The Mysterious Mickey Finn (16 page)

‘None of you can speak French. Don't any of you speak a word of French,' Jackson shouted.

‘Who says so?' Hjalmar replied.

‘Homer Evans. He said not to speak a word of French. They're going to grill vou in a minute.

‘The hell they are. I want my money. I lost a lot of dough.'

‘I think they've got it at the desk,' Jackson said'

At this, Hjalmar brightened and began rattling the bars again, until the plaster loosened and fell to the floor in chunks. M. Julliard touched him gently on the elbow. ‘They thought your money was counterfeit,' he said.

‘Counterfeit! That's a good one. Right out of the cash drawer of the Dôme and the Coupole.'

‘They've nabbed all the paintings from your studio. Sent 'em to the Louvre to be expertized,' Jackson yelled.

‘The Louvre! Ho, ho. That's rich !' Hjalmar was beginning to get into the spirit of the thing. He had slept off the liquor and was ready for more, only he wanted to clear up the point about his money. He wanted to be sure it was safe at the desk.

The prefect, who previously had been unable to distinguish a word because of the din, caught on to the fact that the prisoners were exchanging information. Sergeant Frémont had known it, and had tried to listen in, without success. In the
préfecture,
the prefect was running the show, and after the way Frémont had been treated that day, the sergeant was not anxious to help his superior. In fact, the more of a hash of the investigation the prefect made, the better the sergeant was pleased.

‘Take this man to my office for questioning, and forbid these other prisoners to speak to one another,' the prefect said. ‘I'll talk with them one at a time.'

Six
agents de police
with drawn revolvers approached Hjal-mar's cell and one of them gingerly unlocked the door. The big Norwegian looked at the half dozen smaller men, grinned good-naturedly, and after shaking hands with M. Julliard, allowed them to lead him down the corridor. In the office, the prefect confronted him angrily, while Sergeant Frémont stood by.

‘Where's my money?' Hjalmar began.

‘Young man, I will do the questioning . . .' the prefect said.

‘Question all you like, but first tell me where my money is. My friend of the press. . . .'

‘Enough. Your friend of the press, as you call him, is Oklahoma Tom, trigger man for the picture bandit mob. You are Gonzo. Don't deny it. Your accomplice who escaped to America or England is the red-headed Mademoiselle Montana.'

‘Listen, chief, I need some coffee and I want my dough, that's all,' Hjalmar said.

‘How much money did you have?'

‘About 250,000 francs.'

‘Do you habitually carry that much money on your person? Is your art as profitable as that?'

‘I don't mind telling you that I never had that much before. I'd had a great stroke of luck. Good fortune.'

‘Tell me about this great good fortune.'

‘Well, you see. It was like this. More than a year ago, in New York, I met a rich man named Hugo Weiss.'

The prefect turned to the stenographer. ‘Are you getting every word?' The stenographer nodded.

‘You met Hugo Weiss? I suppose he befriended you,' the prefect said.

‘I'll say he did. He gave me a thousand bucks, so I could study in Paris a year, then we went to Luchow's and drank a lot of beer. Würzburger, it was. Fine beer, Würzburger.'

‘A disgusting drink,' said the prefect. ‘When one thinks of the wine. .. .'

‘Wine's all right, too,' agreed Hjalmar. ‘But that night we had beer.'

‘And then?'

‘Then I came over here.'

‘That interests me very much. I have had examined minutely the records of all passenger steamship lines and the name Gonzo does not appear on any of them for the past ten years.'

‘My name is Jansen, not Gonzo.'

‘There are no Jansens listed at the time you mention.'

‘I didn't come on a passenger liner. I'm a sailor. I worked my way across,' Hjalmar said.

‘And then jumped ship?'

‘Well,' Hjalmar said, ‘nearly everyone jumps ship. Otherwise the ship would take you right back where you came from.'

‘A good beginning for your course of European study. Illegal entry into France,' the prefect said.

‘Oh, come. I had a passport once.'

‘No papers. Nothing in order.'

‘I found a studio....'

‘In the rue Montparnasse. We have ransacked it thoroughly. . . .'

‘Not much to ransack... . Although, I say. I hope you were careful of the paintings.... Some of them .. . er. .. .'

