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.
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.
It contains, or rather, it did contain, very serious evidence against some person or persons unknown to the police. It may be necessary to move it about from place to place. A corpse can’t be hidden for long; a corpse betrays itself. One couldn’t throw it in the Thames, for it would have been found inside twelve hours. One couldn’t bury it—it wasn’t safe. The only thing was to keep it handy and movable, ready for emergencies. I needn’t inform you that, without embalming, you can’t keep a corpse handy and movable for more than four or five days. It’s the kind of thing that won’t keep. And so it was suggested that I should embalm it, and I did. Mind you, I still objected to the murder, but I couldn’t go back on a colleague, you understand. You do understand that, don’t you? Well, here you are, and here it is, and that’s all.’
Rocco leaned back in his chair as though he had said everything that ought to be said. He closed his eyes to indicate that so far as he was concerned the conversation was also closed. Theodore Racksole stood up.
‘I hope,’ said Rocco, suddenly opening his eyes, ‘I hope you’ll call in the police without any delay. It’s getting late, and I don’t like going without my night’s rest.’
‘Where do you suppose you’ll get a night’s rest?’ Racksole asked.
‘In the cells, of course. Haven’t I told you I know when I’m beaten. I’m not so blind as not to be able to see that there’s at any rate a prima facie case against me. I expect I shall get off with a year or two’s imprisonment as accessory after the fact—I think that’s what they call it. Anyhow, I shall be in a position to prove that I am not implicated in the murder of this unfortunate nincompoop.’ He pointed, with a strange, scornful gesture of his elbow, to the bed. ‘And now, shall we go? Everyone is asleep, but there will be a policeman within call of the watchman in the portico. I am at your service. Let us go down together, Mr Racksole. I give you my word to go quietly.’
‘Stay a moment,’ said Theodore Racksole curtly; ‘there is no hurry. It won’t do you any harm to forego another hour’s sleep, especially as you will have no work to do to-morrow. I have one or two more questions to put to you.’
‘Well?’ Rocco murmured, with an air of tired resignation, as if to say, ‘What must be must be.’
‘Where has Dimmock’s corpse been during the last three or four days, since he—died?’
‘Oh!’ answered Rocco, apparently surprised at the simplicity of the question. ‘It’s been in my room, and one night it was on the roof; once it went out of the hotel as luggage, but it came back the next day as a case of Demerara sugar. I forget where else it has been, but it’s been kept perfectly safe and treated with every consideration.’
‘And who contrived all these manoeuvres?’ asked Racksole as calmly as he could.
‘I did. That is to say, I invented them and I saw that they were carried out. You see, the suspicions of your police obliged me to be particularly spry.’
‘And who carried them out?’
‘Ah! that would be telling tales. But I don’t mind assuring you that my accomplices were innocent accomplices. It is absurdly easy for a man like me to impose on underlings—absurdly easy.’
‘What did you intend to do with the corpse ultimately?’ Racksole pursued his inquiry with immovable countenance.
‘Who knows?’ said Rocco, twisting his beautiful moustache. ‘That would have depended on several things—on your police, for instance. But probably in the end we should have restored this mortal clay’—again he jerked his elbow—‘to the man’s sorrowing relatives.’
‘Do you know who the relatives are?’
‘Certainly. Don’t you? If you don’t I need only hint that Dimmock had a Prince for his father.’
‘It seems to me,’ said Racksole, with cold sarcasm, ‘that you behaved rather clumsily in choosing this bedroom as the scene of your operations.’
‘Not at all,’ said Rocco. ‘There was no other apartment so suitable in the whole hotel. Who would have guessed that anything was going on here? It was the very place for me.’
‘I guessed,’ said Racksole succinctly.
‘Yes, you guessed, Mr Racksole. But I had not counted on you. You are the only smart man in the business. You are an American citizen, and I hadn’t reckoned to have to deal with that class of person.’
‘Apparently I frightened you this afternoon?’
‘Not in the least.’
‘You were not afraid of a search?’
‘I knew that no search was intended. I knew that you were trying to frighten me. You must really credit me with a little sagacity and insight, Mr Racksole. Immediately you began to talk to me in the kitchen this afternoon I felt you were on the track. But I was not frightened. I merely decided that there was no time to be lost—that I must act quickly. I did act quickly, but, it seems, not quickly enough. I grant that your rapidity exceeded mine. Let us go downstairs, I beg.’
Rocco rose and moved towards the door. With an instinctive action Racksole rushed forward and seized him by the shoulder.
