The Grand Babylon Hotel

“Yes, sir?”

Jules, the celebrated head waiter of the Grand Babylon, was bending formally towards the alert, middle-aged man who had just entered the smoking-room and dropped into a basket-chair in the corner by the conservatory. It was 7:45 on a particularly sultry June night, and dinner was about to be served at the Grand Babylon. Men of all sizes, ages, and nationalities, but everyone alike arrayed in faultless evening dress, were dotted about the large, dim apartment. A faint odour of flowers came from the conservatory, and the tinkle of a fountain. The waiters, commanded by Jules, moved softly across the thick Oriental rugs, balancing their trays with the dexterity of jugglers, and receiving and executing orders with that air of profound importance of which only really first-class waiters have the secret. The atmosphere was an atmosphere of serenity and repose, characteristic of the Grand Babylon. It seemed impossible that anything could occur to mar the peaceful, aristocratic monotony of existence in that perfectly-managed establishment. Yet on that night was to happen the mightiest upheaval that the Grand Babylon had ever known.

“Yes, sir?” repeated Jules, and this time there was a shade of august disapproval in his voice: it was not usual for him to have to address a customer twice.

“Oh!” said the alert, middle-aged man, looking up at length. Beautifully ignorant of the identity of the great Jules, he allowed his grey eyes to twinkle as he caught sight of the expression on the waiter’s face. “Bring me an Angel Kiss.”

Theodore Racksole hesitated one second, and then issued the order with a fine air of carelessness:

“Filleted steak for two, and a bottle of Bass.” It was the bravest act of Theodore Racksole’s life, and yet at more than one previous crisis a high courage had not been lacking to him.

“It’s not in the menu, sir,” said Jules the imperturbable.

“Never mind. Get it. We want it.”

“Very good, sir.”

Jules walked to the service-door, and, merely affecting to look behind, came immediately back again.

“Mr. Rocco’s compliments, sir, and he regrets to be unable to serve steak and Bass tonight, sir.”

“Mr. Rocco?” questioned Racksole lightly.

“Mr. Rocco,” repeated Jules with firmness.

“And who is Mr. Rocco?”

“Mr. Rocco is our chef, sir.” Jules had the expression of a man who is asked to explain who Shakespeare was.

The two men looked at each other. It seemed incredible that Theodore Racksole, the ineffable Racksole, who owned a thousand miles of railway, several towns, and sixty votes in Congress, should be defied by a waiter, or even by a whole hotel. Yet so it was. When Europe’s effete back is against the wall not a regiment of millionaires can turn its flank. Jules had the calm expression of a strong man sure of victory. His face said: “You beat me once, but not this time, my New York friend!”

As for Nella, knowing her father, she foresaw interesting events, and waited confidently for the steak. She did not feel hungry, and she could afford to wait.

“I read in the New York papers some months ago,” Theodore started, without even a clearing of the throat, “that this hotel of yours, Mr. Babylon, was to be sold to a limited company, but it appears that the sale was not carried out.”

“It was not,” answered Mr. Babylon frankly, “and the reason was that the middlemen between the proposed company and myself wished to make a large secret profit, and I declined to be a party to such a profit. They were firm; I was firm; and so the affair came to nothing.”

“The agreed price was satisfactory?”

“Quite.”

“May I ask what the price was?”

“Are you a buyer, Mr. Racksole?”

“Are you a seller, Mr. Babylon?”

“I am,” said Babylon, “on terms. The price was four hundred thousand pounds, including the leasehold and goodwill. But I sell only on the condition that the buyer does not transfer the property to a limited company at a higher figure.”

“I will put one question to you, Mr. Babylon,” said the millionaire. “What have your profits averaged during the last four years?”

“Thirty-four thousand pounds per annum.”

“I buy,” said Theodore Racksole, smiling contentedly; “and we will, if you please, exchange contract-letters on the spot.”

“You come quickly to a resolution, Mr. Racksole. But perhaps you have been considering this question for a long time?”

“On the contrary,” Racksole looked at his watch, “I have been considering it for six minutes.”

Once I had a King and a Dowager Empress staying here at the same time. Imagine that!”

“A great honour, Mr. Babylon. But wherein lies the difficulty?”

“Mr. Racksole,” was the grim reply, “what has become of your shrewdness⁠—that shrewdness which has made your fortune so immense that even you cannot calculate it? Do you not perceive that the roof which habitually shelters all the force, all the authority of the world, must necessarily also shelter nameless and numberless plotters, schemers, evildoers, and workers of mischief? The thing is as clear as day⁠—and as dark as night. Mr. Racksole, I never know by whom I am surrounded. I never know what is going forward. Only sometimes I get hints, glimpses of strange acts and strange secrets. You mentioned my servants. They are almost all good servants, skilled, competent. But what are they besides? For anything I know my fourth sub-chef may be an agent of some European government. For anything I know my invaluable Miss Spencer may be in the pay of a court dressmaker or a Frankfort banker. Even Rocco may be someone else in addition to Rocco.”

“That makes it all the more interesting,” remarked Theodore Racksole.

“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.