Роберт Фиш - The Gold of Troy

“Ruth, my dear one? How are you?”

“Very well, thank you. And you?”

“At the best. The new position runs itself along well?”

“Very well, thank you.” She looked at Bob Keller and shrugged humorously.

“Good!” There was a brief pause. When Dr. Lopez spoke again his usual profuseness had abated to a degree. “Ruth, my dear one,” he said slowly, “a most unusual affair has lifted its head. By private messenger a package comes after my director with a letter withinside of it together with some photographs and two botónes —”

“Buttons.”

“As you say. They are of oro . They are from — but I dash ahead of myself. This letter—”

“I’m sure I know what it says,” Ruth said to speed the conversation; among his other annoying habits, Dr. Lopez had a tendency to go on and on. “My letter had a ring in it. Purportedly from the Schliemann collection.”

“Ah? This is what I wish to know. But of course they would never overpass such a prestigious museum such as the Metropolitan.” There was the briefest of pauses. “I wonder who more? Possibly you might know?”

“I beg you pardon?”

“I mean, which more museums receive this letter, do you think?”

“You’re the first I’ve heard from, but on the basis of the letter I expect to hear from others.”

“Yes, of this I imagine. Soon we shall know who are involved.”

Ruth frowned at the telephone. “Dr. Lopez, are you convinced of the genuineness of the offer?” She could almost see the indecision on Dr. Lopez’s face as he debated his answer. Then, with a sigh, he obviously decided there was nothing to be lost at this point with the simple truth.

“Our laboratories are checking in deep, of course, but for me, myself, I have no doubts. I know these botónes , my dear one, I know them too well. I did my study in Berlin, you know, and how do you say? I cut my tooth on that collection. Every day, almost, I see it.” There was a slight pause. “So, my dear one, what do you think?”

“Think about what?”

“I mean, my dear friend” — this time Dr. Lopez wished to be very clear — “will the Metropolitan bid?”

“Will the National Museum bid?”

Lopez laughed in what he thought was a delighted manner. “Now we are friends no longer, but now competitors, is that the situation at the moment, my dear one?” His laughter faded, his tone became sad. “There is, most sadly, the question of legal ownership—”

“True,” Ruth said noncommittally. She looked at Bob Keller and winked, a gamine grin on her face. She straightened her expression, almost as if Lopez could see her. “Sad, but true.”

“It forms itself into a complication, there is no doubt. And also, of course, there arises the question of money. Our small museum does not have the funding backlog of the wonderful Metropolitan—”

“The Metropolitan also does not have such funds,” Ruth said, and tried to sound equally sad. “No museum sits around with fifteen or twenty million dollars in its bank account waiting for something to buy.”

“But you are possessed of such wealthy patrons, my dear one!”

“And there are no longer any wealthy Spaniards since Franco?”

There was a pause. “A few, there is doubtless,” Lopez said and sighed. “But with no artistic sense, no responsibility sense, I fear me.” Another slight pause. “Ah, well, I merely only wish to learn if the Metropolitan has been touched on, and I see they are. A shameful pity the question of ownership prevents us all from bidding, is it not? But there it is. It would be a nice acquisition. Well! We must meet someday soon and speak of many things. And please to take good care of yourself, my dear one.”

“I shall do my best. And you do the same.”

There was a final exchange of regards and they both hung up. Bob Keller raised his bushy eyebrows inquisitively. Ruth McVeigh smiled her gamine smile. It made the man across from her realize, not for the first time, what a desirable woman she was, and why he, a very eligible bachelor, had not put in his bid before now.

“That,” Ruth said, “was Dr. Armando Lopez of the National Archaeological Museum in Madrid. They also received a letter and the photographs, plus a sample from the collection. Which he is sure is quite authentic.”

Keller brought his mind back to the business at hand.

“So I gathered from the conversation. I also gather,” Keller said, “from the look on your face while you were talking, that the good doctor is not one of your favorite people. But, more important, did he also tell you that his museum wouldn’t bid on the collection, or rather couldn’t bid because of the legal position involved?”

Ruth McVeigh’s smile became even more mischievous.

“Dr. Armando Lopez is not the most able dissembler in the world,” she said. “But I’m sure he told me, even though he wasn’t aware of the fact, that he will definitely be working day and night to find some way to raise the money, and in one manner or another, not only to bid, but to win the auction and get his grubby little hands on the treasure to keep...”

London — May

“It’s quite insane, I agree, Maurice,” the director of the British Museum was saying into the telephone. Dr. Harold Gordon, the curator for Greek and Roman antiquities sat beside his desk, listening politely. “Fifteen million dollars merely as a starting bid. That’s over seven million pounds! Not that it really makes any difference, good Lord! With the legal question being what it is, obviously the British Museum has no intention of getting involved in any bidding scheme. Oh, yes, I certainly agree that whoever sent those letters has the real collection in his possession. I think there is no doubt of that. Our laboratories made quite sure of the authenticity of the piece we received, and when you add it to the pieces the others, including yourself, have received, there can be no doubt. Besides, obviously no money would change hands until the authenticity of the entire collection was assured. What? No, no! Of course this doesn’t mean we will be bidding! It would be stupid, and we try not to do stupid things at the British Museum. I do admit, if the title were clear — but of course it isn’t, you see, so that more or less takes care of that, what? What? I quite agree. I’m afraid when this entire affair is over the poor man will still have the collection in his possession — or the poor Russian government, whatever. No museum on earth will get involved, I agree. The man must be mad. Ah, well, I suppose in time we’ll know who he is and how he came to get his hands on the collection, because I just can’t see the Russians being this foolish, although I wouldn’t wager heavily on that either, I assure you. Still, it will make a rather good tale to pass on to students in years to come, to entertain them. And possibly to teach them a lesson about buying — or even selling — something in the archaeological field that does not have proper title. What? Yes, indeed, we really must get together one of these days! I get to Paris so frequently, and you must get to London about as often, I should imagine. Of course, of course! We’ll have to do it soon. And my very best regards to your lovely wife... What? You’re divorced? I’m terribly sorry...”

Sir Mortimer Edgerton did not sound in the least sorry; moreover he thought the ex-madame Dupaul a bore and a monster. When he hung up the receiver and turned to Dr. Gordon, there was a heavy frown on his face.

“That Maurice Dupaul! Saying without the slightest tremor in that squeaky voice of his that the Paris museum has no intention of bidding, when I would wager every penny I possess that his bid will be the first out of the starting gate! Really!” He heaved a sigh. “One can’t trust a soul these days!”