‘No tricks!’ said Racksole. ‘You’re in my custody and don’t forget it.’
Rocco turned on his employer a look of gentle, dignified scorn. ‘Have I not informed you,’ he said, ‘that I have the intention of going quietly?’
Racksole felt almost ashamed for the moment. It flashed across him that a man can be great, even in crime.
‘What an ineffable fool you were,’ said Racksole, stopping him at the threshold, ‘with your talents, your unique talents, to get yourself mixed up in an affair of this kind. You are ruined. And, by Jove! you were a great man in your own line.’
‘Mr Racksole,’ said Rocco very quickly, ‘that is the truest word you have spoken this night. I was a great man in my own line. And I am an ineffable fool. Alas!’ He brought his long arms to his sides with a thud.
‘Why did you do it?’
‘I was fascinated—fascinated by Jules. He, too, is a great man. We had great opportunities, here in the Grand Babylon. It was a great game. It was worth the candle. The prizes were enormous. You would admit these things if you knew the facts. Perhaps some day you will know them, for you are a fairly clever person at getting to the root of a matter. Yes, I was blinded, hypnotized.’
‘And now you are ruined.’
‘Not ruined, not ruined. Afterwards, in a few years, I shall come up again.
A man of genius like me is never ruined till he is dead. Genius is always forgiven. I shall be forgiven. Suppose I am sent to prison. When I emerge I shall be no gaol-bird. I shall be Rocco—the great Rocco. And half the hotels in Europe will invite me to join them.’
‘Let me tell you, as man to man, that you have achieved your own degradation. There is no excuse.’
‘I know it,’ said Rocco. ‘Let us go.’
Racksole was distinctly and notably impressed by this man—by this master spirit to whom he was to have paid a salary at the rate of three thousand pounds a year. He even felt sorry for him. And so, side by side, the captor and the captured, they passed into the vast deserted corridor of the hotel.
Rocco stopped at the grating of the first lift.
‘It will be locked,’ said Racksole. ‘We must use the stairs to-night.’
‘But I have a key. I always carry one,’ said Rocco, and he pulled one out of his pocket, and, unfastening the iron screen, pushed it open. Racksole smiled at his readiness and aplomb.
‘After you,’ said Rocco, bowing in his finest manner, and Racksole stepped into the lift.
With the swiftness of lighting Rocco pushed forward the iron screen, which locked itself automatically. Theodore Racksole was hopelessly a prisoner within the lift, while Rocco stood free in the corridor.
‘Good-bye, Mr Racksole,’ he remarked suavely, bowing again, lower than before. ‘Good-bye: I hate to take a mean advantage of you in this fashion, but really you must allow that you have been very simple. You are a clever man, as I have already said, up to a certain point. It is past that point that my own cleverness comes in. Again, good-bye. After all, I shall have no rest to-night, but perhaps even that will be better that sleeping in a police cell. If you make a great noise you may wake someone and ultimately get released from this lift. But I advise you to compose yourself, and wait till morning. It will be more dignified. For the third time, good-bye.’
And with that Rocco, without hastening, walked down the corridor and so out of sight.
Racksole said never a word. He was too disgusted with himself to speak. He clenched his fists, and put his teeth together, and held his breath. In the silence he could hear the dwindling sound of Rocco’s footsteps on the thick carpet.
It was the greatest blow of Racksole’s life.
The next morning the high-born guests of the Grand Babylon were aroused by a rumour that by some accident the millionaire proprietor of the hotel had remained all night locked up in the lift. It was also stated that Rocco had quarrelled with his new master and incontinently left the place. A duchess said that Rocco’s departure would mean the ruin of the hotel, whereupon her husband advised her not to talk nonsense.
As for Racksole, he sent a message for the detective in charge of the Dimmock affair, and bravely told him the happenings of the previous night.
The narration was a decided ordeal to a man of Racksole’s temperament.
‘A strange story!’ commented Detective Marshall, and he could not avoid a smile. ‘The climax was unfortunate, but you have certainly got some valuable facts.’
Racksole said nothing.
‘I myself have a clue,’ added the detective. ‘When your message arrived I was just coming up to see you. I want you to accompany me to a certain spot not far from here. Will you come, now, at once?’
‘With pleasure,’ said Racksole.
At that moment a page entered with a telegram. Racksole opened it read:
‘Please come instantly. Nella. Hôtel Wellington, Ostend.’
He looked at his watch.
