Eight. THE STATE BEDROOM ONCE MORE
Chapter Twenty-Nine. THEODORE IS CALLED TO THE RESCUE
Chapter Thirty. CONCLUSION
Chapter One THE MILLIONAIRE AND THE WAITER
‘YES, sir?’
Jules, the celebrated head waiter of the Grand Babylon, was bending
formally towards the alert, middle-aged man who had just entered the
smoking-room and dropped into a basket-chair in the corner by the
conservatory. It was 7.45 on a particularly sultry June night, and
dinner was about to be served at the Grand Babylon. Men of all sizes,
ages, and nationalities, but every one alike arrayed in faultless
evening dress, were dotted about the large, dim apartment. A faint odour
of flowers came from the conservatory, and the tinkle of a fountain. The
waiters, commanded by Jules, moved softly across the thick Oriental
rugs, balancing their trays with the dexterity of jugglers, and
receiving and executing orders with that air of profound importance of
which only really first-class waiters have the secret. The atmosphere
was an atmosphere of serenity and repose, characteristic of the Grand
Babylon. It seemed impossible that anything could occur to mar the
peaceful, aristocratic monotony of existence in that perfectly-managed
establishment. Yet on that night was to happen the mightiest upheaval
that the Grand Babylon had ever known.
‘Yes, sir?’ repeated Jules, and this time there was a shade of august
disapproval in his voice: it was not usual for him to have to address a
customer twice.
‘Oh!’ said the alert, middle-aged man, looking up at length. Beautifully
ignorant of the identity of the great Jules, he allowed his grey eyes to
twinkle as he caught sight of the expression on the waiter’s face.
‘Bring me an Angel Kiss.’
‘Pardon, sir?’
‘Bring me an Angel Kiss, and be good enough to lose no time.’
‘If it’s an American drink, I fear we don’t keep it, sir.’ The voice of
Jules fell icily distinct, and several men glanced round uneasily, as if
to deprecate the slightest disturbance of their calm. The appearance of
the person to whom Jules was speaking, however, reassured them somewhat,
for he had all the look of that expert, the travelled Englishman, who
can differentiate between one hotel and another by instinct, and who
knows at once where he may make a fuss with propriety, and where it is
advisable to behave exactly as at the club. The Grand Babylon was a
hotel in whose smoking-room one behaved as though one was at one’s club.
‘I didn’t suppose you did keep it, but you can mix it, I guess, even in
this hotel.’
‘This isn’t an American hotel, sir.’ The calculated insolence of the
words was cleverly masked beneath an accent of humble submission.
The alert, middle-aged man sat up straight, and gazed placidly at Jules,
who was pulling his famous red side-whiskers.
‘Get a liqueur glass,’ he said, half curtly and half with good-humoured
tolerance, ‘pour into it equal quantities of maraschino, cream, and
crême de menthe. Don’t stir it; don’t shake it. Bring it to me. And, I
say, tell the bar-tender--’
‘Bar-tender, sir?’
‘Tell the bar-tender to make a note of the recipe, as I shall probably
want an Angel Kiss every evening before dinner so long as this weather
lasts.’
‘I will send the drink to you, sir,’ said Jules distantly. That was his
parting shot, by which he indicated that he was not as other waiters
are, and that any person who treated him with disrespect did so at his
own peril.
A few minutes later, while the alert, middle-aged man was tasting the
Angel Kiss, Jules sat in conclave with Miss Spencer, who had charge of
the bureau of the Grand Babylon. This bureau was a fairly large chamber,
with two sliding glass partitions which overlooked the entrance-hall and
the smoking-room. Only a small portion of the clerical work of the great
hotel was performed there. The place served chiefly as the lair of Miss
Spencer, who was as well known and as important as Jules himself. Most
modern hotels have a male clerk to superintend the bureau. But the Grand
Babylon went its own way. Miss Spencer had been bureau clerk almost
since the Grand Babylon had first raised its massive chimneys to heaven,
and she remained in her place despite the vagaries of other hotels.
Always admirably dressed in plain black silk, with a small diamond
brooch, immaculate wrist-bands, and frizzed yellow hair, she looked now
just as she had looked an indefinite number of years ago. Her age--none
knew it, save herself and perhaps one other, and none cared. The
gracious and alluring contours of her figure were irreproachable; and in
the evenings she was a useful ornament of which any hotel might be
innocently proud. Her knowledge of Bradshaw, of steamship services, and
the programmes of theatres and music-halls was unrivalled; yet she never
travelled, she never went to a theatre or a music-hall. She seemed to
spend the whole of her life in that official lair of hers, imparting
information to guests, telephoning to the various departments, or
engaged in intimate conversations with her special friends on the staff,
as at present.
‘Who’s Number 107?’ Jules asked this black-robed lady.
Miss Spencer examined her ledgers.
‘Mr Theodore Racksole, New York.’
‘I thought he must be a New Yorker,’ said Jules, after a brief,
significant pause, ‘but he talks as good English as you or me. Says he
wants an “Angel Kiss”--maraschino and cream, if you please--every night.
I’ll see he doesn’t stop here too long.’
Miss Spencer smiled grimly in response. The notion of referring to
Theodore Racksole as a ‘New Yorker’ appealed to her sense of humour, a
sense in which she was not entirely deficient. She knew, of course, and
she knew that Jules knew, that this Theodore Racksole must be the unique
and only Theodore Racksole, the third richest man in the United States,
and therefore probably in the world. Nevertheless she ranged herself at
once on the side of Jules.
