PRINCE EUGEN started. ‘I will see him,’ he said, with a gesture to Hans as if to indicate that Mr Sampson Levi might enter at once.
‘I beg one moment first,’ said Aribert, laying a hand gently on his nephew’s arm, and giving old Hans a glance which had the effect of precipitating that admirably trained servant through the doorway.
‘What is it?’ asked Prince Eugen crossly. ‘Why this sudden seriousness? Don’t forget that I have an appointment with Mr Sampson Levi, and must not keep him waiting. Someone said that punctuality is the politeness of princes.’
‘Eugen,’ said Aribert, ‘I wish you to be as serious as I am. Why cannot we have faith in each other? I want to help you. I have helped you. You are my titular Sovereign; but on the other hand I have the honour to be your uncle:
I have the honour to be the same age as you, and to have been your companion from youth up. Give me your confidence. I thought you had given it me years ago, but I have lately discovered that you had your secrets, even then. And now, since your illness, you are still more secretive.’
‘What do you mean, Aribert?’ said Eugen, in a tone which might have been either inimical or friendly. ‘What do you want to say?’
‘Well, in the first place, I want to say that you will not succeed with the estimable Mr Sampson Levi.’
‘Shall I not?’ said Eugen lightly. ‘How do you know what my business is with him?’
‘Suffice it to say that I know. You will never get that million pounds out of him.’
Prince Eugen gasped, and then swallowed his excitement. ‘Who has been talking? What million?’ His eyes wandered uneasily round the room. ‘Ah!’ he said, pretending to laugh. ‘I see how it is. I have been chattering in my delirium. You mustn’t take any notice of that, Aribert. When one has a fever one’s ideas become grotesque and fanciful.’
‘You never talked in your delirium,’ Aribert replied; ‘at least not about yourself. I knew about this projected loan before I saw you in Ostend.’
‘Who told you?’ demanded Eugen fiercely.
‘Then you admit that you are trying to raise a loan?’
‘I admit nothing. Who told you?’
‘Theodore Racksole, the millionaire. These rich men have no secrets from each other. They form a coterie, closer than any coterie of ours. Eugen, and far more powerful. They talk, and in talking they rule the world, these millionaires. They are the real monarchs.’
‘Curse them!’ said Eugen.
‘Yes, perhaps so. But let me return to your case. Imagine my shame, my disgust, when I found that Racksole could tell me more about your affairs than I knew myself. Happily, he is a good fellow; one can trust him; otherwise I should have been tempted to do something desperate when I discovered that all your private history was in his hands. Eugen, let us come to the point; why do you want that million? Is it actually true that you are so deeply in debt? I have no desire to improve the occasion. I merely ask.’
‘And what if I do owe a million?’ said Prince Eugen with assumed valour.
‘Oh, nothing, my dear Eugen, nothing. Only it is rather a large sum to have scattered in ten years, is it not? How did you manage it?’
‘Don’t ask me, Aribert. I’ve been a fool. But I swear to you that the woman whom you call “the lady in the red hat” is the last of my follies. I am about to take a wife, and become a respectable Prince.’
‘Then the engagement with Princess Anna is an accomplished fact?’
‘Practically so. As soon as I have settled with Levi, all will be smooth.
Aribert, I wouldn’t lose Anna for the Imperial throne. She is a good and pure woman, and I love her as a man might love an angel.’
‘And yet you would deceive her as to your debts, Eugen?’
‘Not her, but her absurd parents, and perhaps the Emperor. They have heard rumours, and I must set those rumours at rest by presenting to them a clean sheet.’
‘I am glad you have been frank with me, Eugen,’ said Prince Aribert, ‘but I will be plain with you. You will never marry the Princess Anna.’
‘And why?’ said Eugen, supercilious again.
‘Because her parents will not permit it. Because you will not be able to present a clean sheet to them. Because this Sampson Levi will never lend you a million.’
‘Explain yourself.’