‘I can’t come,’ he said to the detective. I’m going to Ostend.’
‘To Ostend?’
‘Yes, now.’
‘But really, Mr Racksole,’ protested the detective. ‘My business is urgent.’
‘So’s mine,’ said Racksole.
In ten minutes he was on his way to Victoria Station.
WE must now return to Nella Racksole and Prince Aribert of Posen on board the yacht without a name. The Prince’s first business was to make Jules, otherwise Mr Tom Jackson, perfectly secure by means of several pieces of rope. Although Mr Jackson had been stunned into a complete unconsciousness, and there was a contused wound under his ear, no one could say how soon he might not come to himself and get very violent. So the Prince, having tied his arms and legs, made him fast to a stanchion.
‘I hope he won’t die,’ said Nella. ‘He looks very white.’
‘The Mr Jacksons of this world,’ said Prince Aribert sententiously, ‘never die till they are hung. By the way, I wonder how it is that no one has interfered with us. Perhaps they are discreetly afraid of my revolver—of your revolver, I mean.’
Both he and Nella glanced up at the imperturbable steersman, who kept the yacht’s head straight out to sea. By this time they were about a couple of miles from the Belgian shore.
Addressing him in French, the Prince ordered the sailor to put the yacht about, and make again for Ostend Harbour, but the fellow took no notice whatever of the summons. The Prince raised the revolver, with the idea of frightening the steersman, and then the man began to talk rapidly in a mixture of French and Flemish. He said that he had received Jules’ strict orders not to interfere in any way, no matter what might happen on the deck of the yacht. He was the captain of the yacht, and he had to make for a certain English port, the name of which he could not divulge: he was to keep the vessel at full steam ahead under any and all circumstances. He seemed to be a very big, a very strong, and a very determined man, and the Prince was at a loss what course of action to pursue. He asked several more questions, but the only effect of them was to render the man taciturn and ill-humoured.
In vain Prince Aribert explained that Miss Nella Racksole, daughter of millionaire Racksole, had been abducted by Mr Tom Jackson; in vain he flourished the revolver threateningly; the surly but courageous captain said merely that that had nothing to do with him; he had instructions, and he should carry them out. He sarcastically begged to remind his interlocutor that he was the captain of the yacht.
‘It won’t do to shoot him, I suppose,’ said the Prince to Nella. ‘I might bore a hole into his leg, or something of that kind.’
‘It’s rather risky, and rather hard on the poor captain, with his extraordinary sense of duty,’ said Nella. ‘And, besides, the whole crew might turn on us. No, we must think of something else.’
‘I wonder where the crew is,’ said the Prince.
Just then Mr Jackson, prone and bound on the deck, showed signs of recovering from his swoon. His eyes opened, and he gazed vacantly around. At length he caught sight of the Prince, who approached him with the revolver well in view.
‘It’s you, is it?’ he murmured faintly. ‘What are you doing on board? Who’s tied me up like this?’
‘See here!’ replied the Prince, ‘I don’t want to have any arguments, but this yacht must return to Ostend at once, where you will be given up to the authorities.’
‘Really!’ snarled Mr Tom Jackson. ‘Shall I!’ Then he called out in French to the man at the wheel, ‘Hi André! let these two be put off in the dinghy.’
It was a peculiar situation. Certain of nothing but the possession of Nella’s revolver, the Prince scarcely knew whether to carry the argument further, and with stronger measures, or to accept the situation with as much dignity as the circumstances would permit.
‘Let us take the dinghy,’ said Nella; ‘we can row ashore in an hour.’
He felt that she was right. To leave the yacht in such a manner seemed somewhat ignominious, and it certainly involved the escape of that profound villain, Mr Thomas Jackson. But what else could be done? The Prince and Nella constituted one party on the vessel; they knew their own strength, but they did not know the strength of their opponents. They held the hostile ringleader bound and captive, but this man had proved himself capable of giving orders, and even to gag him would not help them if the captain of the yacht persisted in his obstinate course. Moreover, there was a distinct objection to promiscuous shooting. The Prince felt that there was no knowing how promiscuous shooting might end.
‘We will take the dinghy,’ said the Prince quickly, to the captain.
A bell rang below, and a sailor and the Negro boy appeared on deck. The pulsations of the screw grew less rapid. The yacht stopped. The dinghy was lowered. As the Prince and Nella prepared to descend into the little cock-boat Mr Tom Jackson addressed Nella, all bound as he lay.
