Many of the museums didn’t even know some of their treasures were missing. With cavernous cellars and warehouses filled with containers from donated collections, as well as discoveries by archeologists and exhibits on loan, the museums and galleries had hundreds of items in storage.
Several years earlier Whittaker had recruited a handful of his foreign music students to apply for research credentials at the British Museum, the Cairo Art Gallery and other conservatories that allowed academics access to their storerooms. It was common knowledge in the antiquities market that a surprising number of curators kept poor inventories. It was easy for Whittaker to pay students to pocket small items like ancient coins that had not yet been sorted and catalogued.
He’d received a portion of his illegal collection from the State Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg, Russia. The four Unicorn gold coins of Scotland, dated 1486, were from the Australian Museum where a “steal-to-order” scandal was later uncovered. Whittaker had lost count of the number of museums that, in fact, had been pillaged on his behalf.
The professor paused for a moment, his eyes fixed on rows of Egyptian scepters
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English ducats, Persian darics
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silver pennies, Greek drachmas and two dozen of America’s first minted coins. Did he really need to sell? The house might fetch two million, the pension would cover normal living expenses, and the royalties from his music, though not high, should add yet another financial cushion. So why not keep the coins? As he opened one of the envelopes, he recalled an earlier conversation.
“Never touch the coins with your bare hands,” an expert had told him.
“Why not? I like their resistance, their hardness, so different from piano keys that give in to the slightest pressure.”
The expert smiled at him condescendingly. “Fingerprints and body oil can mar the surface of a coin for years. Even a tiny drop of moisture can cause oxidation. Keep your coins in an air-tight safe with the humidity level at thirty-eight percent.”
Trained in a lifetime of discipline as a musician, Whittaker thereafter never once gave in to his desire to hold the coins without their protective envelopes. Instead, forced to admire his treasure through their protective covering, he soon realized that the expert’s admonition added an exciting new dimension to his attitude toward the collection. It made his hoard more sacred and pure. He could worship it as an untouchable icon, yet know it was as tempting as forbidden fruit.
It was a trait Whittaker had carried over into other areas of his life, including Monica, at least for the first year or two of their marriage. Surprised at himself for being wed to a much younger woman, even bemused that he’d actually taken a bride, he had initially treated her with kid gloves, almost afraid to caress the silky, white skin.
He remembered a couple of previous romantic encounters, both in college. One coed he dated was a pharmacy student, but his obsessive music practice, hour after hour, drove her away. The other was an athlete who came to despise his disdain of sports. Even fellow female musicians failed to be attracted to him, which Whittaker attributed to his attitude, considered by his peers to be one of veiled arrogance. Later, his professorship at UCI, where he was esteemed, and growing fame led to invitations to events and parties where his reputation gained him attention; but one by one the women he dated as a result soon dropped him.
Whittaker realized he hadn’t added to his coin collection in two years, certainly not since Monica’s real estate company had gone bust. Obviously, his desire and obsession had dimmed. All right, time to start fresh. That meant the coins must go. In a hurry to leave, he transferred the velvet pouches into a small calfskin leather attaché case, closed the locks and returned the empty trays to the wall safe. Then he closed the safe and swung the painting back into place.
He checked his watch. Damn. He’d almost forgotten. There were still four more hours to wait. Although they’d had no contact for six years, he guessed that coin broker Gustave Vernays still permitted no one to visit him before nine p.m. When Whittaker had purchased a rare 1619 hammered gold laurel coin and a Roman denarius
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equally as rare and considered a masterpiece of numismatic art, he’d arrived fifteen minutes early and been forced to cool his heels outside the door.
Now, too unsettled to sit still, the professor spent the time packing the rest of Monica’s belongings into boxes for donation to Goodwill. The thought of this generous gesture was the most gratifying he’d felt in a long time.
Finally the grandfather clock chimed eight-thirty. Clutching the attaché case, Whittaker was about to close the door behind him when something compelled him to look back. His glance went straight to the shiny, dime-sized circle on the dark blue carpet under the DelRossi painting. The coin must have slipped out of its envelope. In three strides, he bent to pick up the silver Greek aegina by its edges, but then, in a fit of perversity, deliberately pressed the coin between fingers and thumb and closed his fist around it. What did it matter if he soiled its surface now? He dropped the coin into his jacket pocket.
