Free The Mysterious Mickey Finn by Elliot Paul Page B

associates in the studio turn out canvases by the yard. What you call “ quantity production ” and “ high pressure salesmanship.”’
    â€˜I think M. Johnson will explain,’ the concierge said.
    â€˜If he knows what’s good for him, he will,’ said the detective.
    They entered the Dôme and found M. Chalgrin standing near the cashier’s seat and listening to the clinking of coin. Because of Hjalmar’s gathering in the studio, the Dôme had got off to a flying start of broken glass that day and its proprietor had hopes of smashing the world’s record for twenty-four hours which was held by the Coupole. The Dôme was an old-established café , the Coupole an interloper, according to Chalgrin’s idea.
    â€˜Why, hello, sergeant,’ M. Chalgrin said. ‘I haven’t seen you since that Rosary game exposure. Congratulations. Now we’ll hear no more about the genial Irishman who’s on his way to Rome.’
    â€˜There are thousands of Irishmen, worse luck,’ Frémont said.’ The man I’m looking for now is a party named Gonzo ...’
    â€˜Not Gonzo, Johnson,’ the concierge said. ‘You know. The big painter who boxes when he’s drunk. . . .’
    â€˜Oh. You mean Jansen, the Norwegian. Why? What’s wrong with him?’ Suddenly M. Chalgrin gasped, clutched his pocket, leaned against the bar in order to keep his legs from buckling.
    â€˜I’m sure he’s not a swindler or a murderer,’ the concierge said.
    â€˜I want him, and I want him now. Where is he?’ Sergeant Frémont said.
    Chalgrin began to splutter, then to wave. The spluttering began to be faintly articulate and the waving slowed down so that Frémont could grab and hold a cheque that had been in Chalgrin’s hand. The sergeant glanced at it once, then his usual calm forsook him.
    â€˜You cashed this cheque? You gave this Gonzo huge sums of money?’
    â€˜And why not? He’s been a good client for a long time, he’s even painted my picture….’
    â€˜Very probably he did not.’
    â€˜My dear sir, I was sitting in the room when he did it. I sat there for hours every morning. That cheque is signed by Hugo Weiss. Everybody knows about Hugo Weiss. Why shouldn’t I cash it?’ M. Chalgrin asked.
    â€˜I could give you a dozen reasons, but there’s no time now. At what hour did you commit this idiocy?’
    â€˜About a quarter to eight.’
    Frémont groaned. ‘My God. He’s had a start of three hours and a half. He may be in Belgium, Luxembourg, on the English channel to join that Mademoiselle Montana. . . . One hundred and twenty-five thousand francs....’
    â€˜But the cheque. What’s wrong with the cheque?’
    â€˜Hugo Weiss has disappeared, evaporated, vanished. No trace of him anywhere.’
    â€˜Does that affect the cheque?’
    â€˜I’ll take the cheque,’ the sergeant said. ‘Now show me this Gonzo.’
    â€˜He’s not on the terrasse. In fact I haven’t set eyes on him since I gave him the money. He started out from here in the direction of the Coupole.’
    â€˜Why didn’t you say that in the first place? We’ve wasted valuable time,’ the sergeant said, disgustedly, and hustled toward the Coupole with the concierge in his wake. There they found M. Delbos standing on the sidewalk, in the shadow of a tree, glancing anxiously toward the Dôme. He had heard the breakage record was in jeopardy and was frankly worried.
    â€˜M. Delbos,’ the sergeant said, ‘is there a painter on ypur terrasse , a kind of Swede named Gronso?’
    â€˜Not Gonso, Johnson,’ said the concierge.
    â€˜You don’t mean Jansen, Hjalmar Jansen?’
    â€˜Perhaps. He also goes by the name of Iallemaire. Lead me to him instantly.’
    â€˜What’s wrong with M. Jansen?’ asked M. Delbos, and instantly all