The Mysterious Mickey Finn (22 page)

Meanwhile Evans put in a call for Dr Hyacinthe Toudoux. That good doctor was having such troubles with the remains of Ambrose Gring that he was exclaiming, when the phone rang:

‘Damn this ex-gigolo. If he were still alive I would do away with him myself.'

This is what the doctor heard:

‘I'm Homer Evans, the
agent plénipotentiaire
of the United States in the case of Hugo Weiss. Your reputation, Dr Toudoux, has spread far beyond the borders of France, and even of Europe. Not only your monograph
Resuscitations effectives des ivrognes
,
avec notations pratiques sur le delirium tremens
, but your larger work on the use of hot apple sauce and aromatic spirits of ammonia are well known to my countrymen.'

‘I think I was cheated, then, by my American publisher,' Dr Toudoux said, indignantly. ‘The returns were far from satisfactory.'

‘Too profound for the lay minds, or even for most professionals,' said Evans comfortingly.

For the first time since the Weiss case had begun, Dr Toudoux thawed a bit.

‘You are kind to say so. Are you a doctor of medicine, Monsieur Evans, may I ask?'

‘Only an amateur chemist, a
dilettante?
he said.

‘You're not a
dilettante?
cried Miriam, indignantly. ‘You mustn't say such things about yourself.'

‘You are engaged in the autopsy of one Ambrose Gring, are you not?' Evans asked the doctor.

‘I insist that the death was not a natural one,' the doctor said.

‘I'm sure you are right, and the prefect is wrong. Natural death, indeed ! Of course you have covered the routine; strychnine, arsenic, Prussic acid, cyanide, and the like.'

‘Child's play,' said Dr Toudoux. ‘And with maddening results.'

‘Organs O.K.?'

‘Unusually sound for a man who took no exercise except, possibly, amatory exercise, and with such types even that is likely to be languorous,' the doctor said.

‘May I make a suggestion? I want you, Doctor, to have full credit in this case. For obvious reasons I must stay in the background . . .' Homer said.

‘I shall be delighted,' Toudoux said, graciously. ‘If you should help me make a greater ass of the prefect than he already is I would be your friend for life.'

‘In America,' Evans began . . . ‘There's no danger of your being overheard?'

‘Not the slightest. Proceed. In America . . .' the doctor said.

‘In America there is a specific not known to doctors generally, called Mickey Finn. It consists of a few drops of liquid which, when poured into any ordinary drink, will induce unconsciousness for several hours, beginning within ten minutes after taking. The effects, on rugged types, are not serious. Slight headache, excessive thirst, remorse, imperfect memory of events just preceding. . . That sort of thing, you know.'

‘I follow you,' said Dr. Toudoux. ‘I have read of these Michael Finns and have made several attempts to learn more, but none of the American physicians or chemists has included them in his list of published studies and findings.'

‘Ah, that's the rub. The making of a perfect Mickey Finn is an old professional secret, probably originating with the Incas, and the precious formula belongs not to the doctors or medicine men but to the cupbearers or bartenders. It has been passed on from father to son, and guarded safely from outsiders. It has been used to quiet obstreperous clients in tippling houses, to protect reputable drinkers from talking too much, to secure crews for seafaring vessels. Now when I was at the University I had to select a subject for a thesis and I chose “ The Mickey Finn.” Unfortunately for my scholastic record, however, after I had put in two years of work unearthing the secret of making Mickey Finns and the history of their development through the ages, I decided it would be unsporting to publish my results. Bartenders are among our most useful citizens. They have always been the friend of mankind. Let them keep the secret they had cherished, I decided, and had to spend another two years on a thesis about red flannel underwear.'

‘Are you going to do me the honour of imparting the secret to me?'

‘First I must have your promise never to divulge the formula or to let it be known that you know it,' Evans said.

‘Monsieur Evans,' the doctor said, fervently, ‘I am a war veteran, a knight of the Legion of Honour, an official of the French Academy of Science and, in 1910, led the French fencing team to defeat in Rome. And that defeat, monsieur, occurred because I insisted on conceding a doubtful touch which my best adversary, with tears in his eyes, asserted he had not accomplished. The word of a Toudoux. . . .'