‘Good-bye,’ he said, ‘I shall see you again, never fear.’.
In another moment they were in the dinghy, and the dinghy was adrift. The yacht’s screw churned the water, and the beautiful vessel slipped away from them. As it receded a figure appeared at the stem. It was Mr Thomas Jackson.
He had been released by his minions. He held a white handkerchief to his ear, and offered a calm, enigmatic smile to the two forlorn but victorious occupants of the dinghy. Jules had been defeated for once in his life; or perhaps it would be more just to say that he had been out-manoeuvred. Men like Jules are incapable of being defeated. It was characteristic of his luck that now, in the very hour when he had been caught red-handed in a serious crime against society, he should be effecting a leisurely escape—an escape which left no clue behind.
The sea was utterly calm and blue in the morning sun. The dinghy rocked itself lazily in the swell of the yacht’s departure. As the mist cleared away the outline of the shore became more distinct, and it appeared as if Ostend was distant scarcely a cable’s length. The white dome of the great Kursaal glittered in the pale turquoise sky, and the smoke of steamers in the harbour could be plainly distinguished. On the offing was a crowd of brown-sailed fishing luggers returning with the night’s catch. The many-hued bathing-vans could be counted on the distant beach. Everything seemed perfectly normal. It was difficult for either Nella or her companion to realize that anything extraordinary had happened within the last hour. Yet there was the yacht, not a mile off, to prove to them that something very extraordinary had, in fact, happened. The yacht was no vision, nor was that sinister watching figure at its stern a vision, either.
‘I suppose Jules was too surprised and too feeble to inquire how I came to be on board his yacht,’ said the Prince, taking the oars.
‘Oh! How did you?’ asked Nella, her face lighting up. ‘Really, I had almost forgotten that part of the affair.’
‘I must begin at the beginning and it will take some time,’ answered the Prince. ‘Had we not better postpone the recital till we get ashore?’
‘I will row and you shall talk,’ said Nella. ‘I want to know now.’
He smiled happily at her, but gently declined to yield up the oars.
‘Is it not sufficient that I am here?’ he said.
‘It is sufficient, yes,’ she replied, ‘but I want to know.’
With a long, easy stroke he was pulling the dinghy shorewards. She sat in the stern-sheets.
‘There is no rudder,’ he remarked, ‘so you must direct me. Keep the boat’s head on the lighthouse. The tide seems to be running in strongly; that will help us. The people on shore will think that we have only been for a little early morning excursion.’
‘Will you kindly tell me how it came about that you were able to save my life, Prince?’ she said.
‘Save your life, Miss Racksole? I didn’t save your life; I merely knocked a man down.’
‘You saved my life,’ she repeated. ‘That villain would have stopped at nothing. I saw it in his eye.’
‘Then you were a brave woman, for you showed no fear of death.’ His admiring gaze rested full on her. For a moment the oars ceased to move.
She gave a gesture of impatience.
‘It happened that I saw you last night in your carriage,’ he said. ‘The fact is, I had not had the audacity to go to Berlin with my story. I stopped in Ostend to see whether I could do a little detective work on my own account.
It was a piece of good luck that I saw you. I followed the carriage as quickly as I could, and I just caught a glimpse of you as you entered that awful house. I knew that Jules had something to do with that house. I guessed what you were doing. I was afraid for you. Fortunately I had surveyed the house pretty thoroughly. There is an entrance to it at the back, from a narrow lane. I made my way there. I got into the yard at the back, and I stood under the window of the room where you had the interview with Miss Spencer. I heard everything that was said. It was a courageous enterprise on your part to follow Miss Spencer from the Grand Babylon to Ostend. Well, I dared not force an entrance, lest I might precipitate matters too suddenly, and involve both of us in a difficulty. I merely kept watch. Ah, Miss Racksole! you were magnificent with Miss Spencer; as I say, I could hear every word, for the window was slightly open. I felt that you needed no assistance from me. And then she cheated you with a trick, and the revolver came flying through the window. I picked it up, I thought it would probably be useful. There was a silence. I did not guess at first that you had fainted. I thought that you had escaped. When I found out the truth it was too late for me to intervene. There were two men, both desperate, besides Miss Spencer—’
‘Who was the other man?’ asked Nella.
‘I do not know. It was dark. They drove away with you to the harbour. Again I followed. I saw them carry you on board. Before the yacht weighed anchor I managed to climb unobserved into the dinghy. I lay down full length in it, and no one suspected that I was there. I think you know the rest.’
