The Grand Babylon Hôtel
‘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.
Chapter Seventeen THE RELEASE OF PRINCE EUGEN
‘EUGEN,’ Prince Aribert called softly. At the sound of his own name the
young man in the cellar feebly raised his head and stared up at the
grating which separated him from his two rescuers. But his features
showed no recognition. He gazed in an aimless, vague, silly manner for a
few seconds, his eyes blinking under the glare of the lantern, and then
his head slowly drooped again on to his chest. He was dressed in a dark
tweed travelling suit, and Racksole observed that one sleeve--the left--
was torn across the upper part of the cuff, and that there were stains
of dirt on the left shoulder. A soiled linen collar, which had lost all
its starch and was half unbuttoned, partially encircled the captive’s
neck; his brown boots were unlaced; a cap, a handkerchief, a portion of
a watch-chain, and a few gold coins lay on the floor. Racksole flashed
the lantern into the corners of the cellar, but he could discover no
other furniture except the chair on which the Hereditary Prince of Posen
sat and a small deal table on which were a plate and a cup.
‘Eugen,’ cried Prince Aribert once more, but this time his forlorn
nephew made no response whatever, and then Aribert added in a low voice
to Racksole: ‘Perhaps he cannot see us clearly.’
‘But he must surely recognize your voice,’ said Racksole, in a hard,
gloomy tone. There was a pause, and the two men above ground looked at
each other hesitatingly. Each knew that they must enter that cellar and
get Prince Eugen out of it, and each was somehow afraid to take the next
step.
‘Thank God he is not dead!’ said Aribert.
‘He may be worse than dead!’ Racksole replied.
‘Worse than--What do you mean?’
‘I mean--he may be mad.’
‘Come,’ Aribert almost shouted, with a sudden access of energy--a wild
impulse for action. And, snatching the lantern from Racksole, he rushed
into the dark room where they had heard the conversation of Miss Spencer
and the lady in the red hat. For a moment Racksole did not stir from the
threshold of the window. ‘Come,’ Prince Aribert repeated, and there was
an imperious command in his utterance. ‘What are you afraid of?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Racksole, feeling stupid and queer; ‘I don’t know.’
Then he marched heavily after Prince Aribert into the room. On the
mantelpiece were a couple of candles which had been blown out, and in a
mechanical, unthinking way, Racksole lighted them, and the two men
glanced round the room. It presented no peculiar features: it was just
an ordinary room, rather small, rather mean, rather shabby, with an ugly
wallpaper and ugly pictures in ugly frames. Thrown over a chair was a
man’s evening-dress jacket. The door was closed. Prince Aribert turned
the knob, but he could not open it.
‘It’s locked,’ he said. ‘Evidently they know we’re here.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Racksole brusquely; ‘how can they know?’ And, taking
hold of the knob, he violently shook the door, and it opened. ‘I told
you it wasn’t locked,’ he added, and this small success of opening the
door seemed to steady the man. It was a curious psychological effect,
this terrorizing (for it amounted to that) of two courageous full-grown
men by the mere apparition of a helpless creature in a cellar. Gradually
they both recovered from it. The next moment they were out in the
passage which led to the front door of the house. The front door stood
open. They looked into the street, up and down, but there was not a soul
in sight. The street, lighted by three gas-lamps only, seemed strangely
sinister and mysterious.
‘She has gone, that’s clear,’ said Racksole, meaning the woman with the
red hat.
‘And Miss Spencer after her, do you think?’ questioned Aribert.
‘No. She would stay. She would never dare to leave. Let us find the
cellar steps.’
The cellar steps were happily not difficult to discover, for in moving a
pace backwards Prince Aribert had a narrow escape of precipitating
himself to the bottom of them. The lantern showed that they were built
on a curve.
Silently Racksole resumed possession of the lantern and went first, the
Prince close behind him. At the foot was a short passage, and in this
passage crouched the figure of a woman. Her eyes threw back the rays of
the lantern, shining like a cat’s at midnight. Then, as the men went
nearer, they saw that it was Miss Spencer who barred their way. She
seemed half to kneel on the stone floor, and in one hand she held what
at first appeared to be a dagger, but which proved to be nothing more
romantic than a rather long bread-knife.
‘I heard you, I heard you,’ she exclaimed. ‘Get back; you mustn’t come
here.’
There was a desperate and dangerous look on her face, and her form shook
with scarcely controlled passionate energy.
‘Now see here, Miss Spencer,’ Racksole said calmly, ‘I guess we’ve had
enough of this fandango. You’d better get up and clear out, or we’ll
just have to drag you off.’
He went calmly up to her, the lantern in his hand. Without another word
she struck the knife into his arm, and the lantern fell extinguished.
Racksole gave a cry, rather of angry surprise than of pain, and
retreated a few steps. In the darkness they could still perceive the
glint of her eyes.
‘I told you you mustn’t come here,’ the woman said. ‘Now get back.’
Racksole positively laughed. It was a queer laugh, but he laughed, and
he could not help it. The idea of this woman, this bureau clerk,
stopping his progress and that of Prince Aribert by means of a bread-
knife aroused his sense of humour. He struck a match, relighted the
candle, and faced Miss Spencer once more.
‘I’ll do it again,’ she said, with a note of hard resolve.
‘Oh, no, you won’t, my girl,’ said Racksole; and he pulled out his
revolver, cocked it, raised his hand.
