The Mysterious Mickey Finn Read Online Free PDF Page B

was an hour to spare, so Evans suggested a drive around the lake in the Bois. His favourite taxi driver, Lvov Kvek, former colonel in the recent army of the late Tsar, was not in line so they strolled back and forth along the sidewalk between the Select and the Rotonde, enjoying the contrast between the chorus of American voices on the terrasse of the former and the Scandinavian inflexions which poured from the latter. Rug peddlers with fezzes and brightly coloured wares walked to and fro in a half-hearted way, a fire-eater filled his mouth with gasolene, sprayed it out and lighted it, long-haired sketch artists with portfolios braced likely groups of tourists and were enjoying a fairly brisk trade. The foliage of the trees showed yellow-green around the street lamps. Montparnasse was hitting its evening stride of those un-forgetful days gone by when mankind was dancing without thought of the fiddler’s recompense.
    As Miriam walked beside Evans, he was pleased to note that she could keep in step. He was telling her about Lvov Kvek, about his escape via Constantinople, his days of starvation in Paris because he was proud and spoke no French and his final triumph over economic problems in the Hôtel Voltaire. It seemed that when Lvov was at the lowest ebb of his fortune he had noticed an old engraving on the wall of his narrow hotel room. He had hidden it under his coat, sold it for three hundred francs on the quai (it was worth much more) and then for three francs had bought a modern engraving to replace it. Each week, until he learned enough French to make his living with a taxi, ex-colonel Kvek has asked the manager to give him another room. He was nervous, he said, and couldn’t sleep more than a week in any room. The manager was obliging and thus the engravings in room after room were changed without anyone except Lvov being the wiser. It was Evans’ custom to use Lvov’s taxi whenever he had a long errand and when it drove up he helped Miriam in and exchanged a few pleasant words with the resourceful Russian. From that moment until they returned to Montparnasse Evans said almost no words at all and when, half way around the lake, he noticed he was holding Miriam’s hand, he continued to do so, to soften the ordeal with Gring which was to be her lot that evening.
    It was not hard for them to locate Ambrose. He was almost in a state of collapse, stumbling from terrasse to terrasse in search of Evans and the oil princess of Montana. He looked more haggard than the rug peddlers, for, being of a suspicious nature, he had been shaken with the fear that Evans might have thought over the girl’s possibilities and that, even as Ambrose hustled from café to café, Homer might be trying to steal her affections and her millions. His relief, when confronted by Evans and Miriam, can better be imagined than described. He leaned against a plane tree, clutched his coat lapels and an ivory café crême hue spread quickly over his rapturous countenance.
    â€˜It’s you,’ said Miriam, and looked straight into his eyes.
    â€˜Glub glub,’ he answered as he struggled for words and for strength to sustain himself without the aid of the tree. What followed amounted to mesmerism. The girl drew Ambrose toward the terrasse of the Dôme and, by much squeezing and willowy hip weaving, got him seated with his back to the sidewalk. Evans, unable to hold back his laughter, had made a hasty retreat.
    Meanwhile, across the boulevard Montparnasse trudged a solitary figure, a red-headed English girl with enormous feet and a large suitcase, hoping for a last secret look at Hjalmar Jansen before she started on her lonely pilgrimage. Luckily for the success of plan ‘a’, she did not see Hjalmar, who was in a secluded corner of the Rotonde with a tall Swedish actress. He had kept his promise anent the grape. He even had kept track of the hour. But Hjalmar had ten minutes to spare and his dynamic