The Mysterious Mickey Finn (20 page)

The female guards, on the occasion of each brush between Maggie and the prefect, roared with laughter and dealt one another playful slaps on the rump and shoulders that would have floored an ordinary patient and disabled for life one who chanced to be frail. Maggie was saying to the prefect precisely what the lady bassos and baritones would like to have said, and for that they began to accord her the kindest of treatment, sharing with her huge chunks of Lyon sausage containing enough garlic to nullify all the tests known to Hyacinthe Toudoux and washing it down with red ink that would have taken the gilt off the celebrated and ancient public clock across the street on the Palais de Justice. Maggie, always quick to respond to kindness, thawed in turn and entertained the lusty companions with ‘The Bastard King of England', a ballad which reads, in part:

                
‘His only nether garment was a leather undershirt
,

                
With which he tried to hide the hide

                
But couldn't hide the dirt.
'

‘Let it pass,' said Evans, cryptically. ‘Let it pass. We've a night's work to do, if ever Monsieur Crayon de Crayon will hang up that phone.'

Simultaneously, in the establishment of Heiss and Lourde, Heiss was handcuffed to Lourde, they both were handcuffed to Bonnet, six candlelight Grecos were tossed into the waiting wagon and a moment after the wagon had been cranked, primed, and pushed down an incline to get the motor started, in came Hjalmar Jansen, dragging a contingent of police like a comet's tail behind him. Less boisterously he was followed by Jackson, still wearing the French boy's hat.

‘Holy mackinaw ! I need a drink,' said Jansen, shaking Evans by the hand.

Schlumberger, who was dry by that time, offered to go out for a bottle of quetsch.

‘Make it half a dozen,' Jansen said. ‘They've still got my dough in the
préfecture
but Julliard says it's O.K., so my credit ought to be good.'

‘I should like the honour of buying liquor for the author of that excellent self-portrait, M. Gonzo,' Schlumberger said.

‘Oh, that,' said Hjalmar, bashfully, then he started in surprise. ‘Cripes,' he ejaculated. ‘How did you get your painting back? Evans? . . . Hell. There's a hole punched through it. What a shame.'

‘That hole,' said Evans, ‘is precisely what will solve this case. That innocent little aperture will lead us to Hugo Weiss.'

‘Is it true, all this talk about his being kidnapped?' Hjalmar said.

At this Sergeant Frémont exploded. ‘Monsieur Gonzo,' he said, ‘did you think the police department was moving heaven and earth simply to offer a demonstration?'

‘No offence, sergeant,' Gonzo said. ‘After all, the joke's partly on me. I've been thrown in the can, my money, necktie, shoelaces, belt, etc., have been taken away. I've been goaded to violence, threatened. . . .'

The sergeant smiled. ‘Violet ink,' he murmured. ‘Let me pay for half the quetsch.'

Evans, meanwhile, had busied himself with the map of France. ‘Ah,' he said at last, with his finger on a spot some distance north of Paris. ‘Hole in forehead. That's the work of that excellent officer and gentleman, Colonel Lvov Kvek. Let's see. Forehead.
Front. Front
is French for forehead.' Homer glanced at the map again. ‘It happens,' he went on, exultantly, ‘that about two hundred and twenty kilometres, by water, north of the Pont Notre Dame lies a small village on the banks of the upper Seine called Frontville. Does that stir any comforting thoughts, sergeant?'

The sergeant did not try to hide his admiration. ‘You mean the missing men are at Frontville?'

‘They were at Frontville yesterday,' Evans said. ‘It's my guess that they are there right now, unless the kidnappers have got the wind up. . . . It was a mistake, making all this row in the press about Heiss and Lourde. That may frighten the gang . . . and that would be dangerous for Weiss and Kvek. . . . ' Evans held up his hand for attention, and everyone in the room listened breathlessly to what he said:

