“Lot number eighteen.” The auctioneer paused to allow a porter to enter the room carrying the egg on a velvet cushion. He placed it on a stand beside the podium, and withdrew. The auctioneer smiled benevolently down at his attentive audience, and was about to suggest an opening price of fifty thousand pounds when a voice from the back of the room shouted, “One thousand pounds,” which was followed by laughter and a gasp of disbelief.
“Two thousand,” said another voice, before the auctioneer could recover.
“Ten thousand,” said someone two rows behind the countess. The bewildered auctioneer looked hopefully around the room, and was just about to bring his hammer down and say, “Sold to the Russian ambassador,” when out of the corner of his eye he saw the hand of one of the assistants on the platform to his left shoot up. He turned to face a young woman on the phone, who said firmly, “Twenty thousand.”
“Twenty-one thousand,” said the first voice from the back of the room.
The auctioneer looked back at the young woman, who appeared to be deep in conversation with her telephone client.
“Thirty thousand,” she said after a few seconds, which had felt like a lifetime to the countess.
“Thirty-one thousand.” The same voice from the back.
“Forty thousand,” said the assistant on the phone.
“Forty-one thousand,” came back the immediate response.
“Fifty thousand,” the assistant.
“Fifty-one thousand,” the man at the back.
There was another long silence as everyone in the room turned toward the young woman on the phone.
“One hundred thousand,” she said, causing a loud outbreak of chattering, which the auctioneer studiously ignored.
“I have a bid of one hundred thousand pounds,” he said. “Do I see one hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds?” the auctioneer inquired as his eye returned to the leader of the ring, who stared back at him in sullen silence.
“Do I see one hundred and twenty-five thousand?” the auctioneer asked a second time. “Then I’ll let it go to the phone bidder for one hundred thousand pounds.” He was just about to bring down his hammer, when a hand in the fifth row rose reluctantly. Clearly the Russian ambassador now accepted that his press statement had failed to achieve the desired result.
A flurry of bids followed, once the ambassador had acknowledged the egg had indeed been crafted by Carl Fabergé, and was not a fake. When the price reached half a million, Mr. Dangerfield noticed that the young woman on the phone was having an intense conversation with her client.
“The next bid will be six hundred thousand,” she whispered. “Do you want me to continue bidding on your behalf, sir?”
“How many bidders are left?” he asked.
“The Russian ambassador is still bidding, and I’m fairly sure the deputy director of the Metropolitan Museum in New York is showing an interest. And a dealer from Asprey is tapping his right foot, always a sign that he’s about to join in.”
“Fine, then I’ll wait until you think we’re down to the final bidder.”
When the bidding reached one million, the young woman whispered into the phone, “We’re down to the last two, the Russian ambassador and the deputy director of the Met.”
“One million, one hundred thousand pounds,” said the auctioneer, turning his attention back to the Russian ambassador, who sullenly folded his arms and lowered his head.
“We’re down to one,” she whispered over the phone.
“What was the last bid?”
“One million one.”
“Then bid one million two.” Her right hand shot up.
“I have one million two on the phone,” said the auctioneer, looking back down at the deputy director of the Met.
“What’s happening?” asked the voice on the other end of the line. He sounded quite anxious.
“I think you’ve got it. Congratulations.”
But she was wrong, because the hand of the Met’s representative rose once again, if somewhat tentatively.