The Mysterious Mickey Finn (6 page)

‘After all, one don't compare a one-car garage with a two-car garage,' Rosa said. ‘The problem is a different one, involving in one case uniqueness of form and in the second case, repetition of form.'

‘I must remember, that,' said Hugo Weiss, smiling. ‘That remark with slight variations would have saved my face any number of times.' He took a small notebook and a neat gold pencil from his pocket, tried the lead, borrowed a real pencil from Gwendolyn and wrote: ‘uniqueness, repetition, not to be compared.'

‘I may even work it into my speech to-night,' he said, reaching for another sherry. ‘You don't mind?'

‘I should feel honoured,' Rosa said, and slapped him on the knee.

By the time they got to the portraits, the atmosphere of the studio had cleared, and also the sharp edge had been lost from the light. Hjalmar was in a sort of trance, incapable of speech or motion, and this made an excellent impression on Weiss, who attributed his embarrassment to natural modesty.

‘I'm seldom wrong about people,' the millionaire repeated.

The moment came when Evans had to produce the alleged self-portrait and that time Hugo Weiss was what might be called ‘electrified'.

‘Ah ! Amazing,' he said. ‘I've never seen a thing like that before.' He got up, walked to the easel, peered at the brushstrokes, turned and scowled at Hjalmar, who ducked as if the millionaire had thrown a belaying pin.

‘Young man,' began Hugo, sternly, ‘I've known all along you had talent, and industry. I see now you have genius. You must go on, by all means. You must work, work, work, without thought of ordinary cares.' The philanthropist reached impulsively for his chequebook and a fountain pen.' Let me see. I gave you a thousand dollars. Not enough, my boy. Not enough. This year I'm going to do better….'

Hjalmar, bewildered, made as if to protest.

With a sweep of his hand towards the portrait, Weiss said: ‘My reward is there. You've freed yourself from academic shackles, you've got the mud all out of your palette.... Gad ! And I hadn't noticed the pose, before. How on earth did you do it, my boy? I've seen self-portraits by Rembrandt, Goya, by Cezanne. But in all of them, the eyes were staring straight at you, and followed you wherever you went. A bit disconcerting at times, not the thing for one's home. But you have painted yourself in half profile.'

‘Uh, uh. That's torn it,' muttered Rosa, and Evans crushed a sherry glass in his hand, as if it were an eggshell, and a pigeon's egg at that.

‘You must have used two mirrors,' Weiss went on.

‘Yes. Double mirrors,' mumbled Hjalmar, and they all breathed again.

‘By George. I want that portrait,' said Weiss, and grabbed for the cheque book again. He wrote a cheque for the year's sustenance and handed it to Hjalmar, who shamefacedly put it in his pocket without reading it. Then he took his pen in hand and said: ‘I'm buying that self-portrait....'

‘But, after all...' Hjalmar said.

‘No, no. Don't try to give it away,' said Weiss, holding up his hand. ‘My boy. A painting is either worth a fair amount of money or it's worth nothing at all. I know you'd give me every painting in the room, if I asked for them….'

‘Sure,' said Hjalmar, and Gwendolyn half rose to her feet.

‘But I want to pay. Why shouldn't I? And some day, my boy, I want you to do a portrait of me, for my daughter. I've refused to pose for anyone, so far. But if you can do that of yourself I want to know what you'd do with me.' With that he handed Hjalmar a Second cheque, shook hands with everyone and started for the door, the portrait, unframed, in his hands. Only Evans had the presence of mind to accompany him. Lvov was in line with his taxi. Evans helped Weiss into the Russian's cab, shook hands, thanked him profusely, and said to Colonel Ḳvek:

‘The
Cercle Interalliée
.'

The cab started off, turned into the boulevard Raspail. Evans stood watching it, feeling a strange combination of relief and shame. He mounted the stairs again, entered the studio, and approached the group who were slowly recovering.

‘Let's see the cheques. I want to see; what price you got for that prize portrait,' said Rosa.