‘I propose to do so. You were kidnapped—it is a horrid word, but we must use it—in Ostend.’
‘True.’
‘Do you know why?’
‘I suppose because that vile old red-hatted woman and her accomplices wanted to get some money out of me. Fortunately, thanks to you, they didn’t.’
‘Not at all,’ said Aribert. ‘They wanted no money from you. They knew well enough that you had no money. They knew you were the naughty schoolboy among European Princes, with no sense of responsibility or of duty towards your kingdom. Shall I tell you why they kidnapped you?’
‘When you have done abusing me, my dear uncle.’
‘They kidnapped you merely to keep you out of England for a few days, merely to compel you to fail in your appointment with Sampson Levi. And it appears to me that they succeeded. Assuming that you don’t obtain the money from Levi, is there another financier in all Europe from whom you can get it—on such strange security as you have to offer?’
‘Possibly there is not,’ said Prince Eugen calmly. ‘But, you see, I shall get it from Sampson Levi. Levi promised it, and I know from other sources that he is a man of his word. He said that the money, subject to certain formalities, would be available till—’
‘Till?’
‘Till the end of June.’
‘And it is now the end of July.’
‘Well, what is a month? He is only too glad to lend the money. He will get excellent interest. How on earth have you got into your sage old head this notion of a plot against me? The idea is ridiculous. A plot against me? What for?’
‘Have you ever thought of Bosnia?’ asked Aribert coldly.
‘What of Bosnia?’
‘I need not tell you that the King of Bosnia is naturally under obligations to Austria, to whom he owes his crown. Austria is anxious for him to make a good influential marriage.’
‘Well, let him.’
‘He is going to. He is going to marry the Princess Anna.’
‘Not while I live. He made overtures there a year ago, and was rebuffed.’
‘Yes; but he will make overtures again, and this time he will not be rebuffed. Oh, Eugen! can’t you see that this plot against you is being engineered by some persons who know all about your affairs, and whose desire is to prevent your marriage with Princess Anna? Only one man in Europe can have any motive for wishing to prevent your marriage with Princess Anna, and that is the man who means to marry her himself.’ Eugen went very pale.
‘Then, Aribert, do you mean to convey to me that my detention in Ostend was contrived by the agents of the King of Bosnia?’
‘I do.’
‘With a view to stopping my negotiations with Sampson Levi, and so putting an end to the possibility of my marriage with Anna?’
Aribert nodded.
‘You are a good friend to me, Aribert. You mean well. But you are mistaken.
You have been worrying about nothing.’
‘Have you forgotten about Reginald Dimmock?’
‘I remember you said that he had died.’
‘I said nothing of the sort. I said that he had been assassinated. That was part of it, my poor Eugen.’
‘Pooh!’ said Eugen. ‘I don’t believe he was assassinated. And as for Sampson Levi, I will bet you a thousand marks that he and I come to terms this morning, and that the million is in my hands before I leave London.’ Aribert shook his head.
‘You seem to be pretty sure of Mr Levi’s character. Have you had much to do with him before?’
‘Well,’ Eugen hesitated a second, ‘a little. What young man in my position hasn’t had something to do with Mr Sampson Levi at one time or another?’
‘I haven’t,’ said Aribert.
‘You! You are a fossil.’ He rang a silver bell. ‘Hans! I will receive Mr Sampson Levi.’
Whereupon Aribert discreetly departed, and Prince Eugen sat down in the great velvet chair, and began to look at the papers which Hans had previously placed upon the table.
‘Good morning, your Royal Highness,’ said Sampson Levi, bowing as he entered. ‘I trust your Royal Highness is well.’
‘Moderately, thanks,’ returned the Prince.
In spite of the fact that he had had as much to do with people of Royal blood as any plain man in Europe, Sampson Levi had never yet learned how to be at ease with these exalted individuals during the first few minutes of an interview. Afterwards, he resumed command of himself and his faculties, but at the beginning he was invariably flustered, scarlet of face, and inclined to perspiration.
