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[00:01] This episode of Sleepy is proudly sponsored by Avocado Green Mattress. There is something really reassuring about knowing what you're actually sleeping on every night. And Avocado makes certified organic mattresses, pillows, and solid wood furniture without harmful chemicals, using real materials chosen with care, nothing flashy, nothing artificial, just thoughtfully made products designed to support better sleep and healthier living. If you've listened to the show, you know that I ironically have had a hard time sleeping for many, many years, and I assumed that waking up tired was just part of life. Like that was the baseline. But switching to a truly supportive mattress changed that for me in a very real way. Sleep sopped feeling like something that I had to fight for, and started feeling like something my body could actually settle into, and something I look forward to all day. But what stands out about Avocado is how transparent and intentional they are. 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And for a few days, it felt like I was doing something good for myself. But the truth is, I love carbs. And I was just cutting out the foods that I loved. And because of that, it didn't last. Most quick fixes don't. That is why Green Chef feels honestly different. Because instead of cutting everything out, what they do is they focus on real balanced meals that are easy to stick with because they're delicious. With Green Chef, you get over 40 recipes each week made with organic produce and responsibly sourced proteins. You can choose what matters to you. Mediterranean, high protein or their new longevity line which is built around brain and gut health specifically. I recently made one of their rice bowls for dinner, and it came together in about 20 minutes. Everything was pre-portioned and simple and healthy and delicious. And I still get to eat what I love and still feel great after. Green Chef also includes free unlimited one-on-one nutrition coaching. And they're the only certified clean meal kit with 20% less food waste and 100% offset delivery emissions. I use Green Chef and you should too. Head to greenchef.com/50sleepy and use code 50sleepy to get 50% off your first month, then 20% off for two months. That's code 50sleepy at greenchef.com/50sleepy. I'll have a link for this in the show notes. Eat well, sleep well. Hey. My name's Otis Gray, and you're listening to Sleepy. A podcast where I read old books to help you get to sleep. Well, tonight, I have a great story by Arnold Bennett, who is, he's not exactly like Arthur Conan Doyle, but he wrote these really wonderful, kind of like thriller detective mysteries, and they are fantastic stories, as is the one tonight. And before we get to the bedtime reading, I just want to profoundly thank all of our brand new patrons on patreon.com, which is a website where you can pledge a couple bucks for an ad-free version of the show. So, this week's incredible new patrons, Julie L., Lake P., The Josue Rupini, Lisa M., and Clay Decker. Thank you all so, so much for being a part of making this show. It really, really means a lot to me to thank you. And if you don't know what I'm talking about, the names that I just read are brand new supporters of Sleepy on patreon.com, which is a website where you can directly support people who make the stuff that you like. So if you like Sleepy and maybe it's become part of your nightly routine, then you can be a part of making the show directly by going to patreon.com/sleepyradio. And you get cool perks in exchange. Like for $2, you get an ad-free version of the show. $5, you get access to our poetry feed with all kinds of episodes you've never heard before. But even if it's a dollar, that means a lot to me. And even a dollar, no matter how much, I will read your name on the show, if you do. So, if you would like to be a part of making this show, like the folks that I just read, you can go to patreon.com/sleepyradio. Thank you. And as always, the music you're hearing is by my good friend James Lepkowski, and the cover-up for Sleepy is by Gracie Canan. Well, tonight, I got a reading from Arnold Bennett, like I said, and this book is called The Grand Babylon Hotel. I really love Arnold Bennett, and I'm really in the mood for these kind of Sherlock Holmes-y mystery books, especially for Sleepy's purposes. I just think they're really, really, really great as bedtime stories, as well as literature that has stood the test of time. So, I wanted to bring you another version of a mystery that you could fall asleep to tonight, other than Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. And I hope you like it. I hope wherever you are, there are flowers and trees starting to bloom and blossom. I know they are here in New York, along Eastern Parkway in Brooklyn, where I live. Everything feels alive, and that really felt like a long winter, and I'm very happy for it to be winding down. So I hope wherever you are, you are comfortable, and there is life happening around you, whether that's in the form of flowers or trees or water or whatever. Okay, so that's enough of me yapping. Tonight, this is a snoozy reading of The Grand Babylon Hotel by Arnold Bennett. And now is the time for you to fluff up your pillow, just how you like it. Feel yourself melt into your bed. Get real comfortable. Close your eyes, and let me read to you. Chapter One, The Millionaire and the Waiter. 