The Mysterious Mickey Finn by Elliot Paul Page B

men, perhaps dealers, who had visited the Dôme in search of Gring and had seemed disappointed with him, she was to whisper ‘Beano’.
    In the first gallery they were shown a Bellini painting of a narrow-faced young man with constipation, a Rubens portrait of a flushed-faced ample woman in excellent health, and a Botticelli that was not rugged, but not suffering either. All along the famous street they strode, glancing at Rembrandts, Van Dykes, and on one occasion a rare portrait of Whistler’s father. There they nearly had their robes torn off by eager salesmen.
    â€˜Amscray, your Highness,’ Evans said to Miriam. At last, they traversed the avenue Percier to the boulevard Haussmann and entered still another gallery, one of the dingiest and most expensive of all. And there, when Ibn Hassan made the break about expense not mattering and the usual sound of falling objects preceded the hasty entrance of the partners, the distinguished-looking sheik was pleased to hear ‘Beano’ in a clear boyish whisper.
    â€˜I’ve just the thing, a few of the best Delacroix,’ the taller partner said, and the other rubbed his hands and made little squeals and chuckles of satisfaction.
    â€˜To a Mohammedan, the name of the painter you mention has an irritating Christian connotation.’
    â€˜He was at his best in desert scenes, Bedouins and all that sort of thing,’ the tall partner said.
    â€˜Be yourself, Abel,’ the short partner interposed. ‘The prince doesn’t want pictures of the desert. He wants a change. Something green, with cows and vineyards....’
    â€˜Vineyards,’ snorted Ibn Hassan.
    â€˜The Prophet was a teetotaller,’ the tall one explained. He seemed to be the forceful member of the pair. He began shuffling through stacks of paintings and discarding them with grunts of dismay. The entire stock of Heiss and Lourde seemed to be blemished either by a too obvious Christian slant, or vines, bottles, glasses, or drinking horns, or at least, Bedouins, houris, oases, camels, or burnooses. Evans was enjoying himself hugely, for the first time since he had become a Mohammedan and a private detective. When Sasha, nicknamed Dodo, the junior and shorter partner, stumbled on a couple of Corots, Evans shook his head.
    â€˜There is something over-delicate, a little indecisive, even feminine about this non-believer Corot. I’m sure the prince, who is a manly little chap . . .’
    At this the prince was seized with a fit of coughing and drew the burnoose more loosely about certain parts of his person.
    â€˜It’s the dampness,’ murmured Evans. “‘ Quelle chose malsaine , la Seine. . . .” One of your French poets, I believe, admitted that. Are you fond of poetry, M. Lourde?’
    â€˜Sure, I like it all right,’ Dodo said, good-naturedly. He didn’t want to introduce a jarring note.
    â€˜We’re business men,’ said Abel, to add a touch of solidity to the impression the house was giving.
    Messrs Heiss and Lourde made a dive at another stack of paintings and Evans moved nearer, so he could get a glimpse of those discarded. He saw Abel give a start of surprise, almost alarm, utter a grunt of disapproval and call the clerk who sat at a desk near the doorway.
    â€˜What is that canvas doing here?’ he demanded, and Evans’ heart gave an extra hard thump at his ribs as he saw the candle-light Greco being whisked away by the frightened clerk, who mounted a stairway to an upper storeroom, mumbling apologies as he mounted. The clerk was followed hastily by Dodo, who skipped excitedly around him like a basketball player about to interfere with a throw. Abel tried to regain his composure, and smiled thinly at Ibn Hassan, who also was trying to be calm.
    â€˜Your honour. It’s hard to get efficient help these days. The way that fellow handles Old Masters, you’d think they were playing-cards or something. And if