“If they were what?” Josephson asked.

“Masterpieces. Dr. Musinski hadn’t had a chance to examine them to ascertain their provenance.”

“Oh, no,” Josephson said, slowly shaking his head. “I never doubted for a moment their validity, nor did Aaron.” He sounded angry at Mac’s comment. “Verifying their origins was necessary, of course. Potential buyers would expect no less than authentication by someone of Aaron’s stature. No, they were what we believed they were. Do you doubt that?”

“Not at all,” Mac said, now taken slightly aback at Josephson’s apparent anger at being challenged.

“All right,” Annabel said. “Let’s assume the scores are authentic. You say you woke up, in a matter of speaking, and started to pursue them. What did you do?”

Josephson sat back, his hands laced on his small potbelly, and gathered his thoughts. He came forward again. “I began by making inquiries of friends around the world. Those of us who deal in rare manuscripts form a tight-knit fraternity, as you can imagine. Of course, no one knew at that juncture that we’d unearthed the string quartets. Everything had happened so fast. Many of my friends were flabbergasted when I told them what Aaron and I had found. Some were skeptical, especially those who also have an interest in missing musical material. They doubted whether Mozart and Haydn had ever collaborated on string quartets. Others accepted that those two towering geniuses had, indeed, written together, but were cynical about my tale of having uncovered the material in a yard sale. I suppose I can’t blame them. It was an unlikely scenario. But a true one!” He slapped his hand on the table.

Annabel said, “You saw those manuscripts, Marc, and they looked to your trained eye as though they came from the period in which Mozart and Haydn were known to have been together.”

“Yes, they did. I had only a cursory look at them on that table in the yard, but when we returned to my shop, I had the opportunity to sit down with a magnifying glass and study them closely. Of course, I’m not a musician or musical scholar, so their musical structure escaped me. But from the standpoint of the paper on which they were written, the ink used, and other factors, they were definitely of that era.”

Mac finished his second cup of coffee and suggested they go back to their apartment to continue the discussion. A half hour later they sat in the Smiths’ living room. Rufus, their blue Great Dane, took a liking to Josephson. “Lovely animal,” he said, not sounding as though he meant it.

Mac poured them snifters of cognac. “So,” he said, “where did you leave off?”

“The manuscripts and their authenticity,” said Josephson.

“I suggest we accept that they are what Marc and Musinski believed they were,” Annabel offered. “Let’s get to the reason we’re here. You told Mac the scores are no longer missing. Where are they? How did you find them? Why are you sharing this with us?”

Mac laughed. “Annabel has a talent for getting to the point.”

“Yes, I see that,” Josephson agreed, but not sounding particularly pleased. “As I said, I contacted friends around the world once I’d come out of my doldrums. Surely, I thought, someone would become aware of the manuscripts being sold on the black market, perhaps even have them offered to them as potential buyers. No such luck. That’s when I hired Mr. Poindexter.”

“Who’s he?” Mac asked.

“A private investigator, and a very good one, I might add.”

“In London?”

“The firm for which he works is London-based, but they have offices in other cities around the world. I contacted that firm and was assigned Mr. Poindexter as my investigator.”

“I’m sure he didn’t come cheap,” Mac commented.

“No, he certainly didn’t. I invested my life’s savings in his services, but I reasoned that it was worth it when compared to the value of the manuscripts.”

“Go on,” Annabel urged.

Josephson picked up the manila envelope from where he’d perched it on the floor next to his chair, opened it, and withdrew a sheaf of papers. He looked through them until finding the one he sought. “Ah, here. We can start here,” he said. “Mr. Poindexter used his firm’s vast network of investigators to identify certain individuals who in the past had shown keen interest in such material. One in particular stood out from his report, a wealthy gentleman in Paris, Georges Saibrón, who was known to have purchased valuable Mozart scores, some legitimately, some not so legitimately. Using a fellow investigator in Paris, Mr. Poindexter closely monitored Mr. Saibrón’s activities over a four-month period.” He dropped that sheet of paper to the floor and replaced it with another. “Something interesting developed toward the end of the investigation into Saibrón. He was visited by someone, an American, who claimed he had the scores and was willing to sell them.”

“How did this investigator, Poindexter, learn about this?” Mac asked.

“It’s my understanding that he’d enlisted the services of an individual who worked for Mr. Saibrón. Saibrón is a successful exporter of French wines and has quite a large staff. I gather it wasn’t difficult to find someone on that staff willing to exchange information from inside the company for a fee. I learned while working with Mr. Poindexter to not question his methods.”

Not necessarily a prudent decision, Mac thought.

“Go on,” Annabel urged. She’d slid to the edge of her chair.

“According to Mr. Poindexter, this American and Saibrón struck a deal, and the scores were ultimately delivered to Paris by the American.”

“I see,” said Mac.

Rufus yawned loudly, startling Josephson. “Everything is big about Rufus,” Mac said, “even his yawns. So the scores are now with this Georges Saibrón.”

“No,” Josephson said.

“No?” Annabel repeated. “Then where are they?”

“In Vienna. Mr. Saibrón quickly sold them to a collector there. I have his name.”

“That’s not important for the moment,” Mac said. “This American. Who was he?”

Josephson sighed, sat back, and rubbed his eyes. “Sorry,” he said. “Long flights tire me.”

“Me, too,” said Mac.

“The American?” Annabel said.

“At first, I couldn’t believe it,” Josephson said. “To think a man in his position would stoop to such a thing.”

Mac and Annabel looked at each other. Their thoughts were identical at that moment, unpleasant thoughts confirmed by Josephson.

“It was the detective who’d investigated Aaron’s murder, Mr. Raymond Pawkins.”

Mac walked Josephson back to the hotel.

“I must admit, Marc, what you’ve outlined for us this evening is-well, let’s just say it’s as troubling as it is shocking.” They stood in the lobby exchanging final words.

“You can imagine my reaction when the final pieces were put together for me by Mr. Poindexter,” Josephson said. “At first, I didn’t believe it. But once I did, I was angry. To think that someone in law enforcement would kill to obtain the scores was unfathomable.”

“Let me caution you again, Marc, we don’t know if Detective Pawkins killed Dr. Musinski. You’ve traced the route the scores took, that’s all.”

“Can it be any other way?” Josephson said. “Whoever took those scores must have murdered Aaron.”

Mac didn’t prolong the debate, although what Josephson had deduced made sense-too much sense.

“You will think about what I’ve asked of you?” Josephson said.

“Yes, of course, but no promises. Frankly, I’m not sure what you’ve asked is the right approach.”

“I leave the approach to you, Mac. I knew I made the right decision in calling you. I feel so much better being in your capable hands.”

Mac said nothing.

“Thank you for a splendid dinner. Your wife is as lovely as I remember. I look forward to hearing from you in the morning.”