So we were pretty much left with our tongs, loupes, magnifying glasses, and high-intensity lamps. A casual observer, admitted to our sanctum, would have thought us a couple of loonies: Hobie studying a scrap of gummed paper, and me examining a tiny chunk of bruised metal. Both of us exchanging muttered comments:
“Look at that watermark!”
“It’s been clipped; what a shame.”
“Unperforated; that’s a blessing.”
“Roman copy.”
“They will use hinges.”
“Silver hemidrachm of the Achaean League. Very nice.”
Occasionally we would get so excited with a “find” that Hobie would summon me over to his worktable to take a look at an expertly forged signature of Herman Melville, or I’d call him to my side to admire the exquisite minting of a tetradrachm that dated from 420 B.C. and showed an eagle with wings spread, and a crab on the reverse.
I suppose we were a pair of very young antiquarians. All I know is that we shared an enthusiasm for the past, and liked each other. That helped to make our work pleasurable. Sometimes we went out to dinner together—but not often. Hobie’s live-in lover was insanely jealous and suspected him of harboring heterosexual tendencies. He didn’t.
Hobie was a slight, fair-haired lad with a wispy manner and a droll sense of humor. He dressed beautifully, and gave me some very good advice on clothes I might wear to minimize my beanstalkiness. I reckoned he and I got along so well together because the world considered us both bizarre creatures. For different reasons, of course. We had a kinship of discrimination—but our friendship was real.
I had been at Grandby & Sons for a little more than two years when one morning—late April, rainy and gusty: a portent!—I was summoned by Felicia Dodat. She was wearing a particularly oppressive perfume, flowery and sweet, and her office smelled like a greenhouse.
Following Hobie’s advice, I had kept my relationship with dear Felicia on a cool, professional basis. We were warily cordial with each other, and if she was occasionally snappish, I laid that to the pressures of her job. She never joked about my formidable height, but she had a way of looking at me—her eyes starting at my feet, then slowly rising as if she was examining Mt. Everest—that I resented.
“Do you know a man named Archibald Havistock?” she demanded.
“Havistock? No, I’m not familiar with the name.”
She gave me one of her dagger glances. “He owns what seems to be a very large, valuable collection of antique coins. Almost five hundred items with an insured value of two million. I’m surprised you’ve never heard of him.”
“Miss Dodat,” I said, as patiently as I could, “no one knows the names of the world’s biggest coin collectors. For security reasons they buy and sell only through agents, attorneys, or professional coin dealers. You never see their names mentioned at auction or anywhere else. Sometimes they’re known in the trade by nicknames. ‘Midas,’ for instance, is a Saudi Arabian sheikh. Nobody knows who he is. A woman called ‘The Boston Lady’ is reputed to own one of the finest collections of antique Greek coins in the country. ‘The Man from Dallas’ is another. These people work very hard to keep their names secret. When you possess that much wealth in portable property—a two-million-dollar collection of antique coins could be carried off in a small, brown paper bag—you don’t wish to have your name and address publicized.”
“Why don’t they put their coins in a bank vault?”
I looked at her in astonishment. “Because they want to look at them, touch them, dream over them. Most of these people don’t invest in antique coins for profit. They’re hooked on the beauty, history, and romance of the mintage.”
She made a gesture, waving away everything I had said as of no importance. “Archibald Havistock,” she repeated. “He wishes to put his entire coin collection on the block or sell outright. I’m sure he has contacted Christie’s and Sotheby’s, and probably other houses as well. I have here a copy of his insurance inventory. I want you to go over it very, very carefully and give me an accurate estimate of what you feel Grandby’s might earn if the collection was consigned to auction or whether we’d be better off buying outright.”
“Miss Dodat, I can’t do that without making a physical examination of the coins. Even an insurance inventory can be inaccurate. Values in the coin market change rapidly.”
“Then make arrangements to see them,” she said crossly. “He lives in Manhattan, so it shouldn’t be difficult. Here—it’s all yours. I’ll expect your report within a week.”
