“First of all, Barton,” Cavanaugh said, “there is a piece missing: the Goddard-Townsend secretary.”
“Ah, yes, the secretary. I have already removed that to my home in Connecticut.”
Stone tensed at this, feeling they might suddenly be in deeper water.
“I’m still not certain whether I will offer the secretary as part of the collection,” Barton said. “I may retain it and sell it at a later date.”
“Barton,” Cavanaugh said, “I would regard the collection as incomplete without the secretary.”
“I can understand how you might feel that way, Peter,” Barton replied. “I’m prepared to consider including it in the sale, but that will depend on your willingness to address its proven value.”
“I came here willing, upon a careful inspection of the collection, to offer you forty-five million dollars.”
Barton shrugged. “That is a figure nearly high enough for the collection, without the secretary.”
“The proven value of the secretary is twelve million dollars.”
“That was in 1989,” Barton said, “and the number at that time was twelve point one million. Need I point out that fine American pieces are bringing a great deal more now than they did then and, moreover, that a private collector bought the last Goddard-Townsend secretary? There are a great many more billionaire private collectors around now than then. I should think a well-publicized auction might result in a bidding frenzy that could well bring double the last price for such a piece.”
Cavanaugh and Whately exchanged a long glance. Whately gave a tiny shrug.
“All right, Barton, tell me what you want for the lot, including the secretary.”
“If you require me to name a number, Peter, that will be the price, without further negotiation. You will have to take it or leave it.”
“What is the number?”
“First of all there are conditions beyond the price.”
“What are they?”
“I want the pieces in the living room, library and dining room to be permanently displayed at the Metropolitan in replicas of the original rooms. If you wish, you may alternate pieces from the bedrooms and the attic in replicas of other rooms, as space allows. I want the collection to be called the Caleb and Mildred Strong Collection, and I want my name under theirs as originating curator. After that, you may list the name or names of benefactors.”
Cavanaugh looked at Whately and got a small nod, then he turned back to Barton. “The name or names of benefactors may have to be listed in such a way as to be equal to those of the Strongs.”
Barton nodded his agreement.
“Are there any other conditions?”
“The collection must remain in my possession, housed in a suitable, secured facility for one year, after which the sale will close.”
“You’re thinking of the capital gains tax?” Cavanaugh asked.
“Of course.”
“It will take us at least that long to arrange space and build the rooms, anyway, so that is acceptable.”
“And you will pay for insurance and security.”
“In that case, we would have to house the collection in the museum’s storage areas. We could say that you’re loaning the collection to us for a year, in order to satisfy your tax requirement. Perhaps we could display a few of the more important pieces, like the secretary, with our current collection.”
Barton looked at Stone questioningly. “Would lending them the collection for a year satisfy the capital gains requirement?”
“I’m not an accountant or tax lawyer, but I believe so.”
“Also, Barton,” Cavanaugh said, “such an arrangement would dictate that we pay the full price of the collection at the time of closing. That way, you would not have to pay the full income tax on a down payment.”
Barton thought about this for a long moment.