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 and nationalities, but every one alike arrayed in faultless evening dress, were dotted about the large, dim apartment. A faint odor of flowers came from the conservatory and the tinkle of a fountain. The waiters, commanded by Jules, moved softly across the thick oriental rugs, bouncing 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 had 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. It 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 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 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 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 the club. The Grand Babylon was a hotel in whose smoking room one behaved as though one was at one's claw. 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 iller, 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 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 nuh, 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 Gray Hotel was performed there. The place served chiefly as the lair of Miss Spencer, who is as well known and 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 soap with a small diamond brooch, immaculate wristbands and frizzed yellow hair, she looked now just as she 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 programs of theaters and musicals was unrivaled. Yet she never traveled. She never went to a theater or a musical. She seemed to spend the whole of her life in that official layer 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. Whose number 107? Jules asked this black-robed lady. Miss Spencer examined her ledgers. Mr. Theodore Raxall, 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. Maricino 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 Raxall as a New Yorker appealed to her sense of humor. A sense in which she was not entirely deficient. She knew, of course, and she knew that Jules knew, that this Theodore Raxall must be the unique and only Theodore Raxall, 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 Raxall, so was there 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 Maricino and Cream were 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, the most powerful of all, Rocco, the renowned chef who earned 2,000 a year and had a chalet on the Lake of Lucerne. All the great hotels in Northumberland Avenue and on the Thames in Bankman 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 major hotel of The Grand Babylon, which though it was never advertised itself and didn't belong to 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 neighbors. It had about 350 rooms, whereas there are two hotels within a quarter of a mile with 600 and 400 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 a maharaj of some Indian state. When Felix Babylon, after whom and now with any reference to London's nickname, the hotel was christened, when Felix Babylon founded the hotel in 1869, he had set himself up 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. Sundry King's 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 no 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 roux, 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 Ms. Spencer. Upon no consideration, did you ask for the terra. 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 maneuvers. It defied competition by ignoring it, and consequently, it was nearly always full during the season. If there was one thing more than another that annoyed the Grand Babylon, but its backup, 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 Raxall with an angel kiss will therefore be appreciated. Anybody with Mr. Theodore Raxall asked Jules, continuing his conversation with Miss Spencer. He put a scornful stress on every syllable of the guest's name. Miss Raxall. She's in number 111. Jules paused and stroked his left whisker as it lay on his gleaming white collar. She's aware, he queried, with a peculiar emphasis. Number 111. I couldn't help it. There was no other room with a bathroom than a dressing room on that floor. Miss Spencer's voice had an appealing tone of excuse. Why didn't you tell Mr. Theodore Raxall and Miss Raxall 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 Raxall changes her room tonight, 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 tonight. And Jules departed, rubbing his fine white hand 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 Salamanger, 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 czar of all the Russia's. 