The Mysterious Mickey Finn (10 page)

‘Evans ! Homer ! For God's sake, old man. I'm in quod. I'm in the soup up to my ears. I'm being held for knowing both American and French.'

That was what Jackson thought he was yelling, for he had seen Evans and some starry-eyed young girl, arm in arm, not four feet from the open doorway of the
commissariat.
The only sound that reached the street was ‘Ehhhhhh' and all the rest was smothered in
agent
Schlumberger's heavy hand. This time the officer took no chances on having the
commissaire
disturbed. He reached behind him for a billy and with just the amount of force necessary to stun his patient without cracking the skull he brought down his instrument and Jackson went into what seemed to him to be a long tunnel. Upon recovering consciousness, however, he roused the
commissaire
to tell him that Evans, or the American Ivan, the man the whole city was looking for, had passed within a foot of the doorway. Within two minutes the quarter was swarming with police on foot, bicycles, motor-cycles with and without sidecars, horses, automobiles with and without sirens, and even trucks. Had not Evans and Miriam chanced to step into the dim church of St Severin, a block away, to admire the best example of Gothic architecture in Paris, they surely would have been apprehended. As it was, they escaped the notice of the officers who, however, descended into the sub-cellar of the Hôtel du Caveau and found a suspicious gathering of men and women up to their knees in empty bottles and unable to explain in any satisfactory way how they came there, to what country, if any, they owed allegiance, and who were all without papers of any kind. One seemed to be a ringleader. Although very drunk, he tossed around a half-dozen policemen before he noticed they had uniforms on. He had his pockets stuffed with thousand franc notes the officers assumed to be counterfeit. There was some delay while the Hotel du Caveau was combed from sub-cellar to roof in search of a counterfeiting machine. Then Hjalmar; Rosa and the piper; Harold Simon and Cirage; Snorre Sturlusson and the Swedish actress (who had nothing on but shoes, gloves, and violet knickers); Gwendolyn and an alleged fiddler; and the protesting M. Julliard were stowed into a Black Maria and taken directly to the
préfecture
, where they were joined in short order by Ambrose Gring, limp and burbling, a young Frenchman with an American hat in bad repair, and Jackson who seemed to be enjoying the whole thing immensely. The array of suspects and witnesses had got beyond the capacities of
commissariats
and were being housed in the more commodious
préfecture.

Eventually, Evans and Miriam strolled back to the rue de la Huchette, entered the Hotel du Caveau and assumed, because M. Julliard was not behind the neat zinc bar, that he must be downstairs. They made their way down the spiral staircases, through gravelled corridors, under low stone arches, and into the former chamber where Robespierre had made some of his biggest mistakes.

‘This is strange,' said Evans. The chamber was empty, except for several hundred bottles, a deflated cornemuse, a shattered fiddle, and a piano on which had been carved ‘The Lord is My Shepherd I shwill not schwant pashtures no pastures'.

They mounted again to the street level and helped themselves to a refreshing drink of brandy at the bar, then started to read the morning papers. Miriam scanned a few headlines and a couple of paragraphs, then gave it up and clung to Evans' arm. Evans' head suddenly cleared. Hugo Weiss had disappeared, incredible as it seemed. The papers were unanimous about that, and also they agreed that a Russian taxi-driver, complete with Citroën taxi, had vanished also. Homer's first impulse was to rush back to Montparnasse, warn Hjalmar, go at once to the authorities and explain. Explain what, exactly? That Weiss had been hoodwinked and mulcted, to say nothing of being deceived and victimized; that paintings had been altered, misrepresented and sold for staggering prices under false pretences and with malice aforethought; that a group of well-known painters had lent themselves to fraud, had borne false witness, were in fact, each and severally accessories before and after the fact, and had been present while the fact transpired? It would be not easy to explain why two identical cheques had been written and why two well-known
café
proprietors had been persuaded to cash them almost instantly, but that would be easy in comparison with explaining why all the principals and seconds, except the missing persons, had hid themselves at once in a stone cellar below the level of the Seine. Homer's quick wit grasped the situation with reference to himself and his companion. Montparnasse had been turned upside down to find all the members of the party, the alarm had been given, the dragnet had covered all Paris and the suburbs and at last Hjalmar, Rosa, Gwendolyn, Snorre Sturlusson, and Harold Simon had been found with the guilty money in their possession, in fleshpots that would have done credit to Egypt in her gayest days. Having found no traces of blood in the cellar, Evans believed that Hjalmar had gone quietly. Doubtless the faithful M. Julliard had gone along to bail them out, or would M. Julliard be suspected, too? Of course. He would be the keeper of the hideout. As he looked closer, Evans noticed even in the bar room evidence that the place had been roughly searched.

