Part 14

Probably only a very small percentage of them had the least idea that this tall spare man, with the iron-grey hair and the thin, firm, resolute face, who wore his American-cut evening clothes with such careless ease, was the sole proprietor of the Grand Babylon, and possibly the richest man in Europe. As has already been stated, Racksole was not a celebrity in England.

The guests of the Grand Babylon saw merely a restless male person, whose restlessness was rather a disturber of their quietude, but with whom, to judge by his countenance, it would be inadvisable to remonstrate. Therefore Theodore Racksole continued his perambulations unchallenged, and kept saying to himself, ‘I must do something.’ But what? He could think of no course to pursue.

At last he walked straight through the hotel and out at the other entrance, and so up the little unassuming side street into the roaring torrent of the narrow and crowded Strand. He jumped on a Putney bus, and paid his fair to Putney, fivepence, and then, finding that the humble occupants of the vehicle stared at the spectacle of a man in evening dress but without a dustcoat, he jumped off again, oblivious of the fact that the conductor jerked a thumb towards him and winked at the passengers as who should say, ‘There goes a lunatic.’ He went into a tobacconist’s shop and asked for a cigar. The shopman mildly inquired what price.

‘What are the best you’ve got?’ asked Theodore Racksole.

‘Five shillings each, sir,’ said the man promptly.

‘Give me a penny one,’ was Theodore Racksole’s laconic request, and he walked out of the shop smoking the penny cigar. It was a new sensation for him.

He was inhaling the aromatic odours of Eugène Rimmel’s establishment for the sale of scents when a gentleman, walking slowly in the opposite direction, accosted him with a quiet, ‘Good evening, Mr Racksole.’ The millionaire did not at first recognize his interlocutor, who wore a travelling overcoat, and was carrying a handbag. Then a slight, pleased smile passed over his features, and he held out his hand.

‘Well, Mr Babylon,’ he greeted the other, ‘of all persons in the wide world you are the man I would most have wished to meet.’

‘You flatter me,’ said the little Anglicized Swiss.

‘No, I don’t,’ answered Racksole; ‘it isn’t my custom, any more than it’s yours. I wanted to have a real good long yarn with you, and lo! here you are! Where have you sprung from?’

‘From Lausanne,’ said Felix Babylon. ‘I had finished my duties there, I had nothing else to do, and I felt homesick. I felt the nostalgia of London, and so I came over, just as you see,’ and he raised the handbag for Racksole’s notice. ‘One toothbrush, one razor, two slippers, eh?’ He laughed. ‘I was wondering as I walked along where I should stay—me, Felix Babylon, homeless in London.’

‘I should advise you to stay at the Grand Babylon,’ Racksole laughed back.

‘It is a good hotel, and I know the proprietor personally.’

‘Rather expensive, is it not?’ said Babylon.

‘To you, sir,’ answered Racksole, ‘the inclusive terms will be exactly half a crown a week. Do you accept?’

‘I accept,’ said Babylon, and added, ‘You are very good, Mr Racksole.’

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.