‘Put down that plaything of yours,’ he said firmly.
‘No,’ she answered.
‘I shall shoot.’
She pressed her lips together.
‘I shall shoot,’ he repeated. ‘One--two--three.’
Bang, bang! He had fired twice, purposely missing her. Miss Spencer
never blenched. Racksole was tremendously surprised--and he would have
been a thousandfold more surprised could he have contrasted her
behaviour now with her abject terror on the previous evening when Nella
had threatened her.
‘You’ve got a bit of pluck,’ he said, ‘but it won’t help you. Why won’t
you let us pass?’
As a matter of fact, pluck was just what she had not, really; she had
merely subordinated one terror to another. She was desperately afraid of
Racksole’s revolver, but she was much more afraid of something else.
‘Why won’t you let us pass?’
‘I daren’t,’ she said, with a plaintive tremor; ‘Tom put me in charge.’
That was all. The men could see tears running down her poor wrinkled
face.
Theodore Racksole began to take off his light overcoat.
‘I see I must take my coat off to you,’ he said, and he almost smiled.
Then, with a quick movement, he threw the coat over Miss Spencer’s head
and flew at her, seizing both her arms, while Prince Aribert assisted.
Her struggles ceased--she was beaten.
‘That’s all right,’ said Racksole: ‘I could never have used that
revolver--to mean business with it, of course.’
They carried her, unresisting, upstairs and on to the upper floor, where
they locked her in a bedroom. She lay in the bed as if exhausted.
‘Now for my poor Eugen,’ said Prince Aribert.
‘Don’t you think we’d better search the house first?’ Racksole
suggested; ‘it will be safer to know just how we stand. We can’t afford
any ambushes or things of that kind, you know.’
The Prince agreed, and they searched the house from top to bottom, but
found no one. Then, having locked the front door and the french window
of the sitting-room, they proceeded again to the cellar.
Here a new obstacle confronted them. The cellar door was, of course,
locked; there was no sign of a key, and it appeared to be a heavy door.
They were compelled to return to the bedroom where Miss Spencer was
incarcerated, in order to demand the key of the cellar from her. She
still lay without movement on the bed.
‘Tom’s got it,’ she replied, faintly, to their question: ‘Tom’s got it,
I swear to you. He took it for safety.’
‘Then how do you feed your prisoner?’ Racksole asked sharply.
‘Through the grating,’ she answered.
Both men shuddered. They felt she was speaking the truth. For the third
time they went to the cellar door. In vain Racksole thrust himself
against it; he could do no more than shake it.
‘Let’s try both together,’ said Prince Aribert. ‘Now!’ There was a
crack.
‘Again,’ said Prince Aribert. There was another crack, and then the
upper hinge gave way. The rest was easy. Over the wreck of the door they
entered Prince Eugen’s prison.
The captive still sat on his chair. The terrific noise and bustle of
breaking down the door seemed not to have aroused him from his lethargy,
but when Prince Aribert spoke to him in German he looked at his uncle.
‘Will you not come with us, Eugen?’ said Prince Aribert; ‘you needn’t
stay here any longer, you know.’
‘Leave me alone,’ was the strange reply; ‘leave me alone. What do you
want?’
‘We are here to get you out of this scrape,’ said Aribert gently.
Racksole stood aside.
‘Who is that fellow?’ said Eugen sharply.
‘That is my friend Mr Racksole, an Englishman--or rather, I should say,
an American--to whom we owe a great deal. Come and have supper, Eugen.’
‘I won’t,’ answered Eugen doggedly. ‘I’m waiting here for her. You
didn’t think anyone had kept me here, did you, against my will? I tell
you I’m waiting for her. She said she’d come.’
‘Who is she?’ Aribert asked, humouring him.
‘She! Why, you know! I forgot, of course, you don’t know. You mustn’t
ask.
Don’t pry, Uncle Aribert. She was wearing a red hat.’
‘I’ll take you to her, my dear Eugen.’ Prince Aribert put his hands on
the other’s shoulder, but Eugen shook him off violently, stood up, and
then sat down again.
Aribert looked at Racksole, and they both looked at Prince Eugen. The
latter’s face was flushed, and Racksole observed that the left pupil was
more dilated than the right. The man started, muttered odd, fragmentary
scraps of sentences, now grumbling, now whining.
‘His mind is unhinged,’ Racksole whispered in English.
‘Hush!’ said Prince Aribert. ‘He understands English.’ But Prince Eugen
took no notice of the brief colloquy.
‘We had better get him upstairs, somehow,’ said Racksole.
‘Yes,’ Aribert assented. ‘Eugen, the lady with the red hat, the lady you
are waiting for, is upstairs. She has sent us down to ask you to come
up. Won’t you come?’
‘Himmel!’ the poor fellow exclaimed, with a kind of weak anger. ‘Why did
you not say this before?’
He rose, staggered towards Aribert, and fell headlong on the floor. He
had swooned. The two men raised him, carried him up the stone steps, and
laid him with infinite care on a sofa. He lay, breathing queerly through
the nostrils, his eyes closed, his fingers contracted; every now and
then a convulsion ran through his frame.
‘One of us must fetch a doctor,’ said Prince Aribert.
‘I will,’ said Racksole. At that moment there was a quick, curt rap on
the french window, and both Racksole and the Prince glanced round