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an audience that defied classification a mixture of dealers, amateur
collectors and what could be broadly classified as rich pleasure-seekers was
not a feature, let alone a face, that he could recognize except from the
gossip columns. One or two sallow faces might have been Russian, but equally
they might have belonged to half a dozen European races. There was a
scattering of dark glasses, but dark glasses are no longer a disguise. Bond
went back to his seat.
Presumably the man would have to divulge himself when the bidding began.
"Fourteen thousand I am bid. And fifteen. Fifteen thousand." The hammer came
down. "Yours, sir."
There was a hum of excitement and a fluttering of catalogs. Mr. Snowman wiped
his forehead with a white silk handkerchief. He turned to Bond. "Now I'm
afraid you are more or less on your own. I've got to pay attention to the
bidding and anyway for some unknown reason it's considered bad form to look
over one's shoulder to see who's bidding against you if you're in the trade
that's to say so I'll only be able to spot him if he's somewhere up front
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here, and I'm afraid that's unlikely. Pretty well all dealers, but you can
stare around as much as you like. What you've got to do is to watch Peter
Wilson's eyes and then try and see who he's looking at, or who's looking at
him. If you can spot the man, which may be quite difficult, note any movement
he makes, even the very smallest.
Whatever the man does scratching his head, pulling at the lobe of his ear or
whatever, will be a code he's arranged with Peter
Wilson. I'm afraid he won't do anything obvious like raising his catalog. Do
you get me? And don't forget that he may make absolutely no movement at all
until right at the end when he's pushed me as far as he thinks I'll go, then
he'll want to sign off. Mark you," Mr. Snowman smiled, "when we get to the
last lap I'll put plenty of heat on him and try and make him show his hand.
That's assuming of course that we are the only two bidders left in." He looked
enigmatic. "And I think you can take it that we shall be."
From the man's certainty, James Bond felt pretty sure that Mr. Snowman had
been given instructions to get the Emerald Sphere at any cost.
A sudden hush fell as a tall pedestal draped in black velvet was brought in
with ceremony and positioned in front of the auctioneer's rostrum. Then a
handsome oval case of what looked like white velvet was placed on top of the
pedestal and, with reverence, an elderly porter in gray uniform with wine-red
sleeves, collar and back belt, unlocked it and lifted out Lot 42, placed it on
the black velvet and removed the case. The cricket ball of polished emerald on
its exquisite base glowed with a supernatural green fire and the jewels on its
surface and on the opalescent meridian winked their various colors. There was
a gasp of admiration from the audience and even the clerks and experts behind
the rostrum and sitting at the tall counting-house desk beside the auctioneer,
accustomed to the Crown jewels of Europe parading before their eyes, leaned
forward to get a better look.
James Bond turned to his catalog. There it was, in heavy type and in prose as
stickily luscious as a butterscotch sundae:
THE TERRESTRIAL GLOBE
DESIGNED IN 1917 BY CARL FABERGÉ FOR A RUSSIAN GENTLEMAN AND NOW THE PROPERTY
OF HIS
21
GRANDDAUGHTER
42 A VERY IMPORTANT FABERGÉ TERRESTRIAL GLOBE. A sphere carved from an
extraordinarily large piece of Siberian emerald matrix weighing approximately
one thousand three hundred carats and of a superb color and vivid
translucence, represents a terrestrial globe supported upon an elaborate
rocaille scroll mount finely chased in quatre-couleur gold and set with a
profusion of rose-diamonds and small emeralds of intense color, to form a
table-clock.
Around this mount six gold putti disport themselves among cloud-forms which
are naturalistically rendered in carved rock-crystal finished matt and veined
with fine lines of tiny rose-diamonds. The globe itself, the surface of which
is meticulously engraved with a map of the world with the principal cities
indicated by brilliant diamonds embedded within gold collets, rotates
mechanically on an axis controlled by a small clock-movement, by
G. Moser, signed, which is concealed in the base, and is girdled by a fixed
gold belt enameled opalescent oyster along a reserved path in champlevé
technique over a moiré
guillochage with painted Roman numerals in pale sepia enamel serving as the
dial of the clock, and a single triangular pigeon-blood Burma ruby of about
five carats set into the surface of the orb, pointing the hour. Height: 7½
in. Workmaster, Henrik Wigström.
In the original double-opening white velvet, satin-lined, oviform case with
the gold key fitted in the base.
* The theme of this magnificent sphere is one that had inspired Fabergé some
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fifteen years earlier, as evidenced in the miniature terrestrial globe which
forms part of the Royal Collection at Sandringham. (See plate 280 in
The Art of Carl Fabergé, by A. Kenneth
Snowman.)
After a brief and searching glance round the room, Mr. Wilson banged his
hammer softly. "Lot 42 an object of vertu by Carl
Fabergé." A pause. "Twenty thousand pounds I am bid."
Mr. Snowman whispered to Bond, "That means he's probably got a bid of at least
fifty. This is simply to get things moving."
Catalogs fluttered. "And thirty, forty, fifty thousand pounds I am bid. And
sixty, seventy, and eighty thousand pounds. And ninety." A pause and then:
"One hundred thousand pounds I am bid."
There was a rattle of applause round the room. The cameras had swiveled to a
youngish man, one of three on a raised platform to the left of the auctioneer
who were speaking softly into telephones. Mr. Snowman commented, "That's one
of Sotheby's young men.
He'll be on an open line to America. I should think that's the Metropolitan
bidding, but it might be anybody. Now it's time for me to get to work." Mr.
Snowman flicked up his rolled catalog.
"And ten," said the auctioneer. The man spoke into his telephone and nodded.
"And twenty."
Again a flick from Mr. Snowman.
"And thirty."
The man on the telephone seemed to be speaking rather more words than before
into his mouthpiece perhaps giving his estimate of how much further the price
was likely to go. He gave a slight shake of his head in the direction of the
auctioneer and Peter Wilson looked away from him and round the room.
"One hundred and thirty thousand pounds I am bid," he repeated quietly.
Mr. Snowman said, softly, to Bond, "Now you'd better watch out. America seems
to have signed off. It's time for your man to start pushing me."
James Bond slid out of his place and went and stood amongst a group of
reporters in a corner to the left of the rostrum. Peter
Wilson's eyes were directed towards the far right-hand corner of the room.
Bond could detect no movement, but the auctioneer announced "And forty
thousand pounds." He looked down at Mr. Snowman. After a long pause Mr.
Snowman raised five fingers.
Bond guessed that this was part of his process of putting the heat on. He was
showing reluctance, hinting that he was near the end of his tether.
"One hundred and forty-five thousand." Again the piercing glance towards the
back of the room. Again no movement. But again some signal had been exchanged.
"One hundred and fifty thousand pounds."
There was a buzz of comment and some desultory clapping. This time Mr.
Snowman's reaction was even slower and the auctioneer twice repeated the last
bid. Finally he looked directly at Mr. Snowman. "Against you, sir." At last [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]