Hjalmar handed them over. He still hadn't read the figures, but the awareness that he was all set henceforth and forever was stealing over him, also the fact that Maggie was far away, that Evans had saved him from exile and privation, and that Hugo Weiss was a brick. His musings were interrupted by Rosa's scream. Rosa gasped, flung the cheques towards Evans and rushed to the corner where the Pernod had been set aside.

‘My God. He thinks highly of that daub,' Evans said, taken aback.

‘Whatever he paid is yours,' Hjalmar said.' Of course, I know you were fond of that thing, but I'll pose for another....'

‘Oh, no,' said Evans. ‘Never again. And you know I've all the money I need. The loot is yours.'

‘Let me divide it with the gang,' Hjalmar said.

They all protested. They had set out to do an unselfish deed and didn't want it to prove to be a boomerang. They were beginning to enjoy the situation, and to look forward to an epoch-making evening. The cheques were each for twenty-five hundred dollars. Both were made out to Hjalmar and bore the same date.

‘Gring's back. We've got to rescue Miriam,' Evans said, ‘but first we must decide where she should join us. We're not quite out of danger yet, you know. I've seen Gring snooping around Hugo Weiss's hotel already and if he gets wind of this and tips off Weiss, who dislikes above all things to be deceived, we're sunk.”

‘I'd better cash those two cheques to-night, in case,' Hjalmar said.

‘I think you'd better, too. But where?'

‘Chalgrin will take one, Delbos the other. I owe them both enough to make it worth their while,' Hjalmar said.

I
T
was eight o'clock in the spacious main
salon
of the resplendent
Cercle Interalliée.
Elsewhere, in the same zone with reference to Greenwich, it was eight o'clock, too, but the people did not seem to be so uneasy about it. The odour of expensive food in preparation, in fact in readiness, mingled with the fragrance of tulips, roses, hydrangeas and lilies of the valley. The resultant atmosphere was stirred with talk about art, not for art's sake, but for the sake of the distinguished gathering of men, all clad in the conventional black, with neatly trimmed beards, practically all sporting the
rosette
of the Legion of Honour in their buttonhole. The artists assembled knew that the guest of the evening was to be Hugo Weiss, and they all were sure the dinner would come back to them, like bread cast upon the waters, in the form of donations to funds for the stabilization of art. Only two men, the president and the first vice-president of the
Société
, who by amicable arrangement alternated with the first and second prizes at the annual
Salon
, knew what the multi-millionaire was about to be asked to contribute and for what specific purpose.

The first vice-president, Christophe Paty de Pussy, had formulated the plan. He knew his colleagues had a frightful time investing their money. Established painters were under a perpetual disadvantage in the financial field. If they were careless and lost their earnings the rich bankers would say: ‘A man so defective in good sense cannot be a first class painter. After all, we are artists, too. We make patterns with money. The flow of currency must be subtle or bold, as the case may be, just like the flow of line. Monsieur So-and-So, whom I rooked so easily, must be a bad painter.' On the other hand, if an artist-investor showed too much shrewdness, the financiers would shake their heads with apprehension: ‘
Maître Un Tel
has his mind on other things than his models. One cannot serve art and Mammon.' In either case, the painter lost out. It had been Monsieur Paty de Pussy's idea that Hugo Weiss and a few other magnates who controlled the world's purse-strings should establish an
Institut Artistique de la Prudence et de la Sécurité
which would handle the funds of Salon exhibitors, guaranteeing a profit of at least ten per cent to members whose paintings were hung ‘on the line' and of seven and one-half per cent to those whose works were placed above the line. Post-Impressionists, Cubists, Surrealists and all subversive painters were, of course, to be excluded from the benefits of the proposed
Institut
and
pointillistes
were to be admitted only by a two-thirds vote. The reward to be offered to Hugo Weiss in return for his acceptance of the presidency and his assumption of overhead charges was that the new institute was to be named the
Hugo Schussschicker Weiss Institut Artistique de la Prudence et de la Sécurité
.

‘French artists would never accept assistance from an institute with a German name,' said the president, M. Haute Costa de Bellevieu.

'I have never seen them turn down anything that resembled money,' M. Paty de Pussy said.

