The Grand Babylon Hôtel
he was a suspicious character. I dismissed him on instinct, as it were.
See?’
Without answering this question Mr Levi asked another. ‘If this Jules is
such a well-known person,’ he said, ‘how could the feller hope to come
to my ball without being recognized?’
‘Give it up,’ said Racksole promptly.
‘Well, I’ll be moving on,’ was Mr Sampson Levi’s next remark. ‘Good day,
and thank ye. I suppose you aren’t doing anything in Kaffirs?’
Mr Racksole smiled a negative.
‘I thought not,’ said Levi. ‘Well, I never touch American rails myself,
and so I reckon we sha’n’t come across each other. Good day.’
‘Good day,’ said Racksole politely, following Mr Sampson Levi to the
door.
With his hand on the handle of the door, Mr Levi stopped, and, gazing at
Theodore Racksole with a shrewd, quizzical expression, remarked:
‘Strange things been going on here lately, eh?’
The two men looked very hard at each other for several seconds.
‘Yes,’ Racksole assented. ‘Know anything about them?’
‘Well--no, not exactly,’ said Mr Levi. ‘But I had a fancy you and I
might be useful to each other; I had a kind of fancy to that effect.’
‘Come back and sit down again, Mr Levi,’ Racksole said, attracted by the
evident straightforwardness of the man’s tone. ‘Now, how can we be of
service to each other? I flatter myself I’m something of a judge of
character, especially financial character, and I tell you--if you’ll put
your cards on the table, I’ll do ditto with mine.’
‘Agreed,’ said Mr Sampson Levi. ‘I’ll begin by explaining my interest in
your hotel. I have been expecting to receive a summons from a certain
Prince Eugen of Posen to attend him here, and that summons hasn’t
arrived. It appears that Prince Eugen hasn’t come to London at all. Now,
I could have taken my dying davy that he would have been here yesterday
at the latest.’
‘Why were you so sure?’
‘Question for question,’ said Levi. ‘Let’s clear the ground first, Mr
Racksole. Why did you buy this hotel? That’s a conundrum that’s been
puzzling a lot of our fellows in the City for some days past. Why did
you buy the Grand Babylon? And what is the next move to be?’
‘There is no next move,’ answered Racksole candidly, ‘and I will tell
you why I bought the hotel; there need be no secret about it. I bought
it because of a whim.’ And then Theodore Racksole gave this little Jew,
whom he had begun to respect, a faithful account of the transaction with
Mr Felix Babylon. ‘I suppose,’ he added, ‘you find a difficulty in
appreciating my state of mind when I did the deal.’
‘Not a bit,’ said Mr Levi. ‘I once bought an electric launch on the
Thames in a very similar way, and it turned out to be one of the most
satisfactory purchases I ever made. Then it’s a simple accident that you
own this hotel at the present moment?’
‘A simple accident--all because of a beefsteak and a bottle of Bass.’
‘Um!’ grunted Mr Sampson Levi, stroking his triple chin.
‘To return to Prince Eugen,’ Racksole resumed. ‘I was expecting His
Highness here. The State apartments had been prepared for him. He was
due on the very afternoon that young Dimmock died. But he never came,
and I have not heard why he has failed to arrive; nor have I seen his
name in the papers. What his business was in London, I don’t know.’
‘I will tell you,’ said Mr Sampson Levi, ‘he was coming to arrange a
loan.’
‘A State loan?’
‘No--a private loan.’
‘Whom from?’
‘From me, Sampson Levi. You look surprised. If you’d lived in London a
little longer, you’d know that I was just the person the Prince would
come to. Perhaps you aren’t aware that down Throgmorton Street way I’m
called “The Court Pawnbroker”, because I arrange loans for the minor,
second-class Princes of Europe. I’m a stockbroker, but my real business
is financing some of the little Courts of Europe. Now, I may tell you
that the Hereditary Prince of Posen particularly wanted a million, and
he wanted it by a certain date, and he knew that if the affair wasn’t
fixed up by a certain time here he wouldn’t be able to get it by that
certain date. That’s why I’m surprised he isn’t in London.’
‘What did he need a million for?’
‘Debts,’ answered Sampson Levi laconically.
‘His own?’
‘Certainly.’
‘But he isn’t thirty years of age?’
‘What of that? He isn’t the only European Prince who has run up a
million of debts in a dozen years. To a Prince the thing is as easy as
eating a sandwich.’
‘And why has he taken this sudden resolution to liquidate them?’
‘Because the Emperor and the lady’s parents won’t let him marry till he
has done so! And quite right, too! He’s got to show a clean sheet, or
the Princess Anna of Eckstein-Schwartzburg will never be Princess of
Posen. Even now the Emperor has no idea how much Prince Eugen’s debts
amount to. If he had--!’
‘But would not the Emperor know of this proposed loan?’
‘Not necessarily at once. It could be so managed. Twig?’ Mr Sampson Levi
laughed. ‘I’ve carried these little affairs through before. After
marriage it might be allowed to leak out. And you know the Princess
Anna’s fortune is pretty big! Now, Mr Racksole,’ he added, abruptly
changing his tone, ‘where do you suppose Prince Eugen has disappeared
to? Because if he doesn’t turn up to-day he can’t have that million. To-
day is the last day. To-morrow the money will be appropriated,
elsewhere. Of course, I’m not alone in this business, and my friends
have something to say.’
‘You ask me where I think Prince Eugen has disappeared to?’
‘I do.’
‘Then you think it’s a disappearance?’
