DEALS WITH A MILLIONAIRE
One evening, about ten days later, we dined at old Benjamin Keppel’s
invitation at the Villa Fabron.
Visitors to Nice know the great white mansion. High up above the sea,
beyond the Magnam bridge, it stands in the midst of extensive grounds
shaded by date-palms, olives, and oranges, approached by a fine
eucalyptus avenue, and rendered bright with flowers, its dazzlingly
white walls relieved by the green persiennes, a residence magnificent
even for Nice, the town of princes. Along the whole front of the great
place there runs a broad marble terrace, from which are obtained
marvellous views of Nice on the left, the gilt-domed Jetée Promenade
jutting out into the azure bay, the old château, Mont Boron, and the
snow-capped Alps, while on the right lies the valley of the Var and
that romantic chain of dark-purple mountains which lie far away beyond
Cannes, a panorama almost as magnificent as that from the higher
Corniche.
The interior was, we found, the acme of luxury and comfort. Everywhere
was displayed the fact that its owner was wealthy, yet none on
entering there would believe him to be so simple in tastes and
curiously eccentric in manner. Each winter he came to Nice in his
splendid steam-yacht, the Vispera, which was now anchored as usual in
Villefranche harbor, and with his sister, a small, wizen-faced old
lady, and Mr. Barnes, his secretary, he lived there from December until
the end of April.
Ulrica had met him several times in New York, and he greeted us both
very affably. He was, I found, a queer old fellow. Report had certainly
not lied about him, and I could hardly believe that this absent-minded,
rather ordinary-looking old gentleman with disordered gray hair and
beard and dark, deep-set eyes was Gerald’s father, the great Benjamin
Keppel, of Pittsburg.
Dinner, even though a stately affair, was quite a pleasant function,
for the old millionaire was most unassuming and affable. One of his
eccentricities displayed itself in his dress. His dining-jacket was
old and quite glossy about the back and elbows, he wore a paper collar,
his white tie showed unmistakable signs of having done duty on at
least a dozen previous occasions, and across his vest was suspended
an albert, not of gold but of rusty steel. There had never been any
pretence about Ben Keppel in his earlier days, as all the world knew,
and there was certainly none in these days of his affluence. He had
amassed his fabulous fortune by shrewdness and sheer hard work, and he
despised the whole of that chattering little ring which calls itself
Society.
Ere I had been an hour in this man’s society I grew to like him for his
honest plain-spokenness. He possessed none of that sarcastic arrogance
which generally characterizes those whose fortunes are noteworthy,
but in conversation spoke softly, with a carefully cultivated air
of refinement. Not that he was refined in the least. He had gone to
the States as an emigrant from a little village in Norfolk, and had
succeeded by reason of several striking inventions in the manufacture
of steel in amassing the third largest fortune in the United States.
He sat at the head of the table in his great dining-room, while Ulrica
and myself sat on either hand. As a matter of course, our conversation
turned upon the mysterious death of poor Reggie, and both of us gave
him the exact version of the story.
“Most extraordinary!” he ejaculated. “Gerald has already explained the
painful facts to me. There seems no doubt whatever that the poor fellow
was murdered for the money. Yet to me the strangest part of the whole
affair is why he should have left you so suddenly at the Hermitage. If
he changed the money for large notes, as we may suppose he did, why
didn’t he return to you?”
“Because he must in the meantime have met someone,” I suggested.
“That’s just it,” he said. “If the police could but discover the
identity of the friend, then I feel convinced that all the remainder
would be plain sailing.”
“But, my dear guv’nor, the police hold the theory that he did not meet
anyone until he arrived in Nice,” Gerald observed.
“The police here are a confounded set of idiots,” cried the old
millionaire. “If it had occurred in New York or Chicago, or even in
Pittsburg, they would have arrested the murderer long before this.
Here, in France, there’s too much confounded controle.”
