The Mysterious Mickey Finn by Elliot Paul Page A

disgust.
    â€˜The man’s an imbecile,’ M. Haute Costa de Bellevieu said.
    Paty de Pussy was angry but he also was alarmed. ‘Could anything have happened?’ he asked.
    â€˜Well, speak up ! Could anything have happened?’ the president snapped at the maître d ’ hôtel . The latter withdrew and in five minutes was back again.
    â€˜Something might have happened,’ he said. ‘A telephone girl at the Plaza Athénée and the Russian doorman both were listen-in on the phone at six, when M. Weiss told one of his cousins that he was going to Montparnasse.’
    â€˜Montparnasse?’ exclaimed the president. ‘Good God! What on earth would he be doing in Montparnasse?’
    At that point a reporter from the New York Herald , who had been busy in the bar and had not noticed it was nearly ten o’clock, staggered into the main dining room and, negotiating in a creditable manner the slippery floor, approached the president.
    â€˜When do we eat?’ the reporter asked. ‘I’m hungry.’
    â€˜When, indeed?’ exploded Paty de Pussy. ‘When, indeed? Our guest of honour, your countryman, is cavorting in Montparnasse, while the flower of French art cools its heels and a dinner too good for King George is spoiling in the kitchen. It’s an insult to France. The fellow should be deported.’
    â€˜Can’t we start with the dinner anyway?’ the reporter asked.
    â€˜It would serve him right,’ said the president. One-third of the members were already asleep.
    â€˜I think, M. le Président, that it might be wise to inform the police,’ the maître d ’ hôtel suggested politely.
    â€˜Nonsense,’ the president said.
    â€˜After dinner,’ said the reporter. ‘This is my first assignment this season with a decent dinner in prospect. Let’s put on the nosebag, then I’ll go to Montparnasse myself and dig up the man. There are only four places he could be, the Dôme, the Coupole, the Rotonde, or the Select.’
    â€˜Or possibly the Falstaff or the Dingo. They have very decent baked beans at the Dingo,’ the maître d ’ hôtel said.
    â€˜Don’t mention baked beans. I’m dying of hunger,’ said the reporter. ‘Why not compromise? Let’s eat and call the police simultaneously. They’ll be looking for Weiss and if they find him they’ll bring him here.’
    Reluctantly the president consented and told the head waiter to wake up the dozing members and to use his own judgement about bringing in those who had clustered around the bar.
    â€˜I would not have thought of suggesting the police, had I not remembered that M. Weiss has dined here seven times in the last ten years and that on each occasion he was punctual, scrupulously punctual. In 1919 he was five minutes late, following a conference with the minister of finance, a matter which bore on our national defence....’
    Impatiently the president interrupted the maître d ’ hôtel ’ s flow of reason. ‘That’s it. We’ll have to make an announcement.’ He rapped sharply for order and said loudly: ‘ Chers Maîtres ! I regret to announce that our guest of honour, M. Hugo Weiss, has been detained on a matter involving our national defence...’
    There was polite applause and without further prompting the members found their places and the waiters distributed the steaming plates of crême de pommes d ’ amour Campbell , a speciality of the chef’s when he was put out about something. Meanwhile the maître d ’ hôtel was in conversation with the prefect of police. The prefect was not alarmed. Americans were likely to do anything, he said. However, he agreed to inform the commissariat nearest the Dôme and to start a search for the missing multi-millionaire.
    Meanwhile strange things had been happening in Montparnasse. Homer Evans, after watching with mixed