The Grand Babylon Hôtel

walking very quickly. At first I thought it was sunstroke, but it couldn’t have been, though the weather certainly is rather warm. It must be heart disease. But anyhow, he’s dead. We did what we could. I’ve sent for a doctor, and for the police. I suppose there’ll have to be an inquest.’ Theodore Racksole stopped, and in an awkward solemn silence they all gazed at the dead youth. His features were slightly drawn, and his eyes closed; that was all. He might have been asleep. ‘My poor Dimmock!’ exclaimed the Prince, his voice broken. ‘And I was angry because the lad did not meet me at Charing Cross!’ ‘Are you sure he is dead, Father?’ Nella said. ‘You’d better go away, Nella,’ was Racksole’s only reply; but the girl stood still, and began to sob quietly. On the previous night she had secretly made fun of Reginald Dimmock. She had deliberately set herself to get information from him on a topic in which she happened to be specially interested and she had got it, laughing the while at his youthful crudities--his vanity, his transparent cunning, his absurd airs. She had not liked him; she had even distrusted him, and decided that he was not ‘nice’. But now, as he lay on the stretcher, these things were forgotten. She went so far as to reproach herself for them. Such is the strange commanding power of death. ‘Oblige me by taking the poor fellow to my apartments,’ said the Prince, with a gesture to the attendants. ‘Surely it is time the doctor came.’ Racksole felt suddenly at that moment he was nothing but a mere hotel proprietor with an awkward affair on his hands. For a fraction of a second he wished he had never bought the Grand Babylon. A quarter of an hour later Prince Aribert, Theodore Racksole, a doctor, and an inspector of police were in the Prince’s reception-room. They had just come from an ante-chamber, in which lay the mortal remains of Reginald Dimmock. ‘Well?’ said Racksole, glancing at the doctor. The doctor was a big, boyish-looking man, with keen, quizzical eyes. ‘It is not heart disease,’ said the doctor. ‘Not heart disease?’ ‘No.’ ‘Then what is it?’ asked the Prince. ‘I may be able to answer that question after the post-mortem,’ said the doctor. ‘I certainly can’t answer it now. The symptoms are unusual to a degree.’ The inspector of police began to write in a note-book. Chapter Six IN THE GOLD ROOM AT the Grand Babylon a great ball was given that night in the Gold Room, a huge saloon attached to the hotel, though scarcely part of it, and certainly less exclusive than the hotel itself. Theodore Racksole knew nothing of the affair, except that it was an entertainment offered by a Mr and Mrs Sampson Levi to their friends. Who Mr and Mrs Sampson Levi were he did not know, nor could anyone tell him anything about them except that Mr Sampson Levi was a prominent member of that part of the Stock Exchange familiarly called the Kaffir Circus, and that his wife was a stout lady with an aquiline nose and many diamonds, and that they were very rich and very hospitable. Theodore Racksole did not want a ball in his hotel that evening, and just before dinner he had almost a mind to issue a decree that the Gold Room was to be closed and the ball forbidden, and Mr and Mrs Sampson Levi might name the amount of damages suffered by them. His reasons for such a course were threefold--first, he felt depressed and uneasy; second, he didn’t like the name of Sampson Levi; and, third, he had a desire to show these so-called plutocrats that their wealth was nothing to him, that they could not do what they chose with Theodore Racksole, and that for two pins Theodore Racksole would buy them up, and the whole Kaffir Circus to boot. But something warned him that though such a high-handed proceeding might be tolerated in America, that land of freedom, it would never be tolerated in England. He felt instinctively that in England there are things you can’t do, and that this particular thing was one of them. So the ball went forward, and neither Mr nor Mrs Sampson Levi had ever the least suspicion what a narrow escape they had had of looking very foolish in the eyes of the thousand or so guests invited by them to the Gold Room of the Grand Babylon that evening. The Gold Room of the Grand Babylon was built for a ballroom. A balcony, supported by arches faced with gilt and lapis-lazulo, ran around it, and from this vantage men and maidens and chaperons who could not or would not dance might survey the scene. Everyone knew this, and most people took advantage of it. What everyone did not know--what no one knew--was that higher up than the balcony there was a little barred window in the end wall from which the hotel authorities might keep a watchful eye, not only on the dancers, but on the occupants of the balcony itself. It may seem incredible to the uninitiated that the guests at any social gathering held in so gorgeous and renowned an apartment as the Gold Room of the Grand Babylon should need the observation of a watchful eye. Yet so it was. Strange matters and unexpected faces had been descried from the little window, and more than one European detective had kept vigil there with the most eminently satisfactory results. At eleven o’clock Theodore Racksole, afflicted by vexation of spirit, found himself gazing idly through the little barred window. Nella was with him. Together they had been wandering about the corridors of the hotel, still strange to them both, and it was quite by accident that they had lighted upon the small room which had a surreptitious view of Mr and Mrs Sampson Levi’s ball. Except for the light of the chandelier of the ball-room the little cubicle was in darkness. Nella was looking through the window; her father stood behind. ‘I wonder which is Mrs Sampson Levi?’ Nella said, ‘and whether she matches her name. Wouldn’t you love to have a name like that, Father-- something that people could take hold of--instead of Racksole?’ The sound of violins and a confused murmur of voices rose gently up to them. ‘Umphl’ said Theodore. ‘Curse those evening papers!’ he added, inconsequently but with sincerity. ‘Father, you’re very horrid to-night. What have the evening papers been doing?’ ‘Well, my young madame, they’ve got me in for one, and you for another; and they’re manufacturing mysteries like fun. It’s young Dimmock’s death that has started ‘em.’ ‘Well, Father, you surely didn’t expect to keep yourself out of the papers. Besides, as regards newspapers, you ought to be glad you aren’t in New York. Just fancy what the dear old Herald would have made out of a little transaction like yours of last night.’ ‘That’s true,’ assented Racksole. ‘But it’ll be all over New York to- morrow morning, all the same. The worst of it is that Babylon has gone off to Switzerland.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Don’t know. Sudden fancy, I guess, for his native heath.’ ‘What difference does it make to you?’ ‘None. Only I feel sort of lonesome. I feel I want someone to lean up against in running this hotel.’ ‘Father, if you have that feeling you must be getting ill.’ ‘Yes,’ he sighed, ‘I admit it’s unusual with me. But perhaps you haven’t grasped the fact, Nella, that we’re in the middle of a rather queer business.’ ‘You mean about poor Mr Dimmock?’ ‘Partly Dimmock and partly other things. First of all, that Miss Spencer, or whatever her wretched name is, mysteriously disappears. Then there was the stone thrown into your bedroom. Then I caught that rascal Jules conspiring with Dimmock at three o’clock in the morning. Then your precious Prince Aribert arrives without any suite--which I believe is a most peculiar and wicked thing for a Prince to do--and moreover I find my daughter on very intimate terms with the said Prince. Then young Dimmock goes and dies, and there is to be an inquest; then Prince Eugen and his suite, who were expected here for dinner, fail to turn up at all--’ ‘Prince Eugen has not come?’ ‘He has not; and Uncle Aribert is in a deuce of a stew about him, and telegraphing all over Europe. Altogether, things are working up pretty lively.’ ‘Do you really think, Dad, there was anything between Jules and poor Mr Dimmock?’ ‘Think! I know! I tell you I saw that scamp give Dimmock a wink last night at dinner that might have meant--well!’ ‘So you caught that wink, did you, Dad?’ ‘Why, did you?’ ‘Of course, Dad. I was going to tell you about it.’ The millionaire grunted. ‘Look here, Father,’ Nella whispered suddenly, and pointed to the balcony immediately below them. ‘Who’s that?’ She indicated a man with a bald patch on the back of his head, who was propping himself up against the railing of the balcony and gazing immovable into the ball-room. ‘Well, who is it?’ ‘Isn’t it Jules?’ ‘Gemini! By the beard of the prophet, it is!’ ‘Perhaps Mr Jules is a guest of Mrs Sampson Levi.’ ‘Guest or no guest, he goes out of this hotel, even if I have to throw him out myself.’ Theodore Racksole disappeared without another word, and Nella followed him. But when the millionaire arrived on the balcony floor he could see nothing of Jules, neither there nor in the ball-room itself. Saying no word aloud, but quietly whispering wicked expletives, he searched everywhere in vain, and then, at last, by tortuous stairways and corridors returned to his original post of observation, that he might survey the place anew from the vantage ground. To his surprise he found a man in the dark little room, watching the scene of the ball as intently as he himself had been doing a few minutes before. Hearing footsteps, the man turned with a start. It was Jules. The two exchanged glances in the half light for a second. ‘Good evening, Mr Racksole,’ said Jules calmly. ‘I must apologize for being here.’ ‘Force of habit, I suppose,’ said Theodore Racksole drily. ‘Just so, sir.’ ‘I fancied I had forbidden you to re-enter this hotel?’ ‘I thought your order applied only to my professional capacity. I am here to-night as the guest of Mr and Mrs Sampson Levi.’ ‘In your new rôle of man-about-town, eh?’ ‘Exactly.’ ‘But I don’t allow men-about-town up here, my friend.’ ‘For being up here I have already apologized.’ ‘Then, having apologized, you had better depart; that is my disinterested advice to you.’ ‘Good night, sir.’ ‘And, I say, Mr Jules, if Mr and Mrs Sampson Levi, or any other Hebrews or Christians, should again invite you to my hotel you will oblige me by declining the invitation. You’ll find that will be the safest course for you.’ ‘Good night, sir.’ Before midnight struck Theodore Racksole had ascertained that the invitation-list of Mr and Mrs Sampson Levi, though a somewhat lengthy one, contained no reference to any such person as Jules. He sat up very late. To be precise, he sat up all night. He was a man who, by dint of training, could comfortably dispense with sleep when he felt so inclined, or when circumstances made such a course advisable. He walked to and fro in his room, and cogitated as few people beside Theodore Racksole could cogitate. At 6 a.m. he took a stroll round the business part of his premises, and watched the supplies come in from Covent Garden, from Smithfield, from Billingsgate, and from other strange places. He found the proceedings of the kitchen department quite interesting, and made mental notes of things that he would have altered, of men whose wages he would increase and men whose wages he would reduce. At 7 a.m. he happened to be standing near the luggage lift, and witnessed the descent of vast quantities of luggage, and its disappearance into a Carter Paterson van. ‘Whose luggage is that?’ he inquired peremptorily.