‘We've got to go where I won't be disturbed until I can think this out,' Evans said. ‘I played a scurvy trick on Hugo Weiss, and involved a number of my friends in a swindle. But there's much more than we know about in this disappearance. The least I can do is to devote myself to finding Weiss and Lvov, and if the police take me in I shall be able to do nothing.'

He glanced down the narrow rue de la Huchette and all at once got an inspiration. The Café des Hirondelles was just around the corner, the meeting place of the Arab rug peddlers, where Moroccans and Moors slept in daylight hours, stored their mats and carpets, hung their fezzes, spread their burnooses, and otherwise comported themselves as peddlers off duty.

‘Come,' he said simply to Miriam. They walked, arm in arm, to the corner of the rue des Deux Ponts, crossed the street and within less time than it takes to tell it were safely out of sight in a dark doorway which led them to the desk of the Hôtel des Hirondelles. There Evans' knowledge of Morocco and Moroccans served him in excellent stead.

‘Salaam aleichem,' he said to the proprietor.

‘Aleichem salaam,' Ben Sidi replied. ‘What is Mr Evans' pleasure? One of my unworthy rooms?' And he handed out a key politely.

Evans blushed and Miriam giggled.

‘I like that man,' she said. ‘But we've got work to do.'

‘I am honoured by your hospitality,' Evans said to Ben Sidi, ‘but my errand here is an important one.'

‘I like that,' said Miriam indignantly. ‘It may be pressing, but as for importance....'

‘Peace, woman,' Evans said, lapsing into the Arab vernacular. And to Ben Sidi he said softly: ‘I must see Ben Abou at once. Is he here?'

‘I will summon him,' Ben Sidi said, and gravely withdrew.

D
R
H
YACINTHE
T
OUDOUX
, the medical examiner, and Sergeant Frémont were having an argument in the
préfecture
, and both had been roundly abused by the prefect.

‘If what Julliard, the hideout proprietor, says is true, about the quantity of liquor consumed, the ring-leader Gonzo, alias Johnson or Jansen, cannot be aroused until evening, say between eight and twelve,' the doctor insisted.

‘That should give even my homicide squad enough time to find the American Evans or Ivan and his girl,' Frémont said, disgustedly.

The experts of the Louvre had received the forty-nine suspicious paintings which had been numbered, cross-indexed, and should have been sent to the laboratories where after two weeks or so a preliminary report would be made. At the
préfecture
there was a lull, and if there was anything that got on Frémont's nerves, it was the occurrence of lulls in the midst of important cases. This one was broken by the precipitate entrance of the prefect himself, who had in his hand a set of thumbscrews he had borrowed from the Carnavalet museum, the prefectorial gimlet which had been filed for the occasion, and a bucket of ice-water from a nearby saloon.

‘The ambassador is on his way,' the prefect snapped. ‘I'm going to wake this man at any cost.'

‘My opinion is unchanged. Gonzo will not respond,' the doctor said.

The doctor proved to be right. Hjalmar did not as much as wink when the ice-water struck him, nor did he groan when his head was lifted by the ears and let drop on the flagstone floor. Gring, however, in a nearby cell began to yammer and squeal and Ambrose, unshaven, unwashed, and clutching at the bars was not a pretty sight.

‘Get him out of here,' the prefect roared. ‘How can we show a sight like that to the envoy of a friendly power?'

Gring objected but was thrown out with promptness and dispatch. A moment afterward a genial voice called out at the end of the corridor:

‘Does anyone here speak English?'

Jackson and Frémont answered in the affirmative.

‘Why, hello, Jackson,' the ambassador said. He was a tall thick-set man with walrus moustaches and he smiled as he ambled toward the cells, silk hat in hand.

