They strolled together back to the hotel, saying nothing in particular,
but feeling very content with each other’s company.
‘Many customers?’ asked Felix Babylon.
‘Very tolerable,’ said Racksole, assuming as much of the air of the
professional hotel proprietor as he could. ‘I think I may say in the
storekeeper’s phrase, that if there is any business about I am doing it.
To-night the people are all on the terrace in the portico--it’s so
confoundedly hot--and the consumption of ice is simply enormous--nearly
as large as it would be in New York.’
‘In that case,’ said Babylon politely, ‘let me offer you another cigar.’
‘But I have not finished this one.’
‘That is just why I wish to offer you another one. A cigar such as
yours, my good friend, ought never to be smoked within the precincts of
the Grand Babylon, not even by the proprietor of the Grand Babylon, and
especially when all the guests are assembled in the portico. The fumes
of it would ruin any hotel.’
Theodore Racksole laughingly lighted the Rothschild Havana which Babylon
gave him, and they entered the hotel arm in arm. But no sooner had they
mounted the steps than little Felix became the object of numberless
greetings. It appeared that he had been highly popular among his quondam
guests. At last they reached the managerial room, where Babylon was
regaled on a chicken, and Racksole assisted him in the consumption of a
bottle of Heidsieck Monopole, Carte d’Or.
‘This chicken is almost perfectly grilled,’ said Babylon at length. ‘It
is a credit to the house. But why, my dear Racksole, why in the name of
Heaven did you quarrel with Rocco?’
‘Then you have heard?’
‘Heard! My dear friend, it was in every newspaper on the Continent. Some
journals prophesied that the Grand Babylon would have to close its doors
within half a year now that Rocco had deserted it. But of course I knew
better. I knew that you must have a good reason for allowing Rocco to
depart, and that you must have made arrangements in advance for a
substitute.’
‘As a matter of fact, I had not made arrangements in advance,’ said
Theodore Racksole, a little ruefully; ‘but happily we have found in our
second sous-chef an artist inferior only to Rocco himself. That,
however, was mere good fortune.’
‘Surely,’ said Babylon, ‘it was indiscreet to trust to mere good fortune
in such a serious matter?’
‘I didn’t trust to mere good fortune. I didn’t trust to anything except
Rocco, and he deceived me.’
‘But why did you quarrel with him?’
‘I didn’t quarrel with him. I found him embalming a corpse in the State
bedroom one night--’
‘You what?’ Babylon almost screamed.
‘I found him embalming a corpse in the State bedroom,’ repeated Racksole
in his quietest tones.
The two men gazed at each other, and then Racksole replenished Babylon’s
glass.
‘Tell me,’ said Babylon, settling himself deep in an easy chair and
lighting a cigar.
And Racksole thereupon recounted to him the whole of the Posen episode,
with every circumstantial detail so far as he knew it. It was a long and
complicated recital, and occupied about an hour. During that time little
Felix never spoke a word, scarcely moved a muscle; only his small eyes
gazed through the bluish haze of smoke. The clock on the mantelpiece
tinkled midnight.
‘Time for whisky and soda,’ said Racksole, and got up as if to ring the
bell; but Babylon waved him back.
‘You have told me that this Sampson Levi had an audience of Prince Eugen
to-day, but you have not told me the result of that audience,’ said
Babylon.
‘Because I do not yet know it. But I shall doubtless know to-morrow. In
the meantime, I feel fairly sure that Levi declined to produce Prince
Eugen’s required million. I have reason to believe that the money was
lent elsewhere.’
‘H’m!’ mused Babylon; and then, carelessly, ‘I am not at all surprised
at that arrangement for spying through the bathroom of the State
apartments.’
‘Why are you not surprised?’
‘Oh!’ said Babylon, ‘it is such an obvious dodge--so easy to carry out.
As for me, I took special care never to involve myself in these affairs.
I knew they existed; I somehow felt that they existed. But I also felt
that they lay outside my sphere. My business was to provide board and
lodging of the most sumptuous kind to those who didn’t mind paying for
it; and I did my business. If anything else went on in the hotel, under
the rose, I long determined to ignore it unless it should happen to be
brought before my notice; and it never was brought before my notice.
However, I admit that there is a certain pleasurable excitement in this
kind of affair and doubtless you have experienced that.’
‘I have,’ said Racksole simply, ‘though I believe you are laughing at
me.’
‘By no means,’ Babylon replied. ‘Now what, if I may ask the question, is
going to be your next step?’
