The Mysterious Mickey Finn (11 page)

‘No, worse luck. They pinched me at the Plaza Athénée.'

‘As good a place as any,' said the ambassador. ‘Well. Keep me posted, boy. So long.'

While these events were taking place Homer Evans had by no means been idle. Henri, the barber, had been secretly summoned to the Hôtel des Hirondelles, and he had brought with him false hair, grease paint, and glue as well as his barber's tools. Miriam's hair had been cut in boyish fashion, both she and Evans had darkened their faces, hands, and arms and put on fezzes and burnooses furnished by Ben Sidi and Ben Abou. Also, Ben Sidi had reached into a drawer where he kept an assortment of Arab passports and given Homer one with a saturnine photograph under which was written the name, Ibn Hassan, while for Miriam a youthful one was found. On the ranch as a child she had often wished she were a boy, and here she was, a handsome Arab boy by the side of the man she loved.

It surprised Miriam when Homer led the way, not toward Montparnasse but to the rue de la Boëtie where the art galleries abound. As they strode along he explained what he wished her to do. She was to be an Arab prince anxious to buy expensive paintings. He was her uncle and interpreter. When and if she saw the pair of mysterious men, perhaps dealers, who had visited the Dôme in search of Gring and had seemed disappointed with him, she was to whisper ‘Beano'.

In the first gallery they were shown a Bellini painting of a narrow-faced young man with constipation, a Rubens portrait of a flushed-faced ample woman in excellent health, and a Botticelli that was not rugged, but not suffering either. All along the famous street they strode, glancing at Rembrandts, Van Dykes, and on one occasion a rare portrait of Whistler's father. There they nearly had their robes torn off by eager salesmen.

‘Amscray, your Highness,' Evans said to Miriam. At last, they traversed the avenue Percier to the boulevard Haussmann and entered still another gallery, one of the dingiest and most expensive of all. And there, when Ibn Hassan made the break about expense not mattering and the usual sound of falling objects preceded the hasty entrance of the partners, the distinguished-looking sheik was pleased to hear ‘Beano' in a clear boyish whisper.

‘I've just the thing, a few of the best Delacroix,' the taller partner said, and the other rubbed his hands and made little squeals and chuckles of satisfaction.

‘To a Mohammedan, the name of the painter you mention has an irritating Christian connotation.'

‘He was at his best in desert scenes, Bedouins and all that sort of thing,' the tall partner said.

‘Be yourself, Abel,' the short partner interposed. ‘The prince doesn't want pictures of the desert. He wants a change. Something green, with cows and vineyards....'

‘Vineyards,' snorted Ibn Hassan.

‘The Prophet was a teetotaller,' the tall one explained. He seemed to be the forceful member of the pair. He began shuffling through stacks of paintings and discarding them with grunts of dismay. The entire stock of Heiss and Lourde seemed to be blemished either by a too obvious Christian slant, or vines, bottles, glasses, or drinking horns, or at least, Bedouins, houris, oases, camels, or burnooses. Evans was enjoying himself hugely, for the first time since he had become a Mohammedan and a private detective. When Sasha, nicknamed Dodo, the junior and shorter partner, stumbled on a couple of Corots, Evans shook his head.

‘There is something over-delicate, a little indecisive, even feminine about this non-believer Corot. I'm sure the prince, who is a manly little chap . . .'

At this the prince was seized with a fit of coughing and drew the burnoose more loosely about certain parts of his person.

‘It's the dampness,' murmured Evans. “‘
Quelle chose malsaine
,
la Seine.
. . .” One of your French poets, I believe, admitted that. Are you fond of poetry, M. Lourde?'

‘Sure, I like it all right,' Dodo said, good-naturedly. He didn't want to introduce a jarring note.

‘We're business men,' said Abel, to add a touch of solidity to the impression the house was giving.

Messrs Heiss and Lourde made a dive at another stack of paintings and Evans moved nearer, so he could get a glimpse of those discarded. He saw Abel give a start of surprise, almost alarm, utter a grunt of disapproval and call the clerk who sat at a desk near the doorway.

