The Fourth Estate

“Do I hear 10,000?” asked the auctioneer, looking around the room. He nodded at someone toward the back. “Fifteen thousand.” Armstrong tried to follow the different bids, although he wasn’t quite sure where they were coming from, and when Lot Seventeen eventually sold for 45,000 francs, he had no idea who the purchaser was. It came as a surprise that the auctioneer brought the hammer down without saying “Going, going, gone.”

By the time the auctioneer had reached Lot Twenty-five, Armstrong felt a little more sure of himself, and by Lot Thirty he thought he could even spot the occasional bidder. By Lot Thirty-five he felt he was an expert, but by Lot Forty, the Winter Egg of 1913, he had begun to feel nervous again.

“I shall start this lot at 20,000 francs,” declared the auctioneer. Armstrong watched as the bidding climbed quickly past 50,000, with the hammer finally coming down at 120,000 francs, to a customer whose anonymity was guaranteed by his being on the other end of a telephone line.

Armstrong felt his hands begin to sweat when Lot Forty-one, the Chanticleer Egg of 1896, encrusted in pearls and rubies, went for 280,000 francs. During the sale of Lot Forty-two, the Yuberov Yellow Egg, he began to fidget, continually looking up at the auctioneer and then down at the open page of his catalog.

When the auctioneer called Lot Forty-three, Sharon squeezed his hand and he managed a nervous smile. A buzz of conversation struck up around the room.

“Lot Forty-three,” repeated the auctioneer, “the Fourteenth Imperial Anniversary Egg. This unique piece was commissioned by the Czar in 1910. The paintings were executed by Vasily Zulev, and the craftsmanship is considered to be among the finest examples of Fabergé’s work. There has already been considerable interest shown in this lot, so I shall start the bidding at 100,000 francs.”

Everyone in the room fell silent except for the auctioneer. The head of his hammer was gripped firmly in his right hand as he stared down into the audience, trying to place the bidders.

Armstrong remembered his briefing, and the exact price at which he should come in. But he could still feel his pulse rate rise when the auctioneer pronounced “One hundred and fifty thousand,” then, turning to his left, said, “The bid is now on the telephone at 150,000 francs, 150,000,” he repeated. He looked intently around the audience, then a smile crossed his lips. “Two hundred thousand in the center of the room.” He paused and looked toward the assistant on the end phone. Armstrong watched her whisper into the receiver, and then she nodded in the direction of the auctioneer, who immediately responded with “Two hundred and fifty thousand.” He turned his attention back to those seated in the room, where there must have been another bid because he immediately switched his gaze back to the assistant on the phone and said, “I have a bid of 300,000 francs.”

The woman informed her client of the latest bid and, after a few moments, she nodded again. All heads in the room swung back to the auctioneer as if they were watching a tennis match in slow motion. “Three hundred and fifty thousand,” he said, glancing at the center of the room.

Armstrong looked down at the catalog. He knew it was not yet time for him to join in the bidding, but that didn’t stop him continuing to fidget.

“Four hundred thousand,” said the auctioneer, nodding to the woman on the end phone. “Four hundred and fifty thousand in the center of the room.” The woman on the phone responded immediately. “Five hundred thousand. Six hundred thousand,” said the auctioneer, his eyes now fixed on the center aisle. With that one bid Armstrong had learned another of the auctioneer’s skills.

Armstrong craned his neck until he finally spotted who it was bidding from the floor. His eyes moved over to the woman on the phone, who nodded once again. “Seven hundred thousand,” said the auctioneer calmly.

A man seated just in front of him raised his catalog. “Eight hundred thousand,” declared the auctioneer. “A new bidder toward the back.” He turned to the woman on the phone, who took rather longer telling her customer the latest bid. “Nine hundred thousand?” he suggested, as if he was trying to woo her. Suddenly she consented. “I have a bid of 900,000 on the phone,” he said, and looked toward the man at the back of the room. “Nine hundred thousand,” the auctioneer repeated. But this time he received no response.

“Are there any more bids?” asked the auctioneer. “Then I’m letting this item go for 900,000 francs. Fair warning,” he said, raising the hammer. “I’m going to let…”

When Armstrong raised his catalog, it looked to

the auctioneer as if he was waving. He wasn’t, he was shaking.

“I have a new bidder on the right-hand aisle, toward the back of the room, at one million francs.” The auctioneer once again directed his attention to the woman on the telephone.

“One million one hundred thousand?” said the auctioneer, pointing the handle of his hammer at the assistant on the end phone. Armstrong sat in silence, not sure what he should do next, as a million francs was the figure they had agreed on. People began to turn round and stare in his direction. He remained silent, knowing that the woman on the phone would shake her head.

She shook her head.

“I have a bid of one million on the aisle,” said the auctioneer, pointing toward Armstrong. “Are there any more bids? Then I’m going to let this go for one million.” His eyes scanned the audience hopefully, but no one responded. He finally brought the hammer down with a thud and, looking at Armstrong, said, “Sold to the gentleman on the aisle for one million francs.” A burst of applause erupted around the room.

Sharon squeezed his hand again. But before Dick could catch his breath, a woman was kneeling on the floor beside him. “If you fill in this form, Mr. Armstrong, someone at the reception desk will advise you on collecting your lot.”

Armstrong nodded. But once he had completed the form, he did not head for the desk, but instead went to the nearest telephone in the lobby and dialed an overseas number. When the phone was answered he said, “Put me straight through to the manager.” He gave the order for a million francs to be sent to Sotheby’s Geneva by swift telegraph transfer, as agreed. “And make it swift,” said Armstrong, “because I’ve no desire to hang around here any longer than necessary.”

He replaced the phone and went over to the woman at the reception desk to explain how the account would be settled, just as the young man in the open-necked shirt began dialing an overseas number, despite the fact that he knew he would be waking his boss.

Townsend sat up in bed and listened carefully. “Why would Armstrong pay a million francs for a Fabergé egg?” he asked.

“I can’t work that out either,” said the young man. “Hang on, he’s just going upstairs with the girl. I’d better stick with him. I’ll ring back as soon as I find out what he’s up to.”

Over lunch in the hotel dining room, Armstrong appeared so preoccupied that Sharon thought it sensible to say nothing unless he started a conversation. It was obvious that the egg had not been purchased for her. When he had put down his empty coffee cup, he asked her to go back to their room and finish packing, as he wanted to leave for the airport in an hour. “I have one more meeting to attend,” he said, “but it shouldn’t take too long.”

When he kissed her on the cheek at the entrance to the hotel, the young man in the open-necked shirt knew which of them he would have preferred to follow.

“See you in about an hour,” he overheard his quarry say. Then Armstrong turned and almost ran down the wide staircase to the ballroom where the auction had taken place. He went straight to the woman seated behind the long table, checking purchase slips.

“Ah, Mr. Armstrong, how nice to see you again,” she said, giving him a million-franc smile. “Your funds have been cleared by swift telegraphic transfer. If you would be kind enough to join my colleague in the inner office,” she said, indicating a door behind her, “you will be able to collect your lot.”

“Thank you,” said Armstrong, as she passed over his receipt for the masterpiece. He turned round, nearly bumping into a young man standing directly behind him, walked into the back office and presented his receipt to a man in a black tailcoat who was standing behind the counter.