Just as there was only one Racksole, so there was only one Jules, and
Miss Spencer instinctively shared the latter’s indignation at the
spectacle of any person whatsoever, millionaire or Emperor, presuming to
demand an ‘Angel Kiss’, that unrespectable concoction of maraschino and
cream, within the precincts of the Grand Babylon. In the world of hotels
it was currently stated that, next to the proprietor, there were three
gods at the Grand Babylon--Jules, the head waiter, Miss Spencer, and,
most powerful of all, Rocco, the renowned chef, who earned two thousand
a year, and had a chalet on the Lake of Lucerne. All the great hotels in
Northumberland Avenue and on the Thames Embankment had tried to get
Rocco away from the Grand Babylon, but without success. Rocco was well
aware that even he could rise no higher than the maître hotel of the
Grand Babylon, which, though it never advertised itself, and didn’t
belong to a limited company, stood an easy first among the hotels of
Europe--first in expensiveness, first in exclusiveness, first in that
mysterious quality known as ‘style’.
Situated on the Embankment, the Grand Babylon, despite its noble
proportions, was somewhat dwarfed by several colossal neighbours. It had
but three hundred and fifty rooms, whereas there are two hotels within a
quarter of a mile with six hundred and four hundred rooms respectively.
On the other hand, the Grand Babylon was the only hotel in London with a
genuine separate entrance for Royal visitors constantly in use. The
Grand Babylon counted that day wasted on which it did not entertain, at
the lowest, a German prince or the Maharajah of some Indian State. When
Felix Babylon--after whom, and not with any reference to London’s
nickname, the hotel was christened--when Felix Babylon founded the hotel
in 1869 he had set himself to cater for Royalty, and that was the secret
of his triumphant eminence.
The son of a rich Swiss hotel proprietor and financier, he had contrived
to established a connection with the officials of several European
Courts, and he had not spared money in that respect. Sundry kings and
not a few princesses called him Felix, and spoke familiarly of the hotel
as ‘Felix’s’; and Felix had found that this was very good for trade. The
Grand Babylon was managed accordingly. The ‘note’ of its policy was
discretion, always discretion, and quietude, simplicity, remoteness. The
place was like a palace incognito. There was no gold sign over the roof,
not even an explanatory word at the entrance. You walked down a small
side street off the Strand, you saw a plain brown building in front of
you, with two mahogany swing doors, and an official behind each; the
doors opened noiselessly; you entered; you were in Felix’s. If you meant
to be a guest, you, or your courier, gave your card to Miss Spencer.
Upon no consideration did you ask for the tariff. It was not good form
to mention prices at the Grand Babylon; the prices were enormous, but
you never mentioned them. At the conclusion of your stay a bill was
presented, brief and void of dry details, and you paid it without a
word. You met with a stately civility, that was all. No one had
originally asked you to come; no one expressed the hope that you would
come again. The Grand Babylon was far above such manoeuvres; it defied
competition by ignoring it; and consequently was nearly always full
during the season.
If there was one thing more than another that annoyed the Grand Babylon-
-put its back up, so to speak--it was to be compared with, or to be
mistaken for, an American hotel. The Grand Babylon was resolutely
opposed to American methods of eating, drinking, and lodging--but
especially American methods of drinking. The resentment of Jules, on
being requested to supply Mr Theodore Racksole with an Angel Kiss, will
therefore be appreciated.
‘Anybody with Mr Theodore Racksole?’ asked Jules, continuing his
conversation with Miss Spencer. He put a scornful stress on every
syllable of the guest’s name.
‘Miss Racksole--she’s in No. 111.’
Jules paused, and stroked his left whisker as it lay on his gleaming
white collar.
‘She’s where?’ he queried, with a peculiar emphasis.
‘No. 111. I couldn’t help it. There was no other room with a bathroom
and dressing-room on that floor.’ Miss Spencer’s voice had an appealing
tone of excuse.
‘Why didn’t you tell Mr Theodore Racksole and Miss Racksole that we were
unable to accommodate them?’
‘Because Babs was within hearing.’
Only three people in the wide world ever dreamt of applying to Mr Felix
Babylon the playful but mean abbreviation--Babs: those three were Jules,
Miss Spencer, and Rocco. Jules had invented it. No one but he would have
had either the wit or the audacity to do so.
‘You’d better see that Miss Racksole changes her room to-night,’ Jules
said after another pause. ‘Leave it to me: I’ll fix it. Au revoir! It’s
three minutes to eight. I shall take charge of the dining-room myself
to-night.’
And Jules departed, rubbing his fine white hands slowly and
meditatively. It was a trick of his, to rub his hands with a strange,
roundabout motion, and the action denoted that some unusual excitement
was in the air.
At eight o’clock precisely dinner was served in the immense salle
manger, that chaste yet splendid apartment of white and gold. At a small
table near one of the windows a young lady sat alone. Her frocks said
Paris, but her face unmistakably said New York. It was a self-possessed
and bewitching face, the face of a woman thoroughly accustomed to doing
exactly what she liked, when she liked, how she liked: the face of a
woman who had taught hundreds of gilded young men the true art of
fetching and carrying, and who, by twenty years or so of parental
spoiling, had come to regard herself as the feminine equivalent of the
Tsar of All the Russias. Such women are only made in America, and they
only come to their full bloom in Europe, which they imagine to be a
continent created by Providence for their diversion.