‘Friends,' he said, “it's true that there is every reason for haste, for immediate action. But all of you have a part to play. I cannot say which one will have to take a sudden initiative. You must understand in a general way what this is all about. And to make it clear, I must go back a few years. You are aware, no doubt, that in 1913 the Congress of the United States passed an income tax law that proved to be very embarrassing for the higher brackets. At once, rich men set about devising ways of concealing assets and dodging taxes. Money in large sums is hard to hide, but one clever chap in the employ of a dyspeptic multi-millionaire named T. Prosper Stables thought of a brilliant scheme. In short, the plan was this. An agent in Europe would buy a painting, either an old master which could be snapped up cheaply, say at $30,000, or a fake which could pass the experts of various public museums, with or without the aid of palm grease. This painting, representing a $30,000 outlay, would be resold to a firm which was, under cover of course, another agent of Mr Stables, and the price which Stables would pay to himself would be about $150,000. This process is repeated until the multi-millionaire comes out in the open and buys, from Heiss and Lourde (a Stables concern, but off the records) a Greco for $500,000. This Greco enters America tax free and is given to the Skowhegan Museum. It cost $30,000. Stables, by legal hocus-pocus, retains actual control of it. He saves an income tax of $250,000, enjoys the use of nearly half a million dollars which has passed out of existence as far as the government is concerned, is touted as a great philanthropist and a judge of high art.

‘You have seen enough already, sergeant, to realize that there was about to be a wholesale unloading of fake candlelight Grecos when we came on the scene. Sales had been arranged, six different museums had accepted the so-called gifts, Stables stood to gain about $3,000,000, all told. Cats'-paws like our friends Abel and Dodo were about to rake in a small commission which to them seems large. Have I made myself clear?'

‘How does Hugo Weiss come in?' asked the sergeant, impressed but more baffled than before.

‘Has it not occurred to you yet that, since Hugo Weiss was warned years ago about the fake candlelight paintings of Greco, his presence in Paris at the moment of the great unloading was dangerous to the Stables plan?'

‘My head aches,' the sergeant wailed, reaching for the aspirin which Miriam held in readiness.

‘Heiss and Lourde feared that Hugo would upset the applecart if he moseyed around the galleries,' Evans continued. ‘That involved the unfortunate Ambrose Gring. Gring had done odd errands of snooping for the Stables interests before, and it is my belief that Abel and Dodo sought him at the Dôme, asked him to call on Hugo, which he did, as the reporter for
Art for Art's Sake
, to find out, if possible, whether Hugo intended visiting galleries. Gring failed, I also believe, because Miriam noticed the next time Heiss and Lourde showed up for an interview with Gring that they were dissatisfied and disappointed.'

‘So they bumped Gring off,' the sergeant said. ‘I could see they were guilty in the first place, but you confused me with all your talk. Let's phone the prefect.. . .'

‘Not so fast,' Evans said. ‘Gring is dead, worse luck. We'll find his murderers in time. Just now we must concentrate on Hugo Weiss, who is in Frontville, not far from Châtillon-sur-Seine. Stables and his tax-dodging crowd have not resorted to strong-arm work before and are very likely to have selected to spirit away Hugo a band of ruffians whose instincts would prompt them, in case of alarm, to kill their victims, bury the bodies and scatter to their various lairs.'

‘Can't we get going?' Hjalmar asked. ‘But say, Evans. What about Gwendolyn's show? We can't spoil that for her. . . .She's in a state about it and they won't give her any satisfaction at the Louvre.'

‘It's only fair to look after Gwendolyn,' Evans said. Then he beckoned to Agent Schlumberger. ‘Schlumberger,' he continued, ‘go across to the
bistrot
, like a good fellow, and get a carafe of olive oil. You will find in that corner several modern paintings for which Heiss and Lourde have paid the painters very shabbily, considering the value of the work. Paint out the signatures and sign them all “ Poularde”, being careful to mix the paint with olive oil. . . .'

Sergeant Frémont began to splutter.

‘Select fifteen, if possible, with garages, trees, and farm buildings, and have them shipped by air to the Arson Galleries, Chicago, at the state's expense.'

Frémont had left off spluttering, and had begun to emit assorted noises. Evans turned to him and good-naturedly clasped his shoulder. ‘That explains the mysterious fifty Jansens,' he said. ‘Hjalmar didn't have enough paintings to show Hugo Weiss, so we had to garner a few. Harmless little prank. . . .'

‘Harmless, if one forgets the extracting under false pretences of 250,000 francs, enough to keep five French families alive to the end of their days.'

‘All families, French or otherwise, live to the end of their days,' Evans said. ‘Our problem now is to postpone the end of Weiss's days, and those of my friend Kvek.'

