Counting Up, Counting Down

by Harry Turtledove

  The lounger spoke: “You don’t want to go in there. You want to come with me.”

  “Yeah? Says who?” Bowman dropped his right hand from the doorknob. It came to rest at his side, near waist level.

  “Says my boss—he’s got a business proposition to put to you,” the fellow answered. He stood straighter. One of his hands rested in the front pocket of his jacket. “And says me. And says—” The hand, and whatever it held, moved a little, suggestively.

  Bowman came down the steps. “All right, take me to your boss. I’ll talk business with anybody. As for you, pal, you can get stuffed.” He spoke the words lightly, negligently, as if he didn’t care whether the hard-faced man followed through on them or not.

  The hard-faced man took a step toward him. “You watch your mouth, or—”

  Bowman hit him in the pit of the stomach. His belly was hard as oak. Against a precisely placed blow to the solar plexus, that proved irrelevant. He doubled over with a loud, whistling grunt. His suddenly exhaled breath smelled of gin. While he gasped for air, Bowman plucked a revolver from his pocket and put it in his own. He hauled the burly man back to his feet. “I told you—take me to your boss.”

  The man glared at him. Hatred smoldered in his eyes. He started to say something. Bowman shook his head and raised a warning forefinger. The burly man visibly reconsidered. “Come on,” he said, and Bowman nodded.

  The seventeen-story white brick and stone Clift Hotel on Geary Street was five blocks west of the Palace. The hard-faced man said nothing more on the way there, nor through the lobby, which was decorated in the style of the Italian Renaissance. He and Bowman took the elevator to the fourteenth floor in silence. He rapped at the door to suite 1453.

  Nicholas Alexandria opened it. His chrome-plated pistol was in his hand. “Ah, Mr. Bowman, so good to see you again,” he said in a tone that belied the words. His left hand rose to a sticking plaster on his cheek. The plaster did not cover all the bruise there. “Won’t you come in?”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Bowman said, and stepped past him. The suite was furnished in spare and modern style. Gina Tellini sat on a chair that looked as if it might pitch her off at any moment. She sent Bowman a quick, nervous glance, but did not speak. Nicholas Alexandria closed the door, sat on a similar chair beside her.

  The couch opposite them was low and poorly padded enough to have come from ancient Greece. On it, hunched forward as if not to miss anything, sat a thin, pale, long-faced man with a lantern jaw and gold-rimmed spectacles. He wore a suit of creamy linen, a Sea Island cotton shirt, and a burgundy silk tie whose bar was adorned with a small silver coin, irregularly round, that displayed a large-eyed owl.

  “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 hip 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 than 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: Thêridion ho elephas Melitês estin.”

  “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, Ho elephas ho Melitaios megethei homoios tê nêsô en hê oikei. And Strabo, in the sixth book of his geography, notes Maltese dogs shared a similar trait: Prokeitai de tou Pakhynou Melitê, hothen ta kynidia te kai elephantidia, ha kalousi Melitaia, kai Gaudos, 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 romanorum 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 the 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.”

  “What did he sound like?” Bowman asked.

  “He had an accent, if that’s what you mean.”

  Bowman did not answer. He went into his inner office, closed the door. He sat down in the swivel chair, lit a cigarette, and sucked in harsh smoke with quick, savage puffs. After he stubbed it out, he picked up the phone and called. “Eva? . . . Yeah, it’s me. Who else would it be? . . . No, I’m not in jail, for God’s sake. . . . What do you mean, you called them up and they said they didn’t have me? . . . What time was that? . . . I was gone by then. . . . No, I didn’t see any point to coming home when I had to go in to the office anyway. I ate breakfast and did some looking around. Now I’m here. All right?”

  He hung up, smoked another cigarette, and went back out of his private office. From his pocket he took the silver dollar he had not given to the lascar sailor. He dropped it on his secretary’s desk. It rang sweetly. “Go around the corner and get me some coffee and doughnuts. Get some for yourself, too, if you want.”

  “I thought you already ate breakfast,” she said. She picked up the cartwheel and started for the door.

  Bowman swatted her on the posterior, hard enough to make her squeak. “I’m going to have to soundproof that door,” he said gruffly. “Go on, get out of here.”

  He returned to his office, pulled the telephone directory off its shelf, pawed through it. “Operator, give me McPherson’s Agricultural Supplies.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “McPherson’s? Yeah, can you tell me if you’ve filled any big, unusual orders for hay the last couple of days? . . . No? All right, thanks.” He went through the book again. “Let me have The Manger.” He asked the same question there. He received the same answer, and slammed the earpiece back onto its hook.

  The outer door opened. Hester Prine came in with two cardboard cups and a white paper sack. Grease already made the white paper dark and shiny in several places.

  “I thought maybe you were Wellnhofer,” Bowman said.

  “No such luck.” Hester Prine took a half dollar, a dime, and a nickel from her purse and gave them to Bowman. He dropped them into his pocket. She opened the bag and handed him a doughnut whose sugar glaze glistened like ice on a bad road. He devoured it, drained his coffee. She pointed to the bag and said, “There’s another one in there, if you want it.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Bowman was reaching for it when several sharp pops, like firecrackers on Chinese New Year, sounded outside the office building. Down on the street, a woman screamed. A man cried out. Bowman snatched the doughnut from the bag. “That’s a gun,” he said, and ran for the stairs.

