marry Princess Anna and her fortune, wouldn’t that Prince have an
interest in stopping this loan of yours to Prince Eugen? Wouldn’t he
have an interest in causing Prince Eugen to disappear--at any rate, for
a time?’
Sampson Levi thought hard for a few moments.
‘Mr Theodore Racksole,’ he said at length, ‘I do believe you have hit on
something.’
Chapter Twelve ROCCO AND ROOM NO. 111
ON the afternoon of the same day--the interview just described had
occurred in the morning--Racksole was visited by another idea, and he
said to himself that he ought to have thought of it before. The
conversation with Mr Sampson Levi had continued for a considerable time,
and the two men had exchanged various notions, and agreed to meet again,
but the theory that Reginald Dimmock had probably been a traitor to his
family--a traitor whose repentance had caused his death--had not been
thoroughly discussed; the talk had tended rather to Continental
politics, with a view to discovering what princely family might have an
interest in the temporary disappearance of Prince Eugen. Now, as
Racksole considered in detail the particular affair of Reginald Dimmock,
deceased, he was struck by one point especially, to wit: Why had Dimmock
and Jules manoeuvred to turn Nella Racksole out of Room No. 111 on that
first night? That they had so manoeuvred, that the broken window-pane
was not a mere accident, Racksole felt perfectly sure. He had felt
perfectly sure all along; but the significance of the facts had not
struck him. It was plain to him now that there must be something of
extraordinary and peculiar importance about Room No. 111. After lunch he
wandered quietly upstairs and looked at Room No. 111; that is to say, he
looked at the outside of it; it happened to be occupied, but the guest
was leaving that evening. The thought crossed his mind that there could
be no object in gazing blankly at the outside of a room; yet he gazed;
then he wandered quickly down again to the next floor, and in passing
along the corridor of that floor he stopped, and with an involuntary
gesture stamped his foot.
‘Great Scott!’ he said, ‘I’ve got hold of something--No. 111 is exactly
over the State apartments.’
He went to the bureau, and issued instructions that No. 111 was not to
be re-let to anyone until further orders. At the bureau they gave him
Nella’s note, which ran thus:
Dearest Papa,--I am going away for a day or two on the trail of a clue.
If I’m not back in three days, begin to inquire for me at Ostend. Till
then leave me alone.--Your sagacious daughter, NELL.
These few words, in Nella’s large scrawling hand, filled one side of the
paper. At the bottom was a P.T.O. He turned over, and read the sentence,
underlined, ‘P.S.--Keep an eye on Rocco.’
‘I wonder what the little creature is up to?’ he murmured, as he tore
the letter into small fragments, and threw them into the waste-paper
basket.
Then, without any delay, he took the lift down to the basement, with the
object of making a preliminary inspection of Rocco in his lair. He could
scarcely bring himself to believe that this suave and stately gentleman,
this enthusiast of gastronomy, was concerned in the machinations of
Jules and other rascals unknown. Nevertheless, from habit, he obeyed his
daughter, giving her credit for a certain amount of perspicuity and
cleverness.
The kitchens of the Grand Babylon Hôtel are one of the wonders of
Europe.
Only three years before the events now under narration Felix Babylon had
had them newly installed with every device and patent that the ingenuity
of two continents could supply. They covered nearly an acre of
superficial space.
They were walled and floored from end to end with tiles and marble,
which enabled them to be washed down every morning like the deck of a
man-of-war.
Visitors were sometimes taken to see the potato-paring machine, the
patent plate-dryer, the Babylon-spit (a contrivance of Felix Babylon’s
own), the silver-grill, the system of connected stock-pots, and other
amazing phenomena of the department. Sometimes, if they were fortunate,
they might also see the artist who sculptured ice into forms of men and
beasts for table ornaments, or the first napkin-folder in London, or the
man who daily invented fresh designs for pastry and blancmanges. Twelve
chefs pursued their labours in those kitchens, helped by ninety
assistant chefs, and a further army of unconsidered menials. Over all
these was Rocco, supreme and unapproachable. Half-way along the suite of
kitchens, Rocco had an apartment of his own, wherein he thought out
those magnificent combinations, those marvellous feats of succulence and
originality, which had given him his fame. Visitors never caught a
glimpse of Rocco in the kitchens, though sometimes, on a special night,
he would stroll nonchalantly through the dining-room, like the great man
he was, to receive the compliments of the hotel habitués--people of
insight who recognized his uniqueness.
