The Chantecler Statuette

by

Jeffrey Perren

Saunders McElroy clapped louder than anyone. It had been years since he and Bryneth had seen Chantecler on the stage in London . Amherst, Mass and their Antiquarian Books business, was a long flight away but it had been worth it. The production had been superb; especially the lead, Roderick St. Regins. They waited for the crowd to clear before acting on their invitation to visit backstage.

Richard Ruark, the producer — Saunders' grandfather and almost old enough to have known Rostand — introduced them to St. Regins. The actor reacted in a way Saunders thought typical — snubbing the fans to the degree they expressed enthusiasm. As if it were unforgivably American to actually praise something without combining it with a sneer.

Bryneth, as was her nature, laughed it off. Saunders, as was his, took offense. But she was successful in getting him to overlook the affront just this once. She was in too good a mood to allow him to spoil the evening over a triviality.

They were preparing to leave for a late supper with Ruark when Bryneth noticed St. Regins exiting the theatre, his Mackintosh severely bloated on one side. As the door was about to close, the wind whipped open the lower third of the Mack. Bryneth saw Rodney was carrying away the statuette of Chantecler that had figured in the first act. Why, she thought, would he want to steal a worthless stage prop?

"Saunders…" she said, trying to interrupt his conversation with Ruark, usually a near impossible task. "Saunders, St. Regins just stole the Chantecler statue."

Saunders turned 'round at the same time as Ruark. The latter reacted first. "You're not serious," he said. "That's horrible!"

Saunders, quite unlike him, was momentarily stunned into silence. But only momentarily. "But surely a plaster stage prop can be easily replaced. Odd he would—"

"No, you don't understand. It isn't a 'plaster stage prop.' It's a genuine Rodin. Sculpted while on a visit to Rostand."

"That would put its value in the range of—" started Bryneth, who always knew the value of things.

Ruark started to explain. "I thought it would be amusing to have the real—"

"Bryneth, let's go!" Saunders interrupted, belatedly grasping the situation. "We have to follow him," Saunders shouted, tugging Bryneth out the exit, promising Ruark they would call him the minute they knew anything.

Bryneth tried to reason with Saunders, always a hit or miss proposition despite his proclaimed fealty to logic. "Shouldn't Richard just call the police?"

"They certainly wouldn't recover it by tomorrow night's performance. I couldn't bear it if anything happened to cause the play not to go on."

"Surely they could just replace it with an imitation," she said, struggling to keep up with his trot.

"Bryneth! I'm surprised at you. Where is your understanding of the theatre?"

She gave up. "So where are we headed?"

"The Actor's Pub, of course. I'm confident Rodney's agent will be there, waiting for the reviews. It is opening night, after all."

"And you hope, if he's there, he'll give you Rodney's address. And Rodney will obligingly head home with a valuable stolen statuette."

"Not Rodney's address. His girlfriend's."

"And he'll have gone there because…"

"Have you a better idea?"

She confessed silently she didn't and let it drop. They reached the pub, a two-minute walk from the West End theatre. Saunders held the door open for Bryneth and they stepped inside.

"Go ask the barman which is Rodney's agent," Saunders said.

"Why me?"

Saunders eyed Bryneth's charms. "Who is he more likely to tell, you or me?"

"Good point." She headed over to the bar crowded with the beautiful and the hopeful.

She was back in less than a minute. "The girlfriend lives at 12 Romilly. Around the corner."

"Remarkable. I confess I didn't have quite the confidence I pretended."

"Cad," she said, smoothing her dress. "I confess to some degree of luck, though. It turns out he's actually dated the agent and Rodney's girlfriend."

"You got all that in less than a minute?"

Bryneth gave Saunders a look that suggested he should not push his luck. He let it drop and they headed toward the door, while Bryneth gave him the name and address.

Outside in the streetlamp's glow she was able to read the map to confirm the location. Saunders knew London and was already headed in that direction. Bryneth caught up. "You might wait for me." He didn't respond, his focus on a stoop numbered 12 in faux brass.

Saunders took the steps two at a time. He reached up to knock when Bryneth stopped him. "Are you sure you want to do this? It's the West End at nearly midnight. We don't know who or what is behind that door."

"Bryneth, I'm surprised at you. You know Londoner's aren't permitted to carry weapons to defend their homes."

"And, of course, they always religiously obey the law," she offered.

"Well, they are English, after all."

"Mick, I'm sure there was some English on your great-grandmother's side."

"Don't start that blasphemy again now. I'd have to mention the Welsh on your grandfather's side."

"Proud of it!" she said, thumping her chest. But he was already knocking on the door. Before Bryneth could continue, the door opened a crack.

"Yes?" said a darkened figure.

