The Mysterious Mickey Finn (28 page)

‘Between four and six,' Evans repeated, with evident disappointment. ‘You couldn't fix the hour of departure a little more definitely, madame?' he asked, fingering suggestively a fifty-franc note.

‘I should say about five-fifteen,' said the
concierge
, accepting the gratuity with a smile.

‘I'll go up anyway and wait. He should be back soon, I think,' Evans said.

‘As you wish,' the
concierge
said.

Evans entered the elevator, which protested his weight with a series of squeaks and groans. Having had long experience with French elevators, he did not push the button for the top floor but for the floor just below. The elevator got away to a rumbling start, and clanked like the clapper of a broken bell. At each floor it slowed down, hesitated, clicked, then gathered its strength to continue. Evans glanced at his watch impatiently. ‘Five-fifteen,' he murmured.' He's been gone a good four hours.'

A moderate pull at the bell cord evoked no response from Paty de Pussy's apartment, neither did a peremptory jerk. The same lack of success followed a light tap on the panel and a series of staccato knocks. ‘The servant not at horns. That's strange,' Evans said, and started searching the stair carpet for hairpins. Finding one just above the fifth floor he returned and picked the lock with ease. Very cautiously he turned the knob, pushed open the door a fraction of an inch at a time, and entered without turning on a light. He located the switch, however, in case of future need, and also observed that the chandelier was in the centre of the ceiling of the spacious salon. As his eyes grew accustomed to the semi-darkness he gave a gasp and rushed back to the light switch, drawing his automatic. The room was not exactly flooded with light when he turned the switch. Paty de Pussy was too economical for that. But of the forty-odd bulbs in the antique chandelier, approximately eight of them flickered into dim red lines of wire which shed enough illumination to disclose the bodies of two men, one short and one tall, hanging limply, their heads awry, from the chandeliers. Below them, on the polished hard-wood floor were two hats, one flat-crowned derby and a felt of assignation green. There was also a pool of amber liquid two millimetres in depth and between two and three square feet in area.

From where he stood at the light switch, Evans could see that the men were dead, and that they were, respectively, Abel Heiss and Dodo Lourde. He bit his lips with mortification. ‘I've blundered again,' he said. ‘I should have come here first. If this keeps up, there'll not be a shred of evidence left, no witnesses, nothing.'

He did not approach the bodies, for a strong premonition made him feel that he was not alone in the apartment. Switching off the lights again, he proceeded along the wall, past the miniature fireplace, a bust of Louis XV by Houdon, and an empty easel.

‘Ugh !' An involuntary exclamation of horror escaped him. His hand had touched something soft and wet. Risking discovery, he switched on the lights again to find that his hand was covered with alizarin crimson and
terre verte.
He seized the palette he had stumbled on and began murmuring.

‘By God, it's the Greco palette,' he said to himself. ‘Not a false colour, not a single tone off-key.' He laid the palette aside carefully, hoping he had not obliterated the fingerprints of Paty de Pussy.

Leaving the salon, Evans turned the knob of a small room in which he found the curtains reinforced with dark blotting paper to shut out all the light. A red lamp was glowing from the ceiling, however.

Strange,' Evans grunted. ‘A developing room.' His attention was diverted by a roll of canvas in the corner. Instantly, his heart in his mouth, he turned the main light switch and picked up the canvas reverently. ‘You mysterious wonderful fabric,' he gasped. ‘To think that Greco's hands have lifted you, that his eyes, which saw as none others, have rested upon you. At least, if all my friends and witnesses die because of my laxity, I shall rescue what remains of you from further ignoble usage.'

‘Blub,' said a figure Evans in his excitement had not observed. It was that of a man in his shirt-sleeves, leaning over a shallow soapstone tub, his feet scarcely touching the floor, his face within an inch of the amber surface of some liquid corresponding to that on the floor beneath the bodies of Abel and Dodo. Tearing himself away from the precious Greco canvas, Evans loosened the bonds from the man's hands which had been tied behind him, lifted him from the edge of the tub and jerked the gag from his mouth.

‘Thank you kindly, sir,' said the butler. ‘I heard your ring but, as you can see....'