‘It's after eight o'clock and the damned ingrate hasn't showed up yet,' the president said. That was substantially what all the other artists and members of the staff were saying. The committee had been obliged to spread itself. No detail had been overlooked. The menu contained the best that France had to offer, arranged traditionally and to be served with appropriate wines. Members who were likely to doze after eating had been placed at a safe distance from the speaker's place and were to be screened by the roses and hydrangeas, lilies of the valley not having enough height for the purpose. The thing had cost a pretty penny, and some of the younger painters, that is to say, those under sixty-five, were hungry and had begun to fret.

By eight-thirty they were calling Hugo Weiss a pig and before nine o'clock had run through the list of lesser animals. At nine o'clock M. Paty de Pussy asked the
maître d
'
hôtel
to telephone the Plaza Athénée and inquire if M. Weiss had left.

‘M. Weiss left the hotel, alone, at six-fifteen,' the
maître d
'
hôtel
reported.

‘Six-fifteen? Ridiculous ! The dinner was to begin at eight,' the president said.

‘Perhaps he has a mistress,' suggested Paty de Pussy.

‘A mistress, at six-fifteen? With wines like Lafitte 1907 and Montrachet '21 in prospect? Barbarous. But one can never tell about these Americans, whatever country they really come from.'

‘Find out if he has a mistress,' the president snapped to the
maître d
'
hôtel
. Within five minutes the
maître d
'
hôtel
returned.

‘Not in Paris,' he said. Both the president and the vice-president grunted in disgust.

‘The man's an imbecile,' M. Haute Costa de Bellevieu said.

Paty de Pussy was angry but he also was alarmed. ‘Could anything have happened?' he asked.

‘Well, speak up ! Could anything have happened?' the president snapped at the
maître d
'
hôtel
. The latter withdrew and in five minutes was back again.

‘Something might have happened,' he said. ‘A telephone girl at the Plaza Athénée and the Russian doorman both were listen-in on the phone at six, when M. Weiss told one of his cousins that he was going to Montparnasse.'

‘Montparnasse?' exclaimed the president. ‘Good God! What on earth would he be doing in Montparnasse?'

At that point a reporter from the New York
Herald
, who had been busy in the bar and had not noticed it was nearly ten o'clock, staggered into the main dining room and, negotiating in a creditable manner the slippery floor, approached the president.

‘When do we eat?' the reporter asked. ‘I'm hungry.'

‘When, indeed?' exploded Paty de Pussy. ‘When, indeed? Our guest of honour, your countryman, is cavorting in Montparnasse, while the flower of French art cools its heels and a dinner too good for King George is spoiling in the kitchen. It's an insult to France. The fellow should be deported.'

‘Can't we start with the dinner anyway?' the reporter asked.

‘It would serve him right,' said the president. One-third of the members were already asleep.

‘I think, M. le Président, that it might be wise to inform the police,' the
maître d
'
hôtel
suggested politely.

‘Nonsense,' the president said.

‘After dinner,' said the reporter. ‘This is my first assignment this season with a decent dinner in prospect. Let's put on the nosebag, then I'll go to Montparnasse myself and dig up the man. There are only four places he could be, the Dôme, the Coupole, the Rotonde, or the Select.'

‘Or possibly the Falstaff or the Dingo. They have very decent baked beans at the Dingo,' the
maître d
'
hôtel
said.

‘Don't mention baked beans. I'm dying of hunger,' said the reporter. ‘Why not compromise? Let's eat and call the police simultaneously. They'll be looking for Weiss and if they find him they'll bring him here.'

Reluctantly the president consented and told the head waiter to wake up the dozing members and to use his own judgement about bringing in those who had clustered around the bar.

‘I would not have thought of suggesting the police, had I not remembered that M. Weiss has dined here seven times in the last ten years and that on each occasion he was punctual, scrupulously punctual. In 1919 he was five minutes late, following a conference with the minister of finance, a matter which bore on our national defence....'

Impatiently the president interrupted the
maître d
'
hôtel
'
s
flow of reason. ‘That's it. We'll have to make an announcement.' He rapped sharply for order and said loudly: ‘
Chers Maîtres !
I regret to announce that our guest of honour, M. Hugo Weiss, has been detained on a matter involving our national defence...'