"Charles L. Harness-George Washington Slept Here" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harness Charles L)

"Let's go down to the coin room," said Badging. "Bit more private. Do you collect, Mr. Potts?"
"Not really. Don't know a thing about it. We are aware, of course, of your stature in the field. As a
matter of fact, that's why I'm here."
"Not about the litigation?"
"No." (Although we may get around to it.)
"Down these stairs, Mr. Potts. Hold the rail. Can I help you with that?"
"Oh, I think I have it."
"You can put it on the tale."
 "Yes, thanks." Potts looked about the room in genuine appreciation. Glass cases full of coin trays lined
the room. Coins were framed in collections that hung from the walls like carefully lighted paintings. His
host was indeed a serious collector.
Badging's eyes never left the black bag. He wet his lips. He fingered a necklace strung with
odd-looking beads.
(Let's drag it out a bit, thought Potts.) "Interesting necklace," he said.
Badging's head jerked. "Oh. You mean this. It's Iroquois wampum. Very old. Made about sixteen
thirty-seven, of shell bits, very carefully cut and polished. Once used as money, legal tender, six white or
three purple were worth one English penny." Badging kept his eyes on the black bag, but now he let out
a long breath and relaxed a bit. "People don't really appreciate money, Mr. Potts."
"No."
"There's something special about the sight and sound of bright jangling coins. To have, to look at, even
to smell."
"Yes, of course." Potts looked across the room at a wall covered by bookshelves. "And to study?"
"And to study. I love books about money, ancient money, modern money. I've written a couple
myself. And I have scrapbooks of tours through American and foreign mints."
"That all sounds pretty general. Do you have a specialty?"
"Of course. All serious collectors have a specialty. Mine is Americana, seventeen hundred to eighteen
hundred."
"Fascinating, Mr. Badging. However did you get into that?"
Badging put his hand out and caressed the bag gently. He said, "It started years ago, when I had just
hung up my shingle. I settled an estate, which, alas, turned out to be bankrupt. The widow paid me with
the deceased's strong box, 'inherited as is from great-great-Uncle Philip.' I broke it open. One or two
gold coins. Hardly worth melting down. And there were several other items. A great disappointment.
Still, being a prudent man, I had the batch appraised. The report was a real surprise. There were Spanish
reales, Massachusetts Willow Tree shillings, Maryland pennies, Virginia halfpennies, New Yorke tokens,
Pitt farthings... The appraiser made me a six-figure offer on the spot. I never regretted turning it down.
Oh, I may have had one small bad moment as I drove home from the goldsmith's: was I ethically bound
to tell the widow about the true value? No, I decided."
(And, thought Potts, your conscience has never troubled you since.) He said, "I see the picture, now.
It's inspiring, when we realize that from that nucleus, your present collection has grown. And of course,
along the way, you probably became an international expert in early Americana?"
Badging nodded. His hand was on the leather cover. He was about to open the bag.
(It's time, thought Potts. He's going crazy.) "Plastic gloves?" he said quietly.
Silently, Badging opened the desk and brought out two pair. They put them on.
"Go ahead," said Potts. "Open it."
Badging did. With trembling hand he picked out one coin, looked at it, and almost dropped it. He laid
it beside the gag and did several things: his eyes glazed, he put his hands under the table, and he stopped
breathing.
Potts had watched bird dogs behave quite similarly before they settled into a rigid point. Just don't let
him faint, he thought.
Slowly, Badging returned to life. His eyes opened. He whispered: "How many do you have here?"