“If it’s in doubt—” Ruth began.
“Wait.” Keller held up his hand. His half-humorous smile remained, but his voice was serious. “Look, Ruth. I know your history as a collector, an avid collector. We all are, or at least we’d like to be if the circumstances warranted. We wouldn’t be doing what we do if we weren’t. But this is the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and you are its director. We do not, I repeat not, touch anything in the least dubious as to ownership. You know that as well as I do. It’s merely the smell of acquisition battle in your nostrils, my dear war horse, that has made you forget it. Temporarily, I assume, or at least hope.”
Ruth McVeigh smiled.
“Robert Keller, if you are going to tell me that after nearly a hundred years, and after almost that long in the legal possession of another country, the Turkish government will be able to successfully present a case for ownership of the Schliemann treasure just because it originally came from a section of that country that happened to be Turkey—”
“I’m telling you precisely that,” Keller said forcefully, and then weakened his argument a bit by adding, “or if not the Turks, then the Germans, or possibly even the Greeks—”
“Exactly. Which merely means the ownership is not clear.”
Keller ran a hand through his unruly hair in frustration. “Not clear to you because you’re stubborn. If the title is not crystal clear, we won’t touch it. This isn’t the first time we’ve been offered antiquities that we’ve had to refuse. We’ve even bought some and had to return them. Ruth, listen to me! Not only will the board never give you permission to even consider bidding on something like this, but no museum in the world will bid on it. Whoever is offering it to museums is an idiot. To private collectors, possibly, although fifteen million is far more than he’ll ever get from them. But museums? Never. You see—”
He paused as the telephone at Ruth McVeigh’s elbow rang. She shrugged her apology for the interruption and raised the receiver. It was her secretary.
“Dr. McVeigh, I’m sorry to interrupt your conference, but you have an overseas call from Spain. Dr. Armando Lopez is calling. Will you take the call?”
“Of course.” There was a brief wait and then the familiar tones of Dr. Lopez, an old acquaintance if not exactly a friend, of both Ruth McVeigh and her father. Dr. Lopez was the curator of Greek and Roman antiquities at the Museo Arqueológico Nacional in Madrid. He was speaking his usual English, which Ruth McVeigh always referred to as Obscure Florid.
“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 …”
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.”
The Gold of Troy Page 3