“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 ballroom.
“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 ballroom 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 tonight 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 anteroom, 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.
