The Saint-Saens Manuscript

by

Jeffrey Perren

Saunders McElroy opened the envelope from Paris , excited. "Bryneth! Bryneth, come listen."

Bryneth sauntered up from the rear bookshelves, in no hurry to hear Saunders wax eloquent about yet another thing today. "Yes? What is it?" she asked tetchily.

He walked to her from the front counter. "We've won. The trip to Paris . We won the Stillson contest." Saunders conveniently forgot his 'unassailable' argument of two days ago, in which he 'convinced' Bryneth they couldn't possibly win.

Bryneth's mood lightened dramatically. "Excellent! When do we leave?"

"I think mid-March… let me look here. Yes, the tenth through the twenty fourth."

"Ah, the early part of the season. Paris should be nicely brisk." She enjoyed brisk. Saunders preferred heat. But he was very fond of free, so it balanced out.

A two-hour train ride from Amherst , a nine-hour flight from Boston , and they were walking down the ramp at Roissy. They expected to be met by Anthelme Deroux, Bryneth's ex-boyfriend and a local rare art dealer. But, Anthelme never showed.

They waited an hour longer than Saunders, by nature, would have been inclined to. Repeated phone calls shed no light. Finally, they gave up waiting, deciding to investigate once they were actually in Paris .

Freshened and revived by two quite nice beers, a near miracle in Paris , they took a taxi to Anthelme's shop in the Rue de Chemin Vert , a name Saunders thought redundant. But, then, his French was exceedingly poor, depending generally on Bryneth for translations.

When they arrived, the shop was open and Anthelme was sitting behind his desk, his head bowed. When the tinkling shop bell alerted him, his head rose slowly, seeming quite unlike the vigorous man Bryneth remembered. At first, he seemed not to recognize them.

"Anthelme. It's Bryneth… and Saunders. Are you alright?" She walked to his desk. Saunders, miffed, showed only vague interest, preferring to look around the shop.

Anthelme finally awoke from his dark dream state. "Bryneth. Oh, merci dieu , you are 'ere."

"Anthelme, what is the matter?" she asked.

Saunders, having exhausted the interesting parts of the shop, moved now to join them. "Yes, Anthelme. Why weren't you at the airport?"

"Saunders. Not now," she said.

"Bryneth. Saunders. My manuscript. The Saint-Saens. It 'as been stolen."

"Steady on, old boy. How much can something like that be worth?"

Bryneth interjected. "Saunders…"

"To me, it is priceless. I would never sell it. To hold in my hand the very paper touched by the hand of that musical genius. Irreplaceable."

"Really, Anthelme," Saunders went on. "Apart from the 2 nd Piano Concert in A minor I don't see…"

"Saunders. Stop,” she warned.

"Well, really. He talks like a collector. And one of the more—"

"Monsieur McElroy. Do not be unkind, please. I 'ave suffered a great loss. Imagine if you had lost a 1936 signed, dust-jacketed 'We The Living', by comparison."

This stopped Saunders cold. "Yes, alright. I concede the point."

"The price would be beside the point, would it not?"

"Fine, I've already conceded your point."

"Saunders, we must help him get it back."

"On our vaca—" Saunders stopped himself, after seeing Bryneth's look. "Yes, of course. But, wouldn't it be better to contact the Paris police? I mean, they're so well known for their Teutonic efficiency, after all."

"Saunders, don't be sarcastic."

Saunders thought, " Might as well ask a hummingbird not to flit." Aloud, he said, "Yes, of course, we'll help all we can. Where should we start, Bryneth?"

"Anthelme, tell us all you know about the manuscript. Where you got it, where it last was, and so on."

Anthelme laid out his tale, Saunders growing hungrier by the minute. An excruciating twenty minutes later, he had told them all he knew that could possibly be helpful. Bryneth took Saunders in tow, promising Anthelme they would call him the minute they knew anything. "And do call the police. You might get lucky."

"Yes, they might actually answer the phone," Saunders said, sotto voce. "So where to, Miss Marple?"

"I don't know really."

"He said the case hadn't been smashed, so it's the work either of someone with a key, or an expert at picking locks."

"Well, he hasn't had any assistants for over two years. Long before he acquired the case with the manuscript," she said.

"So, I vote for Pigalle."

"Why Pigalle?"

"Crime is usually where the criminals are."