The young lady by the window glanced disapprovingly at the menu card.
Then she looked round the dining-room, and, while admiring the diners,
decided that the room itself was rather small and plain. Then she gazed
through the open window, and told herself that though the Thames by
twilight was passable enough, it was by no means level with the Hudson,
on whose shores her father had a hundred thousand dollar country
cottage. Then she returned to the menu, and with a pursing of lovely
lips said that there appeared to be nothing to eat.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Nella.’ It was Mr Racksole, the intrepid
millionaire who had dared to order an Angel Kiss in the smoke-room of
the Grand Babylon. Nella--her proper name was Helen--smiled at her
parent cautiously, reserving to herself the right to scold if she should
feel so inclined.
‘You always are late, father,’ she said.
‘Only on a holiday,’ he added. ‘What is there to eat?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Then let’s have it. I’m hungry. I’m never so hungry as when I’m being
seriously idle.’
‘Consommé Britannia,’ she began to read out from the menu, ‘Saumon
d’Ecosse, Sauce Genoise, Aspics de Homard. Oh, heavens! Who wants these
horrid messes on a night like this?’
‘But, Nella, this is the best cooking in Europe,’ he protested.
‘Say, father,’ she said, with seeming irrelevance, ‘had you forgotten
it’s my birthday to-morrow?’
‘Have I ever forgotten your birthday, O most costly daughter?’
‘On the whole you’ve been a most satisfactory dad,’ she answered
sweetly, ‘and to reward you I’ll be content this year with the cheapest
birthday treat you ever gave me. Only I’ll have it to-night.’
‘Well,’ he said, with the long-suffering patience, the readiness for any
surprise, of a parent whom Nella had thoroughly trained, ‘what is it?’
‘It’s this. Let’s have filleted steak and a bottle of Bass for dinner
to-night. It will be simply exquisite. I shall love it.’
‘But my dear Nella,’ he exclaimed, ‘steak and beer at Felix’s! It’s
impossible! Moreover, young women still under twenty-three cannot be
permitted to drink Bass.’
‘I said steak and Bass, and as for being twenty-three, shall be going in
twenty-four to-morrow.’
Miss Racksole set her small white teeth.
There was a gentle cough. Jules stood over them. It must have been out
of a pure spirit of adventure that he had selected this table for his
own services. Usually Jules did not personally wait at dinner. He merely
hovered observant, like a captain on the bridge during the mate’s watch.
Regular frequenters of the hotel felt themselves honoured when Jules
attached himself to their tables.
Theodore Racksole hesitated one second, and then issued the order with a
fine air of carelessness:
‘Filleted steak for two, and a bottle of Bass.’ It was the bravest act
of Theodore Racksole’s life, and yet at more than one previous crisis a
high courage had not been lacking to him.
‘It’s not in the menu, sir,’ said Jules the imperturbable.
‘Never mind. Get it. We want it.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Jules walked to the service-door, and, merely affecting to look behind,
came immediately back again.
‘Mr Rocco’s compliments, sir, and he regrets to be unable to serve steak
and Bass to-night, sir.’
‘Mr Rocco?’ questioned Racksole lightly.
‘Mr Rocco,’ repeated Jules with firmness.
‘And who is Mr Rocco?’
‘Mr Rocco is our chef, sir.’ Jules had the expression of a man who is
asked to explain who Shakespeare was.
The two men looked at each other. It seemed incredible that Theodore
Racksole, the ineffable Racksole, who owned a thousand miles of railway,
several towns, and sixty votes in Congress, should be defied by a
waiter, or even by a whole hotel. Yet so it was. When Europe’s effete
back is against the wall not a regiment of millionaires can turn its
flank. Jules had the calm expression of a strong man sure of victory.
His face said: ‘You beat me once, but not this time, my New York
friend!’
As for Nella, knowing her father, she foresaw interesting events, and
waited confidently for the steak. She did not feel hungry, and she could
afford to wait.
‘Excuse me a moment, Nella,’ said Theodore Racksole quietly, ‘I shall be
back in about two seconds,’ and he strode out of the salle à manger. No
one in the room recognized the millionaire, for he was unknown to
London, this being his first visit to Europe for over twenty years. Had
anyone done so, and caught the expression on his face, that man might
have trembled for an explosion which should have blown the entire Grand
Babylon into the Thames.
Jules retired strategically to a corner. He had fired; it was the
antagonist’s turn. A long and varied experience had taught Jules that a
guest who embarks on the subjugation of a waiter is almost always lost;
the waiter has so many advantages in such a contest.
Chapter Two HOW MR RACKSOLE OBTAINED HIS DINNER
NEVERTHELESS, there are men with a confirmed habit of getting their own
way, even as guests in an exclusive hotel: and Theodore Racksole had
long since fallen into that useful practice--except when his only
daughter Helen, motherless but high-spirited girl, chose to think that
his way crossed hers, in which case Theodore capitulated and fell back.
But when Theodore and his daughter happened to be going one and the same
road, which was pretty often, then Heaven alone might help any obstacle
that was so ill-advised as to stand in their path. Jules, great and
observant man though he was, had not noticed the terrible projecting
chins of both father and daughter, otherwise it is possible he would
have reconsidered the question of the steak and Bass.
Theodore Racksole went direct to the entrance-hall of the hotel, and
entered Miss Spencer’s sanctum.
‘I want to see Mr Babylon,’ he said, ‘without the delay of an instant.’
Miss Spencer leisurely raised her flaxen head.
