Evening Republican, Volume 16, Number 87, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 9 April 1912 — The Grand Babylon Hotel [ARTICLE]

The Grand Babylon Hotel

(Copyright The Frank A. Munsey Company. :

CHAPTER I. The Millionaire and the Walter. “Yes sir?’’ Jules, the celebrated head waiter of the Grand Babylon, was bending formally toward the alert, middle-aged man who had Just entered the smoking room. It .was 7:45 o’clock 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 everyone alike arrayed in faultless evening dress, were dotted about the large, dim apartment. A faint odor of flowers and the tinkle of a fountain came from the conservatory. „ The waiters, commanded by Jules, moved softly across the thick Oriental rugs, balancing their traps with the dexterity of a Juggler, and receiving and executing orders with that air of profound importance of which only real 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 InJJiat perfectly maneged 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 lepgth. Beautifully ignorant of the identity of the great Jules, he allowed his gray 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 felt icily distant, and several men glanced around 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 traveled 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 a 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, 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 sidewhiskers. “Get a liquor glass,” he said, half curtly and half with good-humored tolerance. “Pour into it equal quantities of maraschino, cream and creme de menthe. Don’t stir it; don’t shake it. Bring it to me, And, I say, tell the bartender”— “Bartender, sir?” “Tell the bartender 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 testing the angel kiss, Jules sat in conclave with Miss Spencer, who had charge of the office of the Grand Babylon. This office was a fairly large cham her, 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. /

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. .4 , Her knowledge of Bradshaw, of steamship services and the programs of theatres and music halls was un-

rivaled; yet she never traveled; she never went to a theatre or 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 conversation with her special friends on the staff, as at present. “Who’s No. 107 ” Jules inquired. Miss Spencer examined her ledger. “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 I. Says he wants an ‘angel kiss’ —maraschino and cream, if you please—every night I’ll se 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 humor, a sense in which she was not 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, 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 whatever, 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 ofc all, Rocco, the renouned chef, who earned two thousand a year and a chalet on the Lake and 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 to be inatre d’hotel 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.” The Grand Babylon counted that day wasted on which it did not entertain at lowest a German prince or the maharajah of some Indian state. When Felix Babylon—after whom, and not with any refenee 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 establish a connection with the officials of several European courts, and he had not spared money in that respect It was not good, form -to mention, prices at the Grand Babylon; the -prices were enormous, but you never spoke of them. At the conclusion of your stay a bill was presented, brief and void of dry. details, and you paid it witifout a word. If there was one thing more than another that amazed 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 Rack-sole?”-asked Jules, continuing his con versation 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 appeal ing tone of excuse. “Why didn’t you tell Mr. Theodore Racksole and Miss Racksole that we were unable to accommodate them?” “Because Babs was in hearing” Only three people in the wide world ever dreamed 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 tonight,” Jules said, after another pause, “Leave it to me; I’ll fix it Au revolt. It’d three minutes to 8. I shall take charge of the dining room myseif tonight” At 8 o’clock precisely dinner was served in the immense sal le-a-manger, that chaste yet. splendid apartment of white ami gold. At a small table near one of the windows a young lady sat alone. Her

frock 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 are of fetching and carrying and who by 20 years or so of parental spoiling had come to regard herself as the feminine equivalent of the Czar of All the Russias.

Such women are made only in America, and they come to their full bloom only 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 around 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 SIOO,OOO 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 ah him cautiously, reserving to herself the right to scold if she should feel so inclined. “You always are late, fathei?’ 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.” “Consomme Britannia,” she began to read out from the menu. “Saumon d’Ecosse, Sauce Genoise, Aspics de homard. Oh, Heavens! who wants those horrid messes on a night like this?” “But, Nella, this is the best cooking in Europe,” he protested. “Say, father,” she said, with seeming irreverence, “had you forgotten it's qiy birthday tomorrow?” “Have I ever forgotten your birthday, oh! most costly daughter?” “On the whole, you’ve been a most satisfactory dad,” she answered sweetly, “and to reward you I’M be content this year with the .cheapest birthday treat you ever gave me. Only I’ll have it tonight.” “lyell?” he said, with the long-suf-fering 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 tonight. 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 23 cannot be permitted to drink Bass.” “I said—steak and Bass, audasfor' being 23, I shall be going in 24 tomorrow.” 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 honored when Jules attached himself to their tables. Theodore Racksole hesitated one second, and then issued the order with a Une kiyof 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, we want it, get it” “Very good, sit.” , 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 tonight, sir.” “Mr. Rocco?” questioned Racksole lightly. , “Mr. Rocco,” repeated Jules withfirmness. “And who is Mr. Rocco?” “Mr. Rocco is our chef, sir.” Jules had the expression of a man who is asked to explains 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 60 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 waif, 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.” AB tor Nella, knowing her father.

she foresaw interesting events and waited confidently for the steak. She did not feel hungry, and she could afford to watt. “Excuse me a moment, Nella,” said Theodore Racksole quietly. “I shall be back in about two seconds,” and he strode out of the salle-a-manger. No one in the room recognized the millionaire, for he was unknown to London, this being his first visit to Europe for over 20 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 embarked on the subjugation of a waiter has so many advantages in such a contest. . ■' . •. (To be continued