‘Was the yacht all ready for sea?’
‘The yacht was all ready for sea. The captain fellow was on the bridge, and steam was up.’
‘Then they expected me! How could that be?’
‘They expected some one. I do not think they expected you.’
‘Did the second man go on board?’
‘He helped to carry you along the gangway, but he came back again to the carriage. He was the driver.’
‘And no one else saw the business?’
‘The quay was deserted. You see, the last steamer had arrived for the night.’
There was a brief silence, and then Nella ejaculated, under her breath.
‘Truly, it is a wonderful world!’
And it was a wonderful world for them, though scarcely perhaps, in the sense which Nella Racksole had intended. They had just emerged from a highly disconcerting experience. Among other minor inconveniences, they had had no breakfast. They were out in the sea in a tiny boat. Neither of them knew what the day might bring forth. The man, at least, had the most serious anxieties for the safety of his Royal nephew. And yet—and yet—neither of them wished that that voyage of the little boat on the summer tide should come to an end. Each, perhaps unconsciously, had a vague desire that it might last for ever, he lazily pulling, she directing his course at intervals by a movement of her distractingly pretty head. How was this condition of affairs to be explained? Well, they were both young; they both had superb health, and all the ardour of youth; and—they were together.
The boat was very small indeed; her face was scarcely a yard from his. She, in his eyes, surrounded by the glamour of beauty and vast wealth; he, in her eyes, surrounded by the glamour of masculine intrepidity and the brilliance of a throne.
But all voyages come to an end, either at the shore or at the bottom of the sea, and at length the dinghy passed between the stone jetties of the harbour. The Prince rowed to the nearest steps, tied up the boat, and they landed. It was six o’clock in the morning, and a day of gorgeous sunlight had opened. Few people were about at that early hour.
‘And now, what next?’ said the Prince. ‘I must take you to an hotel.’
‘I am in your hands,’ she acquiesced, with a smile which sent the blood racing through his veins. He perceived now that she was tired and overcome, suffering from a sudden and natural reaction.
At the Hôtel Wellington the Prince told the sleepy door-keeper that they had come by the early train from Bruges, and wanted breakfast at once. It was absurdly early, but a common English sovereign will work wonders in any Belgian hotel, and in a very brief time Nella and the Prince were breakfasting on the verandah of the hotel upon chocolate that had been specially and hastily brewed for them.
‘I never tasted such excellent chocolate,’ claimed the Prince.
The statement was wildly untrue, for the Hôtel Wellington is not celebrated for its chocolate. Nevertheless Nella replied enthusiastically, ‘Nor I.’
Then there was a silence, and Nella, feeling possibly that she had been too ecstatic, remarked in a very matter-of-fact tone: ‘I must telegraph to Papa instantly.’
Thus it was that Theodore Racksole received the telegram which drew him away from Detective Marshall.
‘THERE is one thing, Prince, that we have just got to settle straight off,’ said Theodore Racksole.
They were all three seated—Racksole, his daughter, and Prince Aribert—round a dinner table in a private room at the Hôtel Wellington. Racksole had duly arrived by the afternoon boat, and had been met on the quay by the other two. They had dined early, and Racksole had heard the full story of the adventures by sea and land of Nella and the Prince. As to his own adventure of the previous night he said very little, merely explaining, with as little detail as possible, that Dimmock’s body had come to light.
‘What is that?’ asked the Prince, in answer to Racksole’s remark.
‘We have got to settle whether we shall tell the police at once all that has occurred, or whether we shall proceed on our own responsibility. There can be no doubt as to which course we ought to pursue. Every consideration of prudence points to the advisability of taking the police into our confidence, and leaving the matter entirely in their hands.’
‘Oh, Papa!’ Nella burst out in her pouting, impulsive way. ‘You surely can’t think of such a thing. Why, the fun has only just begun.’
‘Do you call last night fun?’ questioned Racksole, gazing at her solemnly.
‘Yes, I do,’ she said promptly. ‘Now.’
‘Well, I don’t,’ was the millionaire’s laconic response; but perhaps he was thinking of his own situation in the lift.
‘Do you not think we might investigate a little further,’ said the Prince judiciously, as he cracked a walnut, ‘just a little further—and then, if we fail to accomplish anything, there would still be ample opportunity to consult the police?’
‘How do you suggest we should begin?’ asked Racksole.
‘Well, there is the house which Miss Racksole so intrepidly entered last evening’—he gave her the homage of an admiring glance; ‘you and I, Mr Racksole, might examine that abode in detail.’
