The Mysterious Mickey Finn (3 page)

Suddenly Evans saw light, and immediately afterwards felt real dismay. The girl's two hours of Czerny, played too conscientiously, had mechanized her reactions. She might feel all the drama of Bach and the poetry of Chopin when reading a score silently, but once at the piano she would fall into the exact monotonous pattern of the finger exercises.

‘I couldn't teach, I couldn't play. I couldn't stay at home and do nothing. What can I do?' she asked.

‘Believe me, I'm very sorry,' Evans said. ‘I'm sure that something can be done but just at the moment I don't know what it is. Why not let me sleep a few hours, then meet me at the Select at nine o' clock?... Perhaps we can work out something then.'

‘You're very kind,' she said.

‘You've made me feel like a brute,' said Evans, dismally, and started for the bedroom.

A
T
four o'clock Homer Evans awoke, refreshed. He was glad to be in his apartment, which was arranged to his taste; he was thankful that the apartment was in Montparnasse. He remembered coincidently with his waking that he had a few odd bits of advice to formulate for some of his friends but nothing seemed formidable or even annoying. He pulled a cord at his bedside which released a small American flag so that it fluttered just outside one of his bedroom windows. That done, he stretched and flexed his muscles leisurely and stepped into the needle bath.

‘A shower bath is an abject copy from nature,' he often said. ‘A needle bath, coming at you more or less horizontally, is an improvement by man. Also, it does not half blind you or choke you if you care to sing.'

The American flag was a signal to his barber across the street. Whenever it fluttered from the window, Henri came over with his implements, for Evans disliked shaving himself. It forced a man to make undignified grimaces, he thought. Moreover, it deprived a barber of his means of livelihood.

As he was being shaved, Homer sorted out his various problems. Hjalmar Jansen's predicament was problem ‘a' and Evans had no difficulty in finding a solution. The Norwegian needed more paintings. It was almost too easy. First, there was the portrait of Hjalmar by Evans, himself. He would lend it for the occasion. Rosa Stier could be counted on for a half dozen landscapes and still-lifes. Harold Simon must have a dozen finished works on hand. Snorre Sturlusson, the Finn, would kick through with ten or so. Evans knew that Gwendolyn Poularde had fifteen ready for her Chicago show that already had been announced.

But what about the signatures? That stopped Evans but a moment. He recalled having read that Titian's faithful pupils, in order to prevent the master from spoiling his masterpieces by revising them when he was too old, had mixed the colours with olive oil instead of linseed oil, so the repainting could easily be removed.

Olive oil it shall be, then, he said to himself. Let's see. The Coupole has wonderful olive oil, imported especially from Spain. Shaved and dressed, he set out in that direction, in tune with the warm spring air and the impersonal colourful crowd of regulars and tourists that swarmed the sidewalks and chattered gaily, enlivening the avenues for blocks on end.

When he chose a seat on the populous Coupole
terrasse
M. Delbos, the manager, came over to speak to him.

‘Good evening, M. Evans,' M. Delbos said.

‘How's business?' asked Evans, pleasantly.

‘Not bad. We've surpassed the world's record for broken glassware and crockery. Ten thousand francs' worth in a single week, when nine boat trains came in.'

‘That's terrible,' Evans said.

‘On the contrary, it's good. The weeks when we only have 5,000 francs breakage, the receipts are correspondingly low. Broken glasses mean crowds, hurried waiters…. I don't even charge the waiters for what they break.'

Homer settled down to a peaceful drink. Problem ‘a' was fairly well in hand, except for the presence in Paris of Maggie, or problem ‘b.' He thought hard about that, for Maggie, Hjalmar had said, had been looking forward to the day when the Weiss windfall would be spent and Hjalmar would be obliged to work or starve.... The English girl's condition verged on desperation and Evans was ready to believe she would stop at nothing in her efforts to make Jansen a solid citizen and a marrying man. To what extent would it be fair to deceive her? Could he tell her that if she would go back to her respectable parents in Hampshire for a fortnight, he would promise to put the case for matrimony to Hjalmar as forcibly as he could? He would try it, he decided, as a nearby clock struck five.

