The Grand Babylon Hotel, Arnold Bennett [ereader ebook .txt] 📗

present miscarriage of his plans⁠—a miscarriage due to the meddlesomeness of an extraneous person, combined with pure ill-fortune. He did not, therefore, permit the accident to interfere with his sleep that night.

On the following day he sought out Prince Aribert, between whom and himself there now existed a feeling of unmistakable, frank friendship, and disclosed to him the happenings of the previous night, and particularly the tampering with the bottle of Romanée-Conti.

“I believe you dined with Prince Eugen last night?”

“I did. And curiously enough we had a bottle of Romanée-Conti, an admirable wine, of which Eugen is passionately fond.”

“And you will dine with him tonight?”

“Most probably. Today will, I fear, be our last day here. Eugen wishes to return to Posen early tomorrow.”

“Has it struck you, Prince,” said Racksole, “that if Jules had succeeded in poisoning your nephew, he would probably have succeeded also in poisoning you?”

“I had not thought of it,” laughed Aribert, “but it would seem so. It appears that so long as he brings down his particular quarry, Jules is careless of anything else that may be accidentally involved in the destruction. However, we need have no fear on that score now. You know the bottle, and you can destroy it at once.”

“But I do not propose to destroy it,” said Racksole calmly. “If Prince Eugen asks for Romanée-Conti to be served tonight, as he probably will, I propose that that precise bottle shall be served to him⁠—and to you.”

“Then you would poison us in spite of ourselves?”

“Scarcely,” Racksole smiled. “My notion is to discover the accomplices within the hotel. I have already inquired as to the wine-clerk, Hubbard. Now does it not occur to you as extraordinary that on this particular day Mr. Hubbard should be ill in bed? Hubbard, I am informed, is suffering from an attack of stomach poisoning, which has supervened during the night. He says that he does not know what can have caused it. His place in the wine cellars will be taken today by his assistant, a mere youth, but to all appearances a fairly smart youth. I need not say that we shall keep an eye on that youth.”

“One moment,” Prince Aribert interrupted. “I do not quite understand how you think the poisoning was to have been effected.”

“The bottle is now under examination by an expert, who has instructions to remove as little as possible of the stuff which Jules put on the rim of the mouth of it. It will be secretly replaced in its bin during the day. My idea is that by the mere action of pouring out the wine takes up some of the poison, which I deem to be very strong, and thus becomes fatal as it enters the glass.”

“But surely the servant in attendance would wipe the mouth of the bottle?”

“Very carelessly, perhaps. And moreover he would be extremely unlikely to wipe off all the stuff; some of it has been ingeniously placed just on the inside edge of the rim. Besides, suppose he forgot to wipe the bottle?”

“Prince Eugen is always served at dinner by Hans. It is an honour which the faithful old fellow reserves for himself.”

“But suppose Hans⁠—” Racksole stopped.

“Hans an accomplice! My dear Racksole, the suggestion is wildly impossible.”

That night Prince Aribert dined with his august nephew in the superb dining-room of the Royal apartments. Hans served, the dishes being brought to the door by other servants. Aribert found his nephew despondent and taciturn. On the previous day, when, after the futile interview with Sampson Levi, Prince Eugen had despairingly threatened to commit suicide, in such a manner as to make it “look like an accident,” Aribert had compelled him to give his word of honour not to do so.

“What wine will your Royal Highness take?” asked old Hans in his soothing tones, when the soup was served.

“Sherry,” was Prince Eugen’s curt order.

“And Romanée-Conti afterwards?” said Hans. Aribert looked up quickly.

“No, not tonight. I’ll try Sillery tonight,” said Prince Eugen.

“I think I’ll have Romanée-Conti, Hans, after all,” he said. “It suits me better than champagne.”

The famous and unsurpassable Burgundy was served with the roast. Old Hans brought it tenderly in its wicker cradle, inserted the corkscrew with mathematical precision, and drew the cork, which he offered for his master’s inspection. Eugen nodded, and told him to put it down. Aribert watched with intense interest. He could not for an instant believe that Hans was not the very soul of fidelity, and yet, despite himself, Racksole’s words had caused him a certain uneasiness. At that moment Prince Eugen murmured across the table:

“Aribert, I withdraw my promise. Observe that, I withdraw it.” Aribert shook his head emphatically, without removing his gaze from Hans. The white-haired servant perfunctorily dusted his napkin round the neck of the bottle of Romanée-Conti, and poured out a glass. Aribert trembled from head to foot.

Eugen took up the glass and held it to the light.

“Don’t drink it,” said Aribert very quietly. “It is poisoned.”

“Poisoned!” exclaimed Prince Eugen.

“Poisoned, sire!” exclaimed old Hans, with an air of profound amazement and concern, and he seized the glass. “Impossible, sire. I myself opened the bottle. No one else has touched it, and the cork was perfect.”

“I tell you it is poisoned,” Aribert repeated.

“Your Highness will pardon an old man,” said Hans, “but to say that this wine is poison is to say that I am a murderer. I will prove to you that it is not poisoned. I will drink it.” And he raised the glass to his trembling lips. In that moment Aribert saw that old Hans, at any rate, was not an accomplice of Jules. Springing up from his seat, he knocked the glass from the aged servitor’s hands, and the fragments of it fell with a light tinkling crash partly on the table and partly on the floor. The Prince and the servant gazed at one another in a distressing and terrible silence.

There was a slight noise, and Aribert looked aside. He saw that Eugen’s body had slipped forward