The Mysterious Mickey Finn by Elliot Paul

Evans or Ivan and his girl,’ Frémont said, disgustedly.
    The experts of the Louvre had received the forty-nine suspicious paintings which had been numbered, cross-indexed, and should have been sent to the laboratories where after two weeks or so a preliminary report would be made. At the préfecture there was a lull, and if there was anything that got on Frémont’s nerves, it was the occurrence of lulls in the midst of important cases. This one was broken by the precipitate entrance of the prefect himself, who had in his hand a set of thumbscrews he had borrowed from the Carnavalet museum, the prefectorial gimlet which had been filed for the occasion, and a bucket of ice-water from a nearby saloon.
    â€˜The ambassador is on his way,’ the prefect snapped. ‘I’m going to wake this man at any cost.’
    â€˜My opinion is unchanged. Gonzo will not respond,’ the doctor said.
    The doctor proved to be right. Hjalmar did not as much as wink when the ice-water struck him, nor did he groan when his head was lifted by the ears and let drop on the flagstone floor. Gring, however, in a nearby cell began to yammer and squeal and Ambrose, unshaven, unwashed, and clutching at the bars was not a pretty sight.
    â€˜Get him out of here,’ the prefect roared. ‘How can we show a sight like that to the envoy of a friendly power?’
    Gring objected but was thrown out with promptness and dispatch. A moment afterward a genial voice called out at the end of the corridor:
    â€˜Does anyone here speak English?’
    Jackson and Frémont answered in the affirmative.
    â€˜Why, hello, Jackson,’ the ambassador said. He was a tall thick-set man with walrus moustaches and he smiled as he ambled toward the cells, silk hat in hand.
    Jackson explained briefly what had happened to him. He had started out from the Cercle Interalliée with the intention of checking up on Hugo Weiss. Evans, with whom he wished to consult, had not been at home. Neither had he been at the Dôme, where a flock of plain clothes men had jumped on Jackson. The reporter had escaped by throwing several siphons in the air and retreating under cover of the resulting explosions, only to be arrested at the Plaza Athénée. Of all the suspects, Jackson was most lacking in papers. He had no identity card, no police pass, and his American passport, which had been disfigured by accidental immersion in brandy, was in the pocket of a suit of clothes which had been six weeks at the cleaners.
    â€˜Want me to get you out, I suppose. Ah, youth,’ the ambassador said.
    â€˜I’d just as soon stay a while,’ the reporter said. ‘But you might say a word for that young French chap. He’s in because I changed hats with him in the fracas at the Dôme. By the way, the Dôme has established a new record for breakage. Beat the Coupole figure by fourteen kilos of glass and crockery.’
    â€˜You don’t say?’ remarked the ambassador. ‘Well, stay here if you like. But at least come out of the cell and interpret for me. I’ve got to pay my respects to the prefect and find out what they’ve done about Hugo Weiss. Probably he’s out on a bat. I crossed with him once on the old Dresden and between us we drank all the beer in first class and tourist and were well started on the third class when the Statue of Liberty hove in sight and I had to pose for some photographers.’
    â€˜This door is locked,’ Jackson said.
    The ambassador turned to the prefect. ‘ La porte , s ’ il vous plaît ! ’ he boomed and the prefect opened the cell door with alacrity.
    â€˜I must apologize for the condition of my suspects and witnesses. They ate and drank all night before we caught up with them....’
    â€˜Know just how they feel,’ said the ambassador.
    â€˜He said,’ began Jackson carefully, ‘that he understands just how they feel.’
    The ambassador was by