Also as the clock was striking, Evans noticed that Ambrose Gring was walking along the sidewalk in the direction of the Café du Dôme and that, upon hearing the sound of the chimes, he quickened his pace.

‘Right on time,' said Evans, amused, but his contentment was ruffled nevertheless. Gring was decidedly a nuisance. If he found out what was under way, either he might tell Hugo Weiss slyly, hoping to get a subsidy himself, or he would extract annoying favours from everyone involved in the deception, as a price for his silence. Refreshed as Evans was, however, he soon hit upon a plan to insure them all against Gring's interference. He would use Miriam Leonard to hold Gring's attention while the painters of the neighbourhood were filling Hjalmar's studio with paintings, most of which would surely be no better than those the big Norwegian had lofted out the window. He would tell Gring that Miss Leonard's father had struck oil, thus relieving her from the necessity of remaining in the States to teach piano. He felt sure she would co-operate.

Hjalmar was waiting, fidgeting in his chair and stalling off ordering because lunch had reduced his seven francs fifty to no francs seventy-five, and there was nothing at the Café du Dôme that could be purchased for seventy-five centimes. His mind was on a single track, with a large bumper at the end. When he saw Homer Evans approaching with his pleasant smile, as if care had departed from the world, he growled and tore a handful of straw from the back of the chair in front of him. Ambrose Gring was four tables in advance, the best he could do on the now crowded
terrasse,
but he missed nothing of the gruff Norwegian's perturbation.

Nodding and smiling to his many acquaintances as he strolled up the aisle, Evans paused a moment to speak with Gring, which surprised the latter to the point where he was stuttering like a schoolgirl. When finally Evans arrived at Hjalmar's table he greeted his friend gaily.

‘Well, what shall it be?'

Hjalmar shifted his feet uncomfortably.

‘Waiter,' Evans said, without further prompting. ‘One American whisky. No, make it double. And bring me vermouth-cassis.'

Hjalmar began to growl but Evans interrupted him.

‘Don't worry about the expense,' Evans said. ‘Within the week you'll be rolling in money.'

Gring dropped his copy of the
Boulevardier
and upset his
crême de cacao
in trying to retrieve it. The word money did things to Ambrose Gring. He thought of men and women in terms of dollars and cents. He thought of music, books and pictures in the same way. That's why he liked old masters. A day at an auction at the Hôtel Drouot left him limp with emotion, just the sound of the prices. If he had seen Miriam Leonard in the humble financial state in which he had always imagined her, and Mrs B. Berry McGluck of Grand Rapids, Michigan, sitting side by side, Miss Leonard would have been a blur without form or colour. On the other hand, the McGluck millions from yellow pine machine-made furniture would transform the wrinkled and foolish widow into a dream of fragrance and loveliness.

The slight confusion attending Gring's mishap with his
crême de cacao
reminded Evans that he must retire to a safer spot for his interview with Hjalmar, so after three double whiskies and three vermouth-cassis, imbibed in silence, Evans led the way to a small chauffeurs'
café
in the neighbourhood. There no one understood English and Gring would not dare enter, because of the rough looking taxi-drivers, most of whom were steady family men.

‘I've got it,' Evans said, to end his friend's suspense. ‘It's all very simple. You need paintings with which to impress Hugo Weiss. Now paintings are the most plentiful objects in this neighbourhood. I don't know how many coals there are in Newcastle, but I could place my bet on the paintings in Montparnasse to outnumber them. And to the casual glance of the ordinary millionaire and director of museums, the paintings look about as nearly alike as the famous coals.'

He paused to borrow a small sheet of paper from the patron of the
bistrot,
who was pleased that two of the likeable residents of the quarter had chosen his modest place.

‘Let me see. If you had painted one canvas a week ... is that a fair speed ... you'd have fifty on hand. I'll lend you my single effort which you can call a “self-portrait”. All paintings are self-portraits, as a matter of fact, even if the artist doesn't know it. I'm putting down Rosa for six. Harold Simon's good for at least a dozen. Moroni Smith will kick in with, let's say ten. Gwendolyn has fifteen all ready for her Chicago exhibition. That leaves six to be accounted for. Whom shall we give the privilege of contributing the six? It isn't everyone who has a chance to get his work looked at by Hugo Weiss. How about Larry Valley?'

