The Collector
Page 37
“Nothing out of the ordinary. He did some very good work the last few months. Very good work. He handled two estates, acquired some excellent pieces, some with specific clients in mind. He had a knack, the boy had a real knack for the business.”
“So you’ve said. Let me fix you a drink.”
“I wouldn’t turn one down. It’s been a hard few days. The shop . . . we’re all shaken. Everyone enjoyed Oliver, and bless him, he enjoyed everyone. Even when he infuriated you, you had to love him. You know how he was.”
“I do.” Ash led Vinnie into the compact studio kitchen, took the chilled glass out of the cooler under the wet bar. “G and T, right?”
“You know it. You’ve got a wonderful place here, Ash. You know, when you bought it, I thought, For God’s sake, why doesn’t the boy convert it into apartments and make some money off that real estate? I can’t help myself.”
“Me, either.” Ash mixed the drink, added a twist of lime, then got himself a beer. “Live in a crowded, busy city—have plenty of quiet personal space. Best of both.”
“You’ve got just that.” Vinnie tapped his glass to the bottle. “I’m proud of you. Did you know Sage bought one of your paintings? Oliver mentioned it.”
“I saw it when I got his things. Most of his things. Come in here, will you, and tell me what you think of this.”
He turned away from the studio, went across a hallway and into what he’d outfitted as his office.
The egg stood on his desk.
Vinnie had an exceptional poker face. As he’d lost to him more than once, Ash had a reason to know. But now, Vinnie’s face filled with the stunned delight of a rookie drawing four aces.
“My God. My God.” Vinnie rushed toward it, dropped to his knees like a man paying homage.
But Ash saw after a moment’s shock, Vinnie had simply gone down to eye level.
“Where did you get this? Ashton? Where did you get this?”
“What have I got?”
“You don’t know?” Vinnie pushed himself up, circled the egg, leaned down to study it so closely his nose all but brushed the gold. “This is either Fabergé’s Cherub with Chariot egg or the most magnificent reproduction I’ve ever seen.”
“Can you tell which?”
“Where did you get it?”
“From a safe-deposit box, Oliver’s box. He sent me the key, and a note asking me to hold on to the key until he got in touch. He said he had a testy client to deal with, and a big deal in the works. I think he was in trouble, Vinnie. I think the trouble is sitting on my desk. I think what got him killed is sitting on my desk. Can you tell if it’s real?”
Vinnie dropped into a chair, rubbed his hands over his face. “I should have known. I should have known. His energy, his excitement, the mix of anxiety. Not about the woman, but this. About this. I left my briefcase downstairs. I could use it.”
“I’ll get it. I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For bringing you into this.”
“He was mine, too, Ash. My sister’s boy—her only boy. I taught him about things like this. About antiques, collections, their value. How to buy and sell them. Of course you called me.”
“I’ll get your briefcase.”
He’d known he’d add to the grief, Ash thought. A price paid. But family called to family first. He didn’t know another way.
When he came back with the briefcase, Vinnie was standing over the egg, hunched over it, his glasses perched on the edge of his nose.
“I’m always losing these things.” He took the glasses off, set them aside. “I can’t seem to keep a pair more than a month, if that. But I’ve had my jeweler’s loupe for twenty years.” He opened the briefcase.
He took out thin white cotton gloves, pulled them on. He switched on the desk lamp, examined the egg through the loupe, inch by inch. He handled it with the care of a surgeon, peering at tiny mechanisms, brilliant stones.
“I’ve acquired two eggs—not the Imperials, of course, but two lovely pieces circa 1900. I’ve been fortunate to see, even be permitted to examine, an Imperial egg owned by a private collector. This doesn’t make me a leading expert.”
“You’re mine.”
Vinnie smiled a little. “In my opinion—and that’s opinion—this is Fabergé’s Cherub with Chariot, one of the eight missing Imperial eggs. There’s only one photograph of this egg, and that is a poor one, and there are some slightly conflicting descriptions. But the workmanship, the quality of material, the design . . . and it bears Perchin’s mark—Fabergé’s leading workmaster of that period. It’s unmistakable to me, but you’ll want a true expert opinion.”
“He had documents. Most of them are in Russian.” Ash took them out of the envelope, handed them to Vinnie.
“I couldn’t begin to translate these,” he said, once he’d glanced through them. “This certainly looks like a bill of sale, dated 1938, October fifteenth. And signatures. The price is in rubles. It looks like three thousand rubles. I’m not sure of the exchange rate in 1938, but I’d say someone got a serious bargain.”
He sat again. “I know someone who can translate the paperwork.”
“I’d appreciate it. Oliver knew what it was, what it’s worth. Otherwise, he’d have come to you.”
“I think yes, he’d have known, or known enough to find out on his own.”
“Do you have a client with a particular interest in something like this?”
“Not specifically, but anyone with a true interest in antiquities, with collecting, would be thrilled to acquire this. Had they the thirty million or more it’s worth. It could, potentially, go for much more at auction or be sold to a collector with that particular interest. And Oliver would certainly have known that.”
“You said he handled two estates in the last couple months.”
“Yes. Let me think.” Vinnie rubbed at his temple. “He accessed and organized the Swanson estate, Long Island, and the Hill-Clayborne estate in Park Slope.”
“Swanson.”
“Yes. Neither listed anything like this.”
“Who did the listing?”
