The Mysterious Mickey Finn Read Online Free PDF Page A

mine, who admires you very much, was asking for you to-day,’ said Evans, in his most charming manner. Ambrose, who, had he been contemporary with Narcissus, would have outstripped the latter so far that the famous piano piece would have been named Ambrose and not Narcissus, turned pale with delight and astonishment.
    â€˜Not Hugo Weiss?’ he gasped.
    â€˜Oh, no. I haven’t heard from Hugo, although he usually calls whenever he’s in town,’ Evans said.
    â€˜Hugo Weiss calls on you?’ Ambrose gasped. ‘He actually looks you up?’
    â€˜I put him on to a good thing, once, or at least I saved him from wasting a lot of money. It was a matter of a fake El Greco….’
    At that Gring almost fainted. ‘A fake El Greco,’ he repeated, reaching for water. ‘You didn’t say a fake El Greco?’
    Utterly unable to understand his companion’s alarm at the mention of the Cretan-Spanish master, Evans changed the subject at once.
    â€˜I wasn’t thinking of Hugo Weiss but of Miriam Leonard,’ he said quickly.’ You surely remember Miriam, the good-looking young girl from Montana.’
    â€˜Miriam Leonard,’ Gring repeated, still in a daze.
    â€˜Her father has struck oil,’ said Evans, and the change in Gring was little short of miraculous. His dark eyes shone, his thin lips parted in a dizzy sort of smile. He clasped his hands in a prayerful way and gasped. ‘Struck oil! Why that means millions.... And she spoke of me?’
    â€˜You were the only one she talked about. She gave no other reason for returning to Paris, although perhaps I shouldn’t have told you. She’s bashful, really timid, you know. Was raised on a ranch. That makes girls shy. An only daughter, too…. Well,’ he paused to look at the clock, ‘I must be going. So long Gring. No doubt I’ll see you later....’
    Gring was out on his feet, or rather, on his bar stool. He made a feeble attempt to clutch at Evans’ departing sleeve, made a hesitant start to follow him when the bar-tender’s voice brought him back to earth with an unpleasant thud.
    â€˜Twenty-two francs fifty,’ the bar-tender said. He knew he could put the amount on Evans’ monthly bill but he preferred to get it out of Gring, if he could. The bar-tender at the Dingo didn’t have much fun, especially in the springtime, and almost never had a chance to separate Ambrose Gring from any of his francs.
    â€˜Oh, dear. Oh, my God,’ Ambrose said, and gazed despondently through the empty doorway in the direction of Evans’ back. There was nothing to do but to pay. He couldn’t afford to offend Evans, or even to lose a jot or tittle of his newly-acquired esteem…. Oil.... Millions…. ‘Well, you needn’t be so impatient. I’m not going to run away with your old twenty-two francs fifty. So there now,’ Gring said, and with that he stamped a well-shod foot, took a leather change purse from the pocket nearest his heart and counted out exactly twenty-two francs fifty. Miriam owed him twenty-two fifty, was the mental note he made as he handed over the coins. Gring never placed coins on a plate or a table. He delivered them personally, with proper regard for their nature and their magic properties. Once the operation of payment was over, he wiped his brow with a mauve silk handkerchief and hurried out into the evening, jostling passers-by as he desperately sought a glimpse of Homer Evans. Every strange girl looked western to him, and he paused, his jaw dropped, his eyes grew bright with anticipation when one by one the regulars of the sidewalk, whom in his perturbation Gring failed to recognize, said:’ ‘’ello, chérie’ or ‘ Où allez-vous, cher Monsieur?’
    Meanwhile Evans was approaching the Select, where Miriam was waiting demurely at one of the tables in the rear of the terrasse. In order to be sure that she