‘We will proceed to business at once,’ said Prince Eugen. ‘Will you take a seat, Mr Levi?’
‘I thank your Royal Highness.’
‘Now as to that loan which we had already practically arranged—a million, I think it was,’ said the Prince airily.
‘A million,’ Levi acquiesced, toying with his enormous watch chain.
‘Everything is now in order. Here are the papers and I should like to finish the matter up at once.’
‘Exactly, your Highness, but—’
‘But what? You months ago expressed the warmest satisfaction at the security, though I am quite prepared to admit that the security, is of rather an unusual nature. You also agreed to the rate of interest. It is not everyone, Mr Levi, who can lend out a million at 5-1/2 per cent. And in ten years the whole amount will be paid back. I—er—I believe I informed you that the fortune of Princess Anna, who is about to accept my hand, will ultimately amount to something like fifty millions of marks, which is over two million pounds in your English money.’ Prince Eugen stopped. He had no fancy for talking in this confidential manner to financiers, but he felt that circumstances demanded it.
‘You see, it’s like this, your Royal Highness,’ began Mr Sampson Levi, in his homely English idiom. ‘It’s like this. I said I could keep that bit of money available till the end of June, and you were to give me an interview here before that date. Not having heard from your Highness, and not knowing your Highness’s address, though my German agents made every inquiry, I concluded, that you had made other arrangements, money being so cheap this last few months.’
‘I was unfortunately detained at Ostend,’ said Prince Eugen, with as much haughtiness as he could assume, ‘by—by important business. I have made no other arrangements, and I shall have need of the million. If you will be so good as to pay it to my London bankers—’
‘I’m very sorry,’ said Mr Sampson Levi, with a tremendous and dazzling air of politeness, which surprised even himself, ‘but my syndicate has now lent the money elsewhere. It’s in South America—I don’t mind telling your Highness that we’ve lent it to the Chilean Government.’
‘Hang the Chilean Government, Mr Levi,’ exclaimed the Prince, and he went white. ‘I must have that million. It was an arrangement.’
‘It was an arrangement, I admit,’ said Mr Sampson Levi, ‘but your Highness broke the arrangement.’
There was a long silence.
‘Do you mean to say,’ began the Prince with tense calmness, ‘that you are not in a position to let me have that million?’
‘I could let your Highness have a million in a couple of years’ time.’
The Prince made a gesture of annoyance. ‘Mr Levi,’ he said, ‘if you do not place the money in my hands to-morrow you will ruin one of the oldest of reigning families, and, incidentally, you will alter the map of Europe. You are not keeping faith, and I had relied on you.’
‘Pardon me, your Highness,’ said little Levi, rising in resentment, ‘it is not I who have not kept faith. I beg to repeat that the money is no longer at my disposal, and to bid your Highness good morning.’
And Mr Sampson Levi left the audience chamber with an awkward, aggrieved bow. It was a scene characteristic of the end of the nineteenth century—an overfed, commonplace, pursy little man who had been born in a Brixton semi-detached villa, and whose highest idea of pleasure was a Sunday up the river in an expensive electric launch, confronting and utterly routing, in a hotel belonging to an American millionaire, the representative of a race of men who had fingered every page of European history for centuries, and who still, in their native castles, were surrounded with every outward circumstance of pomp and power.
‘Aribert,’ said Prince Eugen, a little later, ‘you were right. It is all over. I have only one refuge—’
‘You don’t mean—’ Aribert stopped, dumbfounded.
‘Yes, I do,’ he said quickly. ‘I can manage it so that it will look like an accident.’