‘I am afraid--,’ she began the usual formula. It was part of her daily
duty to discourage guests who desired to see Mr Babylon.
‘No, no,’ said Racksole quickly, ‘I don’t want any “I’m afraids.” This
is business. If you had been the ordinary hotel clerk I should have
slipped you a couple of sovereigns into your hand, and the thing would
have been done.
As you are not--as you are obviously above bribes--I merely say to you,
I must see Mr Babylon at once on an affair of the utmost urgency. My
name is Racksole--Theodore Racksole.’
‘Of New York?’ questioned a voice at the door, with a slight foreign
accent.
The millionaire turned sharply, and saw a rather short, French-looking
man, with a bald head, a grey beard, a long and perfectly-built frock
coat, eye-glasses attached to a minute silver chain, and blue eyes that
seemed to have the transparent innocence of a maid’s.
‘There is only one,’ said Theodore Racksole succinctly.
‘You wish to see me?’ the new-comer suggested.
‘You are Mr Felix Babylon?’
The man bowed.
‘At this moment I wish to see you more than anyone else in the world,’
said Racksole. ‘I am consumed and burnt up with a desire to see you, Mr
Babylon.
I only want a few minutes’ quiet chat. I fancy I can settle my business
in that time.’
With a gesture Mr Babylon invited the millionaire down a side corridor,
at the end of which was Mr Babylon’s private room, a miracle of Louis XV
furniture and tapestry: like most unmarried men with large incomes, Mr
Babylon had ‘tastes’ of a highly expensive sort.
The landlord and his guest sat down opposite each other. Theodore
Racksole had met with the usual millionaire’s luck in this adventure,
for Mr Babylon made a practice of not allowing himself to be interviewed
by his guests, however distinguished, however wealthy, however
pertinacious. If he had not chanced to enter Miss Spencer’s office at
that precise moment, and if he had not been impressed in a somewhat
peculiar way by the physiognomy of the millionaire, not all Mr
Racksole’s American energy and ingenuity would have availed for a
confabulation with the owner of the Grand Babylon Hôtel that night.
Theodore Racksole, however, was ignorant that a mere accident had served
him. He took all the credit to himself.
‘I read in the New York papers some months ago,’ Theodore started,
without even a clearing of the throat, ‘that this hotel of yours, Mr
Babylon, was to be sold to a limited company, but it appears that the
sale was not carried out.’
‘It was not,’ answered Mr Babylon frankly, ‘and the reason was that the
middle-men between the proposed company and myself wished to make a
large secret profit, and I declined to be a party to such a profit. They
were firm; I was firm; and so the affair came to nothing.’
‘The agreed price was satisfactory?’
‘Quite.’
‘May I ask what the price was?’
‘Are you a buyer, Mr Racksole?’
‘Are you a seller, Mr Babylon?’
‘I am,’ said Babylon, ‘on terms. The price was four hundred thousand
pounds, including the leasehold and goodwill. But I sell only on the
condition that the buyer does not transfer the property to a limited
company at a higher figure.’
‘I will put one question to you, Mr Babylon,’ said the millionaire.
‘What have your profits averaged during the last four years?’
‘Thirty-four thousand pounds per annum.’
‘I buy,’ said Theodore Racksole, smiling contentedly; ‘and we will, if
you please, exchange contract-letters on the spot.’
‘You come quickly to a resolution, Mr Racksole. But perhaps you have
been considering this question for a long time?’
‘On the contrary,’ Racksole looked at his watch, ‘I have been
considering it for six minutes.’
Felix Babylon bowed, as one thoroughly accustomed to eccentricity of
wealth.
‘The beauty of being well-known,’ Racksole continued, ‘is that you
needn’t trouble about preliminary explanations. You, Mr Babylon,
probably know all about me. I know a good deal about you. We can take
each other for granted without reference. Really, it is as simple to buy
an hotel or a railroad as it is to buy a watch, provided one is equal to
the transaction.’
‘Precisely,’ agreed Mr Babylon smiling. ‘Shall we draw up the little
informal contract? There are details to be thought of. But it occurs to
me that you cannot have dined yet, and might prefer to deal with minor
questions after dinner.’
‘I have not dined,’ said the millionaire, with emphasis, ‘and in that
connexion will you do me a favour? Will you send for Mr Rocco?’
‘You wish to see him, naturally.’
‘I do,’ said the millionaire, and added, ‘about my dinner.’
‘Rocco is a great man,’ murmured Mr Babylon as he touched the bell,
ignoring the last words. ‘My compliments to Mr Rocco,’ he said to the
page who answered his summons, ‘and if it is quite convenient I should
be glad to see him here for a moment.’
‘What do you give Rocco?’ Racksole inquired.
‘Two thousand a year and the treatment of an Ambassador.’
‘I shall give him the treatment of an Ambassador and three thousand.’
‘You will be wise,’ said Felix Babylon.
At that moment Rocco came into the room, very softly--a man of forty,
thin, with long, thin hands, and an inordinately long brown silky
moustache.
‘Rocco,’ said Felix Babylon, ‘let me introduce Mr Theodore Racksole, of
New York.’
‘Sharmed,’ said Rocco, bowing. ‘Ze--ze, vat you call it, millionaire?’
‘Exactly,’ Racksole put in, and continued quickly: ‘Mr Rocco, I wish to
acquaint you before any other person with the fact that I have purchased
the Grand Babylon Hôtel. If you think well to afford me the privilege of
retaining your services I shall be happy to offer you a remuneration of
three thousand a year.’
