The Grand Babylon Hotel | Page 4

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