The story of the Smiths PRS-36…..

It was the kind of February night in Kansas City that makes you wish you were in Buffalo. The frozen rain didn’t have the decency to come down as snow, so instead the tiny frozen pellets lashed at my office window in gusts. I sighed and poured myself another glass of Johnnie Red. Sure, it was late, but the only thing waiting for me at home was another bottle, so why not wait out the storm here. I leaned back with my scotch and listened to the faint sounds of the jazz trumpet coming up from the basement speakeasy two floors below me.

Suddenly, the rattling at my window was joined by a rattling at my door. Before I could sit up, my visitor was inside. Scowling and stubbing out my cigarette on my desk, I growled, “whaddya want”?

Instead of answering, the figure removed its coat and gloves and stepped into the fan of light cast by my desk light. I whistled softly. It was the gorgeous kinda dame who walks into a private detective’s office in those hard-boiled novels. Bits of ice glistened in her bright red hair, and her long white silk dress rustled faintly as she walked toward my desk.

“Are you Jack Pallet, horology detective,” she asked with the faintest trace of an accent…French, maybe.

“Yep, I find watches. How can I help you, Miss…?”

“Neige. Lilly Neige. I’m trying to find a watch I lost…I don’t know what happened to it.”

I pulled out a coffee-stained pad of paper and my pen. “Sit down and describe it.”

She sat down and took a deep breath. “Okay, it’s a Smiths PRS-36…”

“Hold it, toots…a vintage Smiths, or one of the new ones made by Time Factors?”

“New — it had a beautiful polished cushion case — 37mm across — and laid wonderfully flat against my wrist with the thin Peseux 7040 hand-wind movement inside. Such a beautiful, simple movement, too — especially with the blued screws like mine had.”

“Mmm hmm, what else?????”

“Well, the dial was brushed, with blued hands filled with lume — and lumed arabic numerals, too. Capped off with a sweet little small seconds finished with concentric circles. I used to just stare and stare at the dial.” She stifled a little sob. “I really miss that watch. Such lovely design. So smooth to wind. And I bought it second-hand at about a third off retail, which made it even better. I do hope you can find something, Mr. Pallet. Something reasonable.”

“I gotta warn you, Miss Neige. You may not like what I find.”

Her black eyes flashed. “I’m no chicken.”

I shrugged. “Okay, come back in a week and I’ll give you a report.”

When she returned the next week, I pushed a folder full of watch forum screenshots across the desk. “Here’s what I found, Miss Neige…or should I say, ‘la_poule_française’”?

She turned as white as her namesake. “I…I don’t know what you mean.”

“Sure ya do, doll. That’s your username on the forum where you sold, not even twelve months ago, the same watch you asked me to find. My francois is a bit rusty, but I think it means ‘the french hen’?”

She blushed. I continued: “Why’d ya do it? This watch you say you loved so much, why’d ya sell it?”

She broke down. “I don’t know. I wanted to buy a Hamilton and I thought I needed the funds. But now I miss it so much, and they’re out of production, and the pre-owned prices are so high. It was a long shot, but I thought you might be able to…”

“I’m a watch finder, babe, not a miracle worker. You want this watch back, you’ll have to pay for your blunder.”

She dabbed at her eyes and stood up. “I was a fool, yes. But there will be other watches. Thank you anyway, Mr. Pallet.” As she walked to the door, I lit a cigarette and called after her: “Say, sweetheart, you wanna grab a drink? I know a swell place.”

Without turning around, she replied: “Non, je n’aime pas les bites de montre,” and slammed the door.

“C’est la vie,” I sighed, and poured myself another scotch…. the Smiths PRS-36, heartbreaker !