Free The Mysterious Mickey Finn by Elliot Paul Page A

looked good enough to eat, almost. She paints food, for the most part, I think. Each one seems to have his speciality.’
    â€˜If the paintings are signed, I can find out all their names,’ the sergeant said. ‘Bonnet, please stack these canvases according to size and show me the signatures one by one.’
    The officer and the concierge both got busy, and Frémont began to scowl as it became clear that all of them were signed H. Jansen, The concierge looked frightened and guilty.
    â€˜ Madame ’ said the sergeant severely. ‘Perhaps I should have told you that in this case a kidnapping and very probably murder is involved. Enough of your jokes. You led me to believe, for no reason I can fathom, that these paintings are the work of several odd people, denizens of this quarter whom you know by sight. I find, upon examination, that none of them were painted by this Gonso, and all of them were signed by a party who styles himself H. Jansen.’
    â€˜That may be Johnson for all I know. It’s hard to spell these outlandish foreign names. And I was speaking the truth when I said that the French girl showed me garages and trees she said were hers, that the chair woman claimed to have painted the sea food and fruit. And I know for a fact that my tenant, who I will never believe is a murderer, painted that undressed girl with the feet, for that is the girl who went to America and I saw her lying right here in her pelt, shivering, when M. Johnson or Jansen was at work,’ said the concierge with spirit.
    â€˜You will have a chance to tell all that to the commissaire ,’ the sergeant said.
    â€˜I’ll tell it to the President of the Republique, if need be. I’d tell it to a priest on my deathbed, for it’s true,’ she said.
    â€˜I’m inclined to believe you, although it doesn’t get me anywhere. You said paintings have been brought in, and that this nudist is Mademoiselle Montana, now in England or the United States. Have paintings been taken out, also?’
    â€˜Only one,’ the concierge said.
    â€˜Who took that out, and when?’
    â€˜The well-dressed distinguished gentleman took one with him at seven-thirty, a painting of M. Johnson, and it looked just like him, too,’ the concierge said.
    â€˜What devilish luck,’ the sergeant said. ‘Are any of these other paintings of this Gonstein? No, I thought not. I’ll have to take you along to identify him. We’ll make the round of the cafés. ’
    â€˜As you like. You won’t find anything wrong with him, unless it’s a tendency to box when he’s drunk, and a certain laxity with women which is pardonable in a man of his age and profession.’
    â€˜He’ll have to find Hugo Weiss, to say nothing of Kvek, an American dilettante called Ivan and everyone else who attended that party this afternoon. Also to explain about this unimpressive person without papers who says he is Greeng Ambrose. If he’s not a gigolo, then I’m not a detective,’ said the sergeant.
    â€˜There are plenty of gigolos,’ the concierge said, ‘and too many detectives.’
    Frémont turned to the cop. ‘Pack all this stuff (indicating the paintings) into a car and take it to the préfecture. And handle everything with care. For all I know these things may be good, or even valuable.... Ah, I have it now,’ he said. “The frock-coated American has been swindled by this mob. He came to buy paintings. They all knew he was coming. No doubt this Gonzo, whose confederate is Mademoiselle Montana, commands a higher price than the French girl or the chair woman or the others. Therefore he signs all the paintings and the American, thinking he has bought a Gonzo, goes away with a painting which might have been painted by practically anyone in Montparnasse. I believe that Mademoiselle Montana, as well as this Ivan and Kvek, scout for customers while Gonzo’s