The Grand Babylon Hotel by Arnold Bennett (good story books to read txt) 📕

his true name was Thomas Jackson, though of course I knew that it was not Jules. I certainly was not aware that Miss Spencer was his wife, but I had long suspected that their relations were somewhat more intimate than the nature of their respective duties in the hotel absolutely demanded. All that I do know of Jules⁠—he will always be called Jules⁠—is that he gradually, by some mysterious personal force, acquired a prominent position in the hotel. Decidedly he was the cleverest and most intellectual waiter I have ever known, and he was specially skilled in the difficult task of retaining his own dignity while not interfering with that of other people. I’m afraid this information is a little too vague to be of any practical assistance in the present difficulty.”

“What is the present difficulty?” Racksole queried, with a simple air.

“I should imagine that the present difficulty is to account for the man’s presence in London.”

“That is easily accounted for,” said Racksole.

“How? Do you suppose he is anxious to give himself up to justice, or that the chains of habit bind him to the hotel?”

“Neither,” said Racksole. “Jules is going to have another try⁠—that’s all.”

“Another try at what?”

“At Prince Eugen. Either at his life or his liberty. Most probably the former this time; almost certainly the former. He has guessed that we are somewhat handicapped by our anxiety to keep Prince Eugen’s predicament quite quiet, and he is taking advantage, of that fact. As he already is fairly rich, on his own admission, the reward which has been offered to him must be enormous, and he is absolutely determined to get it. He has several times recently proved himself to be a daring fellow; unless I am mistaken he will shortly prove himself to be still more daring.”

“But what can he do? Surely you don’t suggest that he will attempt the life of Prince Eugen in this hotel?”

“Why not? If Reginald Dimmock fell on mere suspicion that he would turn out unfaithful to the conspiracy, why not Prince Eugen?”

“But it would be an unspeakable crime, and do infinite harm to the hotel!”

“True!” Racksole admitted, smiling. Little Félix Babylon seemed to brace himself for the grasping of his monstrous idea.

“How could it possibly be done?” he asked at length.

“Dimmock was poisoned.”

“Yes, but you had Rocco here then, and Rocco was in the plot. It is conceivable that Rocco could have managed it⁠—barely conceivable. But without Rocco I cannot think it possible. I cannot even think that Jules would attempt it. You see, in a place like the Grand Babylon, as probably I needn’t point out to you, food has to pass through so many hands that to poison one person without killing perhaps fifty would be a most delicate operation. Moreover, Prince Eugen, unless he has changed his habits, is always served by his own attendant, old Hans, and therefore any attempt to tamper with a cooked dish immediately before serving would be hazardous in the extreme.”

“Granted,” said Racksole. “The wine, however, might be more easily got at. Had you thought of that?”

“I had not,” Babylon admitted. “You are an ingenious theorist, but I happen to know that Prince Eugen always has his wine opened in his own presence. No doubt it would be opened by Hans. Therefore the wine theory is not tenable, my friend.”

“I do not see why,” said Racksole. “I know nothing of wine as an expert, and I very seldom drink it, but it seems to me that a bottle of wine might be tampered with while it was still in the cellar, especially if there was an accomplice in the hotel.”

“You think, then, that you are not yet rid of all your conspirators?”

“I think that Jules might still have an accomplice within the building.”

“And that a bottle of wine could be opened and recorked without leaving any trace of the operation?” Babylon was a trifle sarcastic.

“I don’t see the necessity of opening the bottle in order to poison the wine,” said Racksole. “I have never tried to poison anybody by means of a bottle of wine, and I don’t lay claim to any natural talent as a poisoner, but I think I could devise several ways of managing the trick. Of course, I admit I may be entirely mistaken as to Jules’ intentions.”

“Ah!” said Félix Babylon. “The wine cellars beneath us are one of the wonders of London. I hope you are aware, Mr. Racksole, that when you bought the Grand Babylon you bought what is probably the finest stock of wines in England, if not in Europe. In the valuation I reckoned them at sixty thousand pounds. And I may say that I always took care that the cellars were properly guarded. Even Jules would experience a serious difficulty in breaking into the cellars without the connivance of the wine-clerk, and the wine-clerk is, or was, incorruptible.”

“I am ashamed to say that I have not yet inspected my wines,” smiled Racksole; “I have never given them a thought. Once or twice I have taken the trouble to make a tour of the hotel, but I omitted the cellars in my excursions.”

“Impossible, my dear fellow!” said Babylon, amused at such a confession, to him⁠—a great connoisseur and lover of fine wines⁠—almost incredible. “But really you must see them tomorrow. If I may, I will accompany you.”

“Why not tonight?” Racksole suggested, calmly.

“Tonight! It is very late: Hubbard will have gone to bed.”

“And may I ask who is Hubbard? I remember the name but dimly.”

“Hubbard is the wine-clerk of the Grand Babylon,” said Félix, with a certain emphasis. “A sedate man of forty. He has the keys of the cellars. He knows every bottle of every bin, its date, its qualities, its value. And he’s a teetotaler. Hubbard is a curiosity. No wine can leave the cellars without his knowledge, and no person can enter the cellars without his knowledge. At least, that is how it was in my time,” Babylon added.

“We will wake him,” said Racksole.

“But it