'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 every one 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.'
'Pardon, sir?'
'Bring me an Angel Kiss, and be good enough to lose no time.'
'If it's an American drink, I fear we don't keep it, sir.' The voice of
Jules fell icily distinct, and several men glanced round uneasily, as
if to deprecate the slightest disturbance of their calm. The
appearance of the person to whom Jules was speaking, however,
reassured them somewhat, for he had all the look of that expert,
the travelled Englishman, who can differentiate between one hotel
and another by instinct, and who knows at once where he may
make a fuss with propriety, and where it is advisable to behave
exactly as at the club. The Grand Babylon was a hotel in whose
smoking-room one behaved as though one was at one's club.
'I didn't suppose you did keep it, but you can mix it, I guess, even
in this hotel.'
'This isn't an American hotel, sir.' The calculated insolence of the
words was cleverly masked beneath an accent of humble
submission.
The alert, middle-aged man sat up straight, and gazed placidly at
Jules, who was pulling his famous red side-whiskers.
'Get a liqueur glass,' he said, half curtly and half with
good-humoured tolerance, 'pour into it equal quantities of
maraschino, cream, and crême de menthe. Don't stir it; don't
shake it. Bring it to me. And, I say, tell the bar-tender - '
'Bar-tender, sir?'
'Tell the bar-tender to make a note of the recipe, as I shall probably
want an Angel Kiss every evening before dinner so long as this
weather lasts.'
'I will send the drink to you, sir,' said Jules distantly. That was his
parting shot, by which he indicated that he was not as other waiters
are, and that any person who treated him with disrespect did so at
his own peril.
A few minutes later, while the alert, middle-aged man was tasting
the Angel Kiss, Jules sat in conclave with Miss Spencer, who had
charge of the bureau of the Grand Babylon. This bureau was a
fairly large chamber, with two sliding glass partitions which
overlooked the entrance-hall and the smoking-room. Only a small
portion of the clerical work of the great hotel was performed there.
The place served chiefly as the lair of Miss Spencer, who was as
well known and as important as Jules himself. Most modern hotels
have a male clerk to superintend the bureau. But the Grand
Babylon went its own way. Miss Spencer had been bureau clerk
almost since the Grand Babylon had first raised its massive
chimneys to heaven, and she remained in her place despite the
vagaries of other hotels. Always admirably dressed in plain black
silk, with a small diamond brooch, immaculate wrist-bands, and
frizzed yellow hair, she looked now just as she had looked an
indefinite number of years ago. Her age - none knew it, save
herself and perhaps one other, and none cared. The gracious and
alluring contours of her figure were irreproachable; and in the
evenings she was a useful ornament of which any hotel might be
innocently proud. Her knowledge of Bradshaw, of steamship
services, and the programmes of theatres and music-halls was
unrivalled; yet she never travelled, she never went to a theatre or a
music-hall. She seemed to spend the whole of her life in that
official lair of hers, imparting information to guests, telephoning
to the various departments, or engaged in intimate conversations
with her special friends on the staff, as at present.
'Who's Number 107?' Jules asked this black-robed lady.
Miss Spencer examined her ledgers.
'Mr Theodore Racksole, New York.'
'I thought he must be a New Yorker,' said Jules, after a brief,
significant pause, 'but he talks as good English as you or me. Says
he wants an "Angel Kiss" - maraschino and cream, if you please -
every night. I'll see he doesn't stop here too long.'
Miss Spencer smiled grimly in response. The notion of referring to
Theodore Racksole as a 'New Yorker' appealed to her sense of
humour, a sense in which she was not entirely deficient. She knew,
of course, and she knew that Jules knew, that this Theodore
Racksole must be the unique and only Theodore Racksole, the
third richest man in the United States, and therefore probably in
the world. Nevertheless she ranged herself at once on the side of
Jules.