‘Enough, doctor. . . . We understand one another . . Now please memorize this, don't write it down. Examine the contents of my late acquaintance's digestive organs for
Oleum crotali confluenti
, that is the oil of the prairie rattlesnake. This oil, you will find, if you find it, is slightly more soluble than that of the diamond rattlesnake, the timber rattlesnake or the smaller variety found in the High Sierras. Then search carefully for traces of
Tine. Argalli spicati Texarkanae.
This is by no means the common
marijuana
from which reefers are made but is a variety of loco weed found only in Texas and Arkansas. Test also the
crême de cacao
that was left in Gring's glass. I'll phone you again as soon as I can.'

‘I shall never forget your courtesy,' said Dr Toudoux. ‘There is much international misunderstanding, even among nations such as ours which are allied. That is not the fault of the men of our profession, the searchers after truth.
Oleum crotali confluenti.
Is there not amity and poetry in the flow of those words? And
tinctura argalli spicati arcanae.
The identical metre used by the lyrical Englishman, Keats, in propounding his famous riddle: Oh, what is so rare as a day in June.'

‘Exactly,' said Evans. Then he called the minister of justice again to check up on Heiss, Lourde, and Dinde. To his dismay he learned that Abel and Dodo had been released and that their bodies had not been found.

‘And the clerk, Dinde? Where is he?'

An earsplitting shriek from the proprietor's wife cut off further remarks. What happened in the next few seconds, Evans himself could not be sure about until sometime afterward. He saw an object hurtling through the air, aimed straight for the open door, a wicked compact grenade with long wooden handle of the type known as ‘potato masher' in the world war. It was coming on, end over end. It couldn't miss the group. With one arm he flung Miriam clean over the bar, knocking over the patron who fell also to the floor. The split second during which his life should have passed before his eyes was occupied by a wistful glimpse of his former self, in pre-detective days, sitting quietly in his seat at the Dôme thinking easy thoughts and sipping. . . . There was a flash, not as Evans expected of high explosive and jagged fragments of iron tearing into flesh. The flash was a grey one and consisted of Hjalmar Jansen's powerful right arm. That was all that Evans saw, but just afterward he saw the ungainly missile hurtling in the opposite direction, away from his friends and toward the
Deuxième Pays
, whose engine was barking furiously.

Midway between the bar and the shore, and not ten feet in the air, the grenade exploded. There was a sudden awful flowering of white and silver flame, collective impacts like hail among the leaves. Four bottles broke and their contents trickled down on Miriam who had not recovered sufficiently from her toss to stand up again. But Evans' attention was all on Tom Jackson who had put his hand to his forehead, looked foolish, then dead white and was sinking slowly to his knees, and collapsing forward.

‘They're stealing the boat,' roared Jansen, and started hell bent for the landing. Three men were in the
Deuxième Pays
, one at the wheel, another at the engine, the third lying flat on his belly in the stern.

‘Look out. He's got a machine gun,' Sergeant Frémont said. He was too prudent to follow the foolhardy Norwegian, too brave and conscious that he represented his country among strangers to throw himself on the ground. Whether Hjalmar heard the warning or not, was impossible to say. He kept going, the
Deuxième Pays
made headway from the shore.

‘Oh, you superb idiot! You bloody splendid fool,' said Evans, moved beyond his usual phlegmatic acceptance of things. For Hjalmar without a pause at the landing had dived three metres out into the Seine and as making after the launch with his powerful Australian crawl. The sergeant wept, Evans shut his eyes, Tom Jackson fainted. Miriam, who had raised her head above the bar, was the only one to act. Her automatic spoke for a second time, then she bit her lips and looked at Evans in dismay.

‘I'm so sorry,' she said. ‘You told me not to shoot without instructions.'

The import of her apology did not dawn on Evans until later, for he was watching the stranger in the stern who seemed to have lost interest in the proceedings. His hand lay idly on the Sho-Sho gun, his eyes stared vacantly into space. Jansen whipped up his pace, his huge arms flying like flails while his churning feet kicked up so much stir in the water that
Goujons
(
Gobis gobis
) and
lottes
(
Boarces viviparus
) fled in terror downstream.

