CHAPTER TWO

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!”

“But—” Dr. Gordon was a bit confused. “We—I mean, the British Museum—won’t be involved in any bidding, will we, Sir Mortimer? As you said, the legality—”

“We? The British Museum? Good God, no!” Sir Mortimer said stiffly, and then added more slowly, “and neither will Dupaul. He’ll do it through some private collector, some individual, and the two of them will gloat over the collection in private! If they get their hands on it, that is. The thought is sickening. Ah, well. I say,” he added, “be a good chap and on your way out ask my secretary to ring through to Sir Isaac. See if possibly he might be free for lunch with me sometime in the next week or so, eh?”

Sir Mortimer, as Dr. Harold Gordon knew full well, could just as easily have rung through to his secretary himself. He wants an accessory, the doctor thought sourly, and walked from the room. And then brightened a bit. It would be nice to be able to gloat over the collection, at Sir Isaac’s and a few other’s expense …

ABU DHABI—May

Prince ’Umar ibn al-Khoury sat quietly listening to the man seated on a chair slightly lower than his own before the gold-inlaid table that faced them both. At each side of the two, others sat even lower, on cushions, silent, respecting the interview. When at last the man had respectfully finished his statement, Prince ’Umar tented his neatly manicured fingers and stared at the man over them.

“I am afraid it is my ignorance rather than a lack of eloquence on your part,” he said politely, “but the truth is I do not understand all of this. You are asking me to pay a large sum of money, which you estimate may be as much as twenty or more millions of American dollars, not for something you wish for the museum, but”—he shrugged—“exactly for what?” He reached over to the table and picked up the small bead the man had offered for his inspection at the beginning of the interview. “Certainly not for this, or even for a great many hundreds or thousands of these.” He replaced the bead, tenting his fingers again.

“Your Highness,” said the man, undaunted. “It is not the value of the actual gold in the Schliemann collection that is of interest. The entire collection weighs less than nine thousand drams, and even at today’s elevated market the gold, if pure, would be worth less than one million dollars. No, your Highness, it is as a collection, one of the most famous collections in the world, that it must be considered.”

“But I am not a collector,” the prince said, his tone inviting the other man to reason, and untented his fingers long enough to pick up a sweetmeat and convey it to his lips. He wiped his fingers delicately on his robe and folded them in his lap. “And even if I were a collector, you have informed me that at present, at least, the collection may not be shown.” He shrugged. “Of what value is a gold collection that must be hidden?”

The man paused a moment to put his thoughts into words that might convince the prince.

“Your Highness,” he said at last, “the Schliemann collection is much like the oil beneath your Highness’ kingdom. There are those who would say that the oil in the ground is worthless until it is brought to the surface. The Schliemann collection, these people might argue, also has no value until it is brought to the surface, so to speak—until it is exhibited. But this is not true, your Highness. As your Highness knows, the oil in the ground not only has value, it has a value that increases with time. And so it is with the Schliemann treasure, your Highness.”

He paused to see how his argument was being taken, but the prince’s expressionless face gave no indication. Still, the fact that the prince was still listening was a plus, the man felt. He went on, not making the mistake of hurrying his statement, but continuing to maintain the same even cadence.

“Your Highness, the Schliemann collection cannot be acknowledged, cannot be exhibited today, because of foolish rules made by foolish people. But, your Highness, rules change. At one time the oil, even when brought to the surface, had a value that was not proper for your Highness and our people, but today that rule has changed, thanks in major part to the strength and foresight of your Highness. Today that oil has great value. And so it will be with the Schliemann collection, your Highness. The rules of ownership will change. And as it has been said, ownership truly lies with he who possesses. And your Highness will possess.”

Prince ’Umar shrugged slightly and reached for another sweetmeat. “But in reality,” he said quietly, “it will be you and your museum who will possess.”

“Our people will possess,” the man said equally quietly, “for the museum and all it contains is of your Highness and his people. And even as the oil beneath the surface has increased in value while remaining unseen, so shall the Schliemann collection until the day it may be brought forth and exhibited.”

The prince nodded slowly and came to his feet, dusting his fingertips lightly against each other.

“It shall be considered,” he said with quiet dignity, and walked away, followed by his retinue.