‘That is just what I desire to know myself,’ said Theodore Racksole.
‘Well,’ said Babylon, after a pause, ‘let us begin. In the first place,
it is possible you may be interested to hear that I happened to see
Jules to-day.’
‘You did!’ Racksole remarked with much calmness. ‘Where?’
‘Well, it was early this morning, in Paris, just before I left there.
The meeting was quite accidental, and Jules seemed rather surprised at
meeting me. He respectfully inquired where I was going, and I said that
I was going to Switzerland. At that moment I thought I was going to
Switzerland. It had occurred to me that after all I should be happier
there, and that I had better turn back and not see London any more.
However, I changed my mind once again, and decided to come on to London,
and accept the risks of being miserable there without my hotel. Then I
asked Jules whither he was bound, and he told me that he was off to
Constantinople, being interested in a new French hotel there. I wished
him good luck, and we parted.’
‘Constantinople, eh!’ said Racksole. ‘A highly suitable place for him, I
should say.’
‘But,’ Babylon resumed, ‘I caught sight of him again.’
‘Where?’
‘At Charing Cross, a few minutes before I had the pleasure of meeting
you.
Mr Jules had not gone to Constantinople after all. He did not see me, or
I should have suggested to him that in going from Paris to
Constantinople it is not usual to travel via London.’
‘The cheek of the fellow!’ exclaimed Theodore Racksole. ‘The gorgeous
and colossal cheek of the fellow!’
Chapter Twenty-Two IN THE WINE CELLARS OF THE GRAND BABYLON
‘DO you know anything of the antecedents of this Jules,’ asked Theodore
Racksole, helping himself to whisky.
‘Nothing whatever,’ said Babylon. ‘Until you told me, I don’t think I
was aware that his true name was Thomas Jackson, though of course I knew
that it was not Jules. I certainly was not aware that Miss Spencer was
his wife, but I had long suspected that their relations were somewhat
more intimate than the nature of their respective duties in the hotel
absolutely demanded. All that I do know of Jules--he will always be
called Jules--is that he gradually, by some mysterious personal force,
acquired a prominent position in the hotel. Decidedly he was the
cleverest and most intellectual waiter I have ever known, and he was
specially skilled in the difficult task of retaining his own dignity
while not interfering with that of other people.
I’m afraid this information is a little too vague to be of any practical
assistance in the present difficulty.’
‘What is the present difficulty?’ Racksole queried, with a simple air.
‘I should imagine that the present difficulty is to account for the
man’s presence in London.’
‘That is easily accounted for,’ said Racksole.
‘How? Do you suppose he is anxious to give himself up to justice, or
that the chains of habit bind him to the hotel?’
‘Neither,’ said Racksole. ‘Jules is going to have another try--that’s
all.’
‘Another try at what?’
‘At Prince Eugen. Either at his life or his liberty. Most probably the
former this time; almost certainly the former. He has guessed that we
are somewhat handicapped by our anxiety to keep Prince Eugen’s
predicament quite quiet, and he is taking advantage, of that fact. As he
already is fairly rich, on his own admission, the reward which has been
offered to him must be enormous, and he is absolutely determined to get
it. He has several times recently proved himself to be a daring fellow;
unless I am mistaken he will shortly prove himself to be still more
daring.’
‘But what can he do? Surely you don’t suggest that he will attempt the
life of Prince Eugen in this hotel?’
‘Why not? If Reginald Dimmock fell on mere suspicion that he would turn
out unfaithful to the conspiracy, why not Prince Eugen?’
‘But it would be an unspeakable crime, and do infinite harm to the
hotel!’
‘True!’ Racksole admitted, smiling. Little Felix Babylon seemed to brace
himself for the grasping of his monstrous idea.
‘How could it possibly be done?’ he asked at length.
‘Dimmock was poisoned.’
‘Yes, but you had Rocco here then, and Rocco was in the plot. It is
conceivable that Rocco could have managed it--barely conceivable. But
without Rocco I cannot think it possible. I cannot even think that Jules
would attempt it. You see, in a place like the Grand Babylon, as
probably I needn’t point out to you, food has to pass through so many
hands that to poison one person without killing perhaps fifty would be a
most delicate operation. Moreover, Prince Eugen, unless he has changed
his habits, is always served by his own attendant, old Hans, and
therefore any attempt to tamper with a cooked dish immediately before
serving would be hazardous in the extreme.’
‘Granted,’ said Racksole. ‘The wine, however, might be more easily got
at.