Theodore Racksole’s sudden and unusual appearance in the kitchen caused
a little stir. He nodded to some of the chefs, but said nothing to
anyone, merely wandering about amid the maze of copper utensils, and
white-capped workers. At length he saw Rocco, surrounded by several
admiring chefs. Rocco was bending over a freshly-roasted partridge which
lay on a blue dish. He plunged a long fork into the back of the bird,
and raised it in the air with his left hand. In his right he held a long
glittering carving-knife. He was giving one of his world-famous
exhibitions of carving. In four swift, unerring, delicate, perfect
strokes he cleanly severed the limbs of the partridge. It was a
wonderful achievement--how wondrous none but the really skilful carver
can properly appreciate. The chefs emitted a hum of applause, and Rocco,
long, lean, and graceful, retired to his own apartment. Racksole
followed him. Rocco sat in a chair, one hand over his eyes; he had not
noticed Theodore Racksole.
‘What are you doing, M. Rocco?’ the millionaire asked smiling. ‘Ah!’
exclaimed Rocco, starting up with an apology. ‘Pardon! I was inventing a
new mayonnaise, which I shall need for a certain menu next week.’
‘Do you invent these things without materials, then?’ questioned
Racksole.
‘Certainly. I do dem in my mind. I tink dem. Why should I want
materials? I know all flavours. I tink, and tink, and tink, and it is
done. I write down.
I give the recipe to my best chef--dere you are. I need not even taste,
I know how it will taste. It is like composing music. De great composers
do not compose at de piano.’
‘I see,’ said Racksole.
‘It is because I work like dat dat you pay me three thousand a year,’
Rocco added gravely.
‘Heard about Jules?’ said Racksole abruptly.
‘Jules?’
‘Yes. He’s been arrested in Ostend,’ the millionaire continued, lying
cleverly at a venture. ‘They say that he and several others are
implicated in a murder case--the murder of Reginald Dimmock.’
‘Truly?’ drawled Rocco, scarcely hiding a yawn. His indifference was so
superb, so gorgeous, that Racksole instantly divined that it was assumed
for the occasion.
‘It seems that, after all, the police are good for something. But this
is the first time I ever knew them to be worth their salt. There is to
be a thorough and systematic search of the hotel to-morrow,’ Racksole
went on. ‘I have mentioned it to you to warn you that so far as you are
concerned the search is of course merely a matter of form. You will not
object to the detectives looking through your rooms?’
‘Certainly not,’ and Rocco shrugged his shoulders.
‘I shall ask you to say nothing about this to anyone,’ said Racksole.
‘The news of Jules’ arrest is quite private to myself. The papers know
nothing of it. You comprehend?’
Rocco smiled in his grand manner, and Rocco’s master thereupon went
away.
Racksole was very well satisfied with the little conversation. It was
perhaps dangerous to tell a series of mere lies to a clever fellow like
Rocco, and Racksole wondered how he should ultimately explain them to
this great master-chef if his and Nella’s suspicions should be
unfounded, and nothing came of them. Nevertheless, Rocco’s manner, a
strange elusive something in the man’s eyes, had nearly convinced
Racksole that he was somehow implicated in Jules’ schemes--and probably
in the death of Reginald Dimmock and the disappearance of Prince Eugen
of Posen.
That night, or rather about half-past one the next morning, when the
last noises of the hotel’s life had died down, Racksole made his way to
Room 111 on the second floor. He locked the door on the inside, and
proceeded to examine the place, square foot by square foot. Every now
and then some creak or other sound startled him, and he listened
intently for a few seconds. The bedroom was furnished in the ordinary
splendid style of bedrooms at the Grand Babylon Hôtel, and in that
respect called for no remark. What most interested Racksole was the
flooring. He pulled up the thick Oriental carpet, and peered along every
plank, but could discover nothing unusual.