ON the evening of Prince Eugen’s fateful interview with Mr Sampson Levi, Theodore Racksole was wandering somewhat aimlessly and uneasily about the entrance hall and adjacent corridors of the Grand Babylon. He had returned from Ostend only a day or two previously, and had endeavoured with all his might to forget the affair which had carried him there—to regard it, in fact, as done with. But he found himself unable to do so. In vain he remarked, under his breath, that there were some things which were best left alone: if his experience as a manipulator of markets, a contriver of gigantic schemes in New York, had taught him anything at all, it should surely have taught him that. Yet he could not feel reconciled to such a position. The mere presence of the princes in his hotel roused the fighting instincts of this man, who had never in his whole career been beaten. He had, as it were, taken up arms on their side, and if the princes of Posen would not continue their own battle, nevertheless he, Theodore Racksole, wanted to continue it for them. To a certain extent, of course, the battle had been won, for Prince Eugen had been rescued from an extremely difficult and dangerous position, and the enemy—consisting of Jules, Rocco, Miss Spencer, and perhaps others—had been put to flight. But that, he conceived, was not enough; it was very far from being enough. That the criminals, for criminals they decidedly were, should still be at large, he regarded as an absurd anomaly. And there was another point: he had said nothing to the police of all that had occurred. He disdained the police, but he could scarcely fail to perceive that if the police should by accident gain a clue to the real state of the case he might be placed rather awkwardly, for the simple reason that in the eyes of the law it amounted to a misdemeanour to conceal as much as he had concealed. He asked himself, for the thousandth time, why he had adopted a policy of concealment from the police, why he had become in any way interested in the Posen matter, and why, at this present moment, he should be so anxious to prosecute it further? To the first two questions he replied, rather lamely, that he had been influenced by Nella, and also by a natural spirit of adventure; to the third he replied that he had always been in the habit of carrying things through, and was now actuated by a mere childish, obstinate desire to carry this one through. Moreover, he was splendidly conscious of his perfect ability to carry it through. One additional impulse he had, though he did not admit it to himself, being by nature adverse to big words, and that was an abstract love of justice, the Anglo-Saxon’s deep-found instinct for helping the right side to conquer, even when grave risks must thereby be run, with no corresponding advantage.
He was turning these things over in his mind as he walked about the vast hotel on that evening of the last day in July. The Society papers had been stating for a week past that London was empty, but, in spite of the Society papers, London persisted in seeming to be just as full as ever. The Grand Babylon was certainly not as crowded as it had been a month earlier, but it was doing a very passable business. At the close of the season the gay butterflies of the social community have a habit of hovering for a day or two in the big hotels before they flutter away to castle and country-house, meadow and moor, lake and stream. The great basket-chairs in the portico were well filled by old and middle-aged gentlemen engaged in enjoying the varied delights of liqueurs, cigars, and the full moon which floated so serenely above the Thames. Here and there a pretty woman on the arm of a cavalier in immaculate attire swept her train as she turned to and fro in the promenade of the terrace. Waiters and uniformed commissionaires and gold-braided doorkeepers moved noiselessly about; at short intervals the chief of the doorkeepers blew his shrill whistle and hansoms drove up with tinkling bell to take away a pair of butterflies to some place of amusement or boredom; occasionally a private carriage drawn by expensive and self-conscious horses put the hansoms to shame by its mere outward glory. It was a hot night, a night for the summer woods, and save for the vehicles there was no rapid movement of any kind. It seemed as though the world—the world, that is to say, of the Grand Babylon—was fully engaged in the solemn processes of digestion and small-talk. Even the long row of the Embankment gas-lamps, stretching right and left, scarcely trembled in the still, warm, caressing air. The stars overhead looked down with many blinkings upon the enormous pile of the Grand Babylon, and the moon regarded it with bland and changeless face; what they thought of it and its inhabitants cannot, unfortunately, be recorded. What Theodore Racksole thought of the moon can be recorded: he thought it was a nuisance. It somehow fascinated his gaze with its silly stare, and so interfered with his complex meditations. He glanced round at the well-dressed and satisfied people—his guests, his customers. They appeared to ignore him absolutely.