"Emily Thatcher? My name is Saunders McElroy. This is my wife, Bryneth. We're from Amherst , Massachusetts , where we deal in rare books. I wonder if we could talk to you for just one minute?" Only someone who looked like Saunders could have failed to intimidate a young woman at midnight in the West End . Or maybe it was his completely honest manner. In any case, the door opened a little wider.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"We've just come from the performance of Chantecler. Which, by the way, was wonder—"

Bryneth cut in. "We're looking for Rodney St. Regis. We were told you know him and hoped you might know where he is."

"Come in," Emily told them.

They walked down the short hallway, turning into the living room, dimly lit. "I don't want to be rude, but we're in a bit of a rush, Ms. Thatcher," Saunders said.

They could now see her eyes were red and puffy. Bryneth tried to soften the situation. "If you could help us, we'd appreciate—"

"Rodney was due here an hour ago. I don't think I'm going to see him again, though." Saunders leapt in to the breach. "Forgive me, Ms. Thatcher but that sounds slightly paradoxical."

Emily led them over to the table, where a half drunk glass of wine sat next to some papers. She pointed. "A note from Rodney saying he was leaving for New Zealand tomorrow early. That's where he's from you know."

"What are these papers?" Bryneth asked. "They're on Christie's letterhead."

"I work there. I… was arranging for Rodney to sell the statuette through them.

"Ms. Thatcher, do you know where that statuette is?"

"I suspect Rodney has it."

"We know he does," said Bryneth. "But how do you?"

"I think he's decided to steal it. I was worried he might when he found out the one used in the play was more than an ordinary stage prop. You see, he thinks he owns it."

"Why is that?" asked Saunders.

Emily sat heavily down on the couch. "His uncle in New Zealand was the owner. He died recently and Rodney believes he intended to leave it to him in his will. Mr. Ruark showed him the will, but Rodney won't accept it."

Bryneth jumped in. "Why couldn't he contest it legally?"

"He didn't want to wait. He wants to produce a play he's written. He thinks it will make his career. Selling the statuette will give him the money."

"Ending in jail may slow down his career progress a bit," Saunders said. "Do you know where he's likely to be now?"

"There was an air travel itinerary next to the note. His plane leaves Heathrow at four-thirty this morning."

Saunders thought out loud. "They insist you arrive two hours early for international flights, so he must be on the way there now."

"Thank you, Emily," Bryneth said, touching the girl's arm. We're very grateful."

"Please don't hurt him. He's not a bad sort. He's just a bit… impetuous."

"Actors. I know the type." Saunders was already moving toward the door, Emily and Bryneth following. "Thank you, Ms. Thatcher. We'll let you know how things work out."

Outside, Saunders hailed a passing cab. Miraculously, considering where they were, it stopped to pick them up.

"Lucky you, Bob. I just dropped off a fare at The Actor's Pub."

A friendly one. Good. That will make things easier. Saunders said, "Heathrow. Air Cargo section."

Bryneth added, "An extra ten pounds if you hurry."

Saunders looked at her sharply, always disturbed by what he regarded as her profligacy.

"Don't worry, Saunders. I'm sure Richard will reimburse you."

"Good point. Anyway, it will be worth it if we can ensure the production goes on schedule."

"That may be difficult without the lead actor," she quipped.

"Actors have understudies. There is only one Rodin Chantecler."

The taxi sped off toward Heathrow.

An hour later, they were stuck in the worst traffic jam the M4 had seen in five years. Even Boston would have had to stretch to beat this one. "Must be one 'ellava wreck up further. Sorry for the delay, guv," the cabbie volunteered, believing Americans love it when English cabbies call them 'guv'.

"How far is it to the airport, sir?" Saunders asked.

"Two miles further, guv."

"Saunders, I hope you're not thinking what I fear you're thinking. Saunders, are you thinking that?"

"I fear there's no better alternative, my love. You're going to want to break the heels off those shoes. Unless you want to stay here, while I go on."

"Not a chance, Mr. McElroy. You'll get lost for sure. Then where will I be?"

"Husbandless, as you may have wanted to be for some time."

"I'll let you know when I do. Let's go."

Saunders paid the cabbie, but held back the extra ten pounds. The Scotch-English ancestry his Irish conscience wouldn't confess to made it impossible for him to pony up money for something not delivered.

Saunders studied the stars, essentially the same as over Amherst . Then he spotted a plane high overhead, aiming for what he presumed must be the airport. "I wonder if it wouldn't be shorter to head over that rise." He pointed along a direction twelve degrees east of their heading.

"Not a chance, Shackleton. We're not getting lost in order to shave fifteen minutes off a warm night's walk. We've been incredibly lucky up to now. Let's not jinx it. Let's follow the motorway."