Had you thought of that?’
‘I had not,’ Babylon admitted. ‘You are an ingenious theorist, but I
happen to know that Prince Eugen always has his wine opened in his own
presence. No doubt it would be opened by Hans. Therefore the wine theory
is not tenable, my friend.’
‘I do not see why,’ said Racksole. ‘I know nothing of wine as an expert,
and I very seldom drink it, but it seems to me that a bottle of wine
might be tampered with while it was still in the cellar, especially if
there was an accomplice in the hotel.’
‘You think, then, that you are not yet rid of all your conspirators?’
‘I think that Jules might still have an accomplice within the building.’
‘And that a bottle of wine could be opened and recorked without leaving
any trace of the operation?’ Babylon was a trifle sarcastic.
‘I don’t see the necessity of opening the bottle in order to poison the
wine,’ said Racksole. ‘I have never tried to poison anybody by means of
a bottle of wine, and I don’t lay claim to any natural talent as a
poisoner, but I think I could devise several ways of managing the trick.
Of course, I admit I may be entirely mistaken as to Jules’ intentions.’
‘Ah!’ said Felix Babylon. ‘The wine cellars beneath us are one of the
wonders of London. I hope you are aware, Mr Racksole, that when you
bought the Grand Babylon you bought what is probably the finest stock of
wines in England, if not in Europe. In the valuation I reckoned them at
sixty thousand pounds. And I may say that I always took care that the
cellars were properly guarded. Even Jules would experience a serious
difficulty in breaking into the cellars without the connivance of the
wine-clerk, and the wine-clerk is, or was, incorruptible.’
‘I am ashamed to say that I have not yet inspected my wines,’ smiled
Racksole; ‘I have never given them a thought. Once or twice I have taken
the trouble to make a tour of the hotel, but I omitted the cellars in my
excursions.’
‘Impossible, my dear fellow!’ said Babylon, amused at such a confession,
to him--a great connoisseur and lover of fine wines--almost incredible.
‘But really you must see them to-morrow. If I may, I will accompany
you.’
‘Why not to-night?’ Racksole suggested, calmly.
‘To-night! It is very late: Hubbard will have gone to bed.’
‘And may I ask who is Hubbard? I remember the name but dimly.’
‘Hubbard is the wine-clerk of the Grand Babylon,’ said Felix, with a
certain emphasis. ‘A sedate man of forty. He has the keys of the
cellars. He knows every bottle of every bin, its date, its qualities,
its value. And he’s a teetotaler. Hubbard is a curiosity. No wine can
leave the cellars without his knowledge, and no person can enter the
cellars without his knowledge. At least, that is how it was in my time,’
Babylon added.
‘We will wake him,’ said Racksole.
‘But it is one o’clock in the morning,’ Babylon protested.
‘Never mind--that is, if you consent to accompany me. A cellar is the
same by night as by day. Therefore, why not now?’
Babylon shrugged his shoulders. ‘As you wish,’ he agreed, with his
indestructible politeness.
‘And now to find this Mr Hubbard, with his key of the cupboard,’ said
Racksole, as they walked out of the room together. Although the hour was
so late, the hotel was not, of course, closed for the night. A few
guests still remained about in the public rooms, and a few fatigued
waiters were still in attendance. One of these latter was despatched in
search of the singular Mr Hubbard, and it fortunately turned out that
this gentleman had not actually retired, though he was on the point of
doing so. He brought the keys to Mr Racksole in person, and after he had
had a little chat with his former master, the proprietor and the ex-
proprietor of the Grand Babylon Hôtel proceeded on their way to the
cellars.
These cellars extend over, or rather under, quite half the superficial
areas of the whole hotel--the longitudinal half which lies next to the
Strand.
Owing to the fact that the ground slopes sharply from the Strand to the
river, the Grand Babylon is, so to speak, deeper near the Strand than it
is near the Thames. Towards the Thames there is, below the entrance
level, a basement and a sub-basement. Towards the Strand there is
basement, sub-basement, and the huge wine cellars beneath all. After
descending the four flights of the service stairs, and traversing a long
passage running parallel with the kitchen, the two found themselves
opposite a door, which, on being unlocked, gave access to another flight
of stairs. At the foot of this was the main entrance to the cellars.
Outside the entrance was the wine-lift, for the ascension of delicious
fluids to the upper floors, and, opposite, Mr Hubbard’s little office.
There was electric light everywhere.
