Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 35, No. 4, September 1974

From archaeological treasure, to war booty, to a mystery that puzzled scientists and collectors the world over, the bones had seemingly returned to taunt a tired woman and threaten Mike Shayne!

I

Perspiration dribbled into Mike Shayne’s eye. Swiftly, he wiped away the film with the back of a huge hand and regripped the steering wheel, fingers working reflexively as he concentrated on the two fast moving station wagons ahead.

They flashed across intersections and shot along the streets of the quiet Miami residential neighborhood as if they were racing on an open highway.

Shayne — keeping a sharp eye for moving traffic coming from the sidestreets — piloted his powerful convertible expertly. Applying more pressure to the accelerator, he gained another foot on the station wagons.

Behind him, the large blue sedan continued to tailgate.

The private detective’s scowl deepened and he again wiped away sweat as he flashed another glance into his rear view mirror. The reflected blue sedan was occupied by four men who sat like statues.

Were the men killers?

“Foster,” Shayne graveled, raising his voice against the sound of the wind, “take a look behind us. Do you know them?”

Shayne’s passenger twisted on the seat, and out of the corner of his eye the detective saw Foster jerk. But Foster remained silent. Shayne grunted, returned his concentration to the station wagons.

Then the blue sedan made its move. It swung, into the left lane and moved up beside the convertible with a fresh surge of power. Shayne flicked it a glance. The four occupants of the sedan continued to sit like statues, two in front, two in back. They were Orientals.

Shayne jerked his foot from the accelerator and the convertible slowed immediately.

The move triggered. Foster. “No!” he shouted, reaching out and clamping fingers on the detective’s arm, “Stay with them! We can’t lose them!”

Shayne shook off the fingers. He had survival in mind now, nothing else. He had spotted what looked like the snouts of submachine guns sticking up like grave markers in the back seat of the sedan. One blast from either snout and Shayne figured he no longer would know the heaven of lush Miami. The other heaven might be lush, too, but he wasn’t ready to be an explorer.

“Shayne!” shouted Foster. “Catch them!”

The two station wagons and the blue sedan moved out, quickly widening the distance from the convertible. Shayne’s scowl darkened. The wagons and sedan would not lose him. But he puzzled now. The four Orientals had ignored him. The sedan had surged on to move up beside the wagons, then slowly inched out front, continuing, to speed down the left lane of the street.

Shayne waited for a blast from the machine gun. It had to come.

But the blue sedan was ahead of the wagons now, still rolling in the left lane. Shayne continued to drop back. He had no intention of piling his car into the rear of a shot-up station wagon.

And then the wall of fire bounced, off the street. It disappeared. Another wall appeared.

Shayne yelled and jammed the brake pedal. The convertible went into a skid, the rear coming around to the right. Foster shouted a startled oath as the detective concentrated on riding the skid. He worked the steering wheel expertly, turning into the skid. The convertible stopped bouncing, righted. Shayne kept his eyes on the station wagons. Both were weaving crazily as if being tested on a tire track. Then they swayed into the curbing and stopped simultaneously.

Shayne braked the convertible, and then snaked the .45 from his shoulder rig. He peeled out of the car and used the open door as a shield. Crouching behind it, he leveled the .45, its muzzle braced against the door edge.

A new wall of fire appeared up ahead. It formed a barrier that blocked the street.

Shayne flinched, shook his head. Perhaps the wall was appropriate. There had been another fire at the beginning of this crazy business.

II

The jetliner was settling softly into International Airport at Miami that Tuesday afternoon and Mike Shayne sat relaxed in the erect seat, seat belt fastened as instructed by the lithe, dark-haired stewardess.

Successfully completed was a case that had taken him to Minneapolis. He had liked Minneapolis as a city, but he preferred Miami, and he grinned as he looked out of the small window. The sun had spread another golden film on the area. And Lucy Hamilton, his secretary, would be waiting for him inside the terminal. Shayne’s grin widened as her image flashed across his mind.

Then he saw the crashed plane and the fire and smoke. He frowned and strained against the window but the crash scene was gone instantly as the jetliner touched down and rolled smoothly along the runway, the pressure of braking forcing him forward slightly.

Shayne knew the crash was probably only seconds old, otherwise this area of International would have been sealed off. The stewardesses kept plastered smiles and the plane captain intoned only a routine welcome to Miami as the Jet hooked up for debarking.

Inside the terminal, Shayne found Tim Rourke, the veteran Miami newspaperman and a friend of long standing, waiting for him. Shayne was curious.

“Hey, Tim,” the redhead said as they shook hands, “missing a scoop? Or didn’t you see that little accident out there.”

The thin man’s usually sombre countenance lightened. “I phoned in the lead,” he said, “but the paper’s sending out a man for the details — I’m on another assignment — and I want your help.”

“That’s why Lucy’s not here.”

“Right,” Rourke said.

“What’s up?” the detective asked as the two walked toward the baggage check-out counter.

“A bomb threat at the paper — and a helluva interesting yarn if it holds up. Come on, I’m driving a company car. Easier for them to get gas than a mere citizen, these days. I’ll fill you in.”

After they had collected Shayne’s single suitcase and had settled in the Daily News car, Rourke passed the redhead a folded newspaper. An ad in the Personals column of the Classified section was encircled in red. It said: “$5,000 for information leading to the Peking Man. Box 100. Daily News.”

Rourke moved the sedan into the line of traffic leaving the parking lot and said, “A man named Randolph Foster from Los Angeles placed the ad and sent money for a week’s run. That was three days ago. Yesterday, we got a phoned, anonymous bomb threat demanding that the ad not appear again. The threat was ignored. We get a lot of them these days. Then this morning there was an answer to the ad. A woman came in, told the Classified people she had information about the Peking Man, left a phone number.

