The Mysterious Mickey Finn (8 page)

‘You are sure this fellow Iallemaire said “ disappeared ”?' asked the
commissaire
, shaking Ambrose with every word but especially hard with the words ‘Iallemaire' and ‘disappeared.' The
commissaire
had a flair for emphasis and rhythm.

‘Not disappeared. He said “ drove away”.'

‘First you say one thing, then another. Now what exactly did this ... this damned painter tell you?'

‘He just said that they got in the cab,' Ambrose said.

‘Lock up this imbecile until he can get his story straight,' the
commissaire
bellowed, ‘and then bring me this unpronounceable artist. Also this Jaume Ivan and the Russian Kvek. Also lallemaire's
concierge
, if there is such a person and he has a
concierge.
If not, we'll consult this Greeng Ambrose again, but formally.'

‘You're not going to let me go?' Ambrose asked in terror. ‘I've done nothing at all. I wanted to find my girl, who's struck oil.'

‘Ah.
Crime passionel
. Her name?'

‘Must I tell you that?'

‘If you like to remain healthy,' the
commissaire
said.

‘Her name is Miriam ... Oil. . . Montana.'

‘Ah, Spanish. Take that down. Mademoiselle Montana. Bring her, and also her
concierge
'

‘Please bring her here. I must find her. You will find her, won't you?'

‘Patience,
nom de Dieu
. We've got to find half of Montparnasse, and probably not one of them can speak understandable French.'

‘You have no passport. That is enough to hold you thirty days, after which we can hold you six months or more for having failed to report that you had no passport. By that time, if Hugo Weiss is not found, alive or dead, you either will be guillotined or not, according to the circumstances. Take him away,' the
commissaire
roared.

‘Away' was perhaps too strong a word. They dragged the half-fainting Ambrose about six yards, opened an iron door with bars and then shoved. Then, accompanied by two detectives from the prefecture, practically the entire staff of the Montparnasse commissariat started looking for the missing witnesses, Gonso or Gonsi, Ivan Jaume, L. Kvek, and Mademoiselle Montana. It was not more than an hour before Sergeant Frémont, an officer whose record at the prefecture had rapidly been attracting favourable attention, found a
concierge
who had an artist-tenant whom she described as very big and violent, although
gentil
. The painter, she said, had conducted some sort of reception that afternoon at which a very well-dressed and rich-looking man, unquestionably distinguished, had been a guest. The rich distinguished American had arrived in a taxi, had asked the
concierge
on which floor the painter lived and had mounted the four flights of stairs, only pausing twice for breath and not very long at that.

‘He was very spry for a large man,' the
concierge
said.

‘And did this distinguished phenomenon reappear?'

‘About half-past seven. Maybe a little later,' the
concierge
said. She insisted, however, that her tenant was not called Iallmaire or Gonzo, but was named Johnson, like so many North Americans.

Sergeant Frémont beckoned an officer to accompany him and started up the stairs. He paused for breath only once, not wishing to be outdone by a visiting millionaire. The door of the studio on the fourth floor was ajar and without hesitation Sergeant Frémont walked in, expecting to catch this Gonso or Johnson in some incriminating activity. Instead he saw a huge, empty room, with paintings stacked along the walls, a double cot bed imperfectly screened in one corner, a gas stove in another. An easel stood empty and there was broken glass on the floor, but no bottles or glasses, the same having been removed by the waiter from the Dôme. Quietly and efficiently the sergeant examined the studio and glanced at one of the paintings. It chanced to be Maggie, so he replaced it quickly. The cop stood in the doorway, waiting for instructions. The
concierge
, whose curiosity was too strong to permit her to remain downstairs, appeared.

‘Where does this Gonso spend his time? He's not here,' the sergeant said.

‘He's never here at this hour. He'll come rolling in about four in the morning, probably with a new woman since his girl's away,' said the
concierge.

‘Is his girl called Mademoiselle Montana?' the sergeant asked sharply.

‘God knows. I never asked her,' said the
concierge.
‘I should have, I know, but the girls come and go so fast I thought she'd be gone before the report could reach the commissariat. This one has stayed longer than the others. Anyway she's certainly not a beauty.'

