The Mysterious Mickey Finn by Elliot Paul Page B

feelings Lvov’s taxi containing Hugo Weiss disappear into the boulevard Raspail, and having learned that the genial philanthropist had written two cheques for twenty-five hundred dollars to all intents and purposes identical, had telephoned Miriam, knowing that the Dôme’s booths were reasonably soundproof and that Gring, however anxious, would not dare to follow her into the booth. Homer had asked her to meet him in fifteen minutes at the Café du Départ in the place St Michel. It had been agreed that Hjalmar was to throw a party and Evans had suggested a rendezvous in the rue de la Huchette, just off the place St Michel, where he knew of a small hotel with an unexploited revolutionary sub-cellar, an arched stone room far below the street level in which no end of carousing could occur without a whisper being heard above stairs. Monsieur Juillard, the proprietor, was an inspired cook, a genial Savoyard, and would enter into the spirit of the occasion, produce a meal that would be historic, trot out the best from his well-stocked wine cellar that in Robespierre’s day had been a prison cell. Homer had asked the other participants to scatter and to go to the Hôtel du Caveau separately, without letting the news leak out in the quarter. The hour of assembly, for preliminary drinking, was set for nine o’clock.
    Hjalmar, all his good spirits returned and his qualms drowned in excitement, was at the top of his form. Money galore, fame awaiting as the only painter of Hugo Weiss, and Maggie three hundred miles away. He hurried to the Dôme and flashed his cheque on the astonished M. Chalgrin, who, liking Hjalmar sincerely, rejoiced at his good fortune. Of course he would cash the cheque. Who had not heard of Hugo Weiss? He excused himself, after he had looked up the rate of exchange, went to his upstairs apartment and returned with 125,000 francs which Hjalmar stuffed carelessly into various pockets. M. Chalgrin almost went down on his knees.
    â€˜I beg of you, I implore you. Let me keep it safe for you,’ he said, but Hjalmar, for just one night, wanted to know how it felt to have unlimited funds right in his pocket.
    â€˜Don’t tell a soul about this,’ Hjalmar said, and M. Chalgrin promised, shaking like a leaf. While they were standing there, Chalgrin still shaking and Hjalmar bubbling over with animal spirits, Ambrose Gring came rushing in.
    â€˜Where is she? Where is Miriam? She’s gone !’ he shrieked, wringing his hands.
    â€˜Have a drink. Who’s gone?’ asked Hjalmar, knowing Miriam had made a clean getaway and was probably sitting beside Evans in the place St Michel.
    In despair, a picture of complete desolation, Gring turned on M. Chalgrin. ‘She got away through your side entrance ! She must have ! I was watching the main door every minute.’
    â€˜How many thousands go in and out my doors? Do you expect me to remember? Sit patiently, and no doubt she’ll come back, whoever she is you’re looking for.’
    Ambrose gasped, pressed his hands to his forehead and dashed across the street toward the Rotonde. Hjalmar swallowed another brace of applejacks, shook M. Chalgrin’s hand, and lumbered through the terrasse , upsetting two tourists, one table and three beers. One of the tourists, not knowing Hjalmar’s penchant for fighting and having lost his faculty for estimating the size of objects, rushed after the Norwegian and demanded an apology. The habitués of the Dôme held their breaths and those within ten metres scattered to avoid the danger of being hit by flying visitors. But to everyone’s surprise and relief, Hjalmar grabbed up the little man, held him in a fervent embrace, and kissed him on both cheeks. Then he hurried on toward the Coupole.
    At the Coupole he found M. Delbos, who gladly cashed the other cheque for him and gave Hjalmar 125,000 francs in 5,000 franc bills. No sooner had the bills been stuffed into