Bryneth, as she liked to do, acquiesced in the face of unanswerable logic. They took a taxi to the Montmartre section of Paris . Exiting the taxi at the very establishment that served drinks to Lautrec, they entered the bar.

Bryneth, her French far superior to Saunders', went to order while he got them a table. Unfortunately for them, in Paris this simply isn't done. It would be bad form to cheat the waitress out of an unearned tip.

Bryneth quickly got the hint and went to sit down. Later, they would debate whether Bryneth getting accosted by the randy Frenchman was fortuitous or otiose.

Refusing to take no for an answer, the bold fellow joined them at their table, uninvited. Looking like a French GQ model in need of a bath, he tried twice to hold Bryneth's hand. Saunders, slight or not, wasn't likely to take that calmly. Time to smite this cad.

"Do you speak English, Bruno?"

" Oui . Yes. Pretty far."

"I take it you mean, 'pretty fair'. Good. How would you like to make some money?"

"Er… tat depenn, Sandair," he winked.

"Put it away, Sparky. We're in the market for, shall we say, some interesting artifacts such as those one might find in a museum. You do know what is a museum, musee , eh?"

"Yes, I have been to de musee de moutache tree times before," he said, twirling his own.

"We thought you might be able to help us find, say a painting or manuscript, manuscrit , " Bryneth suggested.

Only lust can overcome a Parisian's natural suspicion, especially that of the criminal class. "For you, Brinit. Mais oui Of course, I would 'ave to see de money, no?"

"No," Saunders. "But we can offer you certain… assurances." Bryneth, for the first time in her life, batted her eyelashes. Anthelme had better appreciate this, she thought.

An hour later, per agreement, they were in the lobby of the Saint Lazare. Saunders thought it should be renamed Saint Bizarre, considering the red windmill on the roof. Saunders was the one who, this time, suggested they turn the whole matter over to the gendarmerie .

Bryneth would have none of it. "If they showed any interest at all, it would take months to recover. Think of Anthelme's suffering. Think of how you'd feel if—"

"Yes, yes. Fine. Just a suggestion prompted by the splendid décor."

Two minutes later, Bruno showed up with someone he introduced as Lefkowicz. The latter looked very much like some leftover Polish trade unionist, now bereft of a purpose. At length, he deigned to speak. "Bruno says you are looking for un manuscrit . And you are prepared to pay what?"

"Handsomely. Avec elegance ," offered Saunders.

Bryneth jumped in. "No, Saunders. I'm afraid that expression doesn't translate. You've just complimented his looks."

Saunders looked stricken. Lefkowicz looked as if he might actually strike him. Bryneth tried valiantly to save the moment. "Beaucoup d'argent , Monsieur Lefkowicz."

Saunders snorted. "A lot of money. That's not exactly elegant."

"Maybe not, but it's elegantly exact and not likely to be misunderstood."

Bruno and Lefkowicz watched this exchange for as long as they were able to stand it — about five seconds. That's when Lefkowicz pulled the gun.

"Whoa, there Lefty! Don't get excited," Saunders pleaded. " Zwolniec ."

Saunders expostulation in one of his three words of Polish had the hoped for effect. Lefty lowered the gun a moment. While his attention was still on Saunders, Bryneth grabbed the barrel. In one smooth motion, she ejected the clip, thumbed out the three rounds in it and kicked them across the lobby floor.

Lefkowicz, thank god, rather than being angry laughed heartily. "You haff bells, dziewczyna ."

"Yes, bells. Known for it. Now can we get down to business?" she asked, trying hard not to shake visibly.

Ten minutes later, they had settled on a price and a meeting location that was mutually acceptable. The unsavory pair departed and Saunders collapsed on a nearby couch near a pillar.

Bryneth collapsed next to him, shaking. "Maybe we should contact the police at this point. If they show up with the manuscript, les flics will have enough to hold them. Surely, it has an authentication mark on the reverse."

"Knowing Anthelme, I suspect he may not have clear title to the manuscript," Saunders said. "If the police get hold of it, they may not give it back. Remember he wasn't too eager to call the police."

"You're probably right. Nothing to do but keep the appointment. Well, we have two hours. Let's get something to eat." Saunders trotted off after her, extremely grateful. Though, the suggestion of French food engendered thoughts of mortality from a different source.