In the garage the professor eased into his car and placed the coin collection on the passenger seat. He switched on the Jaguar’s ignition and backed out, heading for Center Street. He drove across the bridge and headed up Jamboree Boulevard, past the exclusive Big Canyon Country Club and several gated estates, toward the Santa Ana freeway. Around him, Rolls-Royces, Mercedes-Benzes, BMWs, Range Rovers and Ferraris cruised the streets. But when he left behind Newport’s pristine, landscaped borders, the upscale cars gave way to Chevrolets, Fords and Suzuki pickup trucks.
He drove by the local airport. Located a few miles north of Newport Beach’s stretch of shore, it had been transformed a decade earlier from a mown field with a few short runways and small buildings into a bustling terminal. Whittaker often flew out of there but disliked the fact that the growth was in response to the real estate development of Orange County. He resented the way it gobbled up farmland and ranches, spawning financial institutions and banks to create a mini-Wall Street on Newport Center Drive.
“We’re in a fabulous boom,” Monica had assured him at the time. “We’re going to be multi-millionaires!” Her small partnership in a real estate company funded by Whittaker found her among leading developers as they feverishly bought up strawberry fields, orange groves and cattle pastures, building thousands of condominiums and cluster homes in their place. The structures crept up every ridge and overlooked each canyon, the relentless march of a silent army of dwellings whose uniforms were white stucco and whose helmets were red Spanish tile.
Everyone wanted everything, thought Whittaker as he waited impatiently for a traffic light to turn green. In Newport Beach that translated into sleek cars, sleek women and sleek boats. Later came the real estate crash. Monica’s company had folded, and she’d lost her shirt. He smiled at the memory. She’d sulked for days. Although he’d put up the money, he could afford the loss, which was less interesting to him than his wife’s failure.
Whittaker arrived at Vernays’ high-rise condominium building, parked in the private underground garage after punching in the access code and made his way to the coin dealer’s penthouse. He rang the bell, turning to wave a greeting to the security camera mounted on the ceiling. Vernays opened the door and ushered the professor inside.
“Sit down, sit down,” he said, indicating the ornate Louis XV sofa.
“I won’t be here long enough.” Whittaker removed the velvet bundles from his attaché case and handed them to Vernays, who laid them on the coffee table and unfolded them to reveal the coins. “Sell them, Gustave. All of them. Must be worth five million by now.”
Vernays’ narrow lips pursed. Thin as a steeple, his lean, lined face was marred by large, puffy bags under pale blue eyes. His short, blond hair had turned completely white, Whittaker realized, since he’d had last seen him.
“What’s wrong?” said the professor. “No buyers? Surely the market hasn’t dried up.”
“It will take a while,” the Swiss murmured, his veined hands stroking the edges of the velvet covers as he bent closer to the collection spread before him. “What a wealth of world history these coins represent. Most impressive but,” his tone became brisk as he straightened up, “there will be a problem regarding their actual value.”
Whittaker felt his body tense. “Why? They’re in superb condition, Gustave. Besides, you already know their value. I bought many of these pieces through you. I know very well that rare coins are the most liquid of all collectibles.”
“I have to make sure each one is genuine,” Vernays said.
“Now wait a minute. If there are any fakes here, they’re on your head. Each of the coins I acquired on my own has an impeccable provenance. I know their exact origins.”
“Calm yourself, Haiden. Let’s go into my study. “Vernays carefully gathered up the velvet covers. He led the way to the back of his apartment, to a windowless room insulated with concrete walls covered top to bottom with rare fifteenth century tapestries. Here, in complete privacy, he and his sellers and buyers were able to barter over coins that originated from all four corners of the world. Vernays dealt only with multimillionaire private collectors and insisted on conducting business in person at his home in the sealed room. He was also known never to raise his voice or deceive a client despite striking a hard bargain. Cheating the authorities was something else again.