She held a folder of documents out to me. I took it and tried to smile, wondering if I should curtsy. I started out.
“By next Friday!” she cried after me.
Hobie was down in Virginia, appraising the value of a stamp collection left to his heirs by a recently deceased nonagenarian. Grandby’s provided this service to executors for a fee even though we might not be selected to offer the property at auction or be given the opportunity to buy outright.
So I had the office to myself that morning. I poured a mug of black coffee—my mug had I TAKE CANDY FROM STRANGERS printed on the side—and started going over the inventory of Archibald Havistock’s coin collection.
In my business, there are collectors and there are accumulators. The former are people of taste and discernment, who have an educated knowledge of the history, provenance, and intrinsic value of what they acquire. Most of all, they buy through love. Accumulators are greedy addicts who buy everything, without regard to rarity and condition, and are only concerned with the bottom line (catalogue value) of their collections. Which often turns out to be woefully inflated when they try to sell.
It was immediately obvious to me, studying the inventory, that Archibald Havistock was a very discriminating collector indeed. His list included some real beauties, but the insurance estimates were dated four years previously and did not allow for inflation or the recent runup in antique coin values.
The gem of the collection, a real museum piece, was a silver dekadrachm dating from about 470 B.C. It was a famous coin, one of great classics of Greek mintage. It was called the “Demaretion” and judged as being in Extremely Fine condition. I consulted my catalogues and discovered the most recent Demaretion in similar condition to come on the market had sold for almost a quarter of a million dollars. The value in the insurance inventory was given as only $150,000. I felt Grandby’s could auction this coin for a possible $350,000.
I read the covering letter addressed to Grandby & Sons, picked up the phone, and called Mr. Archibald Havistock.
3
IN MY EAGER WANDERINGS about Manhattan I had discovered it to be a borough of neighborhoods, the most disparate side by side: poor and wealthy, ugly and lovely, raucous and sedate. And within those districts, even a single block could have a distinctive character that set it off from its neighbors, a weed in a nosegay of posies or a rose in a clump of nettles.
Archibald Havistock lived in a unique East 79th Street block that had not yet been given a transplant of glass and steel high-rises. The elephantine brick and stone apartment houses, all looking like armories, seemed to have settled into the earth since they were built fifty years ago. They gave the appearance of solid, dull permanence, and one supposed the occupants of those seven-, nine-, and eleven-room suites had taken on the character of their surroundings.
The lobby, paneled in varicose-veined marble, was a small Grand Central Station, with a codger behind the desk as patterned as the marble. I announced my name, he picked up a house phone and announced my arrival to Mr. Havistock, then announced the apartment number to me. It was all as formal as a court investiture.
The man who opened the apartment door didn’t look like an Archibald to me; he looked more like a Tony or a Mike. Actually, he turned out to be an Orson. So much for my perspicacity. He introduced himself as Orson Vanwinkle, Mr. Havistock’s nephew and secretary. We shook hands. A damp experience.
He was a dark, saturnine fellow with a beaky nose: a pe
rfect Iago with that kind of menacing handsomeness I suppose some women find attractive, but which makes me slightly queasy. Also, his cologne smelled like Juicy Fruit.
I followed him down a muffled corridor, noting a series of etchings on the walls. They all seemed to be of Liverpool at low tide. Not too exciting. But then Vanwinkle ushered me into a chamber that was startling: a den-library from another era. Slate-tiled floor almost hidden by a buttery Oriental rug. Walnut paneling. Heavy velvet drapes swagged back with cords as thick as hawsers with tassels. Oil paintings in gilt frames (including two original Hoppers). Crystal and silver on a marble-topped sideboard.
And on deep, built-in oak shelves, a number of glass-topped display cases. The Havistock coin collection.
The man behind the enormous partners’ desk rose to greet me with a wintry smile. A blocky figure draped in a gorgeous suit of dove-gray flannel with a hairline red stripe. White silk shirt with a bow tie: polka-dotted blue. His vest had white piping—the first time I had ever seen that. Hair silvered to a sheen, and eyes a cold, cold azure.