‘To-night?’
‘Certainly. We might do something.’
‘We might do too much.’
‘For example?’
‘We might shoot someone, or get ourselves mistaken for burglars. If we outstepped the law, it would be no excuse for us that we had been acting in a good cause.’
‘True,’ said the Prince. ‘Nevertheless—’ He stopped.
‘Nevertheless you have a distaste for bringing the police into the business.
You want the hunt all to yourself. You are on fire with the ardour of the chase. Is not that it? Accept the advice of an older man, Prince, and sleep on this affair. I have little fancy for nocturnal escapades two nights together. As for you, Nella, off with you to bed. The Prince and I will have a yarn over such fluids as can be obtained in this hole.’
‘Papa,’ she said, ‘you are perfectly horrid to-night.’
‘Perhaps I am,’ he said. ‘Decidedly I am very cross with you for coming over here all alone. It was monstrous. If I didn’t happen to be the most foolish of parents—There! Good-night. It’s nine o’clock. The Prince, I am sure, will excuse you.’
If Nella had not really been very tired Prince Aribert might have been the witness of a good-natured but stubborn conflict between the millionaire and his spirited offspring. As it was, Nella departed with surprising docility, and the two men were left alone.
‘Now,’ said Racksole suddenly, changing his tone, ‘I fancy that after all I’m your man for a little amateur investigation to-night. And, if I must speak the exact truth, I think that to sleep on this affair would be about the very worst thing we could do. But I was anxious to keep Nella out of harm’s way at any rate till to-morrow. She is a very difficult creature to manage, Prince, and I may warn you,’ he laughed grimly, ‘that if we do succeed in doing anything to-night we shall catch it from her ladyship in the morning. Are you ready to take that risk?’
‘I am,’ the Prince smiled. ‘But Miss Racksole is a young lady of quite remarkable nerve.’
‘She is,’ said Racksole drily. ‘I wish sometimes she had less.’
‘I have the highest admiration for Miss Racksole,’ said the Prince, and he looked Miss Racksole’s father full in the face.
‘You honour us, Prince,’ Racksole observed. ‘Let us come to business. Am I right in assuming that you have a reason for keeping the police out of this business, if it can possibly be done?’
‘Yes,’ said the Prince, and his brow clouded. ‘I am very much afraid that my poor nephew has involved himself in some scrape that he would wish not to be divulged.’
‘Then you do not believe that he is the victim of foul play?’
‘I do not.’
‘And the reason, if I may ask it?’
‘Mr Racksole, we speak in confidence—is it not so? Some years ago my foolish nephew had an affair—an affair with a feminine star of the Berlin stage. For anything I know, the lady may have been the very pattern of her sex, but where a reigning Prince is concerned scandal cannot be avoided in such a matter. I had thought that the affair was quite at an end, since my nephew’s betrothal to Princess Anna of Eckstein-Schwartzburg is shortly to be announced. But yesterday I saw the lady to whom I have referred driving on the Digue. The coincidence of her presence here with my nephew’s disappearance is too extraordinary to be disregarded.’
‘But how does this theory square with the murder of Reginald Dimmock?’
‘It does not square with it. My idea is that the murder of poor Dimmock and the disappearance of my nephew are entirely unconnected—unless, indeed, this Berlin actress is playing into the hands of the murderers. I had not thought of that.’
‘Then what do you propose to do to-night?’
‘I propose to enter the house which Miss Racksole entered last night and to find out something definite.’
‘I concur,’ said Racksole. ‘I shall heartily enjoy it. But let me tell you, Prince, and pardon me for speaking bluntly, your surmise is incorrect. I would wager a hundred thousand dollars that Prince Eugen has been kidnapped.’
‘What grounds have you for being so sure?’
‘Ah! said Racksole, ‘that is a long story. Let me begin by asking you this.
Are you aware that your nephew, Prince Eugen, owes a million of money?’
‘A million of money!’ cried Prince Aribert astonished. ‘It is impossible!’
‘Nevertheless, he does,’ said Racksole calmly. Then he told him all he had learnt from Mr Sampson Levi.
‘What have you to say to that?’ Racksole ended. Prince Aribert made no reply.
‘What have you to say to that?’ Racksole insisted.
‘Merely that Eugen is ruined, even if he is alive.’
‘Not at all,’ Racksole returned with cheerfulness. ‘Not at all. We shall see about that. The special thing that I want to know just now from you is this:
Has any previous application ever been made for the hand of the Princess Anna?’
