The Mysterious Mickey Finn (24 page)

The vice-president of the
Artistes Français
nodded and tried to compose himself. Abel, too, tried to introduce an element of calm into the proceedings.

‘I know,' he began suavely, ‘that it seems unreasonable to you, asking for six Old Masters in eighteen hours, but we must ship them early to-morrow morning. Otherwise all of us will lose out. The six the cops have will be sent to the Louvre. That don't mean a thing. This guy Evans who knows so much that isn't good for him will find himself behind the eightball. Now we're going to let you in a secret, something big. One of our associates has just developed a method of sensitizing canvas so it will take a photographic print. Do you get me?' Abel smiled delightedly. Paty de Pussy was still in the fog but his hand was no longer shaking, merely shimmering a bit. Abel continued:

‘Don't you catch on? We sensitize a canvas, a piece off that roll you got in Toledo. We make a photograph of a Greco, enlarge it to natural size, print it on the canvas and then you get busy with the colours. You know as well as I do that most of the time copying Old Masters is wasted in the draughtsmanship, in getting the exact lines and proportions. Am I right or wrong?'

Paty de Pussy nodded. The winter of his discontent was letting up a little. It was true that with an accurate drawing, photographically shaded, on the canvas, he could do a rapid job of colouring. ‘I'll do the best I can,' he said. ‘But for rush work like that I ought to get a higher fee.'

‘Time and a half for night work,' Dodo said, magnanimously. ‘Let's go. Fix up an El Greco palette, and for the love of God, watch that crimson in the candle flame. Greco didn't use cochineal till he was almost as old as you are. I got that straight.'

‘Indeed. I'm glad to know that,' Paty de Pussy said. ‘I must use a crimson lake, or alizarin, and ten to one it'll crack within sixty or seventy years.'

Dodo beamed.
‘Maitre
,' he said, ‘if it lasts even forty years, I'll kiss you on both cheeks in Heaven.'

‘I trust you'll take no such liberties,' Paty de Pussy said, coldly. ‘The fact that we enter into a commercial agreement does not imply social equality.'

‘Have it your own way, only get started mixing colours. My partner'n I will do the photography, and we're goin' to do it right here. Have Adolphe fix up plenty of salami and eggs and get in a few cold bottles of beer,' Dodo said.

T
HE
wild race to Frontville was proceeding at an ever-increasing pace as the horses and their riders warmed to their respective tasks. Evans, in the lead, galloped recklessly through the woods, dodging trees, his mount leaping fallen timber and stumps. The map he held in his hand, fluttering like a banner, and from time to time he glanced at it and changed his direction slightly.

‘There's the island,' he cried at last. And as the two gangsters from the
Deuxième Pays
broke cover at the same instant, he added: ‘Rope them, Miriam. Quick.'

With practised hand, Miriam let fly with the long halter rope she had already knotted and coiled. The noose slipped over the shoulders of the panting gangsters and it was the work of a moment to-dismount and tie them up. Imagine the surprise of the rescuers when, engaged in that pursuit, they saw Tom Jackson trot into the area, his head still wrapped in a bar towel. He had acted on the tip from Mme Sosthène, had found the huge grey barge, and on it, hidden deep in the hay, the taxi of Lvov Kvek.

Swiftly Evans gave his instructions. They mounted, Jackson taking Miriam's horse and the girl vaulting lightly up in front of Homer. There was a splash as the hooves hit the water, a moment of floundering in the channel, then the tip of the island was gained. As he rode, Evans made a quick survey of the situation. Then a bullet whipped the air just over their heads and Evans saw a man running from a clearing in the centre to the northern extremity. Another fugitive, taking an easier route, dived in straight opposite Frontville, where at the landing a brick-red snub-nosed tug was waiting.

There was not an instant of indecision in Evans' mind. Why, if the gang was to make its getaway on the tug, should one of them head for the opposite end of the island? And where did all the old-fashioned ammunition and firearms come from? The dugouts, of course. The dugouts contained explosives. Impossible to say how much T.N.T. It was to Miriam he turned without hesitation. ‘Ride the man down,' he said hoarsely, slipping from the horse and pointing to the north. ‘If he stoops or kneels, shoot him instantly.'

