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 well. High up above
the sea, beyond the Magnan, it stands in the midst of extensive
grounds, shaded by date palms, olives and oranges, approached by a
fine eucalyptus avenue, and rendered light 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, with the gilt-domed
Jetée Promenade jutting out into the azure bay, the old Château, Mont
Boron, and the snow-capped Alps on the left, 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; none on
entering so splendid a home would have believed him to be so simple
in taste and so 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 Harbour, 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 London, 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 fellow, with disordered
grey hair and beard and dark, deep-set eyes, was Gerald's father, the
great Benjamin Keppel, late of Johannesburg.
Dinner, even though rather 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 chain, 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.
Before 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 characterises 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 Transvaal as an emigrant from a little village in
Norfolk, and had succeeded in amassing the third largest fortune in
the United Kingdom.
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 we
both 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 this friend, then I feel convinced that all the rest
would be plain sailing."
"But, my dear guv'nor, the police hold the theory that he didn't meet
anyone until he arrived at Nice," Gerald observed.
"The police here are a confounded set of idiots!" cried the old
millionaire. "If it had occurred in London, or Chicago, or even in
Glasgow, they would have arrested the murderer long before this.
Here, in France, there's too much confounded _contrôle_."
"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 may 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 seem to entertain
absolutely no regard for the personal safety of their visitors. It
appears to me that in Nice year by year prices have gone up until
hotel charges have become unbearable, and people are being driven
away to Algiers and Cairo. And I don't blame them. 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. Look at the state of the streets this season!
They're all up for new trams, new paving, new watermains and things,
until they are absolutely impassable. Even the Promenade des Anglais
has been up! Why they can't do it in summer, when there are no
visitors here, is a mystery. Again, within the last eight or ten
years the price of everything has doubled, while the sanitary defects
have become a disgrace. Why, down at Beaumettes there were, until
quite recently, houses which actually drained into a cave! And then
they are surprised at an outbreak of typhoid! The whole thing's
preposterous!"
"An English newspaper correspondent who had the courage to tell the
truth about Nice was served with a notice threatening his expulsion
from France!" observed Gerald. "A nice way to suppress facts!"
"Oh! that's the French way," observed Ulrica, with a laugh. "It is,
however, certain that if Nice is to remain healthy and popular, there
must be some very radical changes."
"If there are not, I shall sell this place," said the old millionaire
decisively. "I shall take the newspaper correspondent's advice and
pitch my quarters in Cairo, where English-speaking visitors are
protected, properly treated, and have their comfort looked after."
"Why not try San Remo?" I suggested.
"San Remo!" he cried, with an air of disgust. "Why, it's the most
snobbish place on the whole Riviera. The persons who have villas
there are mostly those whom we taboo in society at home. One
interesting person has had the audacity to name his villa after a
royal palace. It's like a fellow putting up 'Buckingham Palace' upon
his ten-roomed house at Streatham Hill. No, Miss Rosselli, save me
from San Remo! The hotels there are ruinous, and mostly of the
fourth class, while the tradespeople are as rapacious a set of sharks
as can be found outside Genoa. And the visitors are of that angular,
sailor-hatted type of tea and lawn-tennis Englishwoman who talks
largely at home of what she calls 'wintering abroad,' and hopes by
reason of a six-weeks' stay in a cheap _pension_, shivering over an
impossible fire, to improve her social status on her return to her
own local surroundings. San Remo, dull, dear, and dreary, has ever
been a ghastly failure, and ever will be, as long as it is frequented
by its present _clientele_ of sharks and spongers. What the
newspaper correspondent said about Nice was the truth--the whole
truth," he went on. "I know Nice as well as most people, and I bear
out every charge put forward. The Riviera has declined terribly
these past five years. Why, the people here actually hissed the
Union Jack at the last Battle of Flowers!"
"Disgraceful!" said Ulrica, rather amused at the old fellow's warmth.
"If Nice declines in the popular favour, then the Niçois have only
themselves to blame."
"Exactly. Foreigners are looked upon here as necessary evils, while
in Italy, except on the Riviera, they are welcomed. I built this
place and spent a fairish sum upon it, but if things don't improve,
I'll sell it at auction and cart my traps down to Sicily, or over to
Cairo. Upon that I'm determined."
"The guv'nor's disgusted," Gerald laughed 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 Palermo or Algiers, for in those places the air is even
better than here."
"But it isn't so fashionable," I observed.
"To an old man like me it doesn't 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 Johannesburg. 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 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 had
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'd 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 Ben Keppel.
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 at
the flash of white brilliance that ever and anon shot across the
tranquil sea, marking the dangerous headland at Antibes.
The night was lovely--one of those bright and 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 extremely 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 décolletée,
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 me!" I said, at once interested.
"Then come with me," he exclaimed. He 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
in here, so you must consider yourself very highly privileged."
"That I certainly do," I responded.
As he entered he switched on the electric light, displaying to my
astonished gaze a large place fitted as a workshop with lathes,
tools, wheels, straps and all sorts of mechanical contrivances.
"This room is secret," he said, with a smile. "If the fine people
who sometimes patronise me with visits thought that I actually worked
here they'd be horrified."
"Then do you actually work?" I inquired, surprised.
"Certainly. Having nothing to occupy my leisure moments after I had
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."
Thereupon 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--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 them days
my poor Mary didn't want face-powder, bless her!"
And that instant his keen chisel cut deeply into the revolving ivory
with a harsh sawing sound that rendered further conversation
impossible.
I stood behind and watched 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.
"This 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 England's many millionaires.
"I only ask one favour," 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 buy all my ivory work, only
they're 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 seemed, however, ludicrous that this multi-millionaire, with his
great house in Park Lane, his shooting-box in Scotland, his yacht,
which was acknowledged to be one of the finest afloat, and his villa
there on the Riviera, should toil at turning, in order to make a
pound or two a week as pocket-money.
"When I worked as a turner in the old days, I earned sixteen
shillings a week, by making butter dishes 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 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, though rather sadly, I thought.