“Miss Bateson,” he said in diapason tones, holding out a manicured paw, “I am Archibald Havistock. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
I had an instant reaction: I was meeting a personage. Later, I tried to analyze my awe, and decided it was due to his carriage, voice, grooming, and his presence. He just gave the impression of being a very important man. In control. Even in less admirable surroundings, I think he still would have conveyed the feeling of power and distinction. He was so complete.
And—as if he needed it!—he was beautiful, in the way certain older men sometimes are. A heavy face with crinkly laugh lines. Full mouth. Solid jaw. And, of course, the silvered hair and ice-cube eyes. He could have posed for Chairman of the Board of the Universe. His cufflinks were little enamel reproductions of a Picasso. I’m sure he thought them an amusing whimsy.
We all got ourselves seated. I was across that double-width desk from Mr. Havistock. Orson Vanwinkle sat behind me on a straight-back chair near the door. Almost like a bodyguard or security agent.
I began to explain that before Grandby & Sons could make an estimate of what his collection might bring at auction, or was worth in an outright sale, I had to make a personal inspection and appraisal of the individual coins. He held up a pink palm and favored me with another cheerless smile. Something sad about that smile.
“I understand completely,” he said. “As I’m sure you’ve guessed, I have contacted a few other auction houses, and they all work the same way. Would you like to get started now?”
I had brought along what I called my “doctor’s bag”—for out-of-the-office appraisals. It was a little black valise packed with a small high-intensity lamp, loupe, huge magnifying glass, silk gloves, tongs, a few of the latest catalogues, and a kit of chemicals in vials, used to test metal content. I spread all this paraphernalia on my half of the desk facing Mr. Havistock. Orson Vanwinkle rose to his feet and brought the first display case, placing it gently in front of me.
Now I must describe in exact detail how the Havistock Collection was mounted since it led to such important and dramatic consequences.
There were 497 items in the collection, including the Demaretion. They were housed in display cases approximately 24 by 16 inches. Each case was divided into forty-two velvet-lined compartments, one coin to each. And every little topless box bore a small pasted number corresponding to the numbers on the insurance inventory.
If my arithmetic is correct, you will see that the 497 coins could be accommodated in twelve display cases, with seven empty compartments. Explanation of that in a moment…
The first display case Orson Vanwinkle placed on the desk before me was completely filled. I spent a moment examining the case, running my fingertips lightly over the oiled teak sides, the solid brass hardware: recessed hinges and lock.
“The case,” I said, looking up at Archibald Havistock. “It’s splendid!”
“Yes,” he said, and his smile had more warmth. “Custom-made for me by Nate Colescui in Greenwich Village. The best man for that kind of work in the city. Orson, will you unlock, please.”
Vanwinkle took a ring from his pocket, selected a small, intricately tooled brass key, and unlocked the case in front of me. He raised the glass lid (framed in teak) and made certain the lid support was holding. I went to work, the copy of the inventory at my elbow.
It became quickly apparent that whoever had done the insurance appraisal knew the business: the condition ratings were, in my opinion, almost completely accurate. I disagreed on only 17 of the 497 items, and in 12 of them, the coin deserved a higher rating, and only 5, in my judgment, should have had a lower: from Very Fine to Fine, or from Fine to Fair. But at current values of antique coins, the whole collection was woefully underinsured.
I was there almost three hours, and it was a perfect delight. Only another numismatist could understand how I felt. The beauty of those coins! Miniature sculptures. Profiles of gods and goddesses. Horses and chariots. Birds and fish. Beasts and gargoyles. And so many nameless young men with faces of such joyous hope that I almost wept from the sight of them. All gone.
During those three hours, Havistock or Vanwinkle occasionally left the room. But never both at the same time; one of them was always present during my appraisal. I didn’t blame them a bit. With those display cases of treasures unlocked, I preferred to have a witness present to testify that I had not suddenly swallowed an exquisite silver obol.