Just as there was only one Racksole, so there was only one Jules,
and Miss Spencer instinctively shared the latter's indignation at the
spectacle of any person whatsoever, millionaire or Emperor,
presuming to demand an 'Angel Kiss', that unrespectable
concoction of maraschino and cream, within the precincts of the
Grand Babylon. In the world of hotels it was currently stated that,
next to the proprietor, there were three gods at the Grand Babylon
- Jules, the head waiter, Miss Spencer, and, most powerful of all,
Rocco, the renowned chef, who earned two thousand a year, and
had a chalet on the Lake of Lucerne. All the great hotels in
Northumberland Avenue and on the Thames Embankment had
tried to get Rocco away from the Grand Babylon, but without
success. Rocco was well aware that even he could rise no higher
than the maître hôtel of the Grand Babylon, which, though it never
advertised itself, and didn't belong to a limited company, stood an
easy first among the hotels of Europe - first in expensiveness, first
in exclusiveness, first in that mysterious quality known as 'style'.
Situated on the Embankment, the Grand Babylon, despite its noble
proportions, was somewhat dwarfed by several colossal
neighbours. It had but three hundred and fifty rooms, whereas
there are two hotels within a quarter of a mile with six hundred
and four hundred rooms respectively. On the other hand, the Grand
Babylon was the only hotel in London with a genuine separate
entrance for Royal visitors constantly in use. The Grand Babylon
counted that day wasted on which it did not entertain, at the
lowest, a German prince or the Maharajah of some Indian State.
When Felix Babylon - after whom, and not with any reference to
London's nickname, the hotel was christened - when Felix
Babylon founded the hotel in 1869 he had set himself to cater for
Royalty, and that was the secret of his triumphant eminence.
The son of a rich Swiss hotel proprietor and financier, he had
contrived to established a connection with the officials of several
European Courts, and he had not spared money in that respect.
Sundry kings and not a few princesses called him Felix , and spoke
familiarly of the hotel as 'Felix 's'; and Felix had found that this
was very good for trade. The Grand Babylon was managed
accordingly. The 'note' of its policy was discretion, always
discretion, and quietude, simplicity, remoteness. The place was
like a palace incognito. There was no gold sign over the roof, not
even an explanatory word at the entrance. You walked down a
small side street off the Strand, you saw a plain brown building in
front of you, with two mahogany swing doors, and an official
behind each; the doors opened noiselessly; you entered; you were
in Felix 's. If you meant to be a guest, you, or your courier, gave
your card to Miss Spencer. Upon no consideration did you ask for
the tariff. It was not good form to mention prices at the Grand
Babylon; the prices were enormous, but you never mentioned
them. At the conclusion of your stay a bill was presented, brief and
void of dry details, and you paid it without a word. You met with.
a stately civility, that was all. No one had originally asked you to
come; no one expressed the hope that you would come again. The
Grand Babylon was far above such manoeuvres; it defied
competition by ignoring it; and consequently was nearly always
full during the season.
If there was one thing more than another that annoyed the Grand
Babylon - put its back up, so to speak - it was to be compared with,
or to be mistaken for, an American hotel. The Grand Babylon was
resolutely opposed to American methods of eating, drinking, and
lodging - but especially American methods of drinking. The
resentment of Jules, on being requested to supply Mr Theodore
Racksole with an Angel Kiss, will therefore be appreciated.
'Anybody with Mr Theodore Racksole?' asked Jules, continuing his
conversation with Miss Spencer. He put a scornful stress on every
syllable of the guest's name.
'Miss Racksole - she's in No. 111.'
Jules paused, and stroked his left whisker as it lay on his gleaming
white collar.
'She's where?' he queried, with a peculiar emphasis.
'No. 111. I couldn't help it. There was no other room with a
bathroom and dressing-room on that floor.' Miss Spencer's voice
had an appealing tone of excuse.
'Why didn't you tell Mr Theodore Racksole and Miss Racksole that
we were unable to accommodate them?'
'Because Babs was within hearing.'
Only three people in the wide world ever dreamt of applying to Mr
Felix Babylon the playful but mean abbreviation - Babs: those
three were Jules, Miss Spencer, and Rocco. Jules had invented it.
No one but he would have had either the wit or the audacity to do
so.
'You'd better see that Miss Racksole changes her room to-night,'
Jules said after another pause. 'Leave it to me: I'll fix it. Au revoir!
