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—”