Then he went to the dressing-room, and finally to the bathroom, both of
which opened out of the main room. But in neither of these smaller
chambers was he any more successful than in the bedroom itself. Finally
he came to the bath, which was enclosed in a panelled casing of polished
wood, after the manner of baths. Some baths have a cupboard beneath the
taps, with a door at the side, but this one appeared to have none. He
tapped the panels, but not a single one of them gave forth that ‘curious
hollow sound’ which usually betokens a secret place. Idly he turned the
cold-tap of the bath, and the water began to rush in. He turned off the
cold-tap and turned on the waste-tap, and as he did so his knee, which
was pressing against the panelling, slipped forward. The panelling had
given way, and he saw that one large panel was hinged from the inside,
and caught with a hasp, also on the inside. A large space within the
casing of the end of the bath was thus revealed. Before doing anything
else, Racksole tried to repeat the trick with the waste-tap, but he
failed; it would not work again, nor could he in any way perceive that
there was any connection between the rod of the waste-tap and the hasp
of the panel. Racksole could not see into the cavity within the casing,
and the electric light was fixed, and could not be moved about like a
candle. He felt in his pockets, and fortunately discovered a box of
matches. Aided by these, he looked into the cavity, and saw nothing;
nothing except a rather large hole at the far end--some three feet from
the casing. With some difficulty he squeezed himself through the open
panel, and took a half-kneeling, half-sitting posture within. There he
struck a match, and it was a most unfortunate thing that in striking,
the box being half open, he set fire to all the matches, and was half
smothered in the atrocious stink of phosphorus which resulted. One match
burned clear on the floor of the cavity, and, rubbing his eyes, Racksole
picked it up, and looked down the hole which he had previously descried.
It was a hole apparently bottomless, and about eighteen inches square.
The curious part about the hole was that a rope-ladder hung down it.
When he saw that rope-ladder Racksole smiled the smile of a happy man.
The match went out.
Should he make a long journey, perhaps to some distant corner of the
hotel, for a fresh box of matches, or should he attempt to descend that
rope-ladder in the dark? He decided on the latter course, and he was the
more strongly moved thereto as he could now distinguish a faint, a very
faint tinge of light at the bottom of the hole.
With infinite care he compressed himself into the well-like hole, and
descended the latter. At length he arrived on firm ground, perspiring,
but quite safe and quite excited. He saw now that the tinge of light
came through a small hole in the wood. He put his eye to the wood, and
found that he had a fine view of the State bathroom, and through the
door of the State bathroom into the State bedroom. At the massive
marble-topped washstand in the State bedroom a man was visible, bending
over some object which lay thereon.
The man was Rocco!
Chapter Thirteen IN THE STATE BEDROOM
IT was of course plain to Racksole that the peculiar passageway which he
had, at great personal inconvenience, discovered between the bathroom of
No. 111 and the State bathroom on the floor below must have been
specially designed by some person or persons for the purpose of keeping
a nefarious watch upon the occupants of the State suite of apartments.
It was a means of communication at once simple and ingenious. At that
moment he could not be sure of the precise method employed for it, but
he surmised that the casing of the waterpipes had been used as a ‘well’,
while space for the pipes themselves had been found in the thickness of
the ample brick walls of the Grand Babylon. The eye-hole, through which
he now had a view of the bedroom, was a very minute one, and probably
would scarcely be noticed from the exterior. One thing he observed
concerning it, namely, that it had been made for a man somewhat taller
than himself; he was obliged to stand on tiptoe in order to get his eye
in the correct position. He remembered that both Jules and Rocco were
distinctly above the average height; also that they were both thin men,
and could have descended the well with comparative ease. Theodore
Racksole, though not stout, was a well-set man with large bones.
These things flashed through his mind as he gazed, spellbound, at the
mysterious movements of Rocco. The door between the bathroom and the
bedroom was wide open, and his own situation was such that his view
embraced a considerable portion of the bedroom, including the whole of
the immense and gorgeously-upholstered bedstead, but not including the
whole of the marble washstand. He could see only half of the washstand,
and at intervals Rocco passed out of sight as his lithe hands moved over
the object which lay on the marble. At first Theodore Racksole could not
decide what this object was, but after a time, as his eyes grew
accustomed to the position and the light, he made it out.
It was the body of a man. Or, rather, to be more exact, Racksole could
discern the legs of a man on that half of the table which was visible to
him. Involuntarily he shuddered, as the conviction forced itself upon
him that Rocco had some unconscious human being helpless on that cold
marble surface. The legs never moved. Therefore, the hapless creature
was either asleep or under the influence of an anaesthetic--or (horrible
thought!) dead.
Racksole wanted to call out, to stop by some means or other the dreadful
midnight activity which was proceeding before his astonished eyes; but
fortunately he restrained himself.