“I expect if the truth were known,” observed Miss Keppel in her thin,
squeaky voice, “the authorities of Monaco don’t relish the idea that
a man should be followed and murdered after successful play, and they
won’t help the Nice police at all.”
“Most likely,” her brother said. “The police of the Prince of Monaco
are elegant blue-and-silver persons who look as though they would
hesitate to capture a prisoner for fear of soiling their white kid
gloves. But surely, Miss Rosselli,” he added, turning to me, “the Nice
police haven’t let the affair drop, have they?”
“I cannot say,” I responded; “the last I saw of any of the detectives
was a week ago. The man who called upon me then admitted that no clue
had so far been obtained.”
“Then all I have to say is that it’s a public scandal!” Benjamin Keppel
cried angrily. “The authorities here entertain absolutely no regard for
the personal safety of their visitors. It appears to me that in Nice
year by year prices have increased until hotel charges have become
unbearable, and people are being driven over the frontier to Bordighera
and San Remo. During these past two years absolutely no regard has been
paid by the Nice authorities to the comfort of the visitors who bring
them their wherewithal to live!”
“The guv’nor’s disgusted,” laughed Gerald across to me. “He’s taken
like this sometimes.”
“Yes, my boy, I am disgusted. All I want in winter is quiet, sunshine,
and good air. That’s what I come here for. And I can get all that at
San Remo, for the air is better even than here.”
“But it isn’t so fashionable,” I observed.
“To an old man like me it does not matter whether a place is
fashionable or not, my dear Miss Rosselli,” he said with a serious
look. “I leave all that sort of thing to Gerald. He has his clubs, his
horses, his fine friends, and all the rest of it. But all the people
know Ben Keppel, of Pittsburg. Even if I belonged to the most swagger
of the clubs and mixed in good society,--among lords and ladies of the
aristocracy, I mean,--I’d still be the same. I couldn’t alter myself as
some of ’em try to and do.”
We laughed. The old man was so blunt that one could not help admiring
him. He had the reputation of being niggardly in certain matters,
especially regarding Gerald’s allowance, but, as Ulrica remarked, there
were no doubt plenty of people who would be anxious to lend money to
the millionaire’s heir upon post-obits, so that after all it didn’t
much matter. If inclined to be economical in one or two directions, he
certainly kept a remarkably good table, but although there were choice
wines for us, he drank only water.
When, with Gerald, he joined us in the great drawing-room, he seated
himself near me and suddenly said:
“I don’t know, Miss Rosselli, whether you would like to remain here
and gossip or whether you’d like to stroll round the place. You are a
woman, and there may be something to interest you in it.”
“I shall be delighted, I’m sure,” I said, and together we went forth to
wander about the great mansion which all the world on the Riviera knows
as the home of the renowned Steel King.
He showed me his library, the boudoirs which were never occupied,
the gallery of modern French paintings, the Indian tea-room, and the
great conservatory, whence we walked out upon the terrace and looked
down upon the lights of the gay winter city lying at our feet, and
that flash of white brilliance which ever and anon shoots across the
tranquil sea and marks the dangerous headland at Antibes.
The night was lovely--one of those dry, bright, perfect nights which
occur so often on the Riviera in January. At sundown the air is always
damp and treacherous, but when darkness falls it is no longer dangerous
even to those with the most delicate constitutions.
“How beautiful!” I ejaculated, standing at his side and watching the
great white moon slowly rising from the sea. “What a fairyland!”
“Yes. It is beautiful. The Riviera is, I believe, the fairest spot
that God has created on this earth,” and then he sighed as though
world-weary.
Presently, when we had been chatting a few minutes, he suggested that
we should re-enter the house, as he feared that I, being in décolleté,
might catch a chill.
“I have a hobby,” he said, “the only thing which prevents me from
becoming absolutely melancholy. Would you care to see it?”
“Oh, do show it to me,” I said, at once interested.
“Then come with me,” he exclaimed, and led me through two long passages
to a door which he unlocked with a tiny master-key upon his chain.