NEW YORK—May

The meeting in the conference room of the Metropolitan Museum was not going well, and Ruth McVeigh realized that a good part of the fault lay with her own presentation. Her emotional enthusiasm put against the cold businesslike attitudes taken by a large majority of the board members, emerged looking almost gauche. Bob Keller did not like opposing Ruth and felt sorry for the defeat he knew she would face in a short while, but his responsibility in reporting to the board demanded that the full facts regarding the legal aspects of acquisition be presented, and he had done so. Ruth McVeigh, asking for the floor and receiving it, came to her feet in a final attempt to get her point across.

“You all apparently do not understand,” she said, and shook her head at their obtuseness, her impatience with them quite evident. “Or apparently you do not want to understand. You all seem to be under the impression that if we do not bid on this acquisition in some manner—if only under a proxy as I’m sure many museums will bid—that then the treasure will remain where it is, in the hands of a person who was foolish enough to try and sell something that wasn’t rightfully his to a group of museum trustees who were far too brilliant, too intelligent, to be taken in. That thought is probably the most ridiculous I’ve heard in a long time!” There was a shocked sound from someone on the board, but Ruth plowed on, her temper now getting the best of her. “It’s simply stupid! Believe me, the collection will be sold. It will be sold to a museum under one guise or another, and I would not at all be surprised to later find we were the only museum permitted or at least asked to bid, who did not do so. You think I’m wrong in this, and that you all know better. You could not be more mistaken!” She paused for effect. “I know, and I mean I know, at least six museums who will bid, one way or another.”

“And if they do, let them,” someone said disdainfully. “What will they get for their money? A collection they cannot exhibit! A collection they will not even be able to acknowledge!”

Ruth waited until the murmur of voices had eased. “For the time being, perhaps,” she said angrily, “but most likely only for the time being. The question of ownership of this collection is far from being as free from challenge in my mind as it seems to be in yours. I have a strong conviction that anyone, museum or private collector, who gets this collection, will find very good arguments not only for keeping it, but for exhibiting it as well. If it were put up for grabs today,” she said hotly, not caring about her language, “there would be so many arguing their right to it, that in the end it would come to anyone’s right! I still think we should—”

Someone on the board yawned quite audibly. Ruth McVeigh clenched her jaw and glared down the table. The offending member regarded her quite calmly and then turned to face the chairman at the head of the long conference table.

“Mr. Chairman,” he said, “I think we’ve discussed this subject more than amply. Ad nauseum, I should say. I suggest we put it to a motion.”

“Mr. Ainsley? Would you care to—”

“I would, indeed. I move that we do not, under any pretext, under any subterfuge such as ‘proxy’ or ‘private collector’ or in any other manner, even faintly consider the acquisition of the Schliemann treasure, authentic or not, by the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”

The chairman looked down the table, gavel in hand.

“Do I hear a second?”

“Second!” It came from most of the board members present.

“Before we vote on the motion, is there any discussion?”

“Mr. Chairman!” Ruth McVeigh came to her feet, blaming herself for her previous ill-considered attack on the staid members of the board. Different tactics were needed and she now kept her voice emotionless, under rigid control. It was, she knew, her last chance. “Mr. Chairman, members of the board, I should like to ask your indulgence in one thing. Before you vote on the motion, I should like to pose a question I want each of you to answer honestly. Is the problem here the question of legal ownership of the collection, or is it the matter of the fifteen million dollars?”

“Both!” someone said. There was a brief laugh from someone and then silence.

“If, for example,” Ruth McVeigh went on evenly, “it was a matter, say, of one million dollars, or half-a-million dollars, would you be more willing to chance the questions of legal ownership?”

Dr. Keller raised a hand and was granted the floor.

“Definitely not,” he said flatly. “Speaking for myself—and I’m sure for the majority here—definitely not. It isn’t a question of the size of the amount. It’s still a question of legality.”

“Besides,” someone said in a puzzled tone without waiting for permission to speak, “how can we talk of a million dollars, or half a million, if the starting bid was supposed to be fifteen million?” It was one of the few supporters Ruth had in the room and she appreciated his giving her the opportunity to explain.

“Wait, please.” Ruth was examining the explanation that had come to her and finding it more and more to her liking. Even her tone became more confident. She looked from one face to another down the long table, suddenly sure she could convince them, or at least most of them. “Suppose we were able to get the fifteen leading museums in the world, say, to agree to each put up one million dollars—or thirty museums to each contribute half a million—and the treasure would then be owned jointly by all of us. And suppose those museums were to include the Turkish, the Greek, and German—all the possible claimants to ownership. Suppose they all agreed not only to share the ownership, but also agreed on a period and a schedule for each one to exhibit the treasure?”