‘Yes. Last year. The King of Bosnia sued for it, but his proposal was declined.’
‘Why?’
‘Because my nephew was considered to be a more suitable match for her.’
‘Not because the personal character of his Majesty of Bosnia is scarcely of the brightest?’
‘No. Unfortunately it is usually impossible to consider questions of personal character when a royal match is concerned.’
‘Then, if for any reason the marriage of Princess Anna with your nephew was frustrated, the King of Bosnia would have a fair chance in that quarter?’
‘He would. The political aspect of things would be perfectly satisfactory.’
‘Thanks!’ said Racksole. ‘I will wager another hundred thousand dollars that someone in Bosnia—I don’t accuse the King himself—is at the bottom of this business. The methods of Balkan politicians have always been half-Oriental. Let us go.’
‘Where?’
‘To this precious house of Nella’s adventure.’
‘But surely it is too early?’
‘So it is,’ said Racksole, ‘and we shall want a few things, too. For instance, a dark lantern. I think I will go out and forage for a lantern.’
‘And a revolver?’ suggested Prince Aribert.
‘Does it mean revolvers?’ The millionaire laughed. ‘It may come to that.’ ‘Here you are, then, my friend,’ said Racksole, and he pulled one out of his hip pocket. ‘And yours?’
‘I,’ said the Prince, ‘I have your daughter’s.’
‘The deuce you have!’ murmured Racksole to himself.
It was then half past nine. They decided that it would be impolitic to begin their operations till after midnight. There were three hours to spare.
‘Let us go and see the gambling,’ Racksole suggested. ‘We might encounter the Berlin lady.’
The suggestion, in the first instance, was not made seriously, but it appeared to both men that they might do worse than spend the intervening time in the gorgeous saloon of the Kursaal, where, in the season, as much money is won and lost as at Monte Carlo. It was striking ten o’clock as they entered the rooms. There was a large company present—a company which included some of the most notorious persons in Europe. In that multifarious assemblage all were equal. The electric light shone coldly and impartially on the just and on the unjust, on the fool and the knave, on the European and the Asiatic. As usual, women monopolized the best places at the tables.
The scene was familiar enough to Prince Aribert, who had witnessed it frequently at Monaco, but Theodore Racksole had never before entered any European gaming palace; he had only the haziest idea of the rules of play, and he was at once interested. For some time they watched the play at the table which happened to be nearest to them. Racksole never moved his lips.
With his eyes glued on the table, and ears open for every remark, of the players and the croupier, he took his first lesson in roulette. He saw a mere youth win fifteen thousand francs, which were stolen in the most barefaced manner by a rouged girl scarcely older than the youth; he saw two old gamesters stake their coins, and lose, and walk quietly out of the place; he saw the bank win fifty thousand francs at a single turn.
‘This is rather good fun,’ he said at length, ‘but the stakes are too small to make it really exciting. I’ll try my luck, just for the experience. I’m bound to win.’
‘Why?’ asked the Prince.
‘Because I always do, in games of chance,’ Racksole answered with gay confidence. ‘It is my fate. Then to-night, you must remember, I shall be a beginner, and you know the tyro’s luck.’
In ten minutes the croupier of that table was obliged to suspend operations pending the arrival of a further supply of coin.
‘What did I tell you?’ said Racksole, leading the way to another table further up the room. A hundred curious glances went after him. One old woman, whose gay attire suggested a false youthfulness, begged him in French to stake a five-franc piece for her. She offered him the coin. He took it, and gave her a hundred-franc note in exchange. She clutched the crisp rustling paper, and with hysterical haste scuttled back to her own table.
At the second table there was a considerable air of excitement. In the forefront of the players was a woman in a low-cut evening dress of black silk and a large red picture hat. Her age appeared to be about twenty-eight; she had dark eyes, full lips, and a distinctly Jewish nose. She was handsome, but her beauty was of that forbidding, sinister order which is often called Junoesque. This woman was the centre of attraction. People said to each other that she had won a hundred and sixty thousand francs that day at the table.
‘You were right,’ Prince Aribert whispered to Theodore Racksole; ‘that is the Berlin lady.’
‘The deuce she is! Has she seen you? Will she know you?’
‘She would probably know me, but she hasn’t looked up yet.’