‘You will please tell your story chronologically. Whatever we have taken, in the interest of justice, is safe in our hands.'

‘I painted a year, my money was almost gone when Mr Weiss appeared in Paris. A mutual friend, Mr Homer Evans. . . .'

‘The American Ivan,' the prefect said, aside to the stenographer.

‘Mr Evans called on Mr Weiss, invited him to visit my studio, and Mr Weiss did so. ... Last night or night before last. ... By the way, is it Thursday or Friday? And how about some coffee?'

The prefect hesitated and stammered. ‘Go on about Weiss,' the prefect snapped. ‘The law is not interested in your appetites or your inability to follow the days of the week.'

Hjalmar stifled a brief impulse to sock the prefect on the jaw, then he thought of his two hundred and fifty thousand francs. He wanted them back in his pockets. He could remember the comforting feeling of them, stuffed every which way, crackling when he moved.

‘Weiss came to the studio.'

‘Alone?'

‘Sure.'

‘What time?'

‘Half-past six.'

‘What did he do there?'

‘Looked at the pictures. Evans showed them, one by one, about fifty…..'

‘Forty-nine,' the prefect corrected.

‘Then Weiss wrote me a cheque for the coming year's expenses and bought a portrait, giving me another cheque for that. I cashed 'em....'

‘Before Weiss left the room?'

‘No, after he'd gone.... He beat it about half-past seven. Said he had to meet a lot of stuffed shirts at the
Cercle Inter-alliée.
'

‘Did this American Croesus refer to the flower of French art as a bunch of stuffed shirts?'

‘Flower of French hell. Say,
M. le Préfet.
You may be a good prefect, although I haven't seen any signs of it yet, but you're all wet about art. Let's stay off the subject, if you don't mind. No use quarrelling.'

‘Why did you cash the cheques instantly, and both of them?'

‘Wanted to feel the dough in my pockets.'

‘You were cautioned by M. Chalgrin. . . .'

‘He's naturally cautious.... I'm the other way. I'd never had a lot of money and I wanted to enjoy it, not to let somebody else keep it for me.... Say, if you think this talk is all phoney, give Weiss a ring. Call him up. Ask him all about it. He's at the Plaza Athénée.'

The prefect rose menacingly and came very close to Hjalmar.

‘Oh, he's at the Athénée? What makes you think he's there?'

‘That's where he is stopping,' Hjalmar said.

At that point the prefect could suppress his rage no longer. His face assumed an expression that veered between explosion and frustration. ‘Take this man away, quick, before I kill him,' the prefect shouted.

Hjalmar, ruffled by the man's tone, got set. ‘I want my money, and I want it now,' he said, pounding on the desk. Now Hjalmar did not pound with the restraint that previously had been shown by Jackson in the gallery of Heiss and Lourde. The prefect's inkwell, which outweighed that of the witness Dinde by a pound, not only jumped but erupted like a geyser, covering the prefect with a particularly vile solution of official violet ink. This was followed by such a wallop in the jaw as had never been stopped by the prefectorial mandible. ‘Now, do you hear, you fathead. I want the money now. Two hundred and fifty thousand ...'

At that moment the number of police and attendants who jumped on Hjalmar did not reach two hundred and fifty thousand but it was well up in the three figure column. Those nearest he tossed into the air, swatting them with his fists, side-swiping others with his elbows, disabling still others with his knees and feet. Fortunately he had no necktie on, but unfortunately he had no belt, either, and his trousers started slipping down around his knees, adding to an already staggering handicap. Rabelais has truly said that a man without breeches is in no condition to right wrongs. The Arabs, scenting battle, roared and yelled approvingly, knowing that if Hjalmar was even in moderate form a number of unbelievers would get plenty of what all good Mohammedans prayed constantly that Christians should receive. Rosa Stier, hearing the racket, started protesting in her rich baritone. Cirage squealed. Olga shouted: ‘Who touches a hair of that grey head dies like a dog. March on, you blighters.' Jackson added to the din by singing happily: ‘Bury me not on the lone prairie.' At last the combined police force got Hjalmar into a cell and locked the door, then busied themselves with their injured companions. Dr Hyacinthe Toudoux was wiping violet ink from the prefect's eyes.