On the washstand he could see certain strangely-shaped utensils and
instruments which Rocco used from time to time. The work seemed to
Racksole to continue for interminable hours, and then at last Rocco
ceased, gave a sign of satisfaction, whistled several bars from
‘Cavalleria Rusticana’, and came into the bath-room, where he took off
his coat, and very quietly washed his hands. As he stood calmly and
leisurely wiping those long fingers of his, he was less than four feet
from Racksole, and the cooped-up millionaire trembled, holding his
breath, lest Rocco should detect his presence behind the woodwork. But
nothing happened, and Rocco returned unsuspectingly to the bedroom.
Racksole saw him place some sort of white flannel garment over the prone
form on the table, and then lift it bodily on to the great bed, where it
lay awfully still. The hidden watcher was sure now that it was a corpse
upon which Rocco had been exercising his mysterious and sinister
functions.
But whose corpse? And what functions? Could this be a West End hotel,
Racksole’s own hotel, in the very heart of London, the best-policed city
in the world? It seemed incredible, impossible; yet so it was. Once more
he remembered what Felix Babylon had said to him and realized the truth
of the saying anew. The proprietor of a vast and complicated
establishment like the Grand Babylon could never know a tithe of the
extraordinary and queer occurrences which happened daily under his very
nose; the atmosphere of such a caravanserai must necessarily be an
atmosphere of mystery and problems apparently inexplicable.
Nevertheless, Racksole thought that Fate was carrying things with rather
a high hand when she permitted his chef to spend the night hours over a
man’s corpse in his State bedroom, this sacred apartment which was
supposed to be occupied only by individuals of Royal Blood. Racksole
would not have objected to a certain amount of mystery, but he decidedly
thought that there was a little too much mystery here for his taste. He
thought that even Felix Babylon would have been surprised at this.
The electric chandelier in the centre of the ceiling was not lighted;
only the two lights on either side of the washstand were switched on,
and these did not sufficiently illuminate the features of the man on the
bed to enable Racksole to see them clearly. In vain the millionaire
strained his eyes; he could only make out that the corpse was probably
that of a young man. Just as he was wondering what would be the best
course of action to pursue, he saw Rocco with a square-shaped black box
in his hand. Then the chef switched off the two electric lights, and the
State bedroom was in darkness. In that swift darkness Racksole heard
Rocco spring on to the bed. Another half-dozen moments of suspense, and
there was a blinding flash of white, which endured for several seconds,
and showed Rocco standing like an evil spirit over the corpse, the black
box in one hand and a burning piece of aluminium wire in the other. The
aluminium wire burnt out, and darkness followed blacker than before.
Rocco had photographed the corpse by flashlight.
But the dazzling flare which had disclosed the features of the dead man
to the insensible lens of the camera had disclosed them also to Theodore
Racksole. The dead man was Reginald Dimmock!
Stung into action by this discovery, Racksole tried to find the exit
from his place of concealment. He felt sure that there existed some way
out into the State bathroom, but he sought for it fruitlessly, groping
with both hands and feet. Then he decided that he must ascend the rope-
ladder, make haste for the first-floor corridor, and intercept Rocco
when he left the State apartments. It was a painful and difficult
business to ascend that thin and yielding ladder in such a confined
space, but Racksole was managing it very nicely, and had nearly reached
the top, when, by some untoward freak of chance, the ladder broke above
his weight, and he slipped ignominiously down to the bottom of the
wooden tube. Smothering an excusable curse, Racksole crouched, baffled.
Then he saw that the force of his fall had somehow opened a trap-door at
his feet. He squeezed through, pushed open another tiny door, and in
another second stood in the State bathroom. He was dishevelled,
perspiring, rather bewildered; but he was there. In the next second he
had resumed absolute command of all his faculties.
Strange to say, he had moved so quietly that Rocco had apparently not
heard him. He stepped noiselessly to the door between the bathroom and
the bedroom, and stood there in silence. Rocco had switched on again the
lights over the washstand and was busy with his utensils.
Racksole deliberately coughed.
Chapter Fourteen ROCCO ANSWERS SOME QUESTIONS
ROCCO turned round with the swiftness of a startled tiger, and gave
Theodore Racksole one long piercing glance.
‘D--n!’ said Rocco, with as pure an Anglo-Saxon accent and intonation as
Racksole himself could have accomplished.
The most extraordinary thing about the situation was that at this
juncture Theodore Racksole did not know what to say. He was so
dumbfounded by the affair, and especially by Rocco’s absolute and
sublime calm, that both speech and thought failed him.