Babylon, who, as being most accustomed to them, held the bunch of keys,
opened the great door, and then they were in the first cellar--the first
of a suite of five. Racksole was struck not only by the icy coolness of
the place, but also by its vastness. Babylon had seized a portable
electric handlight, attached to a long wire, which lay handy, and,
waving it about, disclosed the dimensions of the place. By that flashing
illumination the subterranean chamber looked unutterably weird and
mysterious, with its rows of numbered bins, stretching away into the
distance till the radiance was reduced to the occasional far gleam of
the light on the shoulder of a bottle. Then Babylon switched on the
fixed electric lights, and Theodore Racksole entered upon a personally-
conducted tour of what was quite the most interesting part of his own
property.
To see the innocent enthusiasm of Felix Babylon for these stores of
exhilarating liquid was what is called in the North ‘a sight for sair
een’.
He displayed to Racksole’s bewildered gaze, in their due order, all the
wines of three continents--nay, of four, for the superb and luscious
Constantia wine of Cape Colony was not wanting in that most catholic
collection of vintages. Beginning with the unsurpassed products of
Burgundy, he continued with the clarets of Médoc, Bordeaux, and
Sauterne; then to the champagnes of Ay, Hautvilliers, and Pierry; then
to the hocks and moselles of Germany, and the brilliant imitation
champagnes of Main, Neckar, and Naumburg; then to the famous and
adorable Tokay of Hungary, and all the Austrian varieties of French
wines, including Carlowitz and Somlauer; then to the dry sherries of
Spain, including purest Manzanilla, and Amontillado, and Vino de Pasto;
then to the wines of Malaga, both sweet and dry, and all the ‘Spanish
reds’ from Catalonia, including the dark ‘Tent’ so often used
sacramentally; then to the renowned port of Oporto. Then he proceeded to
the Italian cellar, and descanted upon the excellence of Barolo from
Piedmont, of Chianti from Tuscany, of Orvieto from the Roman States, of
the ‘Tears of Christ’ from Naples, and the commoner Marsala from Sicily.
And so on, to an extent and with a fullness of detail which cannot be
rendered here.
At the end of the suite of cellars there was a glazed door, which, as
could be seen, gave access to a supplemental and smaller cellar, an
apartment about fifteen or sixteen feet square.
‘Anything special in there?’ asked Racksole curiously, as they stood
before the door, and looked within at the seined ends of bottles.
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Babylon, almost smacking his lips, ‘therein lies the
cream of all.’
‘The best champagne, I suppose?’ said Racksole.
‘Yes,’ said Babylon, ‘the best champagne is there--a very special
Sillery, as exquisite as you will find anywhere. But I see, my friend,
that you fall into the common error of putting champagne first among
wines. That distinction belongs to Burgundy. You have old Burgundy in
that cellar, Mr Racksole, which cost me--how much do you think?--eighty
pounds a bottle.
Probably it will never be drunk,’ he added with a sigh. ‘It is too
expensive even for princes and plutocrats.’
‘Yes, it will,’ said Racksole quickly. ‘You and I will have a bottle up
to-morrow.’
‘Then,’ continued Babylon, still riding his hobby-horse, ‘there is a
sample of the Rhine wine dated 1706 which caused such a sensation at the
Vienna Exhibition of 1873. There is also a singularly glorious Persian
wine from Shiraz, the like of which I have never seen elsewhere. Also
there is an unrivalled vintage of Romanée-Conti, greatest of all modern
Burgundies. If I remember right Prince Eugen invariably has a bottle
when he comes to stay here. It is not on the hotel wine list, of course,
and only a few customers know of it. We do not precisely hawk it about
the dining-room.’
‘Indeed!’ said Racksole. ‘Let us go inside.’
They entered the stone apartment, rendered almost sacred by the
preciousness of its contents, and Racksole looked round with a strangely
intent and curious air. At the far side was a grating, through which
came a feeble light.
‘What is that?’ asked the millionaire sharply.
‘That is merely a ventilation grating. Good ventilation is absolutely
essential.’
‘Looks broken, doesn’t it?’ Racksole suggested and then, putting a
finger quickly on Babylon’s shoulder, ‘there’s someone in the cellar.
Can’t you hear breathing, down there, behind that bin?’
The two men stood tense and silent for a while, listening, under the ray
of the single electric light in the ceiling. Half the cellar was
involved in gloom. At length Racksole walked firmly down the central
passage-way between the bins and turned to the corner at the right.
‘Come out, you villain!’ he said in a low, well-nigh vicious tone, and
dragged up a cowering figure.