‘What is that canvas doing here?' he demanded, and Evans' heart gave an extra hard thump at his ribs as he saw the candle-light Greco being whisked away by the frightened clerk, who mounted a stairway to an upper storeroom, mumbling apologies as he mounted. The clerk was followed hastily by Dodo, who skipped excitedly around him like a basketball player about to interfere with a throw. Abel tried to regain his composure, and smiled thinly at Ibn Hassan, who also was trying to be calm.

‘Your honour. It's hard to get efficient help these days. The way that fellow handles Old Masters, you'd think they were playing-cards or something. And if we fire him, we have to pay a bonus something fierce and he goes to somebody else with all the trade secrets,' Abel said, nervously.

‘In my country he would be left on the desert for the jackals to feed upon,' Evans said. ‘But come. The sun is well along on its westward journey.... The prince is hungry and athirst....'

Again the prince turned away to cough.

‘How about a Goya? I've a choice A-1 Goya,' said Abel, producing what indeed appeared to be a Goya, but Evans shook his head sadly.

‘That's a prince, and besides, he's on horseback. His Highness doesn't want paintings of other princes, and he's spent all his life in the saddle. Something remote and soothing. Perhaps that one you just sent upstairs....'

Abel turned a colour that might have been achieved by Tintoretto if he had plenty of ochre and silver white at hand.

‘No. That wouldn't do…. Er. You'll excuse my bluntness but the painting is only a picture of a coloured boy, and not even daylight, just a candle....'

‘The prince is fond of candles and coloured boys,' Evans said.

Miriam looked less gracious and more imperative, and Evans addressed her in Arabic, of which she caught only a few syllables which sounded suspiciously like ‘Hold everything'.

‘The prince must break bread,' Evans said. ‘The prince invariably breaks it about this time of day. We shall return this afternoon, when the sun is at the three-quarter mark and is heading into what you call the home stretch. At that hour, refreshed and ready for choosing, we shall come back to your excellent gallery, and I hope you will do us the honour to let us see that coloured boy and candle. I was sent to you by a mutual friend and acquaintance, one Ambrose Ben Gring....'

‘Is he an Arab? I've always wondered just where he came from,' Abel said.

‘Who came from?' asked Dodo, who had joined them from the loft.

‘Gring,' Abel said, and it was apparent that both of them were deeply disturbed.

Evans and Miriam salaamed and after promising again to return, the one in flowery speech and the other with a gracious gesture, they left the agitated partners and the gallery, now in comparative disorder. Both Abel and Dodo followed them to the sidewalk.

‘Perhaps His Highness would prefer that we brought the paintings to his hotel,' Abel suggested. ‘Just tell us where you are stopping....'

Evans shook his head. ‘His Highness would not put you to that unnecessary trouble. We shall return, never fear. The word of a Believer is as good as his bond, and the words of two Believers are twice as reliable.' He pointed to the sun, which was blazing from its appropriate angle. ‘When the sun is there' (he shifted his pointing finger to the three-quarter mark) ‘you shall see us again. The blessings of Allah will be with us in the interim,' he said.

‘I hope,' added Miriam as soon as they were out of earshot.

‘The best asset of a good detective is luck,' Evans said. ‘Remember what Lefty Gomez said before the World's Series.
Mieux la chance que l
'
adresse !
'

‘Let's have a long drink, and then tell me what this is all about,' Miriam said.

‘My dear young woman,' Evans said. ‘When you are in a burnoose, you must do as Mohammedans do. If one of those thousand of cops who are hunting us from pillar to post, and especially in
cafés
and bars, should see two Bedouins drinking brandy and soda, even the dullest of them would smell a rat.'

‘God ! Let's change to White Russians,' she said.

Quickly they took a taxi to Montparnasse, having gained confidence in their disguises, and there they had the added good fortune to bump squarely into Tom Jackson who had secured his pass to go in and out of the
préfecture
and was seeking Homer in the hope of getting a little light on the situation. They had not been in the quarter two minutes before Abel Heiss and Dodo Lourde came dashing on to the
terrasse
of the Dôme, demanding the whereabouts of Ambrose Gring. M. Chalgrin informed them, erroneously, that Ambrose was still in the jug.

Quickly Evans hailed another taxi and gave the address of a small saloon in the avenue Percier, near the galleries of Heiss and Lourde. Jackson told his story on the way.