It's three minutes to eight. I shall take charge of the dining-room
myself to-night.'
And Jules departed, rubbing his fine white hands slowly and
meditatively. It was a trick of his, to rub his hands with a strange,
roundabout motion, and the action denoted that some unusual
excitement was in the air.
At eight o'clock precisely dinner was served in the immense salle
manger, that chaste yet splendid apartment of white and gold. At a
small table near one of the windows a young lady sat alone. Her
frocks said Paris, but her face unmistakably said New York. It was
a self-possessed and bewitching face, the face of a woman
thoroughly accustomed to doing exactly what she liked, when she
liked, how she liked: the face of a woman who had taught
hundreds of gilded young men the true art of fetching and carrying,
and who, by twenty years or so of parental spoiling, had come to
regard herself as the feminine equivalent of the Tsar of All the
Russias. Such women are only made in America, and they only
come to their full bloom in Europe, which they imagine to be a
continent created by Providence for their diversion.
The young lady by the window glanced disapprovingly at the menu
card. Then she looked round the dining-room, and, while admiring
the diners, decided that the room itself was rather small and plain.
Then she gazed through the open window, and told herself that
though the Thames by twilight was passable enough, it was by no
means level with the Hudson, on whose shores her father had a
hundred thousand dollar country cottage. Then she returned to the
menu, and with a pursing of lovely lips said that there appeared to
be nothing to eat.
'Sorry to keep you waiting, Nella.' It was Mr Racksole, the intrepid
millionaire who had dared to order an Angel Kiss in the
smoke-room of the Grand Babylon. Nella - her proper name was
Helen - smiled at her parent cautiously, reserving to herself the
right to scold if she should feel so inclined.
'You always are late, father,' she said.
'Only on a holiday,' he added. 'What is there to eat?'
'Nothing.'
'Then let's have it. I'm hungry. I'm never so hungry as when I'm
being seriously idle.'
'Consommé Britannia,' she began to read out from the menu,
'Saumon d'Ecosse, Sauce Genoise, Aspics de Homard. Oh,
heavens! Who wants these horrid messes on a night like this?'
'But, Nella, this is the best cooking in Europe,' he protested.
'Say, father,' she said, with seeming irrelevance, 'had you forgotten
it's my birthday to-morrow?'
'Have I ever forgotten your birthday, O most costly daughter?'
'On the whole you've been a most satisfactory dad,' she answered
sweetly, 'and to reward you I'll be content this year with the
cheapest birthday treat you ever gave me. Only I'll have it to-night.'
'Well,' he said, with the long-suffering patience, the readiness for
any surprise, of a parent whom Nella had thoroughly trained, 'what
is it?'
'It's this. Let's have filleted steak and a bottle of Bass for dinner
to-night. It will be simply exquisite. I shall love it.'
'But my dear Nella,' he exclaimed, 'steak and beer at Felix 's! It's
impossible! Moreover, young women still under twenty-three
cannot be permitted to drink Bass.'
'I said steak and Bass, and as for being twenty-three, shall be going
in twenty-four to-morrow.'
Miss Racksole set her small white teeth.
There was a gentle cough. Jules stood over them. It must have
been out of a pure spirit of adventure that he had selected this table
for his own services. Usually Jules did not personally wait at
dinner. He merely hovered observant, like a captain on the bridge
during the mate's watch. Regular frequenters of the hotel felt
themselves honoured when Jules attached himself to their tables.
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 to-night, 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.
'Excuse me a moment, Nella,' said Theodore Racksole quietly, 'I
shall be back in about two seconds,' and he strode out of the salle à
manger. No one in the room recognized the millionaire, for he was
unknown to London, this being his first visit to Europe for over
twenty years. Had anyone done so, and caught the expression on
his face, that man might have trembled for an explosion which
should have blown the entire Grand Babylon into the Thames.
Jules retired strategically to a corner. He had fired; it was the
antagonist's turn. A long and varied experience had taught Jules
that a guest who embarks on the subjugation of a waiter is almost
always lost; the waiter has so many advantages in such a contest.
Read next: CHAPTER 2 - HOW MR RACKSOLE OBTAINED HIS DINNER
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