‘Keep behind her, then. I propose to find her a little occupation.’ By dint of a carefully-exercised diplomacy, Racksole manoeuvred himself into a seat opposite to the lady in the red hat. The fame of his success at the other table had followed him, and people regarded him as a serious and formidable player. In the first turn the lady put a thousand francs on double zero; Racksole put a hundred on number nineteen and a thousand on the odd numbers.
Nineteen won. Racksole received four thousand four hundred francs. Nine times in succession Racksole backed number nineteen and the odd numbers; nine times the lady backed double zero. Nine times Racksole won and the lady lost. The other players, perceiving that the affair had resolved itself into a duel, stood back for the most part and watched those two. Prince Aribert never stirred from his position behind the great red hat. The game continued. Racksole lost trifles from time to time, but ninety-nine hundredths of the luck was with him. As an English spectator at the table remarked, ‘he couldn’t do wrong.’ When midnight struck the lady in the red hat was reduced to a thousand francs. Then she fell into a winning vein for half an hour, but at one o’clock her resources were exhausted. Of the hundred and sixty thousand francs which she was reputed to have had early in the evening, Racksole held about ninety thousand, and the bank had the rest.
It was a calamity for the Juno of the red hat. She jumped up, stamped her foot, and hurried from the room. At a discreet distance Racksole and the Prince pursued her.
‘It might be well to ascertain her movements,’ said Racksole.
Outside, in the glare of the great arc lights, and within sound of the surf which beats always at the very foot of the Kursaal, the Juno of the red hat summoned a fiacre and drove rapidly away. Racksole and the Prince took an open carriage and started in pursuit. They had not, however, travelled more than half a mile when Prince Aribert stopped the carriage, and, bidding Racksole get out, paid the driver and dismissed him.
‘I feel sure I know where she is going,’ he explained, ‘and it will be better for us to follow on foot.’
‘You mean she is making for the scene of last night’s affair?’ said Racksole.
‘Exactly. We shall—what you call, kill two birds with one stone.’
Prince Aribert’s guess was correct. The lady’s carriage stopped in front of the house where Nella Racksole and Miss Spencer had had their interview on the previous evening, and the lady vanished into the building just as the two men appeared at the end of the street. Instead of proceeding along that street, the Prince led Racksole to the lane which gave on to the backs of the houses, and he counted the houses as they went up the lane. In a few minutes they had burglariously climbed over a wall, and crept, with infinite caution, up a long, narrow piece of ground—half garden, half paved yard, till they crouched under a window—a window which was shielded by curtains, but which had been left open a little.
‘Listen,’ said the Prince in his lightest whisper, ‘they are talking.’
‘Who?’
‘The Berlin lady and Miss Spencer. I’m sure it’s Miss Spencer’s voice.’
Racksole boldly pushed the french window a little wider open, and put his ear to the aperture, through which came a beam of yellow light.
‘Take my place,’ he whispered to the Prince, ‘they’re talking German. You’ll understand better.’
Silently they exchanged places under the window, and the Prince listened intently.
‘Then you refuse?’ Miss Spencer’s visitor was saying.
There was no answer from Miss Spencer.
‘Not even a thousand francs? I tell you I’ve lost the whole twenty-five thousand.’
Again no answer.
‘Then I’ll tell the whole story,’ the lady went on, in an angry rush of words. ‘I did what I promised to do. I enticed him here, and you’ve got him safe in your vile cellar, poor little man, and you won’t give me a paltry thousand francs.’
‘You have already had your price.’ The words were Miss Spencer’s. They fell cold and calm on the night air.
‘I want another thousand.’
‘I haven’t it.’
‘Then we’ll see.’
Prince Aribert heard a rustle of flying skirts; then another movement—a door banged, and the beam of light through the aperture of the window suddenly disappeared. He pushed the window wide open. The room was in darkness, and apparently empty.
‘Now for that lantern of yours,’ he said eagerly to Theodore Racksole, after he had translated to him the conversation of the two women, Racksole produced the dark lantern from the capacious pocket of his dust coat, and lighted it. The ray flashed about the ground.
‘What is it?’ exclaimed Prince Aribert with a swift cry, pointing to the ground. The lantern threw its light on a perpendicular grating at their feet, through which could be discerned a cellar. They both knelt down, and peered into the subterranean chamber. On a broken chair a young man sat listlessly with closed eyes, his head leaning heavily forward on his chest.
In the feeble light of the lantern he had the livid and ghastly appearance of a corpse.
‘Who can it be?’ said Racksole.
‘It is Eugen,’ was the Prince’s low answer.