‘When did she go away, and where?'

‘She left two days ago, in the evening. Was going to America or England, I think she said. She didn't seem happy, and she assured me she was coming back.'

‘I can't produce her to-night, that's certain.' He reached for his note-book and scratched off Mademoiselle Montana. ‘And we can't wait until dawn for this blasted painter,' he said. ‘Where would we be likely to find him?'

‘In one of the big
cafés.
He drinks practically all the time he's not sleeping or painting.'

‘Who else was here to-day?'

‘Some other painters, one of them a short, stocky woman who looks like a chair, another a French girl who paints trees and garages. I saw some of her paintings when I helped her carry them upstairs.'

‘Then the paintings here are not necessarily those of this Gonsohn or Iallemaire?'

‘They've all been bringing paintings lately,' the
concierge
said. ‘The chair woman brought in some oysters and lobsters that looked good enough to eat, almost. She paints food, for the most part, I think. Each one seems to have his speciality.'

‘If the paintings are signed, I can find out all their names,' the sergeant said. ‘Bonnet, please stack these canvases according to size and show me the signatures one by one.'

The officer and the
concierge
both got busy, and Frémont began to scowl as it became clear that all of them were signed H. Jansen, The
concierge
looked frightened and guilty.

‘
Madame
' said the sergeant severely. ‘Perhaps I should have told you that in this case a kidnapping and very probably murder is involved. Enough of your jokes. You led me to believe, for no reason I can fathom, that these paintings are the work of several odd people, denizens of this quarter whom you know by sight. I find, upon examination, that none of them were painted by this Gonso, and all of them were signed by a party who styles himself H. Jansen.'

‘That may be Johnson for all I know. It's hard to spell these outlandish foreign names. And I was speaking the truth when I said that the French girl showed me garages and trees she said were hers, that the chair woman claimed to have painted the sea food and fruit. And I know for a fact that my tenant, who I will never believe is a murderer, painted that undressed girl with the feet, for that is the girl who went to America and I saw her lying right here in her pelt, shivering, when M. Johnson or Jansen was at work,' said the
concierge
with spirit.

‘You will have a chance to tell all that to the
commissaire
,' the sergeant said.

‘I'll tell it to the President of the Republique, if need be. I'd tell it to a priest on my deathbed, for it's true,' she said.

‘I'm inclined to believe you, although it doesn't get me anywhere. You said paintings have been brought in, and that this nudist is Mademoiselle Montana, now in England or the United States. Have paintings been taken out, also?'

‘Only one,' the
concierge
said.

‘Who took that out, and when?'

‘The well-dressed distinguished gentleman took one with him at seven-thirty, a painting of M. Johnson, and it looked just like him, too,' the
concierge
said.

‘What devilish luck,' the sergeant said. ‘Are any of these other paintings of this Gonstein? No, I thought not. I'll have to take you along to identify him. We'll make the round of the
cafés.
'

‘As you like. You won't find anything wrong with him, unless it's a tendency to box when he's drunk, and a certain laxity with women which is pardonable in a man of his age and profession.'

‘He'll have to find Hugo Weiss, to say nothing of Kvek, an American dilettante called Ivan and everyone else who attended that party this afternoon. Also to explain about this unimpressive person without papers who says he is Greeng Ambrose. If he's not a gigolo, then I'm not a detective,' said the sergeant.

‘There are plenty of gigolos,' the
concierge
said, ‘and too many detectives.'

Frémont turned to the cop. ‘Pack all this stuff (indicating the paintings) into a car and take it to the
préfecture.
And handle everything with care. For all I know these things may be good, or even valuable.... Ah, I have it now,' he said. “The frock-coated American has been swindled by this mob. He came to buy paintings. They all knew he was coming. No doubt this Gonzo, whose confederate is Mademoiselle Montana, commands a higher price than the French girl or the chair woman or the others. Therefore he signs all the paintings and the American, thinking he has bought a Gonzo, goes away with a painting which might have been painted by practically anyone in Montparnasse. I believe that Mademoiselle Montana, as well as this Ivan and Kvek, scout for customers while Gonzo's associates in the studio turn out canvases by the yard. What you call “ quantity production ” and “ high pressure salesmanship.”'