‘Tree, you said?’
‘Three.’
‘Sharmed.’
‘And now, Mr Rocco, will you oblige me very much by ordering a plain
beefsteak and a bottle of Bass to be served by Jules--I particularly
desire Jules--at table No. 17 in the dining-room in ten minutes from
now? And will you do me the honour of lunching with me to-morrow?’
Mr Rocco gasped, bowed, muttered something in French, and departed.
Five minutes later the buyer and seller of the Grand Babylon Hôtel had
each signed a curt document, scribbled out on the hotel note-paper.
Felix Babylon asked no questions, and it was this heroic absence of
curiosity, of surprise on his part, that more than anything else
impressed Theodore Racksole. How many hotel proprietors in the world,
Racksole asked himself, would have let that beef-steak and Bass go by
without a word of comment.
‘From what date do you wish the purchase to take effect?’ asked Babylon.
‘Oh,’ said Racksole lightly, ‘it doesn’t matter. Shall we say from to-
night?’
‘As you will. I have long wished to retire. And now that the moment has
come--and so dramatically--I am ready. I shall return to Switzerland.
One cannot spend much money there, but it is my native land. I shall be
the richest man in Switzerland.’ He smiled with a kind of sad amusement.
‘I suppose you are fairly well off?’ said Racksole, in that easy
familiar style of his, as though the idea had just occurred to him.
‘Besides what I shall receive from you, I have half a million invested.’
‘Then you will be nearly a millionaire?’
Felix Babylon nodded.
‘I congratulate you, my dear sir,’ said Racksole, in the tone of a judge
addressing a newly-admitted barrister. ‘Nine hundred thousand pounds,
expressed in francs, will sound very nice--in Switzerland.’
‘Of course to you, Mr Racksole, such a sum would be poverty. Now if one
might guess at your own wealth?’ Felix Babylon was imitating the other’s
freedom.
‘I do not know, to five millions or so, what I am worth,’ said Racksole,
with sincerity, his tone indicating that he would have been glad to give
the information if it were in his power.
‘You have had anxieties, Mr Racksole?’
‘Still have them. I am now holiday-making in London with my daughter in
order to get rid of them for a time.’
‘Is the purchase of hotels your notion of relaxation, then?’
Racksole shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is a change from railroads,’ he
laughed.
‘Ah, my friend, you little know what you have bought.’
‘Oh! yes I do,’ returned Racksole; ‘I have bought just the first hotel
in the world.’
‘That is true, that is true,’ Babylon admitted, gazing meditatively at
the antique Persian carpet. ‘There is nothing, anywhere, like my hotel.
But you will regret the purchase, Mr Racksole. It is no business of
mine, of course, but I cannot help repeating that you will regret the
purchase.’
‘I never regret.’
‘Then you will begin very soon--perhaps to-night.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because the Grand Babylon is the Grand Babylon. You think because you
control a railroad, or an iron-works, or a line of steamers, therefore
you can control anything. But no. Not the Grand Babylon. There is
something about the Grand Babylon--’ He threw up his hands.
‘Servants rob you, of course.’
‘Of course. I suppose I lose a hundred pounds a week in that way. But it
is not that I mean. It is the guests. The guests are too--too
distinguished.
The great Ambassadors, the great financiers, the great nobles, all the
men that move the world, put up under my roof. London is the centre of
everything, and my hotel--your hotel--is the centre of London. Once I
had a King and a Dowager Empress staying here at the same time. Imagine
that!’
‘A great honour, Mr Babylon. But wherein lies the difficulty?’
‘Mr Racksole,’ was the grim reply, ‘what has become of your shrewdness--
that shrewdness which has made your fortune so immense that even you
cannot calculate it? Do you not perceive that the roof which habitually
shelters all the force, all the authority of the world, must necessarily
also shelter nameless and numberless plotters, schemers, evil-doers, and
workers of mischief? The thing is as clear as day--and as dark as night.
Mr Racksole, I never know by whom I am surrounded. I never know what is
going forward.
Only sometimes I get hints, glimpses of strange acts and strange
secrets.
You mentioned my servants. They are almost all good servants, skilled,
competent. But what are they besides? For anything I know my fourth sub-
chef may be an agent of some European Government. For anything I know my
invaluable Miss Spencer may be in the pay of a court dressmaker or a
Frankfort banker. Even Rocco may be someone else in addition to Rocco.’
‘That makes it all the more interesting,’ remarked Theodore Racksole.
‘What a long time you have been, Father,’ said Nella, when he returned
to table No. 17 in the salle à manger.
‘Only twenty minutes, my dove.’
‘But you said two seconds. There is a difference.’
‘Well, you see, I had to wait for the steak to cook.’
‘Did you have much trouble in getting my birthday treat?’
‘No trouble. But it didn’t come quite as cheap as you said.’
‘What do you mean, Father?’
‘Only that I’ve bought the entire hotel. But don’t split.’
‘Father, you always were a delicious parent. Shall you give me the hotel
for a birthday present?’
‘No. I shall run it--as an amusement. By the way, who is that chair
for?’
He noticed that a third cover had been laid at the table.
‘That is for a friend of mine who came in about five minutes ago. Of
course I told him he must share our steak. He’ll be here in a moment.’
‘May I respectfully inquire his name?’