‘He's holding his own. Ah, God. These incredible Americans,' Sergeant Frémont said, and shamefacedly put away his gun which he had drawn unconsciously when he had heard Miriam's shot.

‘I'm so sorry . . .' Miriam repeated, looking at Evans imploringly.

‘You have saved Hjalmar's life,' he said, simply, but his eyes said much more, so much, in fact, that Miriam blushed and had to clutch the bar to keep her knees steady.

No matter how stout the heart or strong the sinews, man cannot pit his strength and speed against a well adjusted gasolene engine with a desperate driver. Jansen was dropping back, and had to give up the chase.

‘Why for Chri' sakes, didn't you shoot?' demanded the bandit at the wheel, spinning furiously to avoid a snag.

‘Can't you see the bugger's dead? Somebody shot him,' said his confederate at the engine.

Now the man at the wheel, while willing to shoot, was not at all willing to be on the receiving end. The sudden awareness that beside him was a corpse, who not thirty minutes before had been his pal, upset the helmsman to such an extent that he sideswiped the snag instead of clearing it, there was a coughing protest from the engine and the clogged propeller promptly came to rest. The
Deuxième Pays
was not more than a thousand yards from where it had started, and was feeling the gentle nudge of a sandbar on her bottom. It was a close thing whether the two remaining thugs hit the water first, or whether Evans, on the steps of the
café
, first yelled:

‘Come on. The engine's stopped.'

‘I'm responsible to the prefect for that boat,' said Sergeant Frémont, and the thought spurred him to some rather decent sprinting. Evans was in the lead, Hjalmar, dripping wet as he was, a close second. Miriam, who had outrun many an enraged steer to a corral fence, was keeping in the money. Tom Jackson, who had quickly recovered consciousness and had been reassured that the wound was only a flesh wound and had missed his brain by a safe three millimetres, was too weak to run but he cheered. Sosthène, the proprietor, was ruefully checking up on the broken bottles. His wife was spluttering: ‘I told you there'd be trouble when those bandits came up the river.'

‘What bandits?' asked Jackson, his reporter's instincts quickly asserting themselves.

‘The ones who had the snub-nosed tugboat and the big grey barge. I said to Sosthène that I didn't like the look of that barge the minute I set my eyes on it,' the proprietress said.

‘Were the men who stole the boat the same bandits?' asked Sosthène.

‘To hear you talk you'd think we had an unlimited supply. Of course. Those crooks from Paris. Could hardly steer. Who else would be passing here at four o'clock in the morning?'

‘Is that an unusual time for a barge to pass?' Jackson asked.

‘When it's heading upstream,' the proprietress said. ‘They stopped for a drink and some food. Ate as if they were starving. That's strange, too. There are plenty of restaurants along the river banks.'

‘What day did they pass, and what did they do with the barge?' asked Jackson.

‘They passed on Friday morning, just four o'clock it was. What they did with the barge I can't say. As far as I'm concerned, I hope it sinks with all on board.'

‘Did they carry any cargo?' asked Tom, fidgeting with his bandage which consisted of a clean bar towel.

‘Hay,' she said disgustedly. ‘And they'd busted open some of the bales. That looked funny, too. I didn't see any animals aboard.'

While Jackson was exercising his idle curiosity, Evans, Hjalmar, Miriam, and Sergeant Frémont, in the order named, were streaking through the woods, scattering leaves, twigs, bark, and brush as they streaked, slapped by branches, bruised by stumps and torn with briers. Miriam, it must be said, was less rumpled and untidied than the others, she having had years of experience at cross-country running on a fairly tough range while the others were more accustomed to slippery decks, cindered tracks or resounding pavements. Frémont, in fact, had never been in the country before, except in the month of August, and on those occasions he had fished and not sprinted.

At last, Evans caught sight of the stranded
Deuxième Pays.
The two thugs had disappeared into the thicker forest on. the opposite bank. In less time than it takes to tell it, the four able-bodied members of the Weiss expedition had waded and splashed their way to the sandbar, boarded the craft and were making a quick survey of the situation.

Hjalmar had gone at once to the stern where lay the body of the hapless trigger man. Since it had slipped into a somewhat undignified position, Hjalmar grasped it by the coat collar and lifted it to the stern seat.