‘Of course. Quite understandable. You are …'

‘Adolphe.'

‘And your master?'

‘He was called away urgently, sir. Won't you step into the salon?' Adolphe led the way, but his air of aplomb deserted him as he saw the ghastly tableau that awaited him. He would have rushed to the centre of the room to sop up the amber liquid had not Evans restrained him.

‘Perhaps you can explain?' Evans asked, severely.

‘Before God, sir, I know nothing about it. These men practically forced an entrance here. They have, or had, some hold on my master. Not only did they order him to paint, but they took possession of his developing room and kept me running back and forth with salami and beer. Salami, sir. I give you my word. Can you imagine, in a country where
charcuterie
has been raised to the level of the fine arts ... guzzling greasy salami and thin bottled beer ...?'

‘I understand your feelings, but go on,' Evans said.

‘The master's getting on in years. He shouldn't be driven so. After hours of work, I was given six paintings to dry with the artificial dryer....'

‘Ah, an artificial dryer,' Evans said.

‘Then I packed them carefully, addressed them to some museums in North America. Just after the expressman had left with them, there was a call for M. Paty de Pussy ... I'm not sure but I think it was from M. Haute Costa de Bellevieu. Anyway, it was urgent and my master left, without his muffler and umbrella. That was between half-past four and half-past five. I saw him to the door and watched him descend the stairs. The elevator does not go down with passengers. No sooner had he disappeared than I was seized by some masked men, three of them at least, gagged, bound and thrown into a laundry basket.'

‘A la Falstaff,' Evans said.

‘Falstaff got in voluntarily. There's a difference, sir.'

‘I stand corrected,' said Evans. ‘Where, in the meantime, were Messrs Heiss and Lourde?'

‘In the developing room, sir. I couldn't hear what happened, but half an hour later one of the masked men opened the lid of the laundry basket, carried me to the developing room, which was then empty, and tried to shove my face into the developer. Another man said: “ Come on. He's only the butler. He didn't see nothing.” “ Better leave no loose ends,” said the man who had me, and he shoved my head down again. Another man who seemed to be the leader said: “ Come on. We got work to do”, and I was left as you found me. Another inch and I would have drowned.'

‘Adolphe,' Evans said, ‘I'm going to trust you. I believe every word you have said. I want you to take a taxi at once to this address.' He scribbled an address on some drawing paper. ‘Take this to Sergeant Frémont, whom you'll find there, and bring him back here with all possible speed. Tell him, though, by no means to notify headquarters until he talks with me. Is that clear?'

‘God, sir ! You don't know what it means to be sent on an errand that doesn't involve salami. I shall carry out your orders faithfully. But, sir. Do have a thought for my master. He owes me a lot of money, of which there's no record. I shouldn't want anything to happen to him,' Adolphe said.

‘My good man,' said Evans, ‘if anything happens to your master, I shall be in a worse fix than you are. Now be on your way.'

‘Very good, sir,' said Adolphe, and reached for his hat.

Evans opened his cigarette case and took out a cigarette. He had no matches. There were none in the studio, since the Paty de Pussys suffered with asthma and had not smoked for three generations. In the kitchen he found a few sulphur matches and coughed while waiting for the acrid fumes to pass. ‘Now for a look round,' he said. ‘I want to be posted when the sergeant comes in.'

He approached the hanging bodies of the picture dealers with smouldering regret. ‘How ironic,' he muttered. ‘This precious pair have never been wanted for any honest purpose before, and here they are, as dead as El Greco or François Ier, or Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, for that matter. Death, the great commoner. The disher-out of equal shares. They are dead, all right, but what a clumsy job. First, the masked men try to drown them in developer, find it too slow, then lug them into the salon and hang them with picture wire. No fingerprints on picture wire. Well. They died between five and six, no doubt about that. And they were murdered by unknown persons wearing masks. Let's see what the developing room has to disclose.'