‘Dimmock--Christian name Reginald; profession, English companion to
Prince Aribert of Posen. I met him when I was in St Petersburg with
cousin Hetty last fall. Oh; here he is. Mr Dimmock, this is my dear
father. He has succeeded with the steak.’
Theodore Racksole found himself confronted by a very young man, with
deep black eyes, and a fresh, boyish expression. They began to talk.
Jules approached with the steak. Racksole tried to catch the waiter’s
eye, but could not. The dinner proceeded.
‘Oh, Father!’ cried Nella, ‘what a lot of mustard you have taken!’
‘Have I?’ he said, and then he happened to glance into a mirror on his
left hand between two windows. He saw the reflection of Jules, who stood
behind his chair, and he saw Jules give a slow, significant, ominous
wink to Mr Dimmock--Christian name, Reginald.
He examined his mustard in silence. He thought that perhaps he had
helped himself rather plenteously to mustard.
Chapter Three AT THREE A.M.
MR REGINALD DIMMOCK proved himself, despite his extreme youth, to be a
man of the world and of experiences, and a practised talker.
Conversation between him and Nella Racksole seemed never to flag. They
chattered about St Petersburg, and the ice on the Neva, and the tenor at
the opera who had been exiled to Siberia, and the quality of Russian
tea, and the sweetness of Russian champagne, and various other aspects
of Muscovite existence. Russia exhausted, Nella lightly outlined her own
doings since she had met the young man in the Tsar’s capital, and this
recital brought the topic round to London, where it stayed till the
final piece of steak was eaten. Theodore Racksole noticed that Mr
Dimmock gave very meagre information about his own movements, either
past or future. He regarded the youth as a typical hanger-on of Courts,
and wondered how he had obtained his post of companion to Prince Aribert
of Posen, and who Prince Aribert of Posen might be. The millionaire
thought he had once heard of Posen, but he wasn’t sure; he rather
fancied it was one of those small nondescript German States of which
five-sixths of the subjects are Palace officials, and the rest charcoal-
burners or innkeepers. Until the meal was nearly over, Racksole said
little--perhaps his thoughts were too busy with Jules’ wink to Mr
Dimmock, but when ices had been followed by coffee, he decided that it
might be as well, in the interests of the hotel, to discover something
about his daughter’s friend. He never for an instant questioned her
right to possess her own friends; he had always left her in the most
amazing liberty, relying on her inherited good sense to keep her out of
mischief; but, quite apart from the wink, he was struck by Nella’s
attitude towards Mr Dimmock, an attitude in which an amiable scorn was
blended with an evident desire to propitiate and please.
‘Nella tells me, Mr Dimmock, that you hold a confidential position with
Prince Aribert of Posen,’ said Racksole. ‘You will pardon an American’s
ignorance, but is Prince Aribert a reigning Prince--what, I believe, you
call in Europe, a Prince Regnant?’
‘His Highness is not a reigning Prince, nor ever likely to be,’ answered
Dimmock. ‘The Grand Ducal Throne of Posen is occupied by his Highness’s
nephew, the Grand Duke Eugen.’
‘Nephew?’ cried Nella with astonishment.
‘Why not, dear lady?’
‘But Prince Aribert is surely very young?’
‘The Prince, by one of those vagaries of chance which occur sometimes in
the history of families, is precisely the same age as the Grand Duke.
The late Grand Duke’s father was twice married. Hence this youthfulness
on the part of an uncle.’
‘How delicious to be the uncle of someone as old as yourself! But I
suppose it is no fun for Prince Aribert. I suppose he has to be
frightfully respectful and obedient, and all that, to his nephew?’
‘The Grand Duke and my Serene master are like brothers. At present, of
course, Prince Aribert is nominally heir to the throne, but as no doubt
you are aware, the Grand Duke will shortly marry a near relative of the
Emperor’s, and should there be a family--’ Mr Dimmock stopped and
shrugged his straight shoulders. ‘The Grand Duke,’ he went on, without
finishing the last sentence, ‘would much prefer Prince Aribert to be his
successor. He really doesn’t want to marry. Between ourselves, strictly
between ourselves, he regards marriage as rather a bore. But, of course,
being a German Grand Duke, he is bound to marry. He owes it to his
country, to Posen.’
‘How large is Posen?’ asked Racksole bluntly.
‘Father,’ Nella interposed laughing, ‘you shouldn’t ask such
inconvenient questions. You ought to have guessed that it isn’t
etiquette to inquire about the size of a German Dukedom.’
‘I am sure,’ said Dimmock, with a polite smile, ‘that the Grand Duke is
as much amused as anyone at the size of his territory. I forget the
exact acreage, but I remember that once Prince Aribert and myself walked
across it and back again in a single day.’
‘Then the Grand Duke cannot travel very far within his own dominions?
You may say that the sun does set on his empire?’
‘It does,’ said Dimmock.
‘Unless the weather is cloudy,’ Nella put in. ‘Is the Grand Duke content
always to stay at home?’
‘On the contrary, he is a great traveller, much more so than Prince
Aribert.
I may tell you, what no one knows at present, outside this hotel, that
his Royal Highness the Grand Duke, with a small suite, will be here to-
morrow.’
‘In London?’ asked Nella.
‘Yes.’
‘In this hotel?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh! How lovely!’
‘That is why your humble servant is here to-night--a sort of advance
guard.’
‘But I understood,’ Racksole said, ‘that you were--er--attached to
Prince Aribert, the uncle.’