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 cart. 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 although 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. Raxal, 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 as she could 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. Consumé Britannia, she began to read out from the menu. Salmon, diakos, sauce, Genoise, aspects, telmar. Oh, heavens. Who wants these horrid messes on a night like this? This is the best cooking in Europe, he protested. Say, father, she said, with seeming irrelevance. Had you forgotten it's my 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'll be content this year with the cheapest birthday tree you could ever give me. Only, I'll have it tonight. Well, he said, with a long suffering patience and readiness for any surprise of a parent whom Nella had thoroughly trained. What is it? It's this. Let's have fillet steak and a bottle of bass for dinner tonight. It will be simply exquisite. I shall love it. But my dear Nella, she exclaimed, Steak and beer have Felix's. It's impossible. Moreover, young women still under 23 cannot be permitted to drink bass. I said steak and bass. And as for being 23, she'll be going in 24 tomorrow. Ms. Rexall said her small white teeth. There was a gentle call. Jules stood over them. It must have been out of 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 Rexall hesitated one second, and then issued the order with a fine air of carelessness. He laid steak for two, and a bottle of bass. It was the bravest act of Theodore Rexall'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 tonight, sir. Mr. Rocco questioned Raxle 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 was asked to explain who Shakespeare was. The two men looked at each other. It seemed incredible that Theodore Raxle, the ineffable Raxle, 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. Yeah, so it was. When Europe's effect 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 stay. She did not feel hungry, and she could afford to wait. Excuse me a moment, Nella, said Theodore Raxall, quietly. I shall be back in about two seconds. And he strode out of the Salamangier. 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 would 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. Chapter Two, How Mr. Rexall Obtained His Dinner. Nevertheless, there are men with a confirmed habit of getting their own way, even as guests in an exclusive hotel. And Theodore Rexall had long since fallen into that useful practice, except when his only daughter, Helen, motherless but high-spirited girl, chose to think that his way crossed hers, in which case Theodore capitulated and fell back. But when Theodore and his daughter happened to be going one in the same road, which was pretty often, then heaven alone might help any obstacle that was so ill-advised as to stand in their path. Jules, great and observant though he was, had not noticed the terrible projecting chins of both father and daughter. Otherwise it is possible he would have reconsidered the question of the steak and bass. Theodore Axel went direct to the entrance hall of the hotel and entered Ms. Spencer's sanctum. I want to see Mr. Babylon, he said, without the delay of an instant. Ms. Spencer leisurely raised her flaxen head. I am afraid, she began the usual formula. It was part of her daily duty to discourage guests who desire to see Mr. Babylon. No, no, said Rack so quickly. I don't want any, I am afraid. This is business. If you had been the ordinary hotel clerk, I should have slipped you a couple of sovereigns into your hand, and the thing would have been done. As you are not, as you are obviously above bribes, I merely say to you, I must see Mr. Babylon at once on an affair of the utmost urgency. My name is Raxal, Theodore Raxal. Of New York, questioned a voice at the door with a slight foreign accent. The millionaire turned sharply and saw a rather short French-looking man with a bald head, a gray beard, and a long and perfectly built frock coat, eyeglasses attached to a minute silver chain, and blue eyes that seemed to have the transparent innocence of a maid's. There is only one, said Theodore Raxal, succinctly. You wish to see me, the newcomer suggested. You are Mr. Felix Babylon, the man bowed. At this moment, I wish to see you more than anyone else in the world, said Raxal. I am consumed and burnt up with a desire to see you, Mr. Babylon. I only want a few minutes quiet chat. I fancy I can settle my business in that time. With a gesture, Mr. Babylon invited the millionaire down a side corridor. At the end of which was Mr. Babylon's private room, a miracle of Louis XV furniture and tapestry. Like most unmarried men with large incomes, Mr. Babylon had tastes of a highly expensive sort. The landlord and his guest sat down opposite each other. Theodore Raxal had met with the usual