‘Not that punk,' Hjalmar said. He wasn't yet hopeful but had placed himself without reserve in Evans' hands.

‘Flonzaley?'

‘He's a cubist. Good stuff, but we'd never get away with it.'

‘Well, there's always Pratt.'

‘He stipples his colour. We've got to stick to birds like me who smooth it out with a palette knife.'

‘The Finn?'

‘I knocked out his front teeth in the Viking last week. He's off me, I think.'

‘Nonsense. Northerners don't hold grudges. Besides, he chewed a part of your ear.'

‘I forgot I had a necktie on,' Hjalmar said. ‘You have to be more careful when you wear a necktie.'

‘Six from the Finn. By the way, his name is a long one. That will take a lot of olive oil.'

‘Olive oil?'

‘Sure. To paint out the signature. You'll have to sign your own name fifty times. Are you up to it?'

Hjalmar was all dejection again. ‘I knew there'd be a catch to it. These people won't let me paint over their signatures. It would ruin the paintings.'

‘You painters are all alike. You don't know the history of your art, or even the chemistry of it, for the most part. If you mix the colours with olive oil instead of linseed, the whole thing can be washed off and it leaves the painting as good or better than ever.'

‘Are you sure? I wouldn't want to queer Gwendolyn's show in Chicago.'

‘Have no fear. Titian's best pupils used olive oil.'

‘I'll be damned if we don't try it,' Hjalmar said. His broad face was happy again, his blue eyes were no longer dull but were distinctly mischievous.

‘Don't think we're going into this blindly,' Homer said. ‘I've thought of all contingencies.... I hope. There are a few precautions to be taken. First we've got to get rid of Maggie.'

At that, Hjalmar beamed and brought down his heavy hand on Evans' shoulder. ‘By Yesus, you don't say so.'

‘I think I can send her away for a fortnight….'

‘Longer,' roared Hjalmar. ‘Hey, waiter. Leave the bottle of cognac here.'

‘You mustn't get too drunk until the operation's over. Then we'll have a party Montparnasse will never forget.'

‘A fortnight,' murmured the big Norwegian happily. ‘By Yee.' Then he stopped and his face was clouded again. ‘But how are you going to send her away? I've done everything but throw her out the window.'

‘Perhaps you're not aware that she wants you to marry her,' Evans said.

‘She's nuts to want to marry me. Can't you talk sense to her ...? Tell her I'd probably kill her, that I'd be tangled up with every woman for miles around, that she'd starve…..'

‘I'll have to tell her that she must go away, that you must be missing her while I'm trying to persuade you.'

‘She's not such a damned fool as that. She'd know I'd wake up with another tart beside me the morning after she beat it. ... Sometimes I think the queers have an easier time, so help me Moses, I do.'

‘I'll get Maggie out of the way. I'm seeing her at seven o'clock, and I shall tell her she must leave without a word to you, without even seeing you again. Meanwhile, keep this all under your hat. I'll see the painters and collect the paintings. ... To-night at eleven o'clock we'll fix up the signatures. Tomorrow I'll call on Hugo Weiss, tell him what hard work you've been doing and ask him to spare a few minutes to drop around. You must promise “a”: not to get drunk....'

‘Never mind “b.” It will take all my will power to attend to “a”,' the Norwegian said.

As Evans started for the Dingo, the
terrasses
of the New Dôme and the Old Dôme were packed with tourists and habitués. Extra waiters were scurrying along the outskirts, the regular waiters worked incessantly but efficiently in the central areas. At some of the tables there was earnest conversation, at others alcoholic persiflage. The early spring evening was soft and radiant. Evans walked along at his unhurried pace, aware of the reproachful eyes of Ambrose Gring who was wedged in so tightly that he was a moment late in starting for the Dingo. Evans found Maggie sprawled awkwardly over a bar stool, her long shanks exposed, her skinny fingers clutching a ginger beer.

‘Maggie,' Evans began, ‘I've thought about what you said to me. If I promise to speak to Hjalmar, will you do exactly as I suggest?'

‘I'll do anything. I'll bless you every day for the rest of my life.'

‘You won't complain, if things go badly ... afterwards?'