‘I warned you against awakening the man too soon,' the doctor said.

‘Never mind that. Shall I be blind? I can't see,' the prefect roared.

‘I have never had experience with such vile ink before,' said the doctor. ‘Time marches on, and will tell.'

The groans of the wounded and the sharp odour of drugs and medicaments added to the disarray of the formerly orderly
préfecture
as Sergeant Frémont set out for the Café de la Paix.

He did not see, as he left, a distraught, lanky red-headed girl on her way across the square in front of Notre Dame, nor hear her murmuring, with a broad Hampshire twang: ‘Hjalmar's in trouble ! He needs me ! The police are foreigners and fools, but they'll have
me
to deal with. I'm a British subject, thank God, and I'll stand none of their nonsense.'

‘I'
M
getting increasingly anxious about Gring,' Evans was saying to Miriam.

‘That's the only anxiety I cannot share with you,' she said. ‘My documents, sealed and attested, say that I'm your stenographer, secretary, amanuensis, and slave, but there's nothing in them about worrying over Ambrose Gring.'

‘Don't joke about it. I've a terrible presentiment,' said Evans.

She accepted his mood. ‘Well, whatever happens, you'll be in the best tradition. A private detective who stoppeth one of three murders is doing as well as can be expected.'

‘Since I was forced into this distasteful business I'd hoped to better the record,' he said.

‘Always the perfectionist,' she murmured.

‘Another factor also is troubling me. . ..'

‘Is it Henri, the barber, by any chance?'

‘Look here, young woman,' Evans said, severely, although he was secretly pleased. ‘If you're going to anticipate all of my conclusions....'

‘I'm sorry that I spelled that word ...' she quoted.

‘Why should Henri be seeking me so feverishly in the Hôtel des Hirondelles? He's never bothered about me before, unless I flagged him. We've a good half-hour before I'm supposed to give myself up at the Café de la Paix. Let's toddle along to the rue Campagne Premiere, if you don't mind.'

‘But the police?'

‘They'll never think of looking for me there.'

‘I hope you're right,' she said.

Their next taxi was driven by an American ex-service man, coloured. It brought them to the little shop where Henri the barber worked and lived, but there was no sign of Henri. Instead Henri's wife grasped Evans by the arm and began to cry. Where had he been? Why was her husband acting so strangely? Henri had come home, said he must find Evans, then later he had returned, pale and frightened, mumbled that he must get away, that somebody was after him.

‘My dear woman,' Evans said. ‘You must calm yourself. Your husband is safe, I'm sure. I called him this morning for a rather difficult and unusual tonsorial job, which he performed with credit. If later he wanted to see me, no doubt he has picked up some information which may be useful. Dry your eyes and go to bed. When Henri comes, he'll wake you.'

‘Small chance. Ah, men,' she said, but in a less hysterical manner. It was clear that she was trusting Evans, and the knowledge of that fact added to Evans' dismay.

‘We might try the Dingo,' Evans said. ‘It's possible the bartender may have seen Henri.'

At the Dingo there was a small crowd, all intent on alcohol and each other, and none of them knew that on the
terrasse
of the Dôme not a hundred yards away a grisly drama was being enacted, and badly enacted at that. Joe, the bartender, greeted Evans uneasily and motioned for him to follow to the kitchen.

‘Have you seen Henri?' Evans asked.

‘Now how did you know I was going to ask about Henri?' the bartender said, almost indignantly.

‘I'm nothing but a repository for inconsequential personal information,' Evans said. ‘That's what I've become.'

‘The cops are on your trail. I suppose you know that,' Joe said.

‘Well-meaning fellows,' said Evans. ‘Nearly always mistaken, but really not vicious, you know.'

‘Well, you know your own business,' Joe said. ‘But they haven't found Weiss yet and they claim you're mixed up in the kidnapping, or whatever it was.'

‘Absurd,' said Evans.

‘That's what I told 'em,' said Joe, ‘but those saps never pay any attention to what I say.'

‘Now what about Henri?' Evans asked.

Joe's honest face clouded. ‘He's been coming in here now and then. Likes beans.'