The Grand Babylon Hôtel

it as entirely unofficial and not to talk about it. You understand? I dare say you will have no cause to regret having obliged Mr Racksole.’ ‘I think I grasp the situation,’ said Hazell, with a slight smile. ‘And, by the way,’ added the high official, ‘although the business is unofficial, it might be well if you wore your official overcoat. See?’ ‘Decidedly,’ said Hazell; ‘I should have done so in any case.’ ‘And now, Mr Hazell,’ said Racksole, ‘will you do me the pleasure of lunching with me? If you agree, I should like to lunch at the place you usually frequent.’ So it came to pass that Theodore Racksole and George Hazell, outdoor clerk in the Customs, lunched together at ‘Thomas’s Chop-House’, in the city of London, upon mutton-chops and coffee. The millionaire soon discovered that he had got hold of a keen-witted man and a person of much insight. ‘Tell me,’ said Hazell, when they had reached the cigarette stage, ‘are the magazine writers anything like correct?’ ‘What do you mean?’ asked Racksole, mystified. ‘Well, you’re a millionaire--“one of the best”, I believe. One often sees articles on and interviews with millionaires, which describe their private railroad cars, their steam yachts on the Hudson, their marble stables, and so on, and so on. Do you happen to have those things?’ ‘I have a private car on the New York Central, and I have a two thousand ton schooner-yacht--though it isn’t on the Hudson. It happens just now to be on East River. And I am bound to admit that the stables of my uptown place are fitted with marble.’ Racksole laughed. ‘Ah!’ said Hazell. ‘Now I can believe that I am lunching with a millionaire. It’s strange how facts like those--unimportant in themselves--appeal to the imagination. You seem to me a real millionaire now. You’ve given me some personal information; I’ll give you some in return. I earn three hundred a year, and perhaps sixty pounds a year extra for overtime. I live by myself in two rooms in Muscovy Court. I’ve as much money as I need, and I always do exactly what I like outside office. As regards the office, I do as little work as I can, on principle--it’s a fight between us and the Commissioners who shall get the best. They try to do us down, and we try to do them down--it’s pretty even on the whole. All’s fair in war, you know, and there ain’t no ten commandments in a Government office.’ Racksole laughed. ‘Can you get off this afternoon?’ he asked. ‘Certainly,’ said Hazell; ‘I’ll get one of my pals to sign on for me, and then I shall be free.’ ‘Well,’ said Racksole, ‘I should like you to come down with me to the Grand Babylon. Then we can talk over my little affair at length. And may we go on your boat? I want to meet your crew.’ ‘That will be all right,’ Hazell remarked. ‘My two men are the idlest, most soul-less chaps you ever saw. They eat too much, and they have an enormous appetite for beer; but they know the river, and they know their business, and they will do anything within the fair game if they are paid for it, and aren’t asked to hurry.’ That night, just after dark, Theodore Racksole embarked with his new friend George Hazell in one of the black-painted Customs wherries, manned by a crew of two men--both the later freemen of the river, a distinction which carries with it certain privileges unfamiliar to the mere landsman. It was a cloudy and oppressive evening, not a star showing to illumine the slow tide, now just past its flood. The vast forms of steamers at anchor--chiefly those of the General Steam Navigation and the Aberdeen Line--heaved themselves high out of the water, straining sluggishly at their mooring buoys. On either side the naked walls of warehouses rose like grey precipices from the stream, holding forth quaint arms of steam-cranes. To the west the Tower Bridge spanned the river with its formidable arch, and above that its suspended footpath--a hundred and fifty feet from earth. Down towards the east and the Pool of London a forest of funnels and masts was dimly outlined against the sinister sky. Huge barges, each steered by a single man at the end of a pair of giant oars, lumbered and swirled down-stream at all angles. Occasionally a tug snorted busily past, flashing its red and green signals and dragging an unwieldy tail of barges in its wake. Then a Margate passenger steamer, its electric lights gleaming from every porthole, swerved round to anchor, with its load of two thousand fatigued excursionists. Over everything brooded an air of mystery--a spirit and feeling of strangeness, remoteness, and the inexplicable. As the broad flat little boat bobbed its way under the shadow of enormous hulks, beneath stretched hawsers, and past buoys covered with green slime, Racksole could scarcely believe that he was in the very heart of London--the most prosaic city in the world. He had a queer idea that almost anything might happen in this seeming waste of waters at this weird hour of ten o’clock. It appeared incredible to him that only a mile or two away people were sitting in theatres applauding farces, and that at Cannon Street Station, a few yards off, other people were calmly taking the train to various highly respectable suburbs whose names he was gradually learning. He had the uplifting sensation of being in another world which comes to us sometimes amid surroundings violently different from our usual surroundings. The most ordinary noises--of men calling, of a chain running through a slot, of a distant siren-- translated themselves to his ears into terrible and haunting sounds, full of portentous significance. He looked over the side of the boat into the brown water, and asked himself what frightful secrets lay hidden in its depth. Then he put his hand into his hip-pocket and touched the stock of his Colt revolver--that familiar substance comforted him. The oarsmen had instructions to drop slowly down to the Pool, as the wide reach below the Tower is called. These two men had not been previously informed of the precise object of the expedition, but now that they were safely afloat Hazell judged it expedient to give them some notion of it. ‘We expect to come across a rather suspicious steam launch,’ he said. ‘My friend here is very anxious to get a sight of her, and until he has seen her nothing definite can be done.’ ‘What sort of a craft is she, sir?’ asked the stroke oar, a fat-faced man who seemed absolutely incapable of any serious exertion. ‘I don’t know,’ Racksole replied; ‘but as near as I can judge, she’s about sixty feet in length, and painted black. I fancy I shall recognize her when I see her.’ ‘Not much to go by, that,’ exclaimed the other man curtly. But he said no more. He, as well as his mate, had received from Theodore Racksole one English sovereign as a kind of preliminary fee, and an English sovereign will do a lot towards silencing the natural sarcastic tendencies and free speech of a Thames waterman. ‘There’s one thing I noticed,’ said Racksole suddenly, ‘and I forgot to tell you of it, Mr Hazell. Her screw seemed to move with a rather irregular, lame sort of beat.’ Both watermen burst into a laugh. ‘Oh,’ said the fat rower, ‘I know what you’re after, sir--it’s Jack Everett’s launch, commonly called “Squirm”. She’s got a four-bladed propeller, and one blade is broken off short.’ ‘Ay, that’s it, sure enough,’ agreed the man in the bows. ‘And if it’s her you want, I seed her lying up against Cherry Gardens Pier this very morning.’ ‘Let us go to Cherry Gardens Pier by all means, as soon as possible,’ Racksole said, and the boat swung across stream and then began to creep down by the right bank, feeling its way past wharves, many of which, even at that hour, were still busy with their cranes, that descended empty into the bellies of ships and came up full. As the two watermen gingerly manoeuvred the boat on the ebbing tide, Hazell explained to the millionaire that the ‘Squirm’ was one of the most notorious craft on the river. It appeared that when anyone had a nefarious or underhand scheme afoot which necessitated river work Everett’s launch was always available for a suitable monetary consideration. The ‘Squirm’ had got itself into a thousand scrapes, and out of those scrapes again with safety, if not precisely with honour. The river police kept a watchful eye on it, and the chief marvel about the whole thing was that old Everett, the owner, had never yet been seriously compromised in any illegal escapade. Not once had the officer of the law been able to prove anything definite against the proprietor of the ‘Squirm’, though several of its quondam hirers were at that very moment in various of Her Majesty’s prisons throughout the country. Latterly, however, the launch, with its damaged propeller, which Everett consistently refused to have repaired, had acquired an evil reputation, even among evil-doers, and this fraternity had gradually come to abandon it for less easily recognizable craft. ‘Your friend, Mr Tom Jackson,’ said Hazell to Racksole, ‘committed an error of discretion when he hired the “Squirm”. A scoundrel of his experience and calibre ought certainly to have known better than that. You cannot fail to get a clue now.’ By this time the boat was approaching Cherry Gardens Pier, but unfortunately a thin night-fog had swept over the river, and objects could not be discerned with any clearness beyond a distance of thirty yards. As the Customs boat scraped down past the pier all its occupants strained eyes for a glimpse of the mysterious launch, but nothing could be seen of it. The boat continued to float idly down-stream, the men resting on their oars. Then they narrowly escaped bumping a large Norwegian sailing vessel at anchor with her stem pointing down-stream. This ship they passed on the port side. Just as they got clear of her bowsprit the fat man cried out excitedly, ‘There’s her nose!’ and he put the boat about and began to pull back against the tide. And surely the missing ‘Squirm’ was comfortably anchored on the starboard quarter of the Norwegian ship, hidden neatly between the ship and the shore. The men pulled very quietly alongside. Chapter Twenty-Six THE NIGHT CHASE AND THE MUDLARK ‘I’LL board her to start with,’ said Hazell, whispering to Racksole. ‘I’ll make out that I suspect they’ve got dutiable goods on board, and that will give me a chance to have a good look at her.’ Dressed in his official overcoat and peaked cap, he stepped, rather jauntily as Racksole thought, on to the low deck of the launch. ‘Anyone aboard?’ Racksole heard him cry out, and a woman’s voice answered. ‘I’m a Customs examining officer, and I want to search the launch,’ Hazell shouted, and then disappeared down into the little saloon amidships, and Racksole heard no more. It seemed to the millionaire that Hazell had been gone hours, but at length he returned. ‘Can’t find anything,’ he said, as he jumped into the boat, and then privately to Racksole: ‘There’s a woman on board. Looks as if she might coincide with your description of Miss Spencer. Steam’s up, but there’s no engineer. I asked where the engineer was, and she inquired what business that was of mine, and requested me to get through with my own business and clear off. Seems rather a smart sort. I poked my nose into everything, but I saw no sign of any one else. Perhaps we’d better pull away and lie near for a bit, just to see if anything queer occurs.’ ‘You’re quite sure he isn’t on board?’ Racksole asked. ‘Quite,’ said Hazell positively: ‘I know how to search a vessel. See this,’ and he handed to Racksole a sort of steel skewer, about two feet long, with a wooden handle. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is one of the Customs’ aids to searching.’