Saunders acquiesced in the face of her superior logic, as he generally did when she was dead right. They pushed off in the direction of the airport.

Forty minutes later, they were at Heathrow's edge, looking at the sign for Air Cargo.

Saunders insisted. "He wouldn't take it on a regular flight. It might get inspected, impounded, any number of things. Air Cargo, on the other hand gets virtually no inspection whatever. All the terrorism experts say so."

"But he'll miss his flight. He wouldn't have time—-"

"He would if he'd already made arrangements and just had to drop it off."

In the end, she decided he was the one who cared most about the statuette's recovery; she would've been content to let the police handle it. In any case, it was nearly 2 a.m.; no more time for argument. They turned toward the Air Cargo complex.

Ten minutes brought them to the counter. Luckily, at this time of morning there was no line of customers.

"Can I help you, sir?" asked the clerk.

Saunders jumped in, his best imitation of polite cheerfulness firmly in place. "You might. We're hoping to meet a fellow here carrying a package about eighteen inches, forty-six centimeters, high. It would weigh about ten pounds, four point five kilos."

The clerk took in both his American accent and the use of metric units. The combination confused him. "Well, yes I may have seen a package like that recently. Why do you want to know?"

Bryneth stepped in. "We're American representatives of the company insuring the package. The fellow dropping it off has neglected to sign some of the paperwork. We'd just like to find him."

Her appearance, manner, and smooth delivery one him immediately. "I think he said he was headed off to the Air New Zealand gates. There's a shuttle that can run you over in a few minutes."

"Thank you," she said. She started toward the door, Saunders not following.

He said, as casually as he could muster, "By the way, do you happen to know where the package is?"

"Why yes, actually. It's right behind me."

It was all Saunders could manage not to shout. He picked up Bryneth's theme. "You know we really shouldn't allow the package to go off without the proper insurance. At the moment, it isn't legally covered."

"I guess we just better hang on to it right here until you get the papers signed, eh?" He almost winked at Bryneth, who smiled back from the door.

Saunders joined her and they walked outside to wait for the shuttle. Bryneth was about to ask him exactly what he had planned when the shuttle pulled up. They took seats near the back, even though it was empty. "Saunders, I really think we have enough to get a policeman to take it from here."

"Let's forget for a moment my deep-seated mistrust of authority. Instead, ask yourself what have we got, really? An actor, originally from New Zealand , ready to board a flight for New Zealand . A package, probably shipped under a fictitious name. How will we convince a British bobby that one is connected with the other in time to prevent either from leaving the country?"

Bryneth, as much not to get into a pointless argument, as from partial agreement, let the matter stand. They had already come this far; another hour couldn't make much difference. Though, how slight Saunders thought he would stop robust Rodney without assistance from the police, she couldn't guess.

They stepped off the shuttle at the Air New Zealand terminal. Saunders felt that instinctive tension that always came on him at airports. He claimed it was the police state atmosphere. Bryneth suspected he simply cringed anywhere more than six people were gathered.

Inside, a quick check of the departure schedule showed Rodney's flight as on-time and leaving at Gate Forty-Seven. They headed in that direction, Bryneth's lack of heels occasionally attracting the odd stare. They had only a few minutes before the flight would begin boarding and Rodney was sure to be first on. They picked up the pace.

Straight ahead a hundred yards, Rodney was just laying his bag on the conveyer belt at the security gate. Bryneth braced herself for Saunders to pull sharply at her arm. He often did, in lieu of a simple verbal request, when he wanted her to hurry up. Instead he put a hand across her middle, forcing her to stop abruptly.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"I don't want him to see us."

"Ok, I'm stumped. Since you won't alert the police, and you don't want to approach him, how do you intend to stop him? Telekinesis?"

Rodney was through the security gate and headed for the New Zealand flight boarding gate. Since they didn't have tickets, there would be no way to get to him now. Saunders smiled broadly, as if he had just bagged an incunabula for two dollars. "Let's go back to Air Cargo now and pick up the package."

On the way back, he explained. "I knew there would be no way to stop him. I wasn't trying to. I wanted to make sure he actually got on the flight. To ensure he didn't change his mind and try to take the package with him. The plane stops in Los Angeles in about twelve hours. Plenty of time to notify the FBI there. I'm sure Jack Fairchild will be interested in picking up a rare art thief in between lunch and dinner."

Bryneth managed to persuade the clerk to give them the package and they stepped outside to wait for a taxi back to London . Above their heads they could see Air New Zealand Flight #1 heading for Los Angeles through the early morning sky.

Saunders said, "I'm thirsty. What say we stop at The Actor's Pub for a pint?"