Отель «Гранд Вавилон» / The Grand Babylon hotel. Арнольд Беннетт

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 role 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.

      The luggage clerk, with an aggrieved expression, explained to him that it was the luggage of nobody in particular, that it belonged to various guests, and was bound for various destinations; that it was, in fact, ‘expressed’ luggage despatched in advance, and that a similar quantity of it left the hotel every morning about that hour.

      Theodore Racksole walked away, and breakfasted upon one cup of tea and half a slice of toast.

      At ten o’clock he was informed that the inspector of police desired to see him. The inspector had come, he said, to superintend the removal of the body of Reginald Dimmock to the mortuary adjoining the place of inquest, and a suitable vehicle waited at the back entrance of the hotel.

      The inspector had also brought subpoenas for himself and Prince Aribert of Posen and the commissionaire to attend the inquest.

      ‘I thought Mr Dimmock’s remains were removed last night,’ said Racksole wearily.

      ‘No, sir. The fact is the van was engaged on another job.’

      The inspector gave the least hint of a professional smile, and Racksole, disgusted, told him curtly to go and perform his duties.

      In a few minutes a message came from the inspector requesting Mr Racksole to be good enough to come to him on the first floor. Racksole went. In the ante-room, where the body of Reginald Dimmock had originally been placed, were the inspector and Prince Aribert, and two policemen.

      ‘Well?’ said Racksole, after he and the Prince had exchanged bows. Then he saw a coffin laid across two chairs. ‘I see a coffin has been obtained,’ he remarked. ‘Quite right.’ He approached it. ‘It’s empty,’ he observed unthinkingly.

      ‘Just so,’ said the inspector. ‘The body of the deceased has disappeared. And his Serene Highness Prince Aribert informs me that though he has occupied a room immediately opposite, on the other side of the corridor, he can throw no light on the affair.’

      ‘Indeed, I cannot!’ said the Prince, and though he spoke with sufficient calmness and dignity, you could see that he was deeply pained, even distressed.

      ‘Well, I’m—’ murmured Racksole, and stopped.

      Chapter Seven. Nella and the prince

      IT appeared impossible to Theodore Racksole that so cumbrous an article as a corpse could be removed out of his hotel, with no trace, no hint, no clue as to the time or the manner of the performance of the deed. After the first feeling of surprise, Racksole grew coldly and severely angry. He had a mind to dismiss the entire staff of the hotel. He personally examined the night-watchman, the chambermaids and all other persons who by chance might or ought to know something of the affair; but without avail. The corpse of Reginald Dimmock had vanished utterly—disappeared like a fleshless spirit.

      Of course there were the police. But Theodore Racksole held the police in sorry esteem. He acquainted them with the facts, answered their queries with a patient weariness, and expected nothing whatever from that quarter. He also had several interviews with Prince Aribert of Posen, but though the Prince was suavity itself and beyond doubt genuinely concerned about the fate of his dead attendant, yet it seemed to Racksole that he was keeping something back, that he hesitated to say all he knew. Racksole, with characteristic insight, decided that the death of Reginald Dimmock was only a minor event, which had occurred, as it were, on the fringe of some far more profound mystery. And, therefore, he decided to wait, with his eyes very wide open, until something else happened that would throw light on the business. At the moment he took only one measure—he arranged that the theft of Dimmock’s body should not appear in the newspapers. It is astonishing how well a secret can be kept, when the possessors of the secret are handled with the proper mixture of firmness and persuasion. Racksole managed this very neatly. It was a complicated job, and his success in it rather pleased him.

      At the same time he was conscious of being temporarily worsted by an unknown group of schemers, in which he felt convinced that Jules was an important item. He could scarcely look Nella in the eyes. The girl had evidently expected him to unmask this conspiracy at once, with a single stroke of the millionaire’s magic wand. She was thoroughly accustomed, in the land of her birth, to seeing him achieve impossible feats. Over there he was a ‘boss’; men trembled before his name; when he wished a thing to happen—well, it happened; if he desired to know a thing, he just knew it. But here, in London, Theodore Racksole was not quite the same Theodore Racksole. He dominated New York; but London, for the most part, seemed not to take much interest in him; and there were certainly various persons in London who were capable of snapping their fingers at him—at Theodore Racksole. Neither he nor his daughter could get used to that fact.

      As for Nella, she concerned herself for a little with the ordinary business of the bureau, and watched the incomings and outgoings of Prince Aribert with a kindly interest. She perceived, what her father had failed to perceive, that His Highness had assumed an attitude of reserve merely to hide the secret distraction and dismay which consumed him. She saw that the poor fellow had no settled plan in his head, and that he was troubled by something which, so far, he had confided to nobody. It came to her knowledge that each morning he walked to and fro on the Victoria Embankment, alone, and apparently with no object. On the third morning she decided that driving exercise on the Embankment would be good for her health, and thereupon ordered a carriage and issued forth, arrayed in a miraculous putty-coloured gown. Near Blackfriars Bridge she met the Prince, and the carriage was drawn up by the pavement.

      ‘Good morning, Prince,’ she greeted him. ‘Are you mistaking this for Hyde Park?’

      He bowed and smiled.

      ‘I usually walk here in the mornings,’ he said.

      ‘You surprise me,’ she returned. ‘I thought I was the only person in London who preferred the Embankment, with this view of the river, to the dustiness of Hyde Park. I can’t imagine how it is that London will never take exercise anywhere except in that ridiculous Park. Now, if they had Central Park—’

      ‘I