“In these cases, Oliver, working with the clients. He couldn’t have afforded to acquire this separately—and I would certainly have noticed an acquisition for millions.”
“So you’ve said. Let me fix you a drink.”
“I wouldn’t turn one down. It’s been a hard few days. The shop . . . we’re all shaken. Everyone enjoyed Oliver, and bless him, he enjoyed everyone. Even when he infuriated you, you had to love him. You know how he was.”
“I do.” Ash led Vinnie into the compact studio kitchen, took the chilled glass out of the cooler under the wet bar. “G and T, right?”
“You know it. You’ve got a wonderful place here, Ash. You know, when you bought it, I thought, For God’s sake, why doesn’t the boy convert it into apartments and make some money off that real estate? I can’t help myself.”
“Me, either.” Ash mixed the drink, added a twist of lime, then got himself a beer. “Live in a crowded, busy city—have plenty of quiet personal space. Best of both.”
“You’ve got just that.” Vinnie tapped his glass to the bottle. “I’m proud of you. Did you know Sage bought one of your paintings? Oliver mentioned it.”
“I saw it when I got his things. Most of his things. Come in here, will you, and tell me what you think of this.”
He turned away from the studio, went across a hallway and into what he’d outfitted as his office.
The egg stood on his desk.
Vinnie had an exceptional poker face. As he’d lost to him more than once, Ash had a reason to know. But now, Vinnie’s face filled with the stunned delight of a rookie drawing four aces.
“My God. My God.” Vinnie rushed toward it, dropped to his knees like a man paying homage.
But Ash saw after a moment’s shock, Vinnie had simply gone down to eye level.
“Where did you get this? Ashton? Where did you get this?”
“What have I got?”
“You don’t know?” Vinnie pushed himself up, circled the egg, leaned down to study it so closely his nose all but brushed the gold. “This is either Fabergé’s Cherub with Chariot egg or the most magnificent reproduction I’ve ever seen.”
“Can you tell which?”
“Where did you get it?”
“From a safe-deposit box, Oliver’s box. He sent me the key, and a note asking me to hold on to the key until he got in touch. He said he had a testy client to deal with, and a big deal in the works. I think he was in trouble, Vinnie. I think the trouble is sitting on my desk. I think what got him killed is sitting on my desk. Can you tell if it’s real?”
Vinnie dropped into a chair, rubbed his hands over his face. “I should have known. I should have known. His energy, his excitement, the mix of anxiety. Not about the woman, but this. About this. I left my briefcase downstairs. I could use it.”
“I’ll get it. I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For bringing you into this.”
“He was mine, too, Ash. My sister’s boy—her only boy. I taught him about things like this. About antiques, collections, their value. How to buy and sell them. Of course you called me.”
“I’ll get your briefcase.”
He’d known he’d add to the grief, Ash thought. A price paid. But family called to family first. He didn’t know another way.
When he came back with the briefcase, Vinnie was standing over the egg, hunched over it, his glasses perched on the edge of his nose.
“I’m always losing these things.” He took the glasses off, set them aside. “I can’t seem to keep a pair more than a month, if that. But I’ve had my jeweler’s loupe for twenty years.” He opened the briefcase.
He took out thin white cotton gloves, pulled them on. He switched on the desk lamp, examined the egg through the loupe, inch by inch. He handled it with the care of a surgeon, peering at tiny mechanisms, brilliant stones.
“I’ve acquired two eggs—not the Imperials, of course, but two lovely pieces circa 1900. I’ve been fortunate to see, even be permitted to examine, an Imperial egg owned by a private collector. This doesn’t make me a leading expert.”
“You’re mine.”
Vinnie smiled a little. “In my opinion—and that’s opinion—this is Fabergé’s Cherub with Chariot, one of the eight missing Imperial eggs. There’s only one photograph of this egg, and that is a poor one, and there are some slightly conflicting descriptions. But the workmanship, the quality of material, the design . . . and it bears Perchin’s mark—Fabergé’s leading workmaster of that period. It’s unmistakable to me, but you’ll want a true expert opinion.”
“He had documents. Most of them are in Russian.” Ash took them out of the envelope, handed them to Vinnie.
“I couldn’t begin to translate these,” he said, once he’d glanced through them. “This certainly looks like a bill of sale, dated 1938, October fifteenth. And signatures. The price is in rubles. It looks like three thousand rubles. I’m not sure of the exchange rate in 1938, but I’d say someone got a serious bargain.”
He sat again. “I know someone who can translate the paperwork.”
“I’d appreciate it. Oliver knew what it was, what it’s worth. Otherwise, he’d have come to you.”
“I think yes, he’d have known, or known enough to find out on his own.”
“Do you have a client with a particular interest in something like this?”
“Not specifically, but anyone with a true interest in antiquities, with collecting, would be thrilled to acquire this. Had they the thirty million or more it’s worth. It could, potentially, go for much more at auction or be sold to a collector with that particular interest. And Oliver would certainly have known that.”
“You said he handled two estates in the last couple months.”
“Yes. Let me think.” Vinnie rubbed at his temple. “He accessed and organized the Swanson estate, Long Island, and the Hill-Clayborne estate in Park Slope.”
“Swanson.”
“Yes. Neither listed anything like this.”
“Who did the listing?”
“In these cases, Oliver, working with the clients. He couldn’t have afforded to acquire this separately—and I would certainly have noticed an acquisition for millions.”