With that Homer started running toward the clearing where the dugouts were, with Hjalmar and Frémont close behind him. There were three entrances, all looking very much alike. Selecting the middle one, he motioned his companions to enter the others, one left, one right. There was an ominous silence everywhere, broken only by the heavy breathing of the trio. Jackson, without instructions, had started towards the tug boat, met a rain of machine-gun bullets and dropped into a wallow for safety.

The dugout Evans had chosen had steep ladders of decaying boards and there was an odour of stale cigarette smoke. He ripped off a blanket from a chamber entrance well below the surface of the ground and saw the body of Hugo Weiss, the head wrapped in a cement sack, hands and ankles bound with wire. With frenzied effort Evans slung the multi-millionaire over his shoulder and mounted the ladders again, his heart straining, his breath rasping his throat and lungs. Rungs broke, he slipped, his burden shifted, but foot by foot he worked his way upward and after what seemed hours to him reached the surface. There he did what for anyone else would have appeared to be an insane act. Still holding the unconscious Hugo on his shoulder he made straight for the river, and as the earth seemed to rise with a dull roar dived deep into the current and clung to the bottom with all his remaining strength. Around him flying rocks, stumps and clods of earth slapped the surface and odd-shaped masses sank down to the river bed beside him. When he could hold his breath not a second longer he rose to the surface, breathed deeply, then dived again for Hugo.

Miriam, scratched and almost naked, was senseless on the ground, her horse lying almost on top of her. She had started after the running fugitive, as Evans had directed, but just as the man was stooping her horse's foot had caught in a rabbit hole, the animal had fallen headlong, stunning Miriam and breaking its own neck. That it had fallen almost across her body had saved her from the flying debris.

As he tore the gag from Hugo Weiss's mouth and listened for the beating of his heart, Evans was sick with foreboding. Weiss was alive, badly smothered and half drowned, nevertheless he could be revived, Evans thought. It was of his companions and the stout-hearted Kvek that Homer was thinking. Was it possible that they had not been blown or crushed to atoms? And Miriam? What could have happened to her that had given the fleeing gangster time to throw the switch? Homer did not dare let up on the artificial respiration he was giving Hugo Weiss until the millionaire's lungs were free of water. He could only pump away miserably, trying not to accelerate the rhythm. Miriam ! How lovely she had been ! How miserly he had been with his praise or appreciation ! Hjalmar ! Never perhaps to roar or paint again ! Frémont's career ! A brutal end to the Colonel's brave struggle to re-establish himself in a strange and hostile world. Tom Jackson!

Had Evans known what had transpired since last he had called the roll, he would have worked on Hugo with more gusto. The builders of the dugouts, those Frogs whom Hjalmar had conceded were not too dumb, had pointed them carefully away from the town of FrontyiUe. If the enemy spied them out and blew them up, filled with high explosives, the Frogs had figured that the force of the explosion would be spent in the other direction, towards the empty wood. How right they were had been demonstrated by the afternoon's proceedings. Hjalmar, at the bottom of the left hand dugout, had found Kvek, also bound and gagged, had lugged him out in a jiffy, and had started toward Frontville, thinking that if there were no vodka there, at least there would be brandy. And for reviving a weary Russian nothing weaker than brandy will do. The explosion, when it came, knocked him flat on his face but all flying objects were propelled in the other direction.

Frémont, having found his dugout empty, had noticed, as did Jackson, that the tug was getting under way and had been taking pot shots at the helmsman when the great roar behind him made him shoot so high in the air that he winged a Chicken hawk (
Buteo borealis
) who was circling over a Frontville hencoop.

Each member of the party, except Miriam, was mourning the others when all at once they started to circulate. Frémont found Jackson, Hjalmar, and Kvek, who needed nothing but untying and a drink. Then they stumbled on Miriam and lifted her off the horse as if it had beenamuskrat. Respectfully they felt for broken bones, found none, wrapped the girl in Lvov's coat and started around the shore. Within two minutes they saw Evans and the limp Weiss, and got there just as Weiss was beginning to blink his eyes and mutter questions which slowly took form and made sense. He wanted first to know where he was, which was reasonable. Then he recognized Evans and Hjalmar and came as near to beaming as a man can who has chewed a cement sack for thirty minutes and then been held under water until he was half drowned.

