A "greatest find," of course, can mean different things to different people. For some it is the rarest piece in their collections; for others, it might be the greatest bargain, or a Leica they found in the most out of the way place. I know that my "greatest find" is a potpourri of collecting serendipity, a combination of luck, a dollop of cunning (not mine), and years of determined Leica sleuthing.
A fascinating quality of Leica collecting is that there so many choices for one's Holy Grail. One Leica collector might want the cameras made in small quantities, like the Leica Compur, the Leica 72, and the Leica MP. This makes sense, for these cameras are rare and wouldn't we rather have something that our Leica- collecting friends do not have? Some collectors want a Leica under number 1000, for they like "firsts," while others collect parts of the Leica system, like viewfinders. I know one collector who has patiently been putting together a complete Leica system from 1952, when he was in high school, and then could only dream of one day owning a Leica.
Using Leica since 1971 when I bought my first Leica IIIf accompanied by a 50/f2 Summar, I have always entertained a secret wish, a wish that I would suddenly come upon a Null-Series Leica, one of the experimental, pre-production cameras numbered from 101 to 129, or, even a Luxus. The Leica Luxus had a particular fascination for me because I have always been partial to Leica cameras that were part of regular production runs, not prototypes which a lucky collector could own by simply having a friend at Leitz or by paying a high price.
If I hadn't wanted to improve my German, I probably never would have bagged my "greatest find." About six years ago, shortly before I was about to spend ten days in New Hampshire at a Dartmouth College summer language institute, I received a telephone call from Ken, the owner of a camera store in Vermont, not too far from Hanover. "I have a Luxus Leica for sale," he said, "and I know you're heavy into Leica." When I heard the word Luxus, my heart did not go "pitty-pat." It went "kaboom-kaboom."
He told me he had a Luxus, it had been converted to a Leica II, and the original lens was missing. A general New York dealer who works from his home in West Hartford, Connecticut was going to be making an offer, he said, but he thought I might pay more because I specialized more narrowly in just Leica.
Like any sensible businessperson, I asked him what the price was, and Ken said he knew that his camera was not as valuable as a non-converted Luxus Leica, but that it should go in the three or four thousand dollar range. The wheels in my head, as you can imagine, were going lickety-split. I knew that a Luxus had sold for $20,000 at a Christie's auction, so I figured that Ken's conversion must be worth at least one-half of an untouched Luxus. Of course, I had no idea whether his camera was genuine, for I had seen many fake Luxus Leica cameras. Would it be real? Would it be worth a ride up to Vermont? Well, since I would be going that way in a few days anyway, I decided to stop by to see the camera. I never thought, however, until the moment I walked into Ken's store, that it would be genuine.
I thought I was being clever when I put $3000 in cash into my pant's pocket and $1000 into each of my jacket pockets. After all, Ken had said the price would be "around three or four thousand," but I did not want to "show my hand" all at once. I was prepared to pay as much as five thousand, figuring that even a genuine Luxus conversion would be worth at least twice that much.
All thoughts of money, however, left my mind when I finally held Leica Nr. 34816 in my hands. There was no doubt it was original, and, not simply original, but also, in my opinion, the rarest Leica Luxus in the world!
Let me be more specific about what got me excited, so thrilled that from the moment I held the camera in my hand I would not let it go -- even for a moment. I had decided instantly that this camera was going to be mine, no matter what way the negotiation went.
There are a number of points one must look at to decide about the authenticity of a Luxus Leica. The reptile skin body covering must me flat and of a high quality and it must fit perfectly against the top and bottom plates. Leica's experts, especially back in the early years, never put on the reptile covering except with a perfect and even fit. Secondly, the camera must be worn, worn not simply from rubbing of the gilt. There must be signs of use in places where cameras are regularly handled. (Beware of any purported Leica Luxus that has little or no wear, and be especially wary if an early Leica A has a five-screw top plate. This means the "Luxus" assuredly "ain't what it appears to be!")
