Charles Hendrickson Barber’s heavy but mellifluous orator’s voice said, “The owl was done in nineteen thirteen by Jo Mora.”
The difference in Barber’s attitude from the day before was marked. The banker shook Spade’s hand warmly, then led him past an unattended reception desk and down a long hall lined with framed photographs of the Bohemian Club’s earlier days.
“It started out in eighteen seventy-two with rooms on Pine Street above the old California Market. In the eighteen nineties they expanded to a better suite of rooms, at one hundred thirty Post, between Kearny and Dupont Alley. But that burned down in the fire after the nineteen oh six quake. In oh seven the club started over again, like everyone else in the San Francisco of that day. Then we moved into this building, and I believe here we’ll stay.”
They came to a bank of three elevators, whose brass doors were decorated with ornate scrollwork. A craggy-faced man, beautifully dressed, came out of one of the elevators with a marked, crabwise limp. He greeted Barber effusively, shook Spade’s hand as if truly delighted to meet him, and went his way.
“We keep rooms on the upper floors for the use of club members from out of town,” explained Barber.
He led Spade through the lounge, a sprawling room with a carpeted floor and twenty-foot-tall windows facing Taylor Street. Drawn back from them were heavy wine drapes; closed over them were gossamer white net curtains. Four men were seated in leather armchairs dotted around the room, reading newspapers with cups of coffee on round end tables beside them.
“The founding members were journalists and artists and musicians and writers who lamented the lack of culture in post — gold rush San Francisco. They wanted something like the Century Club in New York, the vie bohème. But pretty soon, for financial reasons, they had to start admitting prominent businessmen.”
“Writers and artists and musicians never make any money.”
Barber ignored Spade’s words to walk almost majestically down the room. He paused in the wide entrance to a modest dining room.
A serious-faced white-aproned man dressed otherwise in black came up to greet them. Barber addressed him as Reginald and asked for a table away from the others.
“Certainly, Mr. Barber,” said Reginald gravely.
The surprisingly plain dining room was three quarters full of San Francisco movers and shakers, a few of whom Spade knew by sight. Barber was greeted by most of them. They were seated.
“Yep,” Spade said, “no women. Effie’ll be delighted.”
“My wife isn’t. She’s never been inside the place.”
He broke and buttered a sourdough roll; Spade sipped ice water. A waiter appeared, hovered. Barber said the minute steak was edible. Spade said that was fine; Barber ordered for both.
“How’s Henny doing these days? He must be out of the university by now,” said Spade, bland faced.
Barber banged the linen tablecloth in delight.
“He graduated with honors from Berkeley in June. Between the social whirl and tennis, I’ve had him coming down to the bank and observing, part-time of course — have to avoid the nepotism issue. I’ve wanted him to start out as a teller and learn the ropes. It’s paying off. Yesterday he came to me and said he’d like to apply for a teller’s position at somebody else’s bank besides mine, so he could advance on his own merits.”
“So he’s gotten the urge for adventure out of his blood.”
“Has he? He took his degree in literature. His mother and I offered him a year in Europe to soak up some culture, but he said if he went to Europe it would be to climb the Matterhorn. He’s been trying his hand on Half Dome in Yosemite, scaring his mother half to death. I think he enjoys doing it.”
“And how is the good Mrs. Barber?”
“More involved in her charity work than ever.”
Barber leaned in, lowered his voice.
“I had a long discussion with Spaulding yesterday about Cal-Cit’s refusal of access to Collin’s financial papers. He says it’s because of embarrassment, plain and simple. They were sloppy in their controls on certain accounts that — that Collin was intimately involved in.”
“Those accounts have to do with mining stocks?”
“How did you know that?”
The waiter appeared with their meals. Spade cut into his steak, gestured across the table at Barber with the knife.
“I talked with Eberhard’s broker. He said Eberhard — and his bank — got wealthy on speculative gold-mining-stock investments during the past four years. Before that—”
“Before that both Collin and his bank were struggling.” Barber grimaced. “Spaulding says they’re embarrassed because the bank stopped monitoring their dealings with the mining syndicate on Collin’s word that he was monitoring both his investments and the bank’s very closely.”
“It was unwise banking procedures, nothing more?”
“So Spaulding says. I have no, er, solid reason to disbelieve him.”
“Then why the stonewall with Eberhard’s widow?”
“They’re waiting for the insurance situation to resolve itself.” He met Spade’s eyes. “I’m waffling, aren’t I?”
“Yeah.”
Barber glanced around, leaned closer again.
“There are some things that continue to bother me. But... we can’t discuss them here.”
He gestured to the waiter, signed the chit. Their exit from the dining room was again a progression, with nods and waves and handshakes and polite comments from the wealthy and powerful in the room. In the doorway Reginald materialized.
“Brandy and cigars in the library, Reginald.”
“Very good, Mr. Barber.”
After leaving the elevator at the second-floor foyer, Barber and Spade turned left through a wide doorway into the library. All four walls, between windows and doors, were lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling. Around three sides of the room was a balcony with a waist-high railing.
There was a single window in the right-hand wall that looked down on Taylor Street. In front of the window was a bookcase topped by an ancient-looking three-foot-high brass statue of some fierce-eyed predatory bird with its beak broken off or worn away by time.
“A falcon?” Spade asked.
“An owl. It is a replica of an ancient Athenian owl acquired for the club by Henry Norse Stephens during a trip to Greece in nineteen eleven. The owl is the symbol of the Bohemian Club.”
“Why?” asked Spade bluntly.
“Um — the — er — the owl sees through darkness to— too...”
“To truth?”
“Yes. To truth. And from truth comes knowledge.”
“And from knowledge comes wisdom?”
“That’s it. Wisdom. That’s why the club slogan is ‘Weaving Spiders Come Not Here.’ ”
Spade moved farther into the library. “I don’t see the connection with the weaving spiders,” he said.
“Wisdom only comes from contemplation and discussion of philosophical views, not from business. So, no business here.”
“I read somewhere that during medieval times, even the Renaissance, the owl was the symbol of evil because it was the bird of darkness.”
Down the center of the room, on a pinkish Turkish rug laid over a green carpet, were several hardwood tables on which lay several open reference volumes. There were three more windows in the long Post Street wall, with gauzy lace curtains to cut the glare. Below the high ceiling were three ornate chandeliers, each with twenty electric candles in brass candelabras.
In front of the center window were pairs of leather armchairs faced at comfortable angles to each other. Beside each chair was a brass floor lamp and a smoking table.