The furnishings in the room were as luxurious as the medieval Belgian tapestries. A large French Renaissance sofa and two wingback chairs filled the space. Vernays sat down behind the ornate, gilt-trimmed desk, indicating a chair to the professor. Whittaker remained standing.
“Please, sit down. I’ve never seen you so upset,” Vernays said. “Why so aggressive?”
“I’m in no mood to be cheated.”
“Don’t insult me.” Vernays’ voice was sharp. “We’ve done business for years. I don’t appreciate your attitude. Leave the collection with me, and I’ll start working on it.”
The coin dealer got up abruptly and walked to the door, expecting his visitor to follow. When Whittaker remained standing in front of his coins, Vernays raised his eyebrows.
“Surely you don’t want a receipt, Haiden. You know how careful I am about leaving a paper trail.”
“It isn’t that. I’m not sure now whether I want to sell the entire collection. Maybe I’ll keep these.” He picked out five cellophane envelopes, two containing gold coins. The three other envelopes held silver coins. He put them inside his attaché case. “All right. Find me a buyer for the rest,” he said.
Vernays walked him to the door, and the professor left with no further comment. Within minutes he had descended in the elevator and found his car in the parking structure.
By now it was ten o’clock. Whittaker realized he hadn’t eaten dinner and decided to go to his favorite Thai restaurant across the bay. He drove south to Isabel Island and reached the seafront. After parking the Jaguar on a side street he boarded the ferry and sat on one of the wooden side benches, watching the water traffic, sparse at this hour.
“That’s a dollar, sir.”
Whittaker pulled his gaze away from the string of lights that silhouetted the roof of the Pavilion restaurant on the opposite side of the bay, reached into his trouser pocket and found some loose change.
“Here,” he said. He picked out three quarters, a dime and a nickel, leaving three pennies that he returned to his pocket. “Used to be twenty cents a few years back,” he said, sizing up the skinny youth whose name tag read Todd. Working on the ferries was a coveted evening job for local university students after classes. The ferry company hired two people for each boat, one to operate it and one to collect fares. Monica’s nephew had spent a couple of summers working on them.
“I know, sir, but the fare went up again Monday, and you’ve only given me ninety cents.”
The professor patted his jacket pockets, still looking at the student who reminded him of himself at that age, living on scholarships, working two jobs, hustling patrons at the local piano bar and eager for life.
“Ah. Here. Another dime.”
“Thanks, that’ll do it, sir.”
After the ferry docked, Whittaker walked two blocks to the restaurant, a small hideaway favored by locals. At this late hour it was empty, but he was pleased to find himself welcomed.
“Good evening, Professor.” The slender Thai woman bowed gracefully from the waist. “We read your wife’s obituary in the newspaper. Please accept our deep sympathy.”
“Thank you, Lampai. Very much appreciated.”
“Your usual order? The chef is ready to go home.”
“Anything you can serve me is fine.”
After a four-course meal of coconut soup with mushrooms, shrimp in sweet chili sauce, pineapple fried rice and garlic chicken, the professor ordered a third Singha beer before asking for his check. Life was wonderful. As he waited to pay he glanced at the soft, sea green Asian celadon chinaware and the lotus-shaped candleholders on the other tables. He admired, as usual, the walls covered in brilliant blue and crimson Thai silk.
Draining the last drops of beer from his glass, head tilted back, his eyes lit on the familiar, small gold Buddha statue enshrined high on a shelf almost at ceiling level, trails of incense smoke spiraling lazily from a small brass pot next to it. Tonight the candles on each side of the statue burned brightly, throwing the Buddha’s laughing yellow face into sharp relief against the wall, reminding him of the grinning god on the face of one of his Greek fourth century B.C. coins.
Whittaker’s pleasure abruptly ended. Panicked, he stood up and thrust his hands into both jacket pockets, pressing his fingers deep into the empty corners. He pulled his trouser pockets inside out. Nothing. He had definitely slipped the silver coin he’d dropped on the floor at home into his jacket pocket before visiting Vernays. Anxiety and fear flashed through his body when he realized what had happened.