There are a few other tests that experts can use to judge the originality of a Luxus. One must also beware of Luxus Leica cameras which are too perfectly painted on the inside of the bottom plate, for fakes often have a beautiful, flat matte finish (after they have been copied by a confidence man) and do not show any signs of being sixty years old. Unless the Luxus is of a late batch, it must have a top plate held on by only four screws, and, of course, it must not bear the serial number of a Luxus Leica that has excellent provenance and all the signs of originality.
There is one thing I am dead certain about: Leica, to be blunt, never, and I mean never, knowingly allowed a legitimate camera out of the factory with a duplicate serial number. If a camera or a lens had a duplicate number, E. Leitz was excruciatingly careful to note the error with an asterisk or another marking technique.
The final test of the authenticity of a Luxus is connected to a small but telling part: the small latch pin around which the hole on the bottom plate fits. On most fakes, the copiers forgot to gild this tiny and seemingly unimportant part, but Leica gilded everything. This, however, is not a final test, for this small part, one could argue, is often so worn from the bottom plate being taken on and off that, if it is missing gold, couldn't the gilt have simply worn off? Of course, the answer is yes, but on a genuine Luxus the gold is never completely missing. It normally remains as a small but discernible trace where the bottom of the metal latch pin fits on to the body of the camera itself. This is the best and truest sign in my opinion of the authenticity of a Leica Luxus.
But this brings me back to where I was a moment ago, in a small town in Vermont holding a Luxus in my hand. Why was I so thrilled? Simple. Here, in my hand, was indeed the rarest of the rare. I knew it was genuine: who in the world would create a fake Luxus and then make it into a well-worn conversion, with a chrome shutter speed button and the wrong lens? It was clear that it was a Leica conversion, for the body still bore the original screw holes of the Leica A infinity spring that had once been on the front of the camera, and, best of all, this camera had a very special engraving. On the back was engraved "Leih-Kamera" [loan camera], apparently the original Leica salesman sample. (Later, of course, I obtained a copy of the original E. Leitz factory manufacturing log that indicated that this Luxus was originally a "Reisemuester," or traveling sample, made for Herr Baumann, the famous Leica salesman. This explained, and wonderfully corroborated, the one-of-its kind "Leih-Kamera" engraving on my Luxus Leica.) Ken told me he could get at least $3000 for the camera, perhaps $3500. My reply, without putting the Luxus down on the table, was to place thirty $100 bills on the table. "That's fair," Ken said, "but I'm sure your competitor down in Hartford would give me $3,500." Knowing I would pay as much as I could, and that Ken 'had my number,' so to speak, I took an additional $1000 from my sports coat pocket, saying "Good, then we have a deal." At that point I hoped the deal was done, but then Ken pulled a surprise.
"That really is fair," he replied. "I'll check with the owner to see if she'll part with the camera at that price. You know," he continued, "her husband, who was a local pro, had it for years and she feels sentimental about it. She might have a higher price in mind."
My heart sank. I had always thought that Ken was the owner and had no idea until that moment that he was representing someone else. But, above all, I was determined to own that Luxus. Conversion or no, what other collector could claim to own a factory-engraved Luxus "Leih-Kamera," indisputably the factory sample?
Now I played my final card.
"Ken," I said, straining not too put an edge into my voice, "I really want this piece. How much will make Mrs. 'Whatever-her- name-is' sell this camera to me -- right now?"
Ken knew he had me, and I knew he had me. The only part of this endgame that was unknown was how high the number he would lay on me was going to be.
"Five-thousand," Ken replied. "I am sure she'll sell it for five-thousand."
"'Sure,'" is not good enough," I said. "I want it now."
"Well, I have to check with her."
"Ken," I said, trying hard not to show my heart was pounding a mile-a-minute, "I want to walk out of here with this camera. Will $5,000 do it right now?"
There was a pause.
"O.K.," Ken said. "Five-thousand."
Swiftly I took my last cache of ten hundred dollar bills out of my pocket, laid them on the table, and after quickly murmuring thank you and a goodbye, I walked into the Vermont summer day, my prize carefully wrapped and tucked away in my camera bag.
I knew I had been out maneuvered and out bargained by a skillful, but pleasant, Yankee trader. I also knew that I finally owned a real Leica Luxus, "my greatest find."
