The Mysterious Mickey Finn by Elliot Paul Read Free Book Online Page A

the others to express their opinions of the paintings as they were shown. Sturlusson had done a few oysters himself, at a time when he was very hungry, and Weiss thought he detected a considerable advance over the Oysters done by Rosa.
    â€˜What do you think, Mr Sturlusson? Hasn’t our friend made progress?’
    â€˜I think the first are better oysters,’ Sturlusson said, and Rosa, not to be outdone, held out for the bivalves of the Finn. That worked out better than when the same pair was asked to decide between a garage done by Gwendolyn and another two-car garage with pump by Harold Simon.
    â€˜After all, one don’t compare a one-car garage with a two-car garage,’ Rosa said. ‘The problem is a different one, involving in one case uniqueness of form and in the second case, repetition of form.’
    â€˜I must remember, that,’ said Hugo Weiss, smiling. ‘That remark with slight variations would have saved my face any number of times.’ He took a small notebook and a neat gold pencil from his pocket, tried the lead, borrowed a real pencil from Gwendolyn and wrote: ‘uniqueness, repetition, not to be compared.’
    â€˜I may even work it into my speech to-night,’ he said, reaching for another sherry. ‘You don’t mind?’
    â€˜I should feel honoured,’ Rosa said, and slapped him on the knee.
    By the time they got to the portraits, the atmosphere of the studio had cleared, and also the sharp edge had been lost from the light. Hjalmar was in a sort of trance, incapable of speech or motion, and this made an excellent impression on Weiss, who attributed his embarrassment to natural modesty.
    â€˜I’m seldom wrong about people,’ the millionaire repeated.
    The moment came when Evans had to produce the alleged self-portrait and that time Hugo Weiss was what might be called ‘electrified’.
    â€˜Ah ! Amazing,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen a thing like that before.’ He got up, walked to the easel, peered at the brushstrokes, turned and scowled at Hjalmar, who ducked as if the millionaire had thrown a belaying pin.
    â€˜Young man,’ began Hugo, sternly, ‘I’ve known all along you had talent, and industry. I see now you have genius. You must go on, by all means. You must work, work, work, without thought of ordinary cares.’ The philanthropist reached impulsively for his chequebook and a fountain pen.’ Let me see. I gave you a thousand dollars. Not enough, my boy. Not enough. This year I’m going to do better….’
    Hjalmar, bewildered, made as if to protest.
    With a sweep of his hand towards the portrait, Weiss said: ‘My reward is there. You’ve freed yourself from academic shackles, you’ve got the mud all out of your palette.... Gad ! And I hadn’t noticed the pose, before. How on earth did you do it, my boy? I’ve seen self-portraits by Rembrandt, Goya, by Cezanne. But in all of them, the eyes were staring straight at you, and followed you wherever you went. A bit disconcerting at times, not the thing for one’s home. But you have painted yourself in half profile.’
    â€˜Uh, uh. That’s torn it,’ muttered Rosa, and Evans crushed a sherry glass in his hand, as if it were an eggshell, and a pigeon’s egg at that.
    â€˜You must have used two mirrors,’ Weiss went on.
    â€˜Yes. Double mirrors,’ mumbled Hjalmar, and they all breathed again.
    â€˜By George. I want that portrait,’ said Weiss, and grabbed for the cheque book again. He wrote a cheque for the year’s sustenance and handed it to Hjalmar, who shamefacedly put it in his pocket without reading it. Then he took his pen in hand and said: ‘I’m buying that self-portrait....’
    â€˜But, after all...’ Hjalmar said.
    â€˜No, no. Don’t try to give it away,’ said Weiss, holding up his hand. ‘My boy. A painting is either worth a fair amount of