There was silence as this new concept was explored. Then Bob Keller shook his head.

“The claimants would never agree.”

“How do we know?” Ruth was looking at him, a faint smile on her lips. “How will we ever know unless we ask them?”

The chairman cleared his throat. The discussion had taken a distinctly different turn and the looks on the faces of the board members indicated their changed attitudes as well. The chairman looked at the museum’s new director.

“Exactly what are you suggesting, Ruth?”

Ruth McVeigh took a deep breath, sure now she would win her point.

“I’m suggesting that I arrange a meeting of the directors, together with the interested curators, of the leading museums at some central location—say London—where we can discuss the entire matter of the auction in detail. No matter what any individual museum may have been aiming for in the way of a bid—and I assure you I was telling the truth before when I said they were—still, the matter of money has to have been a problem. If we can co-operate, at least the question of finances can be overcome. And, without competition, we can keep the price down to at least the original figure of fifteen million, if not less.”

She looked around the table. Everyone was watching her evenly, listening to her words carefully. She kept her inward smile from appearing on her lips and continued quietly.

“As to the question of ownership, if the major claimants can be induced to go along with us, that problem can be solved as well. Possibly we may even discuss paying the share of the major claimants; most of them are precisely the museums with the least ability to finance any bid of any kind. Such a proposition certainly should interest them—to have at least a partial claim to ownership, rather than none as at present. And to be able to exhibit the treasure at least for a limited period, rather than never, as at present.” She sat down.

There was silence, then a hand was raised. The chairman nodded. “Mr. Ainsley?”

“Mr. Chairman,” the man said, his voice now more respectful, “I should like to withdraw my last motion and replace it with another. I move that Dr. McVeigh be given instructions by this board to pursue her suggestion, as well as all the necessary resources to do so. I further move that after she has met with these various representatives of these other museums, that she bring the results of her meeting back to the board for consideration.”

“Second!”

“Any discussion?” There was silence. “If not, all in favor?”

“Aye!”

“Opposed?”

There was silence. The chairman tapped his gavel and spoke.

“The motion is carried. I will see Dr. McVeigh tomorrow to make arrangements.” He paused a moment to look down the table, and then went on in a different tone of voice. “As I’m sure we all know, the discussions we have in these board meetings are for the benefit of the Metropolitan Museum and are not to be handed out to the press or other media without the permission of the chairman. It is not that there is any particular secrecy to our meetings”—he smiled—“any more than there is strict attention to Roberts Rules of Order. But our discussion today is a good example of the reason for care in these matters. The negotiations we have authorized our director to undertake could easily be compromised by any undue or premature publicity. There has been enough idle speculation in the press over this auction as it is, and I’m sure there will be more when the London meeting—if that is where the meeting takes place—becomes public, as it undoubtedly will in the very near future. Thank you. If there is no further business, I will entertain a motion to adjourn …”

Bob Keller was waiting for Ruth in the hallway after the meeting broke up. He smiled at her.

“Well, congratulations, war horse. You don’t give up easily, do you?”

Ruth smiled back. “Bob, we’re either going to get the Schliemann treasure, or we’re going to give it a good try. Part of it, at least, if not all of it.”

Keller shook his head.

“It won’t even be a try. I didn’t oppose you in there because I think a meeting with the other museums may be a good idea. It may finally convince you of what I’ve been trying to tell you. Nobody will touch the bid under the present ownership arrangements. And certainly the real claimants will dig in their heels at the thought of sharing ownership.”

“Even at the cost of losing it altogether?”

“Even at the cost of losing it altogether.”

Ruth shrugged. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

“I’ll make you a bet,” Keller said. “Loser buys the other dinner. And to establish my good intentions of paying off if I lose, why don’t we have dinner together tonight as a preliminary?”

“Good enough.”

Bob Keller wet his lips and took the plunge. “At my place? I’m a pretty good chef—”

Ruth McVeigh looked at him and inwardly sighed. It had been a very long time, and Robert Keller was a very attractive man, but she knew he was not the one. Keller recognized the signs and also sighed, but aloud.

“Ah, well,” he said, and smiled ruefully. “The restaurant of your choice, then. Seven o’clock?”