  He gulped down the last of the doughnut as he burst out into the fresh air. The man who lay crumpled on the sidewalk wore a navy blue jacket with four gold rings at each cuff. His cap had fallen from his head. It lay several feet away, upside down. The brown leather sweatband inside was stained and frayed.

  “I called the cops,” a man exclaimed. “A guy in a car shot him. He drove off that way.” The man pointed west.

  Bowman squatted beside Captain Wellnhofer. The seaman had taken two slugs in the chest. Blood soaked his shirt and jacket. It puddled on the pavement. He stared up at Bowman. His eyes still held reason. “Warehouse,” he said, and exhaled. Blood ran from his nose and mouth. With great effort, he spoke through it: “Warehouse near Eddy and Fillm—” He exhaled again, but did not breathe in. He looked blindly up at the pale blue morning sky.

  Bowman was getting to his feet when a car pulled to a screeching stop in front of him. Out sprang Detective Dwyer and Captain Bock. Bock looked from Bowman to the corpse and back again. “People have a way of dying around you,” he remarked coldly.

  “Go to hell, Bock,” Bowman said. “You can’t pin this on me. Don’t waste your time trying. I was upstairs with Hester when the shooting started.” He pointed to the man who had said he had called the police. “This guy here saw me come out.”

  “What were you doing up there with Hester?” Dwyer asked, amusement in his voice.

  “Eating a donut. What about it?”

  “You’ve got sugar on your chin,” Dwyer said.

  Bowman wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Bock asked several questions of the man who had called the police. His mouth curling down in disappointment, he turned back to Bowman. “Do you know the victim?” he asked.

  “His name’s Wellnhofer,” Bowman answered unwillingly. “He was coming to see me. He had a ten o’clock appointment.” He looked at his watch. “He was early. Now he’s late.”

  “You were down there by him when we drove up,” Dwyer said. “Did he say anything to you before he died?”

  “Not a word,” Bowman assured him. “He must have been gone the second he went down.”

  “Two in the chest? Yeah, maybe,” Dwyer said.

  “Are you going to take a formal statement from me, or what?” Bowman asked. “If you are, then do it. If you aren’t, I’m going back upstairs.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of Wellnhofer’s body. “A hole just opened up in my schedule.”

  “You’re a cold-blooded so-and-so,” Dwyer said. He and Captain Bock walked over to their car and put their heads together. When they were done, Dwyer came back to Bowman. “Go on up, Miles. We’ve got enough from you for now. If we need more later, we know where to find you.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Bowman said bitterly.

  Hugo pushed the room-service cart to the door of Gideon Schlechtman’s suite in the Clift Hotel. He opened the door, pulled the cart through, left it in the hall. Then he closed the door and returned to the others in the ever so modern living room.

  To Schlechtman, Bowman said: “Much obliged. Lobster and drawn butter, baked potato. I usually like my liquor hard, but that wine was tasty, too.”

  “That was a Pouilly-Fumé from the valley of the Loire, Mr. Bowman, and a prime year, too,” Gideon Schlechtman replied, steepling his long, thin, pale fingers.

  “Didn’t I say it was good?” Bowman asked equably. “Now, befor
e we go any further, we have to figure out who gets thrown to the wolves. There’s three bodies with holes in ’em lying on slabs in the morgue. That kind of business gets the cops all up in arms. They’re going to be looking for somebody to blame. If we give ’em somebody, they won’t do any real digging on their own. Cops, they’re like that.”

  “Whom do you suggest, Mr. Bowman?” Schlechtman enquired.

  “Hugo’s just hired muscle,” Bowman answered. “Turn up a flat rock and you’ll find a dozen like him. Dwyer and Bock’ll see it the same way.”

  The hard-faced man snarled a vile oath. He yanked out his revolver and pointed it at Bowman’s chest. Schlechtman raised his hand. “Patience, Hugo. I have not said I agree to this. What other possibilities have we?”

  Bowman shrugged. “Alexandria there’s a squiff. With three strapping men dead, that might do. Rollie Dwyer, he’s got seven kids.”

  “You are an insane, wicked man,” Nicholas Alexandria cried shrilly. His hand darted inside his coat. Lamplight glittered from his chromed automatic. He aimed the little gun at Bowman’s face. Hugo still held his pistol steady.

  “Nicholas, please.” Schlechtman held up his hand again. “We do have a problem here which merits discussion. Everything is hypothetical.” He turned back to Bowman. “Why not Miss Tellini?”

  “We could work the frame that way, for Tom and Thursday, anyhow,” Bowman said. “A guy plugged Wellnhofer, though. We’d have to drag in Hugo or Alexandria any which way.”

  Gina Tellini sent Bowman a Bunsen burner glance. “Why not Schlechtman?” she demanded.

  “Don’t be stupid, darling,” Bowman answered. “He’s paying the bills.”

  “Whoever finds the Maltese Elephant can pay the bills,” she said.

  “If we find the elephant, we shall be able to pay the attorneys’ fees to keep us from the clutches of the intrepid San Francisco police, as well,” Gideon Schlechtman said. He pointed to Hugo and to Nicholas Alexandria in turn. “Put up your weapons. We are all colleagues in this matter. And, as the saying has it, if we do not hang together, we shall hang separately.”