‘I give in,’ said Rocco. ‘From the moment you entered this cursed hotel
I was afraid of you. I told Jules I was afraid of you. I knew there
would be trouble with a man of your kidney, and I was right; confound
it! I tell you I give in. I know when I’m beaten. I’ve got no revolver
and no weapons of any kind. I surrender. Do what you like.’
And with that Rocco sat down on a chair. It was magnificently done. Only
a truly great man could have done it. Rocco actually kept his dignity.
For answer, Racksole walked slowly into the vast apartment, seized a
chair, and, dragging it up to Rocco’s chair, sat down opposite to him.
Thus they faced each other, their knees almost touching, both in evening
dress. On Rocco’s right hand was the bed, with the corpse of Reginald
Dimmock. On Racksole’s right hand, and a little behind him, was the
marble washstand, still littered with Rocco’s implements. The electric
light shone on Rocco’s left cheek, leaving the other side of his face in
shadow. Racksole tapped him on the knee twice.
‘So you’re another Englishman masquerading as a foreigner in my hotel,’
Racksole remarked, by way of commencing the interrogation.
‘I’m not,’ answered Rocco quietly. ‘I’m a citizen of the United States.’
‘The deuce you are!’ Racksole exclaimed.
‘Yes, I was born at West Orange, New Jersey, New York State. I call
myself an Italian because it was in Italy that I first made a name as a
chef--at Rome. It is better for a great chef like me to be a foreigner.
Imagine a great chef named Elihu P. Rucker. You can’t imagine it. I
changed my nationality for the same reason that my friend and colleague,
Jules, otherwise Mr Jackson, changed his.’
‘So Jules is your friend and colleague, is he?’
‘He was, but from this moment he is no longer. I began to disapprove of
his methods no less than a week ago, and my disapproval will now take
active form.’
‘Will it?’ said Racksole. ‘I calculate it just won’t, Mr Elihu P.
Rucker, citizen of the United States. Before you are very much older
you’ll be in the kind hands of the police, and your activities, in no
matter what direction, will come to an abrupt conclusion.’
‘It is possible,’ sighed Rocco.
‘In the meantime, I’ll ask you one or two questions for my own private
satisfaction. You’ve acknowledged that the game is up, and you may as
well answer them with as much candour as you feel yourself capable of.
See?’
‘I see,’ replied Rocco calmly, ‘but I guess I can’t answer all
questions.
I’ll do what I can.’
‘Well,’ said Racksole, clearing his throat, ‘what’s the scheme all
about? Tell me in a word.’
‘Not in a thousand words. It isn’t my secret, you know.’
‘Why was poor little Dimmock poisoned?’ The millionaire’s voice softened
as he looked for an instant at the corpse of the unfortunate young man.
‘I don’t know,’ said Rocco. ‘I don’t mind informing you that I objected
to that part of the business. I wasn’t made aware of it till after it
was done, and then I tell you it got my dander up considerable.’
‘You mean to say you don’t know why Dimmock was done to death?’
‘I mean to say I couldn’t see the sense of it. Of course he--er--died,
because he sort of cried off the scheme, having previously taken a share
of it. I don’t mind saying that much, because you probably guessed it
for yourself. But I solemnly state that I have a conscientious objection
to murder.’
‘Then it was murder?’
‘It was a kind of murder,’ Rocco admitted. ‘Who did it?’
‘Unfair question,’ said Rocco.
‘Who else is in this precious scheme besides Jules and yourself?’
‘Don’t know, on my honour.’
‘Well, then, tell me this. What have you been doing to Dimmock’s body?’
‘How long were you in that bathroom?’ Rocco parried with sublime
impudence.
‘Don’t question me, Mr Rucker,’ said Theodore Racksole. ‘I feel very
much inclined to break your back across my knee. Therefore I advise you
not to irritate me. What have you been doing to Dimmock’s body?’
‘I’ve been embalming it.’
‘Em--balming it.’
‘Certainly; Richardson’s system of arterial fluid injection, as improved
by myself. You weren’t aware that I included the art of embalming among
my accomplishments. Nevertheless, it is so.’
‘But why?’ asked Racksole, more mystified than ever. ‘Why should you
trouble to embalm the poor chap’s corpse?’
‘Can’t you see? Doesn’t it strike you? That corpse has to be taken care
of.