* * *
The auction house was almost full by the time Mr. Dangerfield and the countess took their reserved seats in the third row.
“Your egg is lot eighteen,” said Dangerfield after turning several pages of the catalog. “So it won’t come up for at least half an hour. But then it should only be a few moments before we discover if the experts consider it a fake or a masterpiece.” He turned and glanced at a group of men who were standing in a huddle at the back of the room. “They’ve already decided the answer to that question,” he added. “But then, it suits their purpose.”
“It doesn’t help that the Soviet ambassador issued a press statement this morning claiming that the egg was a fake and the original is on display at the Hermitage,” said the countess.
“A piece of propaganda that even Goebbels would have been embarrassed by,” said Mr. Dangerfield. “And you’ll notice that despite his words, His Excellency is sitting a couple of rows behind us. Don’t be surprised if he tries to pick up your egg at a reduced price, and then overnight it’s suddenly recognized as a long-lost masterpiece.”
“The revolution may have killed my father,” said the countess, turning around to glare at the ambassador, “but its heirs are not going to steal my egg.”
The ambassador didn’t acknowledge her presence.
“What does POA mean?” the countess asked, looking back down at her catalog.
“Price on application,” explained Dangerfield. “As Sotheby’s are unwilling to offer an opinion on its value, they will leave it to the market to decide. I’m afraid the ambassador’s intervention won’t have helped.”
“Bunch of cowards,” said the countess. “Let’s hope they’re all left with egg on their faces.” Mr. Dangerfield would have laughed, but he wasn’t sure if the pun had been intended. “So what happens next?” she asked.
“At seven o’clock precisely, the auctioneer will climb the steps to the podium, and open proceedings by offering lot number one. Then I’m afraid you’ll have a rather long and anxious wait before he reaches lot eighteen. At that point it will be in the hands of the gods. Or possibly,” he added, glancing around at the ring, “the infidels.”
“Who are those casually dressed men behind that rope near the podium?”
“The gentlemen of the press. Pencils poised, hoping for a story. You’ll either make the front pages or be relegated to a footnote in the arts column.”
“Let’s hope it’s the front pages. And the smartly dressed ones on the platform to our right?”
“That’s the home team. It’s their job to help the auctioneer spot the bidders. That also applies to those assistants manning the phones to your right, who will be bidding on behalf of clients who are either calling from abroad, or wish to remain anonymous.”
At precisely seven o’clock a tall, elegantly dressed man wearing a dinner jacket and black bow tie entered the auction room from a door behind the podium. He slowly climbed the steps, and smiled as he surveyed the packed audience.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the Russian sale. I shall start proceedings with lot number one in your catalog. A Winter’s Evening in Moscow by Savrasov. I shall open the bidding at ten thousand pounds. Do I see twelve?”
Although the countess considered the work inferior to the Savrasov that had hung in her father’s library, she was nevertheless pleased when the hammer came down at twenty-four thousand pounds, well above its high estimate.
“Lot number two,” declared the auctioneer. “A watercolor by…”
“I was hoping that Sasha might be joining us,” said Mr. Dangerfield. “But he did warn me that he had a party booking at the restaurant and wasn’t sure if he’d be able to get away in time.”
The countess made no comment as she turned the page of her catalog to lot three, which didn’t make the low estimate. Mr. Dangerfield glanced around, to see that the ring was celebrating its first killing. He looked back to find the countess tapping her fingers agitatedly on her catalog, which surprised him, because he’d never known her to show any emotion.
“That picture belonged to an old family friend,” she explained. “He needed the money.”
When the auctioneer offered the next painting, Mr. Dangerfield noted that the countess was becoming more and more nervous as each lot was offered up for sale. He even thought he spotted a bead of sweat on her forehead by the time the auctioneer had reached lot sixteen.
“A pair of Russian dolls. Shall I open the bidding at ten thousand?” No one responded. The aucti
oneer stared down at the impassive sea of faces and suggested, “Twelve thousand,” but Mr. Dangerfield knew he was plucking bids off the wall. “Fourteen thousand,” he said, trying not to sound desperate. But there was still no response, so he brought down his hammer and mumbled, “Bought in.”
“What does that mean?” whispered the countess.
“There was never a bidder in the first place,” said Mr. Dangerfield.
“Lot number seventeen,” said the auctioneer. “An important portrait by the distinguished Russian artist Vladimir Borovikovsky. Do I see a bid of twenty thousand?” No one responded until a member of the ring shouted, “Ten thousand!”
“Do I see twelve thousand?” asked the auctioneer, but still no one else took any interest, so he reluctantly brought down his hammer and said, “Sold, for ten thousand pounds, to the gentleman at the back,” although he wasn’t entirely sure which gentleman.
Dangerfield felt this didn’t bode well for his client, but he didn’t proffer an opinion.