The Mysterious Mickey Finn by Elliot Paul Read Free Book Online

But he hoped, secretly, that before his portrait was reached, Hugo Weiss would have seen enough. Evans didn’t know why, but he was reluctant to have Hugo inspect the so-called self-portrait.
    Some very decent sherry had been obtained, clean glasses and a couple of trays had been borrowed from the Dôme and Hjalmar had also borrowed a number of kitchen chairs and daubed them a bit with chrome yellow and emerald green for the sake of the décor.
    Promptly at six-thirty, a taxi stopped at the door.
    â€˜Here he comes,’ said Gwendolyn Poularde, who was watching from the window.
    Hjalmar looked at Evans for reassurance. He would have rushed from the studio and signed on with the first freighter he bumped into, had he not believed it his duty to stand by and take the blame when it should descend on them. The light of early evening seemed to Hjalmar to be brighter and clearer than it had been at noon.
    A knock sounded on the door, and he hastened to open it.
    â€˜Glad to see you,’ said Hugo Weiss, heartily, offering his hand. ‘Four brutal flights of stairs, but I got here just the same.’
    Evans joined them, having seen that Hjalmar’s knees were knocking together.
    â€˜How are you, Mr Weiss? I took the liberty of inviting a few friends for the occasion, people who have a tremendous interest in Jansen’s work. They’ve done so much to help him and encourage him, that I thought you wouldn’t mind. . . .’
    â€˜Of course not. Of course not. Only don’t make any ceremony. Trot out the stuff and let me see it. I’m sure, in advance, that it’s all right. Seldom make a mistake in sizing up the younger men, if I do make a bloomer now and then on old masters.’
    One by one, Gwendolyn, Rosa, Harold Simon, and Sturlusson were presented and Hjalmar, after trying to manage the tray and accidentally lofting three or four glasses of sherry over his left shoulder, asked the Finn if he’d pass around the drinks.
    â€˜Unluckily I haven’t much time,’ Weiss said. ‘I’ve got to attend that infernal banquet. What on earth shall I say? I don’t like respectable painters. They don’t even like themselves or each other. Can you imagine four or five of the Salon crowd coming together like this and trying to encourage another artist? Never. It’s here, in the garrets, that honest work is done and honest judgements are made. No pretence. No fake. ...’
    That time even Sturlusson dropped the tray. ‘I tink I go,’ he said, but thought better of it and sat down moodily in a corner. Evans was trying to decide just where to begin. With a banquet staring him in the face, Hugo Weiss could not be expected to react to still lives of oysters and Gorgonzola, and Homer wanted to delay the portraits on account of his own. Landscapes. That was the note for a sunny evening. He pulled out a very creditable garage by Simon and placed it on the easel. Hugo Weiss looked at it politely, and no one said a word. Evans tried a clump of trees by Gwendolyn.
    â€˜Very fresh,’ said Hugo Weiss, adjusting his pince-nez and trying to be informal. ‘For a big hulk of a sailor, who drinks beer like a Viking, that painting seems extraordinarily feminine.’
    Evans jerked it away and reached for another garage, this time with some farm buildings to relieve the severity.
    â€˜Mmmmm,’ grunted the philanthropist. ‘Uncompromising reality. You’re versatile, my boy. Quite versatile.’
    In a panic, Evans made a grab at random and came up with Maggie, against a velvet background, the foreground usurped by her extraordinary feet.
    â€˜Gott im Himmsl,’ said Weiss.
    From that time on, until the portraits were reached, the show went better. Hugo Weiss, surrounded by sympathetic Bohemians and warmed by the sherry which he pronounced ‘excellent’ (one grade higher than ‘decent’) began to joke as best he could and tried to get