The Mysterious Mickey Finn (32 page)

Happily the boy set out on the run, and after a few moments caught up with Miriam and Evans as they were strolling up the deeply-rutted roadway.

‘You win, darn it all,' he said, and handed her without flinching a grimy twenty-five centimes piece.

‘Take it,' Evans whispered. ‘He'll feel hurt if you don't.'

‘How well you know the hearts of little children,' she said, and sighed.

T
HE
nearest stag, as the crow flies, to the château outside Charenton was on the outskirts of Rambouillet, approximately sixty kilometres distant. He was turning his proud antlers to get a good look at the western sky, in order that he might be prompt at the pool when the stags' drinking hour sounded. The dearth of stags drinking their fill around the secluded chtâeau was more than compensated by the abundance of
Artistes Français
who were motivated by the same general idea. The fill of a septuagenarian painter varies widely, from approximately a thimblefull of diluted red wine to a respectable number of litres of assorted wines and liqueurs. There was, at the impromptu rustic bar, for each according to his capacity. Before passing on to the scene of merrymaking in the host's ancestral park and wooded acres, it should be noted that Homer Evans had by no means neglected to fulfil his promise to Melchisedek.

A good half hour before even the most impatient chronicler could call it ‘eve', the roadster and truck, in the order named, drove up near the grove of birches where the three kidnappers, bound in Deadwood style, were disregarding the Biblical injunction not to kick against the pricks.

The two arrogant young men from the rear seat were still demanding to be taken to a telephone where the matter could be fixed up. Instead, Evans had them loaded on the truck, covered with branches and leaves, and transported to the Madame's boarding house where Goujon, unobserved, let them down gently into the abandoned well where they had ample room to stand but from which they could not possibly escape unaided. To stifle any sounds they might feel the urge to utter, Goujon had been instructed to cover the well with a scrap of elephant iron left behind by the A.E.F. in 1917.

Hjalmar's message had been received at the Grapes Movietone office and was characteristically brief:

                
ARRIVING FIVE FIFTEEN SOBER

The film of the mine-laying operations was being developed by a trusty developer who was under some obligation to Evans and consequently eager to do his best. He was to make two copies, one to be sent at once to the minister of justice, another for the ambassador, the original for Evans himself.

‘Tell me,' piped up Jean-Baptiste, who could not be persuaded to leave Evans' side: ‘Has rigor mortis set in yet on that guy we plugged this afternoon?'

The sergeant, alarmed, grabbed Bobo by the ear.

‘What guy? I haven't been told about any man being plugged,' he said.

‘Sorry. Slipped my mind,' said Evans, and tersely recounted the pasture incident.

‘Hardly worth mentioning, I suppose,' the sergeant said sarcastically. ‘I've so much to explain already. Probably the target so casually perforated by Mademoiselle Montana is only a first secretary or at most, a cabinet minister's son. But no matter. No matter. No report to local police, no medical examiner, no depositions or affidavits. Ah, well. Easy come, easy go.'

On the grounds of the château festivities were in progress. Distinguished-looking groups played croquet or sat in nooks on stone benches on which the arms of the Bourbons had been carved. There were two schools among the
Artistes Français,
one which feared the dampness of the evening and wore mufflers, the other which held that country air was beneficial at any time of day. There were paintings in the chateau and statues scattered through the grounds, but no one paid the least attention to them.

‘I'm beginning to be worried about the prefect and Paty de Pussy,' Evans said. ‘Neither of them are in evidence.'

He and the sergeant were concealed in a shapely stack of timothy hay. Miriam had been urged by Evans to get some rest and was sleeping in another haystack nearby. Melchisedek and Goujon were waiting near the ‘S' curve.

At ten o'clock most of the artists went home in practically the same condition Bobo had been sent home, fast asleep. But, as Homer had expected, a number of them were assigned bedrooms in the spacious house. No sentries had been on guard while the artists were outdoors, but when the last of them had tottered up the central stairway, Evans saw the host make a quick inspection of the premises. As he passed within a yard or two of the haystack, Evans got a full glimpse of his face and thought he saw on the usually haughty countenance a self-satisfied smile.

