The Grand Babylon Hotel Arnold Bennett (ebook reader web TXT) 📖

a great man in your own line.”

“Mr. Racksole,” said Rocco very quickly, “that is the truest word you have spoken this night. I was a great man in my own line. And I am an ineffable fool. Alas!” He brought his long arms to his sides with a thud.

“Why did you do it?”

“I was fascinated⁠—fascinated by Jules. He, too, is a great man. We had great opportunities, here in the Grand Babylon. It was a great game. It was worth the candle. The prizes were enormous. You would admit these things if you knew the facts. Perhaps some day you will know them, for you are a fairly clever person at getting to the root of a matter. Yes, I was blinded, hypnotized.”

“And now you are ruined.”

“Not ruined, not ruined. Afterwards, in a few years, I shall come up again. A man of genius like me is never ruined till he is dead. Genius is always forgiven. I shall be forgiven. Suppose I am sent to prison. When I emerge I shall be no gaol-bird. I shall be Rocco⁠—the great Rocco. And half the hotels in Europe will invite me to join them.”

“Let me tell you, as man to man, that you have achieved your own degradation. There is no excuse.”

“I know it,” said Rocco. “Let us go.”

Racksole was distinctly and notably impressed by this man⁠—by this master spirit to whom he was to have paid a salary at the rate of three thousand pounds a year. He even felt sorry for him. And so, side by side, the captor and the captured, they passed into the vast deserted corridor of the hotel.

Rocco stopped at the grating of the first lift.

“It will be locked,” said Racksole. “We must use the stairs tonight.”

“But I have a key. I always carry one,” said Rocco, and he pulled one out of his pocket, and, unfastening the iron screen, pushed it open. Racksole smiled at his readiness and aplomb.

“After you,” said Rocco, bowing in his finest manner, and Racksole stepped into the lift.

With the swiftness of lighting Rocco pushed forward the iron screen, which locked itself automatically. Theodore Racksole was hopelessly a prisoner within the lift, while Rocco stood free in the corridor.

“Goodbye, Mr. Racksole,” he remarked suavely, bowing again, lower than before. “Goodbye: I hate to take a mean advantage of you in this fashion, but really you must allow that you have been very simple. You are a clever man, as I have already said, up to a certain point. It is past that point that my own cleverness comes in. Again, goodbye. After all, I shall have no rest tonight, but perhaps even that will be better that sleeping in a police cell. If you make a great noise you may wake someone and ultimately get released from this lift. But I advise you to compose yourself, and wait till morning. It will be more dignified. For the third time, goodbye.”

And with that Rocco, without hastening, walked down the corridor and so out of sight.

Racksole said never a word. He was too disgusted with himself to speak. He clenched his fists, and put his teeth together, and held his breath. In the silence he could hear the dwindling sound of Rocco’s footsteps on the thick carpet.

It was the greatest blow of Racksole’s life.

The next morning the highborn guests of the Grand Babylon were aroused by a rumour that by some accident the millionaire proprietor of the hotel had remained all night locked up in the lift. It was also stated that Rocco had quarrelled with his new master and incontinently left the place. A duchess said that Rocco’s departure would mean the ruin of the hotel, whereupon her husband advised her not to talk nonsense.

As for Racksole, he sent a message for the detective in charge of the Dimmock affair, and bravely told him the happenings of the previous night.

The narration was a decided ordeal to a man of Racksole’s temperament.

“A strange story!” commented Detective Marshall, and he could not avoid a smile. “The climax was unfortunate, but you have certainly got some valuable facts.”

Racksole said nothing.

“I myself have a clue,” added the detective. “When your message arrived I was just coming up to see you. I want you to accompany me to a certain spot not far from here. Will you come, now, at once?”

“With pleasure,” said Racksole.

At that moment a page entered with a telegram. Racksole opened it read:

“Please come instantly. Nella. Hôtel Wellington, Ostend.”

He looked at his watch.

“I can’t come,” he said to the detective. “I’m going to Ostend.”

“To Ostend?”

“Yes, now.”

“But really, Mr. Racksole,” protested the detective. “My business is urgent.”

“So’s mine,” said Racksole.

In ten minutes he was on his way to Victoria Station.

XV End of the Yacht Adventure

We must now return to Nella Racksole and Prince Aribert of Posen on board the yacht without a name. The Prince’s first business was to make Jules, otherwise Mr. Tom Jackson, perfectly secure by means of several pieces of rope. Although Mr. Jackson had been stunned into a complete unconsciousness, and there was a contused wound under his ear, no one could say how soon he might not come to himself and get very violent. So the Prince, having tied his arms and legs, made him fast to a stanchion.

“I hope he won’t die,” said Nella. “He looks very white.”

“The Mr. Jacksons of this world,” said Prince Aribert sententiously, “never die till they are hung. By the way, I wonder how it is that no one has interfered with us. Perhaps they are discreetly afraid of my revolver⁠—of your revolver, I mean.”

Both he and Nella glanced up at the imperturbable steersman, who kept the yacht’s head straight out to sea. By this time they were about a couple of miles from the Belgian shore.

Addressing him in French, the Prince ordered the sailor to put the yacht about, and make again for Ostend Harbour, but the fellow took no notice whatever of the summons. The Prince raised the revolver, with the