“Schlechtman?” Bowman said. The pale man nodded. Bowman took the revolver out of his pocket. He handed it to him. “You shouldn’t let your little chums play with toys like this. They’re liable to get hurt.”
The hard-featured man who had unwillingly brought Bowman to the Clift Hotel flushed. Before he could speak, Gideon Schlechtman held up a hand. His fingers were long and white, like stalks of asparagus. “Hugo, that was exceedingly clumsy of you,” he said, his voice dry, meticulous, scholarly.
He glanced a question at Bowman. Bowman nodded. Schlechtman returned the revolver to Hugo. The burly man growled wordlessly as he received it.
Bowman said: “Your bully boy tells me you want to talk business.”
Schlechtman shifted so he could draw a billfold from his left pocket. From the billfold he took a banknote with a portrait of Grover Cleveland. He set it on the black lacquered table in front of him. Four more with the same portrait went on top of it. “Do you care for the tone of the conversation thus far?” he enquired.
“Who wouldn’t like five grand?” Bowman asked hoarsely. His eyes never left the bills. “What do I have to do?”
“You have to deliver to me, alive and in good condition, the Maltese Elephant currently in this fair city of yours,” Gideon Schlechtman replied.
“If you’ll pay me five thousand for it, it’s worth plenty more than that to you,” Bowman said. Schlechtman smiled. He had small white even teeth. Gina Tellini caught her breath. Bowman went on: “I ought to have something to work from. Give me two grand now.”
Gideon Schlechtman pursed his lips. He took one bill from the top of the stack, held it out to Bowman between thumb and forefinger. Bowman seized it, crumpled it, stuffed it into the trouser pocket where he kept his keys. Schlechtman neatly replaced the rest of the banknotes in his wallet. The wallet returned to the pocket from which it had come. Nicholas Alexandria sighed.
“All right,” Bowman said. “Next thing is, everybody here knows more about this damned elephant that I do. Even Hugo does, if Hugo knows anything about anything.”
“Why, you lousy—” Hugo began.
Again Schlechtman held up his hand. Again Hugo subsided into growls. Schlechtman said, “Your request is a fair one, Mr. Bowman. If you are to assist us with your unmatchable knowledge of San Francisco, you must also have some knowledge of the remarkable beast we seek.
“Though the Maltese Elephant has of course been known since haziest antiquity to the human inhabitants with whom it shares its island, it was first memorialized in literature in the Periplus of Hanno the Carthaginian, which was translated from Punic to Greek in the fourth century, B.C. Hanno’s is a bald note: θηρίδιον ὁ ἐλέφας Μελίτης ἐστίν.”
“It’s Greek to me, by God,” Bowman said.
Schlechtman continued his lecture as if Bowman had not spoken: “Aristotle, in the Historia Animalium 610a15, says of the Maltese Elephant, ὁ ἐλέφας ὁ Μελιταῖος μεγέθει ὅομοιος τῇ νήσῳ ἐν ᾗ οἰκεῖ. And Strabo, in the sixth book of his geography, notes Maltese dogs shared a similar trait: πρόκειται δὲ τοῦ Παχύνου Μελίτη, ὅθεν τὰ κυνίδια τε καὶ ἐλεφαντίδια, ἅ καλοῦσι Μελιταῖα, καὶ Γαῦδος, Gaudos being the ancient name for Malta’s island neighbor.
“The Maltese Elephant retained its reputation in Roman days as well. In the first century B.C., Cicero, in his first oration against Verres, claims, Et etiam ex insulolae Melitae elephantisculos tres rapiebat. More than a century later, Petronius, in the one hundred thirty-second chapter of the Satyricon, has his character Encolpius put the curled and preserved ear of a Maltese Elephant to a use which, out of deference to the presence here of Miss Tellini, I shall not quote even in the original. And in the fifth century of our era, as St. Augustine sadly recorded in the Civitas dei, Res publica romanorurn in statu elephantis Melitae nunc deminuitur. So you see, Mr. Bowman, the beast whose trail we follow has a history extending back toward the dawn of time. I could provide you with many more citations—”
“I just bet you could,” Bowman interrupted. “But what does any of ’em have to do with the price of beer?”
“I am coming to that, never fear,” Gideon Schlechtman said. “You were the one who complained of lack of background. Now I have provided it to you. In the foreground is the presence on Malta since 1530 of the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem. During the great siege by the Ottoman Turks in 1565, a Maltese Elephant warned of an attack with its trumpeting. Since that time, it has come to be revered as a good-luck totem not only by the Knights but also by the great merchants who, under the British crown, are the dominant force on Malta today. The return of one of these beasts to its proper home would be... suitably appreciated by these men.”
“Yeah? If they’re so much in love with these elephants of theirs, how’d one of ’em go missing in the first place?” Bowman demanded.
“Evan Thursday knew the answer to that question, I believe,” Schlechtman answered. “He is, unfortunately, in no position to furnish us with it. Unless, that is, he conveyed it to Miss Tellini. Her involvement in this affair has been, shall we say with the charity Scripture commends, ambiguous.”
“He didn’t,” Gina Tellini said quickly. “I have a cousin on Malta, in Valetta, who—hears things. That’s how I found out.”
Bowman shrugged. “It’s a story. I’ve heard a lot of stories from her.” His voice was cool, indifferent.
Her flashing eyes registered anger, with hurt hard on its heels. “It’s true, Miles. I swear it is.”
“Her word is not to be trusted under any circumstances,” Nicholas Alexandria said.
“As if yours is,” Gina Tellini retorted hotly.
Bowman turned back to Gideon Schlechtman. “The five grand is mine provided I find this Maltese Elephant for you, right?”
“Provided we do not find it first through our unaided efforts, yes,” Schlechtman said.
“Yeah, sure, I knew you were going to tell me that,” Bowman said, indifferent again. “But if you thought you could do it on your own, you never would’ve dragged me into it.” He started for the door. Passing Hugo, he patted him on his hip. “See you around, sweetheart.”
Hugo slapped his hand away, cocked a fist. Beefy face expressionless, Bowman hit him in the belly again, in the exact spot his fist had found before. Hugo fell against an end table of copper tubing and glass. It went over with a crash.
At the door, Bowman looked back to Gideon Schlechtman. “A smart man like you should get better help.”
He closed the door on whatever answer Schlechtman might have made. Waiting for the elevator, he peered back toward suite 1453. No one came out after him. The elevator door opened. “Ground floor, sir?” the operator asked.
“Yeah.”
Bowman stepped into his office. Hester Prine stared up from her typing. Relief, anger, and worry warred on her face. “Where have you been?” she demanded. “Your wife has called three times already. She asked me if you were under arrest. Are you?”
“No.” Bowman hung his hat on the tree. “I’d better talk to her this morning. Anybody else call?”
“Yes,” she said in her lascivious voice. She looked down at the pad by her telephone. “He said his name was Wellnhofer.” She spelled it. “He said he’d already talked to you once today, and he wanted to see you by ten. I was sure you’d be in—I was sure then, anyhow.”