Long after the arch-conspirator had returned to the house, Evans thought about that smile. Just what did it mean? The man knew that someone had eluded his guards the night before, had smashed a window, entered the château, shot and stunned the sentry in the attic and had seen in the upper rooms, bound and held as prisoners, the prefect of police and the vice-president of the artists' organization. Why so content? The look on his face had been sadistic, but it held a sort of refinement of sadism, a highly developed appreciation of all shades of violence and suffering. Was it the prospect of the explosion, the effects of which were incalculable? Four contact mines of the type in question might well wreck the town of Charenton, or even cause the ammunition factories to blow up.

‘I have it,' Homer said at last and slapped the groaning sergeant on the shoulder.

‘You have what?' the sergeant asked. ‘Or perhaps you'd better not tell me. I'm practically a dead man now but I want to keep my sanity.'

‘I've figured out what the master mind intends to do with his first vice-president and the prefect,' Evans said. ‘He will have them gagged or, perhaps, anaesthetized, and placed in the shed by the river side. The explosion, of course, if it occurred, wouldn't leave a trace of them. ... We'll keep watch here. No need of trying to enter. By Jove, I believe the man thinks he's scared me off, that the sight of such prominent citizens trussed up in his attic was a lesson to me. What arrogance ! What insufferable smugness ! I shall take great pleasure in pulling him off that high horse of his.'

‘For me, huge snakes and scorpions. Black fever. Knouts and chains,' murmured Frémont, turning over in the hay and burying his face in his hands.

The stars were shifting their positions like jewelled dancers of a stately minuet, and up river in the balmy night, Hjalmar Jansen was roaring a chanty as he spun the wheel:

‘She was only a poet's daughter,

                    
But she never was averse.'

Tom Jackson was leaning over the bar, talking with Mme Sosthène. Sosthène was serving the last of the prisoners who was able to sit up and swallow. The
Presque Sans Souci
was proceeding at eight miles an hour, for the channel in those stretches was easily navigable at night. The reporter strolled over to the helm.

‘Are we on time?' he asked.

Hjalmar glanced at the chronometer. ‘Ahead by half an hour,' he said.

‘Gad ! I shall paint, after this, as I have never painted before,' Hjalmar said. ‘That is, if someone doesn't spill the beans to Weiss. In that case, I'll go to sea.' And his rollicking voice rolled out again and was echoed in the woods on either side:

                                
‘La peinture à l'huile,

                                
C'est bien difficile,

                                
Mais c'est beaucoup plus beau

                                
Que la peinture à l'eau.'*

At midnight, Evans crawled softly to the other haystack to waken Miriam.

‘How beautifully she sleeps, our plucky little American girl,' he murmured to himself. ‘Not many women have the art of retaining their looks in slumber. Ah, well. No use crossing bridges, and all that. Shake a leg, Pride of the Range ! Signs of life, O Flower of Open-Space Womanhood ! The cock hath crown. I have a feeling that something will soon take place.'

Her eyes opened, reflecting the starlight, and she smiled. Before they had time to crawl to haystack ‘a', a horse and wagon appeared on the lane, moving in a ghostly fashion without the slightest sound. Two men sat side by side on the wooden seat.

‘Can you beat that? Padded hooves,' Evans said. ‘They've come to get de Pussy and the prefect. As soon as they enter the gate, we must make a dash for the roadster and get to the shed ahead of them.'

                                
* Painting in oil

                                
   Is lots of toil,

                                
   But it's much better

                                
   Than painting in water.

come to get de Pussy and the prefect. As soon as they enter the gate, we must make a dash for the roadster and get to the shed ahead of them.'

