Katie and David thanked the Currens for all their help and hospitality, and Mrs. Curren said it had been their pleasure. “We don’t really get to see that many Americans here,” she said.  “More Brits than Yanks. Oh, and, David, your new suit was delivered this morning.”
            David wasn’t about to model the new dark gray suit, but he knew this was by far the best-fitting suit he’d ever put on. Nothing like the off-the-rack suits he bought at Men’s Warehouse on sale that took a beating while he was on the force. Since retiring, he’d only really worn a jacket when he was out to dinner with Katie, and he really was looking forward to showing himself off in his new threads at the auction the next day.
            That morning, after breakfast, David came out of his room wearing the suit, trying not to smile too much.
            “My God, David,” said Katie, who was dressed in a smart shirt-waist blue dress. “You look fabulous in that suit! Fits you like a glove.”
            David tried to shrug off the compliment, but he’d never felt better about getting one from a woman like Katie Cavuto.

           Hong Kong’s art galleries and auction houses were all located in the central part of the city. Christie’s was on Chater Road, Sotheby’s on Pacific Place and Crofthouse around the corner on Star Street. Despite its longevity as an auction house in Hong Kong, Crofthouse was fairly modest in size, its offices on the first floor, the galleries on the second.
             The brochure description of the Vermeer was very carefully worded and, given British reserve, not extravagant. It noted the probable date of the painting, its similarities to The Astronomer and The Geographer, and the possibility that it had been part of a triptych. It did not say how the painting got to China, or when, only that it was owned by the People’s Republic of China. Lastly, a statement of authenticity was made, based on the 150-page experts’ report.
            A daytime auction was held, as ever, for fairly inexpensive or lesser works, while the evening auction, to begin at 7 o’clock, was reserved for the best lots of the event, ending off with the sale of the Vermeer. 
            Numbered bidding paddles had been handed out, V.I.P. seats assigned and the room started to fill up by 6:30. Cameras were not allowed, but there was an unusual number of journalist, from the art magazines and the regular Hong Kong, Chinese and international news organizations, who had come to see if this would indeed be the highest price ever paid for a painting. 
            Katie and David had been there since three o’clock, anxious to get a quick education on how auctions were held, observing the ballet that goes on between auctioneer, his assistants and bidders in the audience. Clearly, there were bidders who did not use a paddle but, long known to the auction house, used personal signals—a finger on the left cheek, a pen in the breast pocket, legs crossed or uncrossed—that indicated they were, or were not, still in the bidding. In the daytime auctions phone bids were a rarity, but at night they became a major aspect of the bidding.
            Katie knew a few of the journalists in the room, but David knew no one, feeling like the odd man out, but he was enjoying being with Katie on a day when he had no investigating to do. After the auction, he hoped to take her out to dinner, then fly home the next day.
            The make-up of the evening audience was fairly well split between Asians and Westerners, with what seemed to be small coteries of acquaintances from the art world, all gossiping about the Vermeer and what it would sell for. The journalists, including Katie, were asking them questions, getting statements, hoping someone would say something provocative. Many of the Asians came in together, after having their last cigarettes outside.
            The auctioneer was a man who looked quite young for the job. Derrick Donaldson was standing off to his side, cupping his hand over a phone, with another two assistants doing the same. The auctioneer introduced himself, asked everyone to be seated, and, without further ado, said, “Lot 223, a Chinese porcelain figure from the late Ming Dynasty, a very beautiful piece from the collection of Mr. Edwin Taylor of Hong Kong. Shall we start the bidding at $15,000?”
            For lots expected to sell for under $100,000 the auctioneer’s first figure was intended to send a signal as to how high the increments would be, usually $5,000 to $10,000; if above $100,000, bidding might go up by $20,000 or more, if there was plenty of interest in the piece. If bidding was slow, or none at all, the auctioneer might make a “chandelier bid” of his own, pretending someone in the audience or on the phone had taken the last bid; if the ploy didn’t work, the auctioneer would snap, “Pass,” and move immediately to the next lot.
            As the evening wore on, with 36 lots to be sold, the artwork became finer and finer. Aside from the Vermeer, there were only two pieces of Western art—a Victorian night table and a small 18th century Italian landscape, both from Hong Kong sellers. Bids were all over the price range, with the best Chinese works doing quite well, others garnering low bids. But as of 8:30, the excitement over the upcoming Vermeer was palpable, people whispering, looking over at the box seats as at the opera, where bidders who did not wish to be known rustled the curtains drawn in front of them.
            “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” said the auctioneer, “our last lot of the evening, and one that I can see is causing a great deal of excitement in the art world.” Draperies parted behind the auctioneer and two assistants carried the painting out and placed it on an easel.            There were audible gasps from the audience, not only because they were seeing a long-lost masterpiece for the first time but because it looked so small—a mere twenty by eighteen inches, the same as The Astronomer and The Geographer—in a remarkably simple gilded frame.  On size alone, it didn’t look like a $100 million painting.