‘I think M. Johnson will explain,' the
concierge
said.

‘If he knows what's good for him, he will,' said the detective.

They entered the Dôme and found M. Chalgrin standing near the cashier's seat and listening to the clinking of coin. Because of Hjalmar's gathering in the studio, the Dôme had got off to a flying start of broken glass that day and its proprietor had hopes of smashing the world's record for twenty-four hours which was held by the Coupole. The Dôme was an old-established
café
, the Coupole an interloper, according to Chalgrin's idea.

‘Why, hello, sergeant,' M. Chalgrin said. ‘I haven't seen you since that Rosary game exposure. Congratulations. Now we'll hear no more about the genial Irishman who's on his way to Rome.'

‘There are thousands of Irishmen, worse luck,' Frémont said.' The man I'm looking for now is a party named Gonzo ...'

‘Not Gonzo, Johnson,' the
concierge
said. ‘You know. The big painter who boxes when he's drunk. . . .'

‘Oh. You mean Jansen, the Norwegian. Why? What's wrong with him?' Suddenly M. Chalgrin gasped, clutched his pocket, leaned against the bar in order to keep his legs from buckling.

‘I'm sure he's not a swindler or a murderer,' the
concierge
said.

‘I want him, and I want him now. Where is he?' Sergeant Frémont said.

Chalgrin began to splutter, then to wave. The spluttering began to be faintly articulate and the waving slowed down so that Frémont could grab and hold a cheque that had been in Chalgrin's hand. The sergeant glanced at it once, then his usual calm forsook him.

‘You cashed this cheque? You gave this Gonzo huge sums of money?'

‘And why not? He's been a good client for a long time, he's even painted my picture….'

‘Very probably he did not.'

‘My dear sir, I was sitting in the room when he did it. I sat there for hours every morning. That cheque is signed by Hugo Weiss. Everybody knows about Hugo Weiss. Why shouldn't I cash it?' M. Chalgrin asked.

‘I could give you a dozen reasons, but there's no time now. At what hour did you commit this idiocy?'

‘About a quarter to eight.'

Frémont groaned. ‘My God. He's had a start of three hours and a half. He may be in Belgium, Luxembourg, on the English channel to join that Mademoiselle Montana. . . . One hundred and twenty-five thousand francs....'

‘But the cheque. What's wrong with the cheque?'

‘Hugo Weiss has disappeared, evaporated, vanished. No trace of him anywhere.'

‘Does that affect the cheque?'

‘I'll take the cheque,' the sergeant said. ‘Now show me this Gonzo.'

‘He's not on the
terrasse.
In fact I haven't set eyes on him since I gave him the money. He started out from here in the direction of the Coupole.'

‘Why didn't you say that in the first place? We've wasted valuable time,' the sergeant said, disgustedly, and hustled toward the Coupole with the
concierge
in his wake. There they found M. Delbos standing on the sidewalk, in the shadow of a tree, glancing anxiously toward the Dôme. He had heard the breakage record was in jeopardy and was frankly worried.

‘M. Delbos,' the sergeant said, ‘is there a painter on ypur
terrasse
, a kind of Swede named Gronso?'

‘Not Gonso, Johnson,' said the
concierge.

‘You don't mean Jansen, Hjalmar Jansen?'

‘Perhaps. He also goes by the name of Iallemaire. Lead me to him instantly.'

‘What's wrong with M. Jansen?' asked M. Delbos, and instantly all thoughts of the breakage record were swept from his mind. He began to yammer and clutch at his collar.

‘Nothing much. Look at this,' the detective said, holding out the Weiss cheque for $2,500.

‘Where did you get it? How could I have been so careless?' asked Delbos, reaching quickly for his pocket. To his astonishment and horror, he found his cheque was still there. He hauled it out, started waving it, and the sergeant grabbed his wrists.

‘You don't mean to say there are two of them?' He snatched both cheques away and compared them. ‘Identical, or a clever forgery,' he said. ‘Don't lose a minute. Take me to this Gonzo.'