“This is my private domain,” he laughed. “No one is allowed here, so
you must consider yourself very privileged.”
“That I certainly do,” I responded, and as he entered he switched on
the electric light, displaying to my astonished gaze a large place
fitted up as a workshop with lathes, tools, wheels, straps, and all
sorts of mechanical contrivances.
“This room is a secret,” he said with a smile. “If the fine people who
sometimes patronize me with visits thought that I actually worked here
they’d be horrified.”
“Then do you actually work?” I inquired, surprised.
“Certainly. Having nothing otherwise to occupy my time when I severed
myself from the works, I took to turning. I was a turner by trade years
ago, you know.”
I looked at him in wonderment. People had said he was eccentric,
and this was evidently one of his eccentricities. He had secretly
established a great workshop within that princely mansion.
“Would you like to see how I can work?” he asked, noticing my look of
wonder. “Well, watch--excuse me,” and he threw off his jacket, and
having raised a lever which set one of the lathes at work he seated
himself at it, selected a piece of ivory, and placed it in position.
“Now,” he laughed, looking towards me, “what shall I make you?
Ah, I know, an object useful to all you ladies is a box for your
powder-puff--eh?”
“You seem to be fully aware of feminine mysteries, Mr. Keppel,” I
laughed.
“Well, you see, I was married once,” he answered. “But in those days my
poor Mary didn’t want face-powder, bless her!”
And at that instant his keen chisel cut deeply into the revolving
ivory with a harsh, sawing sound that rendered further conversation
impossible.
I stood behind watching him. His grand old head was bent keenly over
his work as he hollowed out the box to the desired depth, carefully
gauged it, finished it, and quickly turned the lid until it fitted
with precision and exactness. Then he rubbed it down, polished it in
several ways, and at last handed it to me complete, saying,--
“There is a little souvenir, Miss Rosselli, of your first visit to me.”
“Thank you ever so much,” I answered, taking it and examining it
curiously. Truly he was a skilled workman, this man whose colossal
wealth was remarkable even among the many millionaires in the United
States.
“I ask only one favor,” he said, as we passed out and he locked the
door of his workshop behind us,--“that you will tell no one of my
hobby--that I have returned to my own trade. For Gerald’s sake I am
compelled to keep up an appearance, and some of his friends would sneer
if they knew that his father still worked and earned money in his odd
moments.”
“Do you earn money?” I inquired, amazed.
“Certainly. A firm in Bond Street, London, buy all my ivory work, only
they are not, of course, aware that it comes from me. It wouldn’t do,
you know. My work, you see, provides me with a little pocket-money. It
has done so ever since I left the factory,” he added simply.
“I promise you, Mr. Keppel, that I’ll tell no one if you wish it to
remain a secret. I had no idea that you actually sold your turnings.”
“You don’t blame me, surely?” he said.
“Certainly not,” I answered.
It seems, however, ludicrous that this multi-millionaire, with his
great houses in New York and Pittsburg, his shooting-box in Scotland,
his yacht, acknowledged to be one of the finest afloat, and his villa
on the Riviera, should toil at turning in order to earn a pound or two
a week as pocket-money.
“When I worked as a turner in England in the old days I earned sixteen
shillings a week making butter and bread plates, wooden bowls, salad
spoons, and such like, and I earn about the same to-day when I’ve paid
for the ivory and the necessary things for the ‘shop,’” he explained.
Then he added: “You seem to think it strange, Miss Rosselli. If you
place yourself for a moment in my position--that of a man without
further aim or ambition--you will not be surprised that I have, after
the lapse of nearly forty years, returned to the old trade to which I
served my apprenticeship.”
“I quite understand,” I responded, “and I only admire you that you do
not, like so many other rich men, lead a life of easy indolence.”
“I can’t do that,” he said. “It isn’t in me to be still. I must be
at work, or I’m never happy. Only I have to be discreet for Gerald’s
sake,” and the old millionaire smiled--rather sadly, I thought.