In his first cursory examination of the developing room Evans had not noticed the huge frame which had been used for making prints. It was brand new and, moreover, corresponded in size to the candlelight Grecos. A bottle marked ‘Sensitizer 489' was half empty. In a flash, the method of turning out Grecos while you wait became clear to Evans. The canvas was sensitized, the natural-size photograph printed on it, leaving only the colouring for the artist to perform by hand. Homer was sniffing the sensitizer and looking forward to an interesting day in the laboratory, once Miriam had been rescued and the chief assassin brought to justice, when the door burst open and Sergeant Frémont entered.

‘Heiss and Lourde,' exclaimed the sergeant, aghast, his gaze riveted on the two lifeless bodies, which had been set lightly a-swing by the draught from the open door. Evans steadied them carefully, a handkerchief wrapped around his hand.

Miss Leonard has been kidnapped, whisked away from a bench in front of the
préfecture
while I was spending a moment with Dr Toudoux. We've got to find her, and find her quickly. ... These unfortunate cats'-paws may as well stay where they are. Adolphe will guard them. Come on,' Evans said, catching the astonished sergeant by the sleeve.

‘H
E
didn't say, “ Don't take a drink”. He said, “ Stay sober”. That's different,' Hjalmar said.

‘O.K. Two more brandies,' yelled Jackson.

‘Can't I serve 'em just this once, Ma?' begged Gaby, who stood beside her perspiring parent behind the bar aboard the
Presque Sans Souci.
At Hjalmar's request, the contents of the bar and restaurant had been transferred aboard the grey barge; the prisoners, evidence, artillery, ammunition, and the extra police guards from Chatillon had been brought on board also. Quarters had been allotted to everyone, the evidence had been locked in a large locker which was within reach of Hjalmar's arm. The prisoners and the corpse were forward, seated on the bare deck from which the hay had been swept so the quick could smoke without setting fire to the ship. The tug was moored to the bow, the launch to the stern. All were in midstream.

‘If anybody thinks he can get aboard us now, he's crazy,' Hjalmar said. He was convinced that the danger point was near Charenton.

Sosthène and his wife were happy, because of the money that was pouring in. They had made in the first two hours aboard the
Presque Sans Souci
more money than in the previous six months on shore. Prosperity did a lot toward thawing Mme Sosthène, so she said to her daughter:

‘Well. Drat you. I suppose you'll outwit me sooner or later.'

‘Goody,' said Gaby, happily, and started aft with the tray.

Forward the gangsters were bellowing and singing sentimental songs so loudly that the birds in the surrounding woods trembled fearfully in their nests among the branches of the trees.

‘As long as we keep going I don't see how anyone can board us. We've got guns. We have all the advantage. If anyone shows up and says he's a customs officer we'll scuttle his damn dory. This is official business. We've got prisoners, evidence, and a stiff. I'm skipper and by God what I say goes. Not one man living comes aboard this ship, unless he is Homer Evans or Sergeant Frémont. And let me tell you, Tom, if any harm comes to that western kid, I'll kill every thug we've got for a starter. I'll strangle 'em with my hands and then start looking for the others.'

‘I'm with you. But she's smart. I think she'll take care of herself.'

‘Homer's worried, ' said Hjalmar. ‘We can't let old Homer down.'

‘By no means,' Jackson said.

‘Come around when you're in Paris.' Hjalmar was saying to Gaby. ‘I'll paint your picture, before and after. . . .'

‘If I can get away from Ma. She's hard, but she's softening up a little,' said Gaby, and tripped back to the bar. Catching sight of her, the prisoners roared and howled bawdily, to which Gaby replied with a contemptuous little gesture she had gleaned from an old copy of
La Vie Parisienne
she had found beneath her father's pillow. In short, aboard the
Presque Sans Souci
there was more lusty cheer than might have been expected from a company of men, some of whom were in chains and awaiting the dungeon, others who were being stalked and hunted by the most relentless criminals outside prison bars. Tom Jackson, sipping his cognac, must have had some such thought, for he exclaimed:

                
‘I often wonder what the vintners buy

                
One-half so precious as the stuff they sell.'

‘Moderation's the word,' Hjalmar answered. ‘If I seem to be getting drunk, don't hesitate to tell me. We've got to get back Miriam and those 250,000 francs.'