And finally, the thirteenth case…
It was laid before me by Orson Vanwinkle as if it was the pièce de résistance of a cordon bleu chef. If he had popped off a domed cover and shouted, “Voila!,” I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised.
There it was, all by its lonesome, the Demaretion centered in its own case.
No mistaking it: a chunky silver dekadrachm, about the size of an American half-dollar. On the obverse, a trotting quadriga with a standing charioteer. Nike flies above, crowning the horses. Below, a lion springs. On the reverse, four dolphins swim about the profile of Artemis, who wears an olive wreath.
I am not going to tell you this is the most beautiful of all ancient Greek coins—in my opinion, it is not—but it is lovely enough, with crisp minting (the horses’ legs are especially well done), and, of course, its rarity adds to its allure. That, and the romantic story of how the Demaretion came to exist. But I’ll tell you about that later.
I looked up from my examination to find Archibald Havistock examining me. Again, that distant smile…
“Do you like it?” he asked in his deep rumble.
“It’s splendid!” I burst out. “Up to now I’ve only seen it in photos—but they don’t do it justice.”
He nodded. “It’s perfection. I bought it thirty years ago, paying more than I could afford at the time. But I had to have it.”
Thus speaketh the true collector. They’ll sell their mothers to possess something you or I might think a bauble or an incomprehensible daub of paint on canvas. But in this case I agreed with the owner; the Demaretion was a treasure.
I left shortly after, promising Mr. Havistock he would have an appraisal from Grandby & Sons within a week, including recommended reserve values. (When the final bid is lower than these floor prices, the items are removed from auction.)
I was conducted down that gloomy corridor to the front door by Orson Vanwinkle, who insisted on shaking my hand in parting, holding it just a wee bit too long in his clammy grasp. I will not say the man was slimy, but I believe he might have laughed at a homeless dog in the rain.
I went back to my office and set to work. I saw at once that attempting to auction 497 individual coins would be too time-consuming—and counterproductive. A better method would be to divide the coins into lots by period: Archaic, Classical, and Hellenistic, and by country of origin: Gaul, Spain, Sicily, Britain, etc. (Those ancient Greeks got around!)
After dividing the bulk of the coins into lots which I thought might
attract specialized collectors, I withheld fourteen items to be sold individually. Including the Demaretion, of course. I then started estimating reserve and top values of each lot and the fourteen individual coins. It took me four days.
While I was laboring, Hobart Juliana returned to our lair from Virginia with fascinating tales of life amongst the gentry. We went out to lunch together, and I told him about the Havistock Collection, the biggest appraisal I had ever handled. Hobie was even more excited than I.
“Dunk, that’s marvelous!” he enthused. “If you can bring it off, it’ll mean mucho dinero for the house and probably a raise for you.”
“Not a chance,” I said gloomily. “If I can win it, Madam Dodat will take all the credit.”
“No way!” he said determinedly, shaking his head. “You happen to be sharing an office with the best little rumormonger at Grandby and Sons. You bring in the Havistock Collection, and I’ll make sure everyone in the place, including god, knows that it was due to your talent, intelligence, perseverance, and keen, analytical judgment.”
I laughed and gripped his hand. It was good to have someone on my side, rooting for me. In other circumstances we might have…Oh, well, why talk about it.
I went in early and stayed late every night. Then went home, thawed and ate a “gourmet” dinner, and went to bed. I wrestled with the sheets, my brain churning, and finally fell asleep dreaming of drachms and trihemiobols, and a standing charioteer leaning forward to goad four elegant horses. What kind of dreams were those for a normal, healthy American female? Feh!
I met my self-imposed deadline, and delivered to Felicia Dodat a handsomely typed appraisal that included estimated reserve and top values on twenty-two lots and fourteen individual coins ($350,000 for the Demaretion). I left it up to Dodat, god, and the accountants to figure out an offer to make to Archibald Havistock if he wanted to sell his collection outright.
The Eighth Commandment Page 2