            The auctioneer made brief remarks about the painting without extravagant praise, and said, nonchalantly, “Shall we begin at $50 million?”
            One paddle was raised. The auctioneer went up by $2 million, got a bid, then $5 million, another bid. Things were going well, and all the bidding was coming from the floor, beginning with five paddles, then four, three, two by the time the bid was $75 million. 
            “Do I hear $80 million?” The floor bids stopped, but immediately the auctioneer was being signaled by Derrick Donaldson that a caller had come into the action.
            “Eighty-five million?”
            Another nod, this time from the assistant on another phone.
            “Ninety million?” said the auctioneer.
            There was a pause.
           The auctioneer looked over at his colleagues. Nothing.
            “Shall we say eighty-seven?”
            A nod came.
            “Eighty-nine?”
            Yes, from Donaldson.
            “Ninety? Ninety million dollars?”
            Another pause, this one longer. It would be unseemly for the auctioneer to suggest eighty-nine-five, but he could clearly tell the other phone bidder needed to be coaxed.
            “We are at eighty-nine million for a unique painting of a kind that we may never see the likes of again. No one has bought an authenticated Jan Vermeer in more than a hundred years. Once this is gone, there may never be another chance. Will anyone go to ninety?”
            He gazed out over the audience, which had grown completely silent. There was no rustling of the box seat curtains.
         “We have a bid for eighty-nine million dollars. Going once. Going twice.”  He had the hammer raised. Then Donaldson waved his hand.
            “Ninety!” said the auctioneer triumphantly. “The bid is at ninety million dollars. Will anyone go to ninety-five?”
            Katie looked at David, wide-eyed.
            “Ninety-five,” said the auctioneer, slowly, sensing the momentum had run its course. “It’s now ninety million dollars . . . going once . . .”—he looked at Donaldson and his assistants, all subtly wagging their heads.
            “Last chance. Ninety million dollars . . . going twice . . .”
           Then he slammed the hammer down.
            “Sold for ninety-million dollars! Congratulations to the buyer, who has just paid the most money for any work of art in history.  And Crofthouse is honored to have been the auction house of record. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, that ends tonight’s very exciting auction.”
            Katie said, “Wow, ten million shy of what everyone thought it would go for.  I wonder what happened.”
            “Don’t ask me,” said David. “You’d better schmooze with your colleagues and the other bidders here, see if you can find out.”
            Katie, along with other journalists present, had already surrounded the five bidders in the audience, who had gathered themselves into a discussion of what had just occurred. Katie identified herself and asked the bidders who they were or for whom they were bidding. 
        Two said they were bidding for anonymous collectors. One was from the Getty Museum in Los Angeles, one from the Norton Simon Museum in Pasadena, and one from New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art, whose floor bidder was the last to drop out, at $75 million. 
        Each was asked if, given their museums’ resources, they thought they had a real chance of getting the painting. The people from the Simon and Met museums said they were not authorized to go beyond their final bids.  The man from the Getty said, “We might have gone higher, but you have to be able to judge where something might end up, and as an institution, we can’t get into a feeding frenzy. We felt that the tempo of the bidding indicated the painting would go much higher.”
            “Would you have paid $95 million?” asked Katie. The man just turned up his hands and said, “I really can’t comment on that.”
            Katie then went over to Derrick Donaldson, who was in conference with his auctioneer and several Chinese, who were there representing their country’s sale. Donaldson was speaking to them in perfect Mandarin, obviously trying to explain why the final bid was so much lower than everyone had expected. When they’d finished talking, the Chinese stalked away, still gesturing, and Katie moved towards Donaldson and asked if they could speak.
            “May I ask you a couple of questions?”
            “Sure,” said Donaldson, seeming a little shell-shocked. “But I can’t tell you who the buyer is. Both the callers wish to remain anonymous at this point.”
            “Okay, but why do you think the final price was so much lower than expected?”
            Donaldson sighed and said, “Quite simply, not enough bidders.  We’d anticipated that there were not going to be any museums able to bid $100 million, and they must have believed the phone bids would just keeping going up and up. The two individuals in the audience who were bidding I do know. One is a French collector named Branaire, the other Mexican, name of Santiago. I suppose it just got too rich even for their bank accounts.”
            “I take it Shui didn’t bid,” said Katie.
            “Never heard from him.”
            “What about Jan Dorenbosch, Nicholas Danielides, Ivan Stepanossky, Robert Lauden, or Harry Balaton?”
            “I really can’t say, because I don’t know the answer right now.  I can say we had some preliminary interest from Mr. Steve Wynn, but he never ended up bidding.”
            “And the guys in the box seats behind the curtain?”
            “Never made their move.”