Jackson explained briefly what had happened to him. He had started out from the
Cercle Interalliée
with the intention of checking up on Hugo Weiss. Evans, with whom he wished to consult, had not been at home. Neither had he been at the Dôme, where a flock of plain clothes men had jumped on Jackson. The reporter had escaped by throwing several siphons in the air and retreating under cover of the resulting explosions, only to be arrested at the Plaza Athénée. Of all the suspects, Jackson was most lacking in papers. He had no identity card, no police pass, and his American passport, which had been disfigured by accidental immersion in brandy, was in the pocket of a suit of clothes which had been six weeks at the cleaners.

‘Want me to get you out, I suppose. Ah, youth,' the ambassador said.

‘I'd just as soon stay a while,' the reporter said. ‘But you might say a word for that young French chap. He's in because I changed hats with him in the fracas at the Dôme. By the way, the Dôme has established a new record for breakage. Beat the Coupole figure by fourteen kilos of glass and crockery.'

‘You don't say?' remarked the ambassador. ‘Well, stay here if you like. But at least come out of the cell and interpret for me. I've got to pay my respects to the prefect and find out what they've done about Hugo Weiss. Probably he's out on a bat. I crossed with him once on the old
Dresden
and between us we drank all the beer in first class and tourist and were well started on the third class when the Statue of Liberty hove in sight and I had to pose for some photographers.'

‘This door is locked,' Jackson said.

The ambassador turned to the prefect. ‘
La porte
,
s
'
il vous plaît !
' he boomed and the prefect opened the cell door with alacrity.

‘I must apologize for the condition of my suspects and witnesses. They ate and drank all night before we caught up with them....'

‘Know just how they feel,' said the ambassador.

‘He said,' began Jackson carefully, ‘that he understands just how they feel.'

The ambassador was by that time strolling up and down in front of the cells. He nodded to M. Julliard, who smiled courteously; laughed heartily when he saw Hjalmar; raised his eyebrows appreciatively at the sight of Rosa Stier and the piper; sighed in front of Gwendolyn and the fiddler; gasped at Simon and Cirage, the former of whom had crawled under the blanket of the latter, exposing a generous portion of the latter in so doing. The Swedish actress evoked an exclamation of true appreciation. It was evident that the statesman in question preferred blondes.

‘Got all their names and addresses?' the ambassador inquired.

The prefect all but wrung his hands. ‘M. l'Ambassadeur,' he said. ‘They were unconscious when we found them, they have remained so ever since. . . .'

‘Between eleven and three,' muttered Dr Toudoux.

‘Quite all rïght. Now what about Hugo Weiss? Any trace of him?'

‘These are the witnesses and suspects,' the prefect said.

‘Nonsense. Hugo's probably on a bat. One time we crossed on the old
Dresden.
. . .'

‘He says that M. Weiss is probably blotto....'

‘Blotto?'

‘Pifflicated. Oorieyed. Mulled. Boiled. Stinko.'

‘Then perhaps we'll hear from him between midnight and four o'clock,' said the prefect, catching on.

‘I shouldn't worry. Well, I'll toddle along,' the ambassador said. ‘By the way, send me those names and addresses as soon as you get them.'

‘A certified copy,' the prefect said.

‘And by the way,' said the ambassador, brushing off the brim of his hat, ‘out front I met a chap who seemed to be in trouble. Said he'd asked you to find his girl and a duffer named Ivan, and that you'd made a mistake and thrown him out. Just thought I'd mention it. He's still waiting outside, no doubt.'

‘I let him go, but he's to be shadowed every minute of the night and day,' the prefect said. ‘He will lead us to his confederates in time.'

‘Just thought I'd mention him. Well. Good day and thanks. So long, Jackson....'

‘Could you ask the prefect to let me stick around? He has a way of kicking out his clients....'

‘Sure. I understand, my boy. Scoop. Headlines. In at the finish, and all that. Tell him I said you could stay as long as you liked. And ring me up from time to time. If old Hugo's really in trouble we'll have to get action. Better let me know what these people say after they've slept off their jag. That party, Jackson, must have been a whopper. Were you in on it, boy?'