‘The longer I live, the more admiration I have for Lefty Gomez.
Mieux la chance que l
'
adresse
. It's better to have luck than skill,' Evans said.

‘Lefty Grove is better, but that's neither here nor there,' Jackson said.

‘What shall it be? Brandy and soda?' the waiter asked.

‘For us, Vichy,' Evans said. ‘When one is disguised as an Arab, one must feel like an Arab, too.'

‘They must feel rotten,' said Jackson. ‘Well, now you talk.'

Evans suddenly abandoned his air of jocularity. Unmistakably he was in earnest, which startled Jackson and surprised Miriam even more.

‘I wish I had minded my own business in the first place,' he said. ‘This affair, in spite of its comical aspects, is serious. In fact, it is desperate. That's not too strong a word. You see, ordinarily when crime is committed, it is done by one criminal alone, whose style and psychology may be studied. Or it may be the work of a gang, with a dominating leader but, generally speaking, of similar temperaments and habits. This maze of iniquity in which we all have been innocently involved, is not so simple as that. No, indeed. Not nearly as clear and straightforward.'

‘I'm still in the fog,' Jackson said.

‘As you know,' Evans said, ‘I'm not a man of action. I deplore action. All my life I have avoided unnecessary exertion and fuss. I do not work because I have money, not unlimited wealth but enough. Quite enough. My duty is to spend it, to keep it in circulation.'

‘Of course, no one blames you,' Jackson said.

Evans continued even more earnestly. ‘Having more time for contemplation than most of my friends, and an idle man cannot have other idle men for friends, I am able to view their problems calmly and objectively and in a few instances have given them sound advice. I deplore advice, too, mind you, but I also dislike to see my friends worry, especially if a solution of their difficulties is clear to me.'

‘In short, what is called a heart of gold,' Jackson said.

‘You get the drift,' said Evans. ‘Now the other day, it already seems ages ago, Hjalmar Jansen came to me in a lamentable condition....'

‘It must have been in the evening,' Jackson said.

‘That would not have startled me,' Evans said. ‘But he came in the morning, when I was sitting peacefully on the
terrasse
of the Dôme. Hugo Weiss had just come to town unexpectedly ...'

‘Why would that upset a big Norwegian roughneck like Jansen?' asked Jackson.

‘Between you and me,' Evans continued, ‘Hugo had financed Hjalmar in Paris for a year, the year was nearly up and Hjalmar wanted another cheque from Hugo.'

‘You don't mean he bumped him off just for that...' the reporter said, shocked and indignant.

‘Jackson,' Evans said, ‘if you're going to interrupt and jump at conclusions ...'

‘I'm all wet. I'm all wet,' Jackson said. ‘I won't do it again. But remember. The sun is approaching the old home stretch ...'

‘I know,' said Evans. ‘Let me proceed. Hjalmar was shy about bracing Hugo because he had only three paintings to show. He had painted many more, but, being a conscientious artist, had thrown them away.'

‘That's fine. I hate paintings. They give me the creeps. Either they look like something else, and keep reminding you of it, or they don't look like anything else and keep you wondering who's nuts, you or the guy who painted them.'

‘Then why did you cover the banquet of the
Société des Artistes Français?
'

‘My God,' said Jackson. ‘Am I already a suspect? I was sent there because I knew less about art than anyone in the office. That's the policy of the
Herald.
Then if there's a kick about the story, the management can say: “It was the reporter's fault. He didn't know his job. We'll fire him.”'

‘Ingenious, but hardly square,' Evans said. ‘Ah, well. In all countries and in every field of activity, ethics are being swept away. The law of the jungle…. But I must get back to my story. Hjalmar had only three paintings. He should have had forty at least. It occurred to me that there were plenty of paintings in Montparnasse, and a number of good scouts among the artists who would be glad to help a friend in need. In short, I was ass enough to propose a hoax to Hjalmar, personally to solicit paintings from our mutual friends....'

‘But the signatures. . . .'

‘That was where my erudition got me into further trouble. Nothing like erudition for getting one into hot water, my boy. I had read somewhere that olive oil, if mixed with paint, rendered it capable of being scrubbed off without injury to the painting underneath.'