“Of course. But you merely said in them that further instructions for bidding would be furnished before September first. Why the delay? That’s a little over two whole months away.” In his petulant whine one could read his dissatisfaction with his present life, his aged automobile, as well as with the postponement of his planned increased love life, all necessitated by that delay.
Lindgren looked at him evenly. “To begin with, I wished to give ample time for the matter to be thoroughly publicized. You see, the newspapers are already calling it the ‘Auction of the Century.’ The meeting in London that ended in such discord, did a good deal for our cause. It brought the question of legal ownership — or lack of ownership — to the fore. That should result in even more bidders. And not only that” — he leaned forward and flicked ash from his thin cigar; in the increased intimacy of their relationship the professor had finally worked up enough nerve to confess he did not like cigars. The count leaned back, pointing with his panatela for emphasis — “but there is also the question of the time needed for the various museums to raise the money to bid against each other. They have to approach potential donors, twist arms, call up old debts, sometimes use blackmail — it all takes time.” He shrugged humorously. “I’ve been approached, myself. By the Glyptotek Museum.”
Nordberg stared at him. “What did you do?”
Lindgren laughed. “I said they could count on me for two million kroner, if they were the successful bidder.” His laughter disappeared as quickly as it had come. “I’m afraid they won’t be the successful bidder.” He looked at Nordberg with a twinkle in his eye. “I don’t mind spending a few kroner on this, just for the fun of it, but I scarcely intend to spend two million kroner for the privilege.”
“Of course not!” Nordberg said, shocked at the very idea. He looked at Lindgren with even greater respect, doubly in awe of a man who could mention such huge sums without seemingly being impressed by them. “So — how do you expect to conduct the auction — well, without being identified with it? Without, in fact, being identified?”
Lindgren crushed out his cigar and leaned forward. “That was the most pleasant part of the game,” he said. He was speaking now for his own benefit as much as for that of his guest. He was speaking, using the recitation to review the plan for the slightest flaw, even permitting a fool like Nordberg to listen in on the offhand chance that he might perceive an error in the scheme, much as a child might see through legerdemain whereas an adult usually would not. And with whom else could he review his plan? “As you must have been able to discern when I sent those letters to the various museums, I have contact with a reliable messenger service that asks no questions, and would not want any answers in any case. All they want is to be paid for their services, and this I do.”
“I... I see no reason why the expenses to which you are being put, should not be taken from the proceeds,” Nordberg said, trying to sound businesslike, and then wondered if perhaps he was being too generous. Messenger service of this type, in eight or more cities, had to run to a fair amount of money. Still, he could do no less than make the offer. Otherwise, with that much money in the offing, he might look to be miserly, or even greedy.
Count Lindgren waved the suggestion away as being of no matter.
“It’s worth it to me for the pleasure I’m getting from all this,” he said with his usual friendly smile, and then went on with his plan. “On the twenty-fifth of August, an advertisement will be delivered and paid for to the personal columns of the major newspapers in the major cities of the world. I am sure the word will get to every museum and interested party everywhere within hours. This advertisement will advise that a telephone conference call has been arranged for twelve noon, Greenwich time, to which any interested museum or individual can join upon request to the international telephone company, and to which the major news services of the world may also connect without cost. The conference call will last for one hour each day for three consecutive days, at the same time each day—”
“Without cost to them?” Nordberg had paled. “A worldwide conference call to which anyone can connect? For an hour each day for three days? That will cost a fortune!”
Lindgren shrugged lightly. “Fifty or sixty thousand dollars, is all. I should judge that no more than fifteen or twenty really serious bidders will enter the auction, and no more than six or seven major news services. Any lesser ones will simply be disconnected, as will anyone who does not bid. But what if it should even run to a hundred thousand dollars? Surely that is no great sum in these inflationary times, is it? For the fun of seeing an auction like this conducted? Or listening to it, rather? Believe me, it will be worth it!”
“But — if you conduct the auction, won’t you be — identified? Unless,” Nordberg said, thinking about it, pleased to offer a slight change in the scheme that might actually enhance it, “you pretend to be the representative of a museum — possibly raise the bidding every now and then to induce the others to—”
“And possibly end up the high bidder?” Lindgren asked dryly. “No, I shall merely be a listener—”
“But you would be cut off!”
“A listener,” Lindgren repeated firmly. “The auction will be conducted by someone from Switzerland, from an unlisted number. Actually, an apartment I maintain there. That someone, I assure you, will not be me. He will be a person of confidence whose voice is unknown.” The unknown, of course, would be Wilten, but there was no reason for Nordberg to know that. “I shall be listening in on an extension to that telephone from an adjoining room. And at the final hour of the conference calls — if all but one bidder has not dropped out before then — the auction will be ended. Whoever is the high bidder at one o’clock on September third, will be declared the winner.”
He glanced at Nordberg, to see if the other man had seen any fault in the scheme, but the professor could only bob his balding head in profound admiration. He looks like one of those idiot dolls on a string, Lindgren thought, and then paused as a frown crossed the professor’s face, indicating thought, or at least concern.
“But — what about the delivery of the treasure? And the payment, of course?”
“The height of simplicity,” Lindgren said, again reviewing his plan aloud for the slightest possibility of failure. “The winner of the auction will be directed to place the proper funds in escrow to a numbered account in Switzerland. The money—”
“In escrow?”
“It means the money stays there until the treasure is delivered, after which it is turned over to the numbered account. The money is to be released from escrow to the account only when the treasure is received, or, rather, when either the museum or the high bidder — assuming it’s an individual — admit that delivery has taken place, or when the delivery is reliably reported in the press, or when the collection actually goes on exhibit.” He shook his head. “I do not believe that one, let alone all three of those conditions can be kept secret.”
Nordberg was staring at him with stricken eyes. “But— but—”
“But, what?”
“But suppose that the high bidder never reports delivery? Suppose it never comes out in the newspapers? Suppose they never exhibit it? Or not for many, many years?” The thought of an even greater ageing car, together with an even more ageing and loveless Arne Nordberg — and with millions of dollars in escrow to his account in a bank someplace — was too horrible to contemplate. It was also evident in his voice. “What then? The money could stay in escrow forever!”