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!’
‘DO you know anything of the antecedents of this Jules,’ asked Theodore Racksole, helping himself to whisky.
‘Nothing whatever,’ said Babylon. ‘Until you told me, I don’t think I was aware that his true name was Thomas Jackson, though of course I knew that it was not Jules. I certainly was not aware that Miss Spencer was his wife, but I had long suspected that their relations were somewhat more intimate than the nature of their respective duties in the hotel absolutely demanded. All that I do know of Jules—he will always be called Jules—is that he gradually, by some mysterious personal force, acquired a prominent position in the hotel. Decidedly he was the cleverest and most intellectual waiter I have ever known, and he was specially skilled in the difficult task of retaining his own dignity while not interfering with that of other people.
I’m afraid this information is a little too vague to be of any practical assistance in the present difficulty.’
‘What is the present difficulty?’ Racksole queried, with a simple air.
‘I should imagine that the present difficulty is to account for the man’s presence in London.’
‘That is easily accounted for,’ said Racksole.
‘How? Do you suppose he is anxious to give himself up to justice, or that the chains of habit bind him to the hotel?’
‘Neither,’ said Racksole. ‘Jules is going to have another try—that’s all.’
‘Another try at what?’
‘At Prince Eugen. Either at his life or his liberty. Most probably the former this time; almost certainly the former. He has guessed that we are somewhat handicapped by our anxiety to keep Prince Eugen’s predicament quite quiet, and he is taking advantage, of that fact. As he already is fairly rich, on his own admission, the reward which has been offered to him must be enormous, and he is absolutely determined to get it. He has several times recently proved himself to be a daring fellow; unless I am mistaken he will shortly prove himself to be still more daring.’
‘But what can he do? Surely you don’t suggest that he will attempt the life of Prince Eugen in this hotel?’
‘Why not? If Reginald Dimmock fell on mere suspicion that he would turn out unfaithful to the conspiracy, why not Prince Eugen?’
‘But it would be an unspeakable crime, and do infinite harm to the hotel!’
‘True!’ Racksole admitted, smiling. Little Felix Babylon seemed to brace himself for the grasping of his monstrous idea.
‘How could it possibly be done?’ he asked at length.
‘Dimmock was poisoned.’
‘Yes, but you had Rocco here then, and Rocco was in the plot. It is conceivable that Rocco could have managed it—barely conceivable. But without Rocco I cannot think it possible. I cannot even think that Jules would attempt it. You see, in a place like the Grand Babylon, as probably I needn’t point out to you, food has to pass through so many hands that to poison one person without killing perhaps fifty would be a most delicate operation. Moreover, Prince Eugen, unless he has changed his habits, is always served by his own attendant, old Hans, and therefore any attempt to tamper with a cooked dish immediately before serving would be hazardous in the extreme.’
‘Granted,’ said Racksole. ‘The wine, however, might be more easily got at.
Had you thought of that?’
‘I had not,’ Babylon admitted. ‘You are an ingenious theorist, but I happen to know that Prince Eugen always has his wine opened in his own presence. No doubt it would be opened by Hans. Therefore the wine theory is not tenable, my friend.’
‘I do not see why,’ said Racksole. ‘I know nothing of wine as an expert, and I very seldom drink it, but it seems to me that a bottle of wine might be tampered with while it was still in the cellar, especially if there was an accomplice in the hotel.’
‘You think, then, that you are not yet rid of all your conspirators?’
‘I think that Jules might still have an accomplice within the building.’
‘And that a bottle of wine could be opened and recorked without leaving any trace of the operation?’ Babylon was a trifle sarcastic.
‘I don’t see the necessity of opening the bottle in order to poison the wine,’ said Racksole. ‘I have never tried to poison anybody by means of a bottle of wine, and I don’t lay claim to any natural talent as a poisoner, but I think I could devise several ways of managing the trick. Of course, I admit I may be entirely mistaken as to Jules’ intentions.’
