Fear and Loathing in the Watch World (2)
A Gonzo Tale of Luxury Watches and Lies. Part 2: The Auction House Apocalypse
I was pleased to hear the positive feedback on part 1 of this story, and it is with immense pleasure and gratitude that I bring you part 2. My unofficial editor says this was even more enjoyable; not that this matters to you - but I add this comment only to allow me to thank him for his help! 🤝
(Obviously, if you haven’t seen it already, start with part 1 before you read further!)
Estimated reading time: ~18 minutes
Chapter 4: The Auction House Always Wins
The Phillips auction house in Geneva looked exactly like you’d expect a place that moves more money in an afternoon than most countries’ GDPs to look. It had clean lines and understated wealth, kinda like a bank trying to cosplay as an art gallery. It was the sort of place where the security cameras cost more than your car, and were likely to have some kind of x-ray vision too.
Dr. Gabriel Echappement parked the Taycan two blocks away, next to a café that was doing a brisk trade in espresso and anxiety. Through the window, I could see several well-known collectors obsessively checking their phones, probably making sure their bank transfers had cleared.
“Remember,” he said, pulling a USB drive from the briefcase, “timing is everything. This needs to happen at exactly the right moment.”
Inside, the main auction room was filling up with the usual suspects; a who’s who of the watch world, all trying very hard to look like they weren’t super keen to be there. The famous watch influencer Den Wymer was desperately trying to cover his face while he picked his nose. I even spotted three different Tiffany-dial Nautiluses, each owner was comically avoiding eye contact with the others. In the front row, Jean-Claude Biver was holding court and gesturing animatedly about something that was probably about either cheese or invisibility of design.
“Look at them all,” Dr. Echappement muttered. “The whole ecosystem in one room. The dealers who’ll flip their own mother for a buck. The collectors who think owning a watch instantly makes them horological scholars. The Instagram influencers who’ve never held a loupe but somehow have the strongest opinions about movements and finishing.”
Horel Baccarat was at the podium, doing his final microphone check, complete with a weird bow tie which was perfectly aligned. Unsurprisingly, there was something off about his usual smooth demeanour – a slight tension around the eyes, a barely noticeable tremor in his hand as he arranged his notes.
“He knows we’re here,” I whispered. “After what happened at the watchmaker’s workshop...”
“Of course he knows, Captain Obvious” Dr. Echappement replied, slipping the USB drive into his jacket pocket. “Now what he doesn’t know is exactly what we know. And in this industry, uncertainty is more terrifying than any truth.”
The lights dimmed slightly – showtime. Baccarat cleared his throat, preparing to begin his usual theatrical performance, but before he could speak, the main screen in the auction house flickered to life with an image that definitely wasn’t supposed to be there.
In full 8K, displayed for all to see, were side-by-side photographs of two supposedly unique watches; same case number, same extract, same everything. The room went quiet in the way rooms do when everyone’s trying to pretend they haven’t just seen exactly what they’ve seen.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Dr. Echappement’s voice cut through the silence as he stood up. “I believe we need to have a conversation about the meaning of the word ‘unique.’”
Baccarat recovered first, his auctioneer’s instincts kicking in like a jump-hour on the hour. “My friends,” he began with a smooth voice, “I assure you there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation...”
“Ah, just like the ‘reasonable explanation’ for the Singapore vault?” Dr. Echappement’s voice carried the kind of authority you can’t buy no matter what watch you’re wearing. “Or perhaps you’d like to explain the curious case of the multiplying prototype?”
The screen changed again, showing pages from the watchmaker’s original ledger, which laid out the technically impossible specifications which were somehow achieved in the 1950s, along with finishing techniques that wouldn’t be invented for decades - but here, mysteriously appearing on “period correct” watches. Jean-Claude Biver stood up, his face the colour of a Moser Salmon dial dial; “This is outrageous! These documents could easily be forgeries!”
“Could they?” Dr. Echappement pulled out the USB drive, holding it up for all to see; “Because I have here the complete digital archives from a not-so-secret workshop outside Geneva… One that specialises in... what do they call it? ‘Historical recreation’?”
A collector in the third row – the one wearing both a Richard Mille and a look of perpetual disappointment – suddenly made for the exit. Two others followed, with their faces suggesting they’d just remembered urgent appointments elsewhere.
“The fascinating thing about watchmaking,” Dr. Echappement continued, pacing now like a lecturer warming to his subject, “…is how it combines art and science. You can lie about art – lord knows this industry has elevated that to an art form itself. But you can’t lie about science. Metal doesn’t lie. Chemistry doesn’t lie. And electron microscopes...” he paused for effect, “...they really don’t lie.”
The screen changed again, this time showing molecular analysis of supposedly 1950s brass which contained alloy combinations not used until the 1990s. This caused Baccarat to grip his gavel like it was a life vest. “This is hardly the appropriate venue for such... technical discussions.”
“Oh, but I think it is.” Dr. Echappement’s smile had all the warmth of a metal case back on the skin. “After all, what better place to discuss authenticity than an auction house? What better audience than the people who’ve built entire collections – entire identities – around the myth of provenance?” Just then, someone in the back of the room started laughing; the kind of laugh which implied either a mental breakdown or a moment of perfect clarity.
Maybe both.
“And the best part?” Dr. Echappement was really rolling now. “The best part is that some of these ‘unique’ pieces are actually so well made, they are objectively better than the originals. The forgers were better watchmakers than the original manufacturers. How’s that for irony?”
The room erupted into chaos.
Collectors pulled out loupes and started examining their watches with the kind of desperate intensity usually reserved for men checking their lottery tickets. A prominent dealer fainted, his fall broken by an errant pile of auction catalogues. In the corner, three Instagram influencers were having simultaneous existential crises, with their phones broadcasting their breakdowns to thousands of followers in real time.
Through it all, Baccarat remained at his podium, his bow tie now slightly askew – a detail that, to him, was like spotting Thierry Stern wearing a Casioak.
“You do realise,” he said quietly when Dr. Echappement approached the podium, “…what this will do to the market?”
“The market?” Dr. Echappement’s laugh could have stripped the plating off a fake Rolex. “The market is a story we tell ourselves to justify spending six figures on mechanical watches in a digital age. At least now it can be an honest story.”
The screen behind them flickered one final time, showing a simple line of text: “The truth will set you free.”
That’s when the shooting started.