‘I am. Prince Aribert will also be here. The Grand Duke and the Prince
have business about important investments connected with the Grand
Duke’s marriage settlement.... In the highest quarters, you understand.’
‘For so discreet a person,’ thought Racksole, ‘you are fairly
communicative.’ Then he said aloud: ‘Shall we go out on the terrace?’
As they crossed the dining-room Jules stopped Mr Dimmock and handed him
a letter. ‘Just come, sir, by messenger,’ said Jules.
Nella dropped behind for a second with her father. ‘Leave me alone with
this boy a little--there’s a dear parent,’ she whispered in his ear.
‘I am a mere cypher, an obedient nobody,’ Racksole replied, pinching her
arm surreptitiously. ‘Treat me as such. Use me as you like. I will go
and look after my hotel’ And soon afterwards he disappeared.
Nella and Mr Dimmock sat together on the terrace, sipping iced drinks.
They made a handsome couple, bowered amid plants which blossomed at the
command of a Chelsea wholesale florist. People who passed by remarked
privately that from the look of things there was the beginning of a
romance in that conversation. Perhaps there was, but a more intimate
acquaintance with the character of Nella Racksole would have been
necessary in order to predict what precise form that romance would take.
Jules himself served the liquids, and at ten o’clock he brought another
note. Entreating a thousand pardons, Reginald Dimmock, after he had
glanced at the note, excused himself on the plea of urgent business for
his Serene master, uncle of the Grand Duke of Posen. He asked if he
might fetch Mr Racksole, or escort Miss Racksole to her father. But Miss
Racksole said gaily that she felt no need of an escort, and should go to
bed. She added that her father and herself always endeavoured to be
independent of each other.
Just then Theodore Racksole had found his way once more into Mr
Babylon’s private room. Before arriving there, however, he had
discovered that in some mysterious manner the news of the change of
proprietorship had worked its way down to the lowest strata of the
hotel’s cosmos. The corridors hummed with it, and even under-servants
were to be seen discussing the thing, just as though it mattered to
them.
‘Have a cigar, Mr Racksole,’ said the urbane Mr Babylon, ‘and a mouthful
of the oldest cognac in all Europe.’
In a few minutes these two were talking eagerly, rapidly. Felix Babylon
was astonished at Racksole’s capacity for absorbing the details of hotel
management. And as for Racksole he soon realized that Felix Babylon must
be a prince of hotel managers. It had never occurred to Racksole before
that to manage an hotel, even a large hotel, could be a specially
interesting affair, or that it could make any excessive demands upon the
brains of the manager; but he came to see that he had underrated the
possibilities of an hotel. The business of the Grand Babylon was
enormous. It took Racksole, with all his genius for organization,
exactly half an hour to master the details of the hotel laundry-work.
And the laundry-work was but one branch of activity amid scores, and not
a very large one at that. The machinery of checking supplies, and of
establishing a mean ratio between the raw stuff received in the kitchen
and the number of meals served in the salle à manger and the private
rooms, was very complicated and delicate. When Racksole had grasped it,
he at once suggested some improvements, and this led to a long
theoretical discussion, and the discussion led to digressions, and then
Felix Babylon, in a moment of absent-mindedness, yawned.
Racksole looked at the gilt clock on the high mantelpiece.
‘Great Scott!’ he said. ‘It’s three o’clock. Mr Babylon, accept my
apologies for having kept you up to such an absurd hour.’
‘I have not spent so pleasant an evening for many years. You have let me
ride my hobby to my heart’s content. It is I who should apologize.’
Racksole rose.
‘I should like to ask you one question,’ said Babylon. ‘Have you ever
had anything to do with hotels before?’
‘Never,’ said Racksole.
‘Then you have missed your vocation. You could have been the greatest of
all hotel-managers. You would have been greater than me, and I am
unequalled, though I keep only one hotel, and some men have half a
dozen. Mr Racksole, why have you never run an hotel?’
‘Heaven knows,’ he laughed, ‘but you flatter me, Mr Babylon.’
‘I? Flatter? You do not know me. I flatter no one, except, perhaps, now
and then an exceptionally distinguished guest. In which case I give
suitable instructions as to the bill.’
‘Speaking of distinguished guests, I am told that a couple of German
princes are coming here to-morrow.’
‘That is so.’
‘Does one do anything? Does one receive them formally--stand bowing in
the entrance-hall, or anything of that sort?’
‘Not necessarily. Not unless one wishes. The modern hotel proprietor is
not like an innkeeper of the Middle Ages, and even princes do not expect
to see him unless something should happen to go wrong. As a matter of
fact, though the Grand Duke of Posen and Prince Aribert have both
honoured me by staying here before, I have never even set eyes on them.
You will find all arrangements have been made.’
They talked a little longer, and then Racksole said good night. ‘Let me
see you to your room. The lifts will be closed and the place will be
deserted.
As for myself, I sleep here,’ and Mr Babylon pointed to an inner door.
‘No, thanks,’ said Racksole; ‘let me explore my own hotel unaccompanied.
I believe I can discover my room.’ When he got fairly into the passages,
Racksole was not so sure that he could discover his own room. The number
was 107, but he had forgotten whether it was on the first or second
floor.
