spinning. Spence’s body was noisy. He was wheezing, coughing, puffing on an inhaler, and whispering curses.
When Lot 112 came up, Frazier’s mind cleared, a surge of adrenaline goosing his respiratory rate. It was a large, old volume and at first he mistook it for his target. Toby sang the praises of the book, pronouncing its title fluently in Latin. “Lot 112 is a very fine copy of the anatomy book by Raymond de Vieussens,
Neurographia Universalis, Hoc Est, Omnium Corporis, Humani Nervorum,
published in 1670 in Frankfurt by G. W. Kuhn. There are twenty-nine engraved plates on contemporary vellum, some short tears, but otherwise a remarkable copy of an historic medical treatise. I will start the bidding at £1,000.”
The bidding was brisk, with multiple interested parties. A dealer at the rear, a heavyset man with an ascot who had been particularly keen all morning on scientific offerings, led the way, aggressively bumping the price by hundred-pound increments. When the dust settled, he had it at £2300.
Martin Stein came on the line, and announced, “Mr. Spence, we have reached Lot 113. Please stand by.”
“Okay, gentlemen, this is it,” Spence said. Will looked anxiously at his watch. There was still time to get home and avoid a big domestic dustup.
Frazier locked his eyes on the book the instant it was brought into the auction room. Even from a distance, he was certain. It was one of them. He’d spent two decades in and around the Library and there was no mistaking it. The time had come. He’d spent the morning watching the action and had learned the mechanics of bidding. Let’s get ready to rumble, he thought, psyching himself.
Toby spoke about the book wistfully, as if sorry to see it go. “Lot 113 is a rather unique item, a hand-inscribed journal, dated 1527, beautifully bound in calf hide, over a thousand pages of finest-quality vellum. There is, perhaps, an endpaper that has been replaced at some distant point. The book appears to be an extensive ledger of births and deaths, possessing an international flair, with multiple European and oriental languages represented. The volume has been in the family collection of Lord Cantwell perhaps since the sixteenth century, but its provenance cannot be otherwise ascertained. We have consulted with academic colleagues at Oxford and Cambridge, and there is no consensus as to its origin or purpose. It remains, if I may say, an enigma wrapped in mystery, but it is an outstanding curiosity piece which I now offer at a starting bid of £2,000.”
Frazier raised his paddle so obviously it almost made Toby jump. It was the first significant physical movement the large man had made in almost two hours.
“Thank you,” Toby said, “may I hear £2500?”
From their tinny speaker, Will heard Stein offering 2500, and Spence said, “Yes, that’s fine.”
Stein nodded to Toby who said, “There is a telephone bidder at 2500, may I hear 3,000?”
Frazier shifted uncomfortably. He’d hoped there wouldn’t be any competition. He raised his paddle.
“I have 3,000, looking for 3500,” then a quick “Thank you,” as he pointed to the rear. Frazier turned to see the heavy man with the ascot nodding. “Now looking for 4,000,” Toby said quickly.
Stein relayed the bid. “This is horseshit,” Spence whispered to his companions. “I bid 5,000.”
“I have 5,000 here,” Stein called out to the podium.
“Very well, then,” Toby continued smoothly. “Do we have a bid for 6,000?”
Frazier felt a spasm of anxiety. He had plenty of dry powder, but he wanted this to be a cakewalk. He raised his paddle again.
“I have 6,000, may I hear 7,000?”
The man in the ascot shook his head, and Toby turned to the phone desk. Stein was speaking, then listening, then speaking again until he announced rather grandly, “I have £10,000!”
“Let me take the liberty of asking for £12,000,” Toby said boldly.
Frazier swore under his breath and lifted his
When Lot 112 came up, Frazier’s mind cleared, a surge of adrenaline goosing his respiratory rate. It was a large, old volume and at first he mistook it for his target. Toby sang the praises of the book, pronouncing its title fluently in Latin. “Lot 112 is a very fine copy of the anatomy book by Raymond de Vieussens,
Neurographia Universalis, Hoc Est, Omnium Corporis, Humani Nervorum,
published in 1670 in Frankfurt by G. W. Kuhn. There are twenty-nine engraved plates on contemporary vellum, some short tears, but otherwise a remarkable copy of an historic medical treatise. I will start the bidding at £1,000.”
The bidding was brisk, with multiple interested parties. A dealer at the rear, a heavyset man with an ascot who had been particularly keen all morning on scientific offerings, led the way, aggressively bumping the price by hundred-pound increments. When the dust settled, he had it at £2300.
Martin Stein came on the line, and announced, “Mr. Spence, we have reached Lot 113. Please stand by.”
“Okay, gentlemen, this is it,” Spence said. Will looked anxiously at his watch. There was still time to get home and avoid a big domestic dustup.
Frazier locked his eyes on the book the instant it was brought into the auction room. Even from a distance, he was certain. It was one of them. He’d spent two decades in and around the Library and there was no mistaking it. The time had come. He’d spent the morning watching the action and had learned the mechanics of bidding. Let’s get ready to rumble, he thought, psyching himself.
Toby spoke about the book wistfully, as if sorry to see it go. “Lot 113 is a rather unique item, a hand-inscribed journal, dated 1527, beautifully bound in calf hide, over a thousand pages of finest-quality vellum. There is, perhaps, an endpaper that has been replaced at some distant point. The book appears to be an extensive ledger of births and deaths, possessing an international flair, with multiple European and oriental languages represented. The volume has been in the family collection of Lord Cantwell perhaps since the sixteenth century, but its provenance cannot be otherwise ascertained. We have consulted with academic colleagues at Oxford and Cambridge, and there is no consensus as to its origin or purpose. It remains, if I may say, an enigma wrapped in mystery, but it is an outstanding curiosity piece which I now offer at a starting bid of £2,000.”
Frazier raised his paddle so obviously it almost made Toby jump. It was the first significant physical movement the large man had made in almost two hours.
“Thank you,” Toby said, “may I hear £2500?”
From their tinny speaker, Will heard Stein offering 2500, and Spence said, “Yes, that’s fine.”
Stein nodded to Toby who said, “There is a telephone bidder at 2500, may I hear 3,000?”
Frazier shifted uncomfortably. He’d hoped there wouldn’t be any competition. He raised his paddle.
“I have 3,000, looking for 3500,” then a quick “Thank you,” as he pointed to the rear. Frazier turned to see the heavy man with the ascot nodding. “Now looking for 4,000,” Toby said quickly.
Stein relayed the bid. “This is horseshit,” Spence whispered to his companions. “I bid 5,000.”
“I have 5,000 here,” Stein called out to the podium.
“Very well, then,” Toby continued smoothly. “Do we have a bid for 6,000?”
Frazier felt a spasm of anxiety. He had plenty of dry powder, but he wanted this to be a cakewalk. He raised his paddle again.
“I have 6,000, may I hear 7,000?”
The man in the ascot shook his head, and Toby turned to the phone desk. Stein was speaking, then listening, then speaking again until he announced rather grandly, “I have £10,000!”
“Let me take the liberty of asking for £12,000,” Toby said boldly.
Frazier swore under his breath and lifted his
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