‘Well, let's go,' said Hjalmar, and Jackson grunted approval. ‘How do we get to Frontville? And shall we shoot or bring in those gangsters alive?'

Evans turned to the waiting officers and borrowed five automatics and ammunition belts. ‘Can you shoot?' he asked Miriam, handing her a gun, experimentally.

For answer she took the automatic, smiling, and instantly every occupant of the room leaped into the air. The automatic spoke once, then Miriam crossed the room and brought back with her the portrait of Whistler's aunt. In the forehead, at the spot corresponding exactly to the round hole in the Gonzo self-portrait, was a neat bullet hole.

‘Will I do as a member of this scouting party?' she asked, smiling modestly but eagerly.

Sergeant Frémont reached again for the aspirin, this time swallowing all that remained. Miriam turned to him gently. ‘Buck up, sergeant. Remember. At the end of the rainbow is Hydrangea. . . .'

‘And don't forget the Fine Michel, or Mickey Finns,' the sergeant said, taking heart.

H
AD
the French poet, already quoted by Homer Evans, lamped the Seine in the hour preceding the dawn, she would not have written those peevish words,
‘Quelle chose malsaine
,
la Seine
'. She would have fallen under the spell of the river's quiet dignity and perpetuity, to say nothing of its enigmatic promise, its intangible threat, its surface like idle fingers on dark ivory, the venerable trees (
Platanus orientalis
,
Salix fluviatilis
, and the like), the walls that had echoed secret sorrows, the bridges that had been crossed, the signal lights of blue-green and scarlet reflected in streamers. In short, the poet would have forgotten the mists, vapours and dampnesses, the odours, chills and yearly floods in cellars and would have started off something like this:

                
‘La Seine
,
quand même et après tout
,

                
Est forte jolie de la source jusqu
'
au bout.
'
*

    
The rescue party, armed and ready, led by Evans on behalf of the United States, Sergeant Frémont for the third French Republic (1871–19–), also included Miriam, Hjalmar Jansen, and Tom Jackson, ex-reporter for the New York
Herald
, who hoped, if he turned in a good story, to get his job back again. According to Evans' swift instructions, relayed by the somewhat sceptical sergeant, the prefectorial launch had been tied up at the Pont d'Alma, at the feet of the famous Zouave who serves as a gauge in high water season and a rather questionable decoration at other times of year. As has been mentioned, it was just before daylight, the hour when it is supposed to be darkest but actually is not. The starlight was thinning, the bridge lamps were looking slightly apologetic. Night-faring scavengers were pawing over ash barrels and garbage cans, the central markets were bustling. Montparnasse was rising

                
* Anyway and after all the River Seine

                
   Is lovely from beginning to its end.

to the peak of its nocturnal gaiety, assisted by Rosa Stier, Harold Simon, the doughty Finn and the intrepid Olga, the sprightly Cirage, and the
concierge
of Hjalmar's residence in the rue Montparnasse who had heard of the return of some of the ex-prisoners and had eased herself around to get the low-down on Hjalmar's 250,000 francs, 645 of which held more than an academic interest for the good woman.

The American Negro, whose name was A. Melchisedek Knockwoode, had stopped running because of understandable exhaustion and was walking rapidly north, just passing Enghien. He knew, or thought he knew, what police sergeants were likely to do to the bearers of false tidings, especially when the tidings raised such a furore of hope as those he had borne Sergeant Frémont. As far as A. Melchisedek Knockwoode was concerned, Hydrangea Palmerstone Waite was just another coloured girl of the shade known as soot and who, unwittingly, had got him, Melchisedek, into one of the tightest holes he had been in since Montfaucon in the Argonne. He was going to think the thing out to the end, but not before he had reached what he believed would be a place of safety.

The remains of Ambrose Gring were still in the laboratory of Dr Hyacinthe Toudoux, and periodically were viewed by the prefect who liked the looks of them no better than when they had been alive and assembled. The medical examiner was in a state bordering on the jitters and had been obliged to repeat ‘Every day in every way' and a round half dozen Hail Marys in order to restrain himself from throwing a beaker of
crême de cacao
and muriatic acid at the head of his chief the last time he had popped in and said, ‘Well. The man's dead, all right. What else have you found out?'