Deux heures moins dix , they were in front of the address Lefkowicz had given them. At least Bryneth thought so. Lefty's accent made it difficult to be sure. The area was, Saunders surprised it was possible, even dirtier than Pigalle.

"Saunders," Bryneth said, "I'm close to sending you to Disneyland. Now get on my side, or get on the train."

The thought of being banished to Disneyland Paris, with its hordes of children, was enough to shock him into docile cooperation for the rest of the day.

Luckily for Saunders, a young woman approached them just at that moment. She was both pretty and grungy; just the sort Saunders thought a waste of good genes. "McElroy, oui ?"

Bryneth nodded assent.

"Follow me, please." She headed up the steps of the apartment stoop.

Saunders tugged at Bryneth's sleeve. "Bryneth, I wonder if—" He stopped cold at her look. "Ok, ok. I just thought we should ask a few questions before racing to our deaths. Never mind."

He took the lead in following la petite grungette . All the way up. To the fifth floor. Without the aid of an elevator. Saunders said nothing. This he thought heroic. But, perhaps, it was less heroism than lack of oxygen.

Saunders leaned against the wall, his hands on his thighs, puffing. Bryneth moved up behind the girl, looking around. The girl opened the apartment door and beckoned them in. Or, perhaps, 'twitched her claw' would be more accurate. In any event, all entered the apartment.

To Saunders surprise, it was not in disarray. There wasn't enough in it — only a stool in the middle of the room – to be arrayed. The girl went to a closet and pulled out its only contents, a hard-shelled case just the right size to contain a music manuscript.

"Is that it?" asked Bryneth.

The girl didn't answer. She just took the case, put it on the floor and extracted what certainly appeared to be a manuscript. She put it on the stool. "Where's the money?" she asked in near perfect English.

Bryneth said, walking forward, "Naturally, I'd like to examine it fir—"

"No! Stay there." The girl yanked out a lighter and flicked it alive. A three-inch flame shot up. "If you come closer I will burn it up."

"Jesus and John Galt!" said Saunders. "Be careful, girl."

"Please don't do that!" said Bryneth, stepping back. "Don't you understand what you have there?"

"It's just a silly old piece of music paper," she said. "I want the money now!"

"Miss. Wait. Listen to me," Bryneth said. You're about to burn up a man's life. Think for just one minute. Haven't you ever loved anything? Anything… so much you'd sooner jump in to the flame yourself? That's what this piece of paper means to my friend."

"He should get himself a girl," the grungette said. Saunders thought that a fairly sensible remark under the circumstances. But her tone was softening, he noticed.

"If you come with us, I promise you that my friend will give you the money you ask for."

"Why should I trust you?" she asked, still holding the flame —- but lower. Saunders thought that too fairly sensible.

"Mademoiselle. Look at me. Look at my husband. Do we look like the kind of people you usually do business with?"

She erupted in girlish laughter. Her first light-hearted expression in the whole ten minutes Saunders had known her. "You look like American white bread."

"Exactly," said Bryneth. "And we're going to a shop on Rue Du Chemin Vert . You know where that is, don't you?"

" Oui . I know where that is." She looked at the pair for a full minute, then put her lighter away. "Ok, we go. But if you try to take the paper from me, I will tear it. You won't be able to stop me."

"We won't try to take it from you. We're going to buy it from you."

"We'll see." The girl rolled up the manuscript and tucked it in her outer jacket pocket. Not too roughly, thank heavens. Saunders hated to see the destruction of any valuable antique.

Downstairs, they waved down a taxi and drove off for Anthelme's shop. A few minutes careening across town was enough to put them at the front door. The trio entered, Anthelme sitting with his head down on the desk, his arms splayed out.

"Anthelme!" Bryneth shouted, fearing Lefkowicz had somehow preceded them.

Anthelme lifted his head, showing severely reddened eyes. "Helenka!" he shouted, standing up.

Saunders looked at Bryneth, imagining she had some nickname he hadn't heard. The girl ran forward to embrace Anthelme. "I brought back your stupid piece of paper, Anthi. I should have burned it, like you burned by heart."

Bryneth looked at the pair. "I guess she did love something the way I described," she said. She tugged Saunders' sleeve. "I think it's time we left, lover."

"Next to this, Disneyland seems positively inviting," he said, following her out the door.

Les McElroyes headed down the street towards the nearest bistrot .