‘Ah!’ said Felix Babylon. ‘The wine cellars beneath us are one of the wonders of London. I hope you are aware, Mr Racksole, that when you bought the Grand Babylon you bought what is probably the finest stock of wines in England, if not in Europe. In the valuation I reckoned them at sixty thousand pounds. And I may say that I always took care that the cellars were properly guarded. Even Jules would experience a serious difficulty in breaking into the cellars without the connivance of the wine-clerk, and the wine-clerk is, or was, incorruptible.’
‘I am ashamed to say that I have not yet inspected my wines,’ smiled Racksole; ‘I have never given them a thought. Once or twice I have taken the trouble to make a tour of the hotel, but I omitted the cellars in my excursions.’
‘Impossible, my dear fellow!’ said Babylon, amused at such a confession, to him—a great connoisseur and lover of fine wines—almost incredible. ‘But really you must see them to-morrow. If I may, I will accompany you.’
‘Why not to-night?’ Racksole suggested, calmly.
‘To-night! It is very late: Hubbard will have gone to bed.’
‘And may I ask who is Hubbard? I remember the name but dimly.’
‘Hubbard is the wine-clerk of the Grand Babylon,’ said Felix, with a certain emphasis. ‘A sedate man of forty. He has the keys of the cellars. He knows every bottle of every bin, its date, its qualities, its value. And he’s a teetotaler. Hubbard is a curiosity. No wine can leave the cellars without his knowledge, and no person can enter the cellars without his knowledge. At least, that is how it was in my time,’ Babylon added.
‘We will wake him,’ said Racksole.
‘But it is one o’clock in the morning,’ Babylon protested.
‘Never mind—that is, if you consent to accompany me. A cellar is the same by night as by day. Therefore, why not now?’
Babylon shrugged his shoulders. ‘As you wish,’ he agreed, with his indestructible politeness.
‘And now to find this Mr Hubbard, with his key of the cupboard,’ said Racksole, as they walked out of the room together. Although the hour was so late, the hotel was not, of course, closed for the night. A few guests still remained about in the public rooms, and a few fatigued waiters were still in attendance. One of these latter was despatched in search of the singular Mr Hubbard, and it fortunately turned out that this gentleman had not actually retired, though he was on the point of doing so. He brought the keys to Mr Racksole in person, and after he had had a little chat with his former master, the proprietor and the ex-proprietor of the Grand Babylon Hôtel proceeded on their way to the cellars.
These cellars extend over, or rather under, quite half the superficial areas of the whole hotel—the longitudinal half which lies next to the Strand.
Owing to the fact that the ground slopes sharply from the Strand to the river, the Grand Babylon is, so to speak, deeper near the Strand than it is near the Thames. Towards the Thames there is, below the entrance level, a basement and a sub-basement. Towards the Strand there is basement, sub-basement, and the huge wine cellars beneath all. After descending the four flights of the service stairs, and traversing a long passage running parallel with the kitchen, the two found themselves opposite a door, which, on being unlocked, gave access to another flight of stairs. At the foot of this was the main entrance to the cellars. Outside the entrance was the wine-lift, for the ascension of delicious fluids to the upper floors, and, opposite, Mr Hubbard’s little office. There was electric light everywhere.
Babylon, who, as being most accustomed to them, held the bunch of keys, opened the great door, and then they were in the first cellar—the first of a suite of five. Racksole was struck not only by the icy coolness of the place, but also by its vastness. Babylon had seized a portable electric handlight, attached to a long wire, which lay handy, and, waving it about, disclosed the dimensions of the place. By that flashing illumination the subterranean chamber looked unutterably weird and mysterious, with its rows of numbered bins, stretching away into the distance till the radiance was reduced to the occasional far gleam of the light on the shoulder of a bottle. Then Babylon switched on the fixed electric lights, and Theodore Racksole entered upon a personally-conducted tour of what was quite the most interesting part of his own property.