Sampson Levi nodded. ‘Putting two and two together,’ he said, ‘I do. The
Dimmock business is very peculiar--very peculiar, indeed. Dimmock was a
left-handed relation of the Posen family. Twig? Scarcely anyone knows
that.
He was made secretary and companion to Prince Aribert, just to keep him
in the domestic circle. His mother was an Irishwoman, whose misfortune
was that she was too beautiful. Twig?’ (Mr Sampson Levi always used this
extraordinary word when he was in a communicative mood.) ‘My belief is
that Dimmock’s death has something to do with the disappearance of
Prince Eugen.
The only thing that passes me is this: Why should anyone want to make
Prince Eugen disappear? The poor little Prince hasn’t an enemy in the
world. If he’s been “copped”, as they say, why has he been “copped”? It
won’t do anyone any good.’
‘Won’t it?’ repeated Racksole, with a sudden flash.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Mr Levi.
‘I mean this: Suppose some other European pauper Prince was anxious to
marry Princess Anna and her fortune, wouldn’t that Prince have an
interest in stopping this loan of yours to Prince Eugen? Wouldn’t he
have an interest in causing Prince Eugen to disappear--at any rate, for
a time?’
Sampson Levi thought hard for a few moments.
‘Mr Theodore Racksole,’ he said at length, ‘I do believe you have hit on
something.’
Chapter Twelve ROCCO AND ROOM NO. 111
ON the afternoon of the same day--the interview just described had
occurred in the morning--Racksole was visited by another idea, and he
said to himself that he ought to have thought of it before. The
conversation with Mr Sampson Levi had continued for a considerable time,
and the two men had exchanged various notions, and agreed to meet again,
but the theory that Reginald Dimmock had probably been a traitor to his
family--a traitor whose repentance had caused his death--had not been
thoroughly discussed; the talk had tended rather to Continental
politics, with a view to discovering what princely family might have an
interest in the temporary disappearance of Prince Eugen. Now, as
Racksole considered in detail the particular affair of Reginald Dimmock,
deceased, he was struck by one point especially, to wit: Why had Dimmock
and Jules manoeuvred to turn Nella Racksole out of Room No. 111 on that
first night? That they had so manoeuvred, that the broken window-pane
was not a mere accident, Racksole felt perfectly sure. He had felt
perfectly sure all along; but the significance of the facts had not
struck him. It was plain to him now that there must be something of
extraordinary and peculiar importance about Room No. 111. After lunch he
wandered quietly upstairs and looked at Room No. 111; that is to say, he
looked at the outside of it; it happened to be occupied, but the guest
was leaving that evening. The thought crossed his mind that there could
be no object in gazing blankly at the outside of a room; yet he gazed;
then he wandered quickly down again to the next floor, and in passing
along the corridor of that floor he stopped, and with an involuntary
gesture stamped his foot.
‘Great Scott!’ he said, ‘I’ve got hold of something--No. 111 is exactly
over the State apartments.’
He went to the bureau, and issued instructions that No. 111 was not to
be re-let to anyone until further orders. At the bureau they gave him
Nella’s note, which ran thus:
Dearest Papa,--I am going away for a day or two on the trail of a clue.
If I’m not back in three days, begin to inquire for me at Ostend. Till
then leave me alone.--Your sagacious daughter, NELL.
These few words, in Nella’s large scrawling hand, filled one side of the
paper. At the bottom was a P.T.O. He turned over, and read the sentence,
underlined, ‘P.S.--Keep an eye on Rocco.’
‘I wonder what the little creature is up to?’ he murmured, as he tore
the letter into small fragments, and threw them into the waste-paper
basket.
Then, without any delay, he took the lift down to the basement, with the
object of making a preliminary inspection of Rocco in his lair. He could
scarcely bring himself to believe that this suave and stately gentleman,
this enthusiast of gastronomy, was concerned in the machinations of
Jules and other rascals unknown. Nevertheless, from habit, he obeyed his
daughter, giving her credit for a certain amount of perspicuity and
cleverness.
The kitchens of the Grand Babylon Hôtel are one of the wonders of
Europe.
Only three years before the events now under narration Felix Babylon had
had them newly installed with every device and patent that the ingenuity
of two continents could supply. They covered nearly an acre of
superficial space.
They were walled and floored from end to end with tiles and marble,
which enabled them to be washed down every morning like the deck of a
man-of-war.
Visitors were sometimes taken to see the potato-paring machine, the
patent plate-dryer, the Babylon-spit (a contrivance of Felix Babylon’s
own), the silver-grill, the system of connected stock-pots, and other
amazing phenomena of the department. Sometimes, if they were fortunate,
they might also see the artist who sculptured ice into forms of men and
beasts for table ornaments, or the first napkin-folder in London, or the
man who daily invented fresh designs for pastry and blancmanges. Twelve
chefs pursued their labours in those kitchens, helped by ninety
assistant chefs, and a further army of unconsidered menials. Over all
these was Rocco, supreme and unapproachable. Half-way along the suite of
kitchens, Rocco had an apartment of his own, wherein he thought out
those magnificent combinations, those marvellous feats of succulence and
originality, which had given him his fame. Visitors never caught a
glimpse of Rocco in the kitchens, though sometimes, on a special night,
he would stroll nonchalantly through the dining-room, like the great man
he was, to receive the compliments of the hotel habitués--people of
insight who recognized his uniqueness.
Theodore Racksole’s sudden and unusual appearance in the kitchen caused
a little stir. He nodded to some of the chefs, but said nothing to
anyone, merely wandering about amid the maze of copper utensils, and