“Never mind that,” Spade said. “Let’s talk about the black bird.”
The fat man cocked his head to the left and regarded Spade with fond eyes. “All right, sir,” he agreed. “Let’s.” He took a sip from the glass in his hand. “This is going to be the most astounding thing you’ve ever heard of, sir, and I say that knowing that a man of your caliber in your profession must have known some astounding things in his time.”
Spade nodded politely.
The fat man screwed up his eyes and asked: “What do you know, sir, about the Order of the Hospital of St. John of Jerusalem, later called the Knights of Rhodes and other things?”
Spade waved his cigar. “Not much—only what I remember from history in school—Crusaders or something.”
“Very good. Now you don’t remember that Suleiman the Magnificent chased them out of Rhodes in 1523?”
“No.”
“Well, sir, he did, and they settled in Crete. And they stayed there for seven years, until 1530 when they persuaded the Emperor Charles V to give them”—Gutman held up three puffy fingers and counted them—“Malta, Gozo, and Tripoli.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, sir, but with these conditions: they were to pay the Emperor each year the tribute of one”—he held up a finger—“falcon in acknowledgment that Malta was still under Spain, and if they ever left the island it was to revert to Spain. Understand? He was giving it to them, but not unless they used it, and they couldn’t give or sell it to anybody else.”