To see the innocent enthusiasm of Felix Babylon for these stores of exhilarating liquid was what is called in the North ‘a sight for sair een’.
He displayed to Racksole’s bewildered gaze, in their due order, all the wines of three continents—nay, of four, for the superb and luscious Constantia wine of Cape Colony was not wanting in that most catholic collection of vintages. Beginning with the unsurpassed products of Burgundy, he continued with the clarets of Médoc, Bordeaux, and Sauterne; then to the champagnes of Ay, Hautvilliers, and Pierry; then to the hocks and moselles of Germany, and the brilliant imitation champagnes of Main, Neckar, and Naumburg; then to the famous and adorable Tokay of Hungary, and all the Austrian varieties of French wines, including Carlowitz and Somlauer; then to the dry sherries of Spain, including purest Manzanilla, and Amontillado, and Vino de Pasto; then to the wines of Malaga, both sweet and dry, and all the ‘Spanish reds’ from Catalonia, including the dark ‘Tent’ so often used sacramentally; then to the renowned port of Oporto. Then he proceeded to the Italian cellar, and descanted upon the excellence of Barolo from Piedmont, of Chianti from Tuscany, of Orvieto from the Roman States, of the ‘Tears of Christ’ from Naples, and the commoner Marsala from Sicily. And so on, to an extent and with a fullness of detail which cannot be rendered here.
At the end of the suite of cellars there was a glazed door, which, as could be seen, gave access to a supplemental and smaller cellar, an apartment about fifteen or sixteen feet square.
‘Anything special in there?’ asked Racksole curiously, as they stood before the door, and looked within at the seined ends of bottles.
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Babylon, almost smacking his lips, ‘therein lies the cream of all.’
‘The best champagne, I suppose?’ said Racksole.
‘Yes,’ said Babylon, ‘the best champagne is there—a very special Sillery, as exquisite as you will find anywhere. But I see, my friend, that you fall into the common error of putting champagne first among wines. That distinction belongs to Burgundy. You have old Burgundy in that cellar, Mr Racksole, which cost me—how much do you think?—eighty pounds a bottle.
Probably it will never be drunk,’ he added with a sigh. ‘It is too expensive even for princes and plutocrats.’
‘Yes, it will,’ said Racksole quickly. ‘You and I will have a bottle up to-morrow.’
‘Then,’ continued Babylon, still riding his hobby-horse, ‘there is a sample of the Rhine wine dated 1706 which caused such a sensation at the Vienna Exhibition of 1873. There is also a singularly glorious Persian wine from Shiraz, the like of which I have never seen elsewhere. Also there is an unrivalled vintage of Romanée-Conti, greatest of all modern Burgundies. If I remember right Prince Eugen invariably has a bottle when he comes to stay here. It is not on the hotel wine list, of course, and only a few customers know of it. We do not precisely hawk it about the dining-room.’
‘Indeed!’ said Racksole. ‘Let us go inside.’
They entered the stone apartment, rendered almost sacred by the preciousness of its contents, and Racksole looked round with a strangely intent and curious air. At the far side was a grating, through which came a feeble light.
‘What is that?’ asked the millionaire sharply.
‘That is merely a ventilation grating. Good ventilation is absolutely essential.’
‘Looks broken, doesn’t it?’ Racksole suggested and then, putting a finger quickly on Babylon’s shoulder, ‘there’s someone in the cellar. Can’t you hear breathing, down there, behind that bin?’
The two men stood tense and silent for a while, listening, under the ray of the single electric light in the ceiling. Half the cellar was involved in gloom. At length Racksole walked firmly down the central passage-way between the bins and turned to the corner at the right.
‘Come out, you villain!’ he said in a low, well-nigh vicious tone, and dragged up a cowering figure.
He had expected to find a man, but it was his own daughter, Nella Racksole, upon whom he had laid angry hands.