millionaire's luck in this adventure. For Mr. Babylon made a practice of not allowing himself to be interviewed by his guests, however distinguished, however wealthy, however pernicious. If he had not chanced to enter Ms. Spencer's office at that precise moment, and if he had not been impressed in a somewhat peculiar way by the physiognomy of the millionaire, not all of Mr. Raxal's American energy and ingenuity would have availed for a confabulation with the owner of the Grand Babylon Hotel that night. Theodore Raxal, however, was ignorant that a mere accident had served him. He took all the credit to himself. I read in the New York papers some months ago, Theodore started, without even a clearing of the throw, that this hotel of yours, Mr. Babylon, was to be sold to a limited company. But it appears that the sale was not carried out. It was not, answered Mr. Babylon frankly. And the reason was that the middle-aged men between the proposed company and my cell wished to make a large secret profit, and I declined to be party to such a profit. They were firm, and I was firm, so the affair came to nothing. The agreed price was satisfactory. May I ask what the price was? Are you a buyer, Mr. Rexall? Are you a seller, Mr. Babylon? I am, said Babylon, on terms. The price is 400,000 pounds, including the lease hole and goodwill. But I sell only on the condition that the buyer does not transfer the property to a limited company at a higher figure. I will put one question to you, Mr. Babylon, said the millionaire. What of your profits averaged during the last four years? Thirty-four thousand pounds per annum. I buy, said Theodore Raxall, smiling contentedly. And we will, if you please, exchange contract letters on the spot. You come quickly to a resolution, Mr. Raxall. But perhaps you have been considering this question for a long time. On the contrary, Mr. Raxall looked at his watch. I have been considering it for six minutes. Felix Babylon bowed, as one thoroughly accustom to eccentricity of well. The beauty of being well known, Raxall continued, is that you needn't trouble about preliminary explanations. You, Mr. Babylon, probably know all about me. I know a good deal about you. We can take each other for granted without reference. Really, it is as simple to buy a hotel or railroad as it is to buy a watch, provided one is equal to the transaction. Precisely, agreed Mr. Babylon, smiling. Shall we draw out the little informal contract? There are details to be thought of, but it occurs to me that you cannot have dined yet, and might prefer to deal with minor questions after dinner. I have not dined, said the millionaire, with emphasis. And in that connection, will you do me a favor? Will you send for Mr. Rocco? You wish to see him, naturally. I do, said the millionaire, and added, about my dinner. Rocco is a great man, murmured Mr. Babylon, as he touched the bell, ignoring the last words. My compliments to Mr. Rocco. He said to the page who answered his summons, And if it is quite convenient, and if it is quite convenient, I should be glad to see him here for a moment. What do you give Rocco? Raxal Enquirer. Two thousand a year, and the treatment of an ambassador. I shall give him the treatment of an ambassador, and three thousand. You will be wise, said Felix Babylon. At that moment, Rocco came into the room very softly. A man of forty, thin, with long thin hands, and an inordinately long brown silky mustache. Rocco, said Felix Babylon, and said, Let me introduce Mr. Theodore Raxall, of New York. Charm, said Rocco, bowing. The, the, what do you call it? Millionaire? Exactly, Raxall put in, and continued quickly. Mr. Rocco, I wish to acquaint you before any other person with the fact that I have purchased The Grand Babylon Hotel. If you think well to afford me the privilege of retaining your services, I shall be happy to offer you a remuneration of 3,000 a year. Three, you said. Three. Charmed. And now, Mr. Rocco, will you oblige me very much by ordering a plain beefsteak and a bottle of bass to be served by Jules. I particularly desire Jules, the table number 17 in the dining room, in 10 minutes from now. And will you do me the honor of lunching with me tomorrow? Mr. Rocco gasped, bowed, muttered something in French, and departed. Five minutes later, the buyer and seller of The Grand Babylon Hotel had each signed a curt document, scribbled out on the hotel notepaper. Felix Babylon asked no questions, and it was this heroic absence of curiosity, the surprise on his part, that more than anything else impressed Theodore Raxel. How many hotel proprietors in the world, Raxel asked himself, would have let that beefsteak and bass go by without a word of comment. From what day do you wish the purchase to take effect? Asked Babylon. Oh, said Raxel lightly. It doesn't matter. Shall we say from tonight? As you will, I have long wished to retire, but now the moment has come, and so dramatically, I am ready. I shall return to