The Eighth Commandment Read Online Free
have posed for Chairman of the Board of the Universe. His cufflinks were little enamel reproductions of a Picasso. I’m sure he thought them an amusing whimsy.
We all got ourselves seated. I was across that double-width desk from Mr. Havistock. Orson Vanwinkle sat behind me on a straight-back chair near the door. Almost like a bodyguard or security agent.
I began to explain that before Grandby & Sons could make an estimate of what his collection might bring at auction, or was worth in an outright sale, I had to make a personal inspection and appraisal of the individual coins. He held up a pink palm and favored me with another cheerless smile. Something sad about that smile.
“I understand completely,” he said. “As I’m sure you’ve guessed, I have contacted a few other auction houses, and they all work the same way. Would you like to get started now?”
I had brought along what I called my “doctor’s bag”—for out-of-the-office appraisals. It was a little black valise packed with a small high-intensity lamp, loupe, huge magnifying glass, silk gloves, tongs, a few of the latest catalogues, and a kit of chemicals in vials, used to test metal content. I spread all this paraphernalia on my half of the desk facing Mr. Havistock. Orson Vanwinkle rose to his feet and brought the first display case, placing it gently in front of me.
Now I must describe in exact detail how the Havistock Collection was mounted since it led to such important and dramatic consequences.
There were 497 items in the collection, including the Demaretion. They were housed in display cases approximately 24 by 16 inches. Each case was divided into forty-two velvet-lined compartments, one coin to each. And every little topless box bore a small pasted number corresponding to the numbers on the insurance inventory.
If my arithmetic is correct, you will see that the 497 coins could be accommodated in twelve display cases, with seven empty compartments. Explanation of that in a moment…
The first display case Orson Vanwinkle placed on the desk before me was completely filled. I spent a moment examining the case, running my fingertips lightly over the oiled teak sides, the solid brass hardware: recessed hinges and lock.
“The case,” I said, looking up at Archibald Havistock. “It’s splendid!”
“Yes,” he said, and his smile had more warmth. “Custom-made for me by Nate Colescui in Greenwich Village. The best man for that kind of work in the city. Orson, will you unlock, please.”
Vanwinkle took a ring from his pocket, selected a small, intricately tooled brass key, and unlocked the case in front of me. He raised the glass lid (framed in teak) and made certain the lid support was holding. I went to work, the copy of the inventory at my elbow.
It became quickly apparent that whoever had done the insurance appraisal knew the business: the condition ratings were, in my opinion, almost completely accurate. I disagreed on only 17 of the 497 items, and in 12 of them, the coin deserved a higher rating, and only 5, in my judgment, should have had a lower: from Very Fine to Fine, or from Fine to Fair. But at current values of antique coins, the whole collection was woefully underinsured.
I was there almost three hours, and it was a perfect delight. Only another numismatist could understand how I felt. The beauty of those coins! Miniature sculptures. Profiles of gods and goddesses. Horses and chariots. Birds and fish. Beasts and gargoyles. And so many nameless young men with faces of such joyous hope that I almost wept from the sight of them. All gone.
During those three hours, Havistock or Vanwinkle occasionally left the room. But never both at the same time; one of them was always present during my appraisal. I didn’t blame them a bit. With those display cases of treasures unlocked, I preferred to have a witness present to testify that I had not suddenly swallowed an exquisite silver obol.
And finally, the thirteenth case…
It was
We all got ourselves seated. I was across that double-width desk from Mr. Havistock. Orson Vanwinkle sat behind me on a straight-back chair near the door. Almost like a bodyguard or security agent.
I began to explain that before Grandby & Sons could make an estimate of what his collection might bring at auction, or was worth in an outright sale, I had to make a personal inspection and appraisal of the individual coins. He held up a pink palm and favored me with another cheerless smile. Something sad about that smile.
“I understand completely,” he said. “As I’m sure you’ve guessed, I have contacted a few other auction houses, and they all work the same way. Would you like to get started now?”
I had brought along what I called my “doctor’s bag”—for out-of-the-office appraisals. It was a little black valise packed with a small high-intensity lamp, loupe, huge magnifying glass, silk gloves, tongs, a few of the latest catalogues, and a kit of chemicals in vials, used to test metal content. I spread all this paraphernalia on my half of the desk facing Mr. Havistock. Orson Vanwinkle rose to his feet and brought the first display case, placing it gently in front of me.
Now I must describe in exact detail how the Havistock Collection was mounted since it led to such important and dramatic consequences.
There were 497 items in the collection, including the Demaretion. They were housed in display cases approximately 24 by 16 inches. Each case was divided into forty-two velvet-lined compartments, one coin to each. And every little topless box bore a small pasted number corresponding to the numbers on the insurance inventory.
If my arithmetic is correct, you will see that the 497 coins could be accommodated in twelve display cases, with seven empty compartments. Explanation of that in a moment…
The first display case Orson Vanwinkle placed on the desk before me was completely filled. I spent a moment examining the case, running my fingertips lightly over the oiled teak sides, the solid brass hardware: recessed hinges and lock.
“The case,” I said, looking up at Archibald Havistock. “It’s splendid!”
“Yes,” he said, and his smile had more warmth. “Custom-made for me by Nate Colescui in Greenwich Village. The best man for that kind of work in the city. Orson, will you unlock, please.”
Vanwinkle took a ring from his pocket, selected a small, intricately tooled brass key, and unlocked the case in front of me. He raised the glass lid (framed in teak) and made certain the lid support was holding. I went to work, the copy of the inventory at my elbow.
It became quickly apparent that whoever had done the insurance appraisal knew the business: the condition ratings were, in my opinion, almost completely accurate. I disagreed on only 17 of the 497 items, and in 12 of them, the coin deserved a higher rating, and only 5, in my judgment, should have had a lower: from Very Fine to Fine, or from Fine to Fair. But at current values of antique coins, the whole collection was woefully underinsured.
I was there almost three hours, and it was a perfect delight. Only another numismatist could understand how I felt. The beauty of those coins! Miniature sculptures. Profiles of gods and goddesses. Horses and chariots. Birds and fish. Beasts and gargoyles. And so many nameless young men with faces of such joyous hope that I almost wept from the sight of them. All gone.
During those three hours, Havistock or Vanwinkle occasionally left the room. But never both at the same time; one of them was always present during my appraisal. I didn’t blame them a bit. With those display cases of treasures unlocked, I preferred to have a witness present to testify that I had not suddenly swallowed an exquisite silver obol.
And finally, the thirteenth case…
It was
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