He had expected to find a man, but it was his own daughter, Nella
Racksole, upon whom he had laid angry hands.
Chapter Twenty-Three FURTHER EVENTS IN THE CELLAR
‘WELL, Father,’ Nella greeted her astounded parent. ‘You should make
sure that you have got hold of the right person before you use all that
terrible muscular force of yours. I do believe you have broken my
shoulder bone.’ She rubbed her shoulder with a comical expression of
pain, and then stood up before the two men. The skirt of her dark grey
dress was torn and dirty, and the usually trim Nella looked as though
she had been shot down a canvas fire-escape. Mechanically she smoothed
her frock, and gave a straightening touch to her hair.
‘Good evening, Miss Racksole,’ said Felix Babylon, bowing formally.
‘This is an unexpected pleasure.’ Felix’s drawing-room manners never
deserted him upon any occasion whatever.
‘May I inquire what you are doing in my wine cellar, Nella Racksole?’
said the millionaire a little stiffly He was certainly somewhat annoyed
at having mistaken his daughter for a criminal; moreover, he hated to be
surprised, and upon this occasion he had been surprised beyond any
ordinary surprise; lastly, he was not at all pleased that Nella should
be observed in that strange predicament by a stranger.
‘I will tell you,’ said Nella. ‘I had been reading rather late in my
room--the night was so close. I heard Big Ben strike half-past twelve,
and then I put the book down, and went out on to the balcony of my
window for a little fresh air before going to bed. I leaned over the
balcony very quietly--you will remember that I am on the third floor
now--and looked down below into the little sunk yard which separates the
wall of the hotel from Salisbury Lane. I was rather astonished to see a
figure creeping across the yard. I knew there was no entrance into the
hotel from that yard, and besides, it is fifteen or twenty feet below
the level of the street. So I watched. The figure went close up against
the wall, and disappeared from my view. I leaned over the balcony as far
as I dared, but I couldn’t see him. I could hear him, however.’
‘What could you hear?’ questioned Racksole sharply.
‘It sounded like a sawing noise,’ said Nella; ‘and it went on for quite
a long time--nearly a quarter of an hour, I should think--a rasping sort
of noise.’
‘Why on earth didn’t you come and warn me or someone else in the hotel?’
asked Racksole.
‘Oh, I don’t know, Dad,’ she replied sweetly. ‘I had got interested in
it, and I thought I would see it out myself. Well, as I was saying, Mr.
Babylon,’ she continued, addressing her remarks to Felix, with a
dazzling smile, ‘that noise went on for quite a long time. At last it
stopped, and the figure reappeared from under the wall, crossed the
yard, climbed up the opposite wall by some means or other, and so over
the railings into Salisbury Lane. I felt rather relieved then, because I
knew he hadn’t actually broken into the hotel. He walked down Salisbury
Lane very slowly. A policeman was just coming up. “Goodnight, officer,”
I heard him say to the policeman, and he asked him for a match. The
policeman supplied the match, and the other man lighted a cigarette, and
proceeded further down the lane. By cricking your neck from my window,
Mr Babylon, you can get a glimpse of the Embankment and the river. I saw
the man cross the Embankment, and lean over the river wall, where he
seemed to be talking to some one. He then walked along the Embankment to
Westminster and that was the last I saw of him. I waited a minute or two
for him to come back, but he didn’t come back, and so I thought it was
about time I began to make inquiries into the affair. I went downstairs
instantly, and out of the hotel, through the quadrangle, into Salisbury
Lane, and I looked over those railings. There was a ladder on the other
side, by which it was perfectly easy--once you had got over the
railings--to climb down into the yard. I was horribly afraid lest
someone might walk up Salisbury Lane and catch me in the act of
negotiating those railings, but no one did, and I surmounted them, with
no worse damage than a torn skirt. I crossed the yard on tiptoe, and I
found that in the wall, close to the ground and almost exactly under my
window, there was an iron grating, about one foot by fourteen inches. I
suspected, as there was no other ironwork near, that the mysterious
visitor must have been sawing at this grating for private purposes of
his own. I gave it a good shake, and I was not at all surprised that a
good part of it came off in my hand, leaving just enough room for a
person to creep through. I decided that I would creep through, and now
wish I hadn’t. I don’t know, Mr Babylon, whether you have ever tried to
creep through a small hole with a skirt on. Have you?’
‘I have not had that pleasure,’ said little Felix, bowing again, and
absently taking up a bottle which lay to his hand.