‘You bring me luck, my boy,' he said to Hjalmar, as soon as he was partially himself again. ‘What an adventure !'

‘You had a close call,' Evans said, ‘and the adventure's not over yet. I imagine,' he continued, smiling, ‘that the rest of it will prove most gratifying to you. Indeed, most gratifying.'

Then he noticed that Colonel Kvek was bearing the unconscious girl in his arms, and his agitation, had Miriam been able to witness it, would have caused her to swoon again.

The Mysterious Mickey Finn

A
SCENE
of a different character was taking place in the
préfecture
specifically in the ward Ste Anne. A tall, hollow-cheeked man, Lord Stewe, was holding a tall silk hat in his hand. He was flanked by a squad of under-secretaries, all with grey-striped trousers, frock coats, and tall hats as well. They all were being held off by a squad of lady bassos and baritones while the prefect, M. Crayon de Crayon, was being sought. One of the bassos, in fact, was humming a topical ditty which began:

                
‘
Hail jolly ambassador Stewe

                
There's nothing the bugger won't do.
'

The message sent by the frantic Maggie had reached the British Embassy, and when calls for help by British subjects reach the right party, tall hats begin to move.

‘I beg your pardon, ambassador,' the prefect began.

‘First, monsieur, I should like to talk with Miss Dickinson,' the British ambassador said.

‘We have no Miss Dickinson, only a demented girl named Mademoiselle Montana, member of the picture bandit gang,' the prefect said.

‘For the sake of form, I should like to see what you have,' the ambassador said suavely.

‘Certainly, if you wish,' the prefect said.

Now Maggie was a stalwart girl, but several hours in a tepid bath, with only garlic sausage and wine for nourishment, will do much to cool the ardour of a lovesick maiden. Maggie had been thinking, not of Hjalmar and the chilly studio in the rue Montparnasse, but of England, her respectable parents, her quiet, comfortable home, and of a village lad who, during her brief stay there, had begged her to give up carousing in modern Babylon and let him take care of her in a steady way. At the time, she had not even thought of the lad seriously. She had burned for Hjalmar, for self-sacrifice and abuse. The immersion therapy in the salle Ste Anne had accomplished the transformation. When the ambassador showed up, he clinched the matter.

‘You're evidently British,' he said, sternly, while she tried to cover herself with the bath curtains. ‘What, may I ask, are you doing here?'

‘I came looking for a man,' she stammered, awed by the formal clothes and official manner. ‘My bloke had got himself pinched. No tellin' what for.'

‘Why was this girl detained?' the ambassador demanded of the prefect.

‘She admitted consorting with a desperate criminal, Gonzo, who has beaten up two dozen of my policemen and showered me with violet ink, to say nothing of swindling an American out of 250,000 francs. . . .'

‘Americans ask for swindling,' the ambassador said. ‘You may do what you like with Americans, or Gonzos, but I must insist that you clothe this young woman and release her immediately.'

‘She came here of her own accord. She'll only come right back,' the prefect said.

‘I'll see that she doesn't come back. She will leave for England at once, and will not return. I will take it upon myself to guarantee that she receives no further visas.' Then he turned to Maggie. ‘Young woman,' he said, ‘it does not befit respectable Englishwomen to run after desperados, and foreign desperados at that. You should return to your native village, your worthy parents ... er, you have worthy parents, have you not?'

Maggie, almost hypnotized, nodded.

‘I thought so,' the ambassador continued. ‘Fly to them and ask their forgiveness. Say I recommended that they forgive you without any nonsense. And isn't there a swain ...? There ought to be a swain.'

‘There is. He's a good, honest lad, and steady, too,' Maggie sobbed.

‘Tell him I recommend that he forgive and forget. That's it. Forgive and forget. Only, Miss Dickinson, don't give him too much to forget. Take it a bit easy with the confessions, my girl. A steady young swain shouldn't be overburdened with pages from his lassie's past. Might use them as an excuse to drink too much and brood.'

‘If you'll only let me out of here, I'll do as you direct, sir,' Maggie said, shivering, and the interview was closed.