Travelling in a lift, one is unconscious of floors. He passed several
lift-doorways, but he could see no glint of a staircase; in all self-
respecting hotels staircases have gone out of fashion, and though hotel
architects still continue, for old sakes’ sake, to build staircases,
they are tucked away in remote corners where their presence is not
likely to offend the eye of a spoiled and cosmopolitan public. The hotel
seemed vast, uncanny, deserted. An electric light glowed here and there
at long intervals. On the thick carpets, Racksole’s thinly-shod feet
made no sound, and he wandered at ease to and fro, rather amused, rather
struck by the peculiar senses of night and mystery which had suddenly
come over him. He fancied he could hear a thousand snores peacefully
descending from the upper realms. At length he found a staircase, a very
dark and narrow one, and presently he was on the first floor. He soon
discovered that the numbers of the rooms on this floor did not get
beyond seventy. He encountered another staircase and ascended to the
second floor. By the decoration of the walls he recognized this floor as
his proper home, and as he strolled through the long corridor he
whistled a low, meditative whistle of satisfaction. He thought he heard
a step in the transverse corridor, and instinctively he obliterated
himself in a recess which held a service-cabinet and a chair. He did
hear a step. Peeping cautiously out, he perceived, what he had not
perceived previously, that a piece of white ribbon had been tied round
the handle of the door of one of the bedrooms. Then a man came round the
corner of the transverse corridor, and Racksole drew back. It was Jules-
-Jules with his hands in his pockets and a slouch hat over his eyes, but
in other respects attired as usual.
Racksole, at that instant, remembered with a special vividness what
Felix Babylon had said to him at their first interview. He wished he had
brought his revolver. He didn’t know why he should feel the desirability
of a revolver in a London hotel of the most unimpeachable fair fame, but
he did feel the desirability of such an instrument of attack and
defence. He privately decided that if Jules went past his recess he
would take him by the throat and in that attitude put a few plain
questions to this highly dubious waiter. But Jules had stopped. The
millionaire made another cautious observation. Jules, with infinite
gentleness, was turning the handle of the door to which the white ribbon
was attached. The door slowly yielded and Jules disappeared within the
room. After a brief interval, the night-prowling Jules reappeared,
closed the door as softly as he had opened it, removed the ribbon,
returned upon his steps, and vanished down the transverse corridor.
‘This is quaint,’ said Racksole; ‘quaint to a degree!’
It occurred to him to look at the number of the room, and he stole
towards it.
‘Well, I’m d--d!’ he murmured wonderingly.
The number was 111, his daughter’s room! He tried to open it, but the
door was locked. Rushing to his own room, No. 107, he seized one of a
pair of revolvers (the kind that are made for millionaires) and followed
after Jules down the transverse corridor. At the end of this corridor
was a window; the window was open; and Jules was innocently gazing out
of the window. Ten silent strides, and Theodore Racksole was upon him.
‘One word, my friend,’ the millionaire began, carelessly waving the
revolver in the air. Jules was indubitably startled, but by an admirable
exercise of self-control he recovered possession of his faculties in a
second.
‘Sir?’ said Jules.
‘I just want to be informed, what the deuce you were doing in No. 111 a
moment ago.’
‘I had been requested to go there,’ was the calm response.
‘You are a liar, and not a very clever one. That is my daughter’s room.
Now--out with it, before I decide whether to shoot you or throw you into
the street.’
‘Excuse me, sir, No. 111 is occupied by a gentleman.’
‘I advise you that it is a serious error of judgement to contradict me,
my friend. Don’t do it again. We will go to the room together, and you
shall prove that the occupant is a gentleman, and not my daughter.’
‘Impossible, sir,’ said Jules.
‘Scarcely that,’ said Racksole, and he took Jules by the sleeve. The
millionaire knew for a certainty that Nella occupied No. 111, for he had
examined the room with her, and himself seen that her trunks and her maid and
herself had arrived there in safety. ‘Now open the door,’ whispered
Racksole, when they reached No.111.
‘I must knock.’
‘That is just what you mustn’t do. Open it. No doubt you have your pass-
key.’
Confronted by the revolver, Jules readily obeyed, yet with a deprecatory
gesture, as though he would not be responsible for this outrage against
the decorum of hotel life. Racksole entered. The room was brilliantly
lighted.
‘A visitor, who insists on seeing you, sir,’ said Jules, and fled.
Mr Reginald Dimmock, still in evening dress, and smoking a cigarette,
rose hurriedly from a table.
‘Hello, my dear Mr Racksole, this is an unexpected--ah--pleasure.’
‘Where is my daughter? This is her room.’
‘Did I catch what you said, Mr Racksole?’
‘I venture to remark that this is Miss Racksole’s room.’
‘My good sir,’ answered Dimmock, ‘you must be mad to dream of such a
thing.
Only my respect for your daughter prevents me from expelling you
forcibly, for such an extraordinary suggestion.’
A small spot half-way down the bridge of the millionaire’s nose turned
suddenly white.
‘With your permission,’ he said in a low calm voice, ‘I will examine the
dressing-room and the bath-room.’
‘Just listen to me a moment,’ Dimmock urged, in a milder tone.
‘I’ll listen to you afterwards, my young friend,’ said Racksole, and he
proceeded to search the bath-room, and the dressing-room, without any
result whatever. ‘Lest my attitude might be open to misconstruction, Mr
Dimmock, I may as well tell you that I have the most perfect confidence
in my daughter, who is as well able to take care of herself as any woman
I ever met, but since you entered it there have been one or two rather
mysterious occurrences in this hotel. That is all.’ Feeling a draught of
air on his shoulder, Racksole turned to the window. ‘For instance,’ he
added, ‘I perceive that this window is broken, badly broken, and from
the outside.
Now, how could that have occurred?’