Switzerland. One cannot spend much money there, but as my native land, I shall be the richest man in Switzerland. You smile with a kind of sad amusement. I suppose you are fairly well off, said Raxel, in that easy, familiar style of his, as though the idea had just occurred to him. Besides what I shall receive from you, I have half a million invested. Then you will be nearly a millionaire. Felix Babylon nodded. I congratulate you, my dear sir, said Raxel, in the tone of a judge addressing a newly admitted barrister. Nine hundred thousand pounds expressed in francs will sound very nice in Switzerland. Of course, to you, Mr. Raxel, such a sum would be poverty. Now, if one might guess at your own well, Felix Babylon was imitating the other's freedom. I do not know. To five millions or so, what I am worth, said Raxel, with sincerity. His tone indicating that he would have been glad to give the information if it were in his power. You have had anxieties, Mr. Raxel. Still have them. I am now holiday making in London with my daughter in order to get rid of them for a while. Is the purchase of hotels your notion of relaxation, then? Raxel shrugged his shoulders. It is a change from railroads, he laughed. Ah, my friend, do you little know what you have bought? Oh, yes I do, returned Raxel. I have bought just the first hotel in the world. That is true, that is true, Babylon admitted, gazing meditatively at the antique Persian carpet. There is nothing anywhere like my hotel. But you will regret the purchase, Mr. Raxel. It is no business of mine, of course, but I cannot help repeating that you will regret the purchase. I never regret. And you will begin very soon, perhaps tonight. Why do you say that? Because the Grand Babylon is the Grand Babylon. You think because you control a railroad, or an ironworks, or a line of steamers, therefore you can control anything. But no, not the Grand Babylon. There is something about the Grand Babylon. He threw up his hands. Servants rob you, of course. Of course, I suppose I lose 100 pounds a week in that way. But it is not what I mean. It is the guests. The guests are too, too distinguished. The great ambassadors, the great financiers, the great nobles, all the men that moved the world put up under my roof. London is the center of everything. At my hotel, your hotel is the center of London. Once I had a king and a dowager empress staying here at the same time. Imagine that. A great honor, Mr. Babylon. But wherein lies the difficulty? Mr. Axel was the grim reply. What has become of your shrewdness? That shrewdness which has made your fortune so immense that even you cannot calculate it. Do you not perceive that the roof, which habitually shelters all the force, all the authority in the world, must necessarily also shelter nameless and numberless plotters, schemers, evil-doers and workers of mischief? The thing is as clear as day and as dark as night. Mr. Axel, I never know by whom I am surrounded. I never know what is going forward. Only sometimes I get hints, glimpses of strange acts and strange secrets. You mentioned my servants. They are almost all good servants, skilled, competent. But what are they besides? For anything I know, my fourth subchef may be an agent of some European government. For anything I know, my invaluable Miss Spencer may be in the pay of a court dressmaker or a Frankfurt banker. Even Rocco may be someone else in addition to Rocco. That makes it all the more interesting, remarked Theodore Raxall. What a long time you have been, father, said Nala, when he returned to table number seventeen in the Salmongerre. Only twenty minutes, my dog. But you said two seconds. There's a difference. Well, you see, I had to wait for the steak to cook. Did you have much trouble in getting my birthday tree? No trouble. But it didn't come quite as cheap as you said. What do you mean, father? Only that I've bought the entire hotel. But don't split. Father, you always were a delicious parent. Shall you give me the hotel for my birthday present? No, I shall run it as an amusement. By the way, who is that chair for? He noticed the third cover had been laid at the table. That is for a friend of mine who came in about five minutes ago. Of course, I told him he must share our stay. He'll be here in a moment. May I respectfully inquire his name? Dimmick, Christian name Reginald, profession English companion to Prince Araber of Poulsen. I met him when I was in St. Petersburg with cousin Hetty last fall. Oh, here he is. Mr. Dimmick, this is my dear father. He has succeeded with the stake. Have I? He said. And then he happened to glance into a mirror on his left hand between two windows. He saw the reflection of Jules, who stood behind his chair, and he saw Jules give a slow, significant, ominous wink to Mr. Dimmick, Christian name Reginald. He examined his mustard in silence. He thought that perhaps he had helped himself rather plentiously to muster. Thank you for listening to Sleepy, good night.