When a faint streak in the east betokened the approach of the punctual Aurora, Evans, waiting on the knoll, was rewarded by the sight of the wagon. The horse had gone lame and was limping along with the utmost difficulty. While two coffin-like boxes were being lifted from the wagon Evans waited, then made a sprint for the shed, followed by the bewildered sergeant and the others. Before the two men could drop their load, Homer was upon them. One he caught right on the button with a left hook, the other he tripped and left to Frémont. Miriam arrived in time to tie up the pair and leave them, roped to the boxes, in the shed. Their pleadings and piteous cries rent the dawn, or at least put some wrinkles in it.

‘Where to?' asked Miriam. Her sleep had refreshed her, and she was set for more action.

‘The studio. We've just time for a preview of the shots we took this afternoon. It would be safer to look them over, while there's still time,' said Homer.

In five minutes they were seated cosily in the preview room of Grapes, Inc. When the first few feet of film unreeled, Evans grunted with satisfaction.

‘Clear as day. That was a wonderful camera,' he said.

‘You ought to stay in this business,' the operator said.

Silently the scene of the afternoon's mine-laying spread itself before them. At Homer's suggestion, the operator had slowed down the action so every last detail could be observed. The effect on the sergeant was most gratifying. He roused himself from the slough of despond and again was buoyed up by faith that Evans would pull him through, somehow. Miriam was all attention, Jacques and Melchisedek stunned with admiration. Their surprise, when their leader leaped from his seat with an agonized cry and started hurdling seats and racing for the door, was so intense that for a moment they lacked the presence of mind to follow, and when they reached the open air the faint sound of the whistle of the
Presque Sans Souci
was borne to their ears on the morning breeze.

‘Ahead of time,' gasped Miriam, her heart in her mouth as she ran. Had she known what was in Homer's mind as he paused in his mad race to wave them all back, she would have been more agitated than she was. For Evans had seen on the screen that the truck load of mines Jacques had left in the shed contained six and not four of the deadly instruments of death and destruction.

Hjalmar, aboard the barge, was singing lustily and all hands were in the bow to have a look at Charenton. He had been lucky all night in his navigation, had had tailwinds all the way and was proud of the time he had made. When Evans was a hundred yards from the shed, the
Presque Sans Souci
was not much farther. Ten seconds passed, a shot was heard, then another. Homer was firing as he ran, and thinking even faster. In front of the shed, a masked man was tugging at the cable. The problem was jiot the man on the near bank but the other one, across the stream. There was no time to swim. If the barge got between, Homer would have no way of fending off the horrible consequences. Every one of his companions would die, be literally blown to atoms.

A man emerged from the woods on the opposite bank and kneeled. Miriam, by that time near enough to grasp something of the situation, shot him dead. Evans, to her surprise, started running downstream as if in headlong flight. Her jaw dropped and her fingers trembled so that she missed the second masked man who dashed from the bushes to relieve the first. Homer Evans running from danger? Tears blurred her eyes as she took a futile shot at the cable-cutter, and the huge grey barge slid into the field of vision, shielding the man completely. Then she began to weep with joy, and clasp her hands. For by straining every nerve and muscle, Evans had gained the proper angle and his automatic barked. Miriam, watching him, knew from his almost prayerful attitude of relief that the bullet had gone home across the broad bows of the
Presque Sans Souci.

Evans, still panting from his fright and exertions, came to her side.

‘Shame to kill those fellows. Doomed to death, they thought. Suppose they drew lots. What is it about perverse causes that spurs our brethren to such extravagant courage? For any worthy cause, scarcely anyone will raise a hand, let alone being blown to bits. Well. Let's have a word with Jansen. Then for the final round up.'

Almost gracefully, the large grey
Presque Sans Souci
was sliding up to the Charenton docks, her crew in high spirits, her weird cargo intact.

‘I could have told you there were six of them things, but nobody asked me,' Jacques said gruffly, when Evans explained briefly how near to extinction they all had been. ‘I got four from one shed and two from the cellar.'