“Classified didn’t get too excited with the placing of the ad. We get all kinds of screwball things to run. But with the bomb threat and the woman this morning, people started stirring stumps. Looked like it might be news. Dirksen sicced my buddy Joe Roberts — who volunteered he had a vague recollection of something legitimate called the Peking Man — on to research and me into checking out Foster in Los Angeles. The papers out there have morgue files a foot thick each on the guy.

“He’s one of these whiz kids who came out of nowhere after World War II and made it big. He got a leg up as computers came into being and his outfit continues to produce some of the world’s best. Randolph Foster is legit, wealthy, and will sip a warm glass of beer with a factory worker or some exotic ulcer-breeder with a shah. He’s painted as a guy who is at home in either company, a rare character.

“Joe, meanwhile, tagged the Peking Man. The way I get it, it’s a general term for a collection of human bones, about forty skulls, one hundred fifty teeth and numerous other bones that date man back something like two million years. Chinese in origin, the collection — considered priceless, incidently — supposedly disappeared around the beginning of World War II. Stories about the Peking Man circulate among collectors, but all are vague.

“Foster apparently has some reason to think this treasure might be here in Miami. Incidently, he’s flying in here tonight. I wanted to talk to him, but there’s a line, I discover, between protecting the anonymity of one who places a blind ad and a news story. Classified is screaming that Foster has paid for anonymity and is entitled.

“Dirksen, of course, is screaming that Foster and his Peking Man and the bomb threat is a hot news story. The hierarchy debates. Meanwhile, I’ve got a hunch that bomb threat may tie in — and since you’re such a pal of mine, I thought you might be interested in helping me track it down.

“I might add, Mike,” the reporter said grimly, “that if Foster really is hunting the Peking Man, and if he’s digging up information, he could also be digging up trouble.”

“So you take this bomb threat seriously?” Shayne said.

“Yes and no. I think a few guns might be in order. Men have died because of these bones already, I understand from Roberts.”

“So we keep a sharp eye out. We take the caller seriously, for now, anyway. This all sounds like just my kind of case, Tim.”

“That’s what I thought,” Rourke grinned. “Do you want to ride along with me? See what we dig up?”

“You know it,” the redhead smiled back. “I don’t like threats any more than you do. And it sounds like you have a hell of a story building here. I’d like to watch it develop. Now — tell me how the threat came in, who handled it, the details.”

“One of the switchboard girls caught the call. Local call, male voice. According to the girl, the guy says ‘One more ad about the Peking Man and you get a bomb in the front door.’ The guy hangs up.”

“You talked to the girl?”

“Yeah, T spent almost an hour with her,” Rourke said. “She’s, the level-headed type, Mike. The caller had a bass voice, she said, words distinct. On the other hand, she thinks the caller was a young person, say mid-to-late twenties.”

“Why does she think that?”

Rourke shrugged. “She listens to voices on a phone five days a week. She subconsciously categorizes voices, fits them to people.”

Shayne used the thumb and forefinger of his right hand to tug the lobe of his left ear. “Your bosses think the caller might have been a nut?”

“The possibility was discussed, voted down.”

“And Will Gentry?”

Rourke took time to pass a sedan before he replied, “Will hasn’t been informed so far. No need to yet — and Dirksen’s still thinking story, naturally, and he figures that if Will and his cops are called, the door is opened to the TV boys. Dirksen thinks a private look-see is the only way to go — for the moment. And I agree. So I came to you, like I said.”

The detective said, “Dirksen understands, I assume, that if I turn up something big, Will gets it.”

Rourke nodded.

“Okay. You said Foster is flying in tonight?”

“When the Classified people called him this morning about the woman who answered the ad, he asked about hotels. I checked around this afternoon, found he’d made a reservation at the Dolphin, but that he’s not expected until after midnight. While waiting for you at the airport, I also checked incoming flights. There’s one in from Los Angeles at eleven-forty tonight. That should be Foster’s.”

Shayne grunted satisfaction. Rourke was not a man to allow moss to grow under his feet. “And I suppose you’ve got the woman staked out too?”

“Not staked out,” Rourke admitted. “But I checked the phone number she left for Foster in the Polk directory, and found it’s at a bar named the Red Fish. No one at the newspaper ever heard of it, so it must be a hole in the wall.”

“The Red Fish,” Shayne grunted. “Let’s hope our bomber and our lady aren’t just a couple of red herrings.”

III

The Red Fish had a narrow front, a sunken doorway and a broken neon sign. It was squashed among other low, squeezed business ventures that looked as if they should have gone the way of brick streets. Lethargic sidewalk loiterers were young Latins, and it was as if they were seeing moonmen. It was that kind of neighborhood.

As the detective and the newspaperman crossed the sidewalk, Rourke remarked, “I’ve got a suspicion, pal, we’d be more welcome if it was the first of the month and we were postmen bearing welfare checks.”

Inside, the Red Fish was a dingy, shallow watering hole oozing stale odors. A Latin man who hadn’t been to a barber in a year sat alone at the bar. He wore a sweat shirt, wrinkled pants and shower togs, and he didn’t bother to look up from his beer mug as Shayne and Rourke moved into the bar.

Shayne glanced around. From his vantage, he could see three sharpies huddled in a booth in a corner and a woman sitting alone at a table. The woman looked to be in her late sixties and weathered; her attire had survived since, the 1950s. She cupped a small glass in her hand and did not seem to be interested in new arrivals.

Shayne shot another glance at the sharpies. They were interested. They continued to huddle, but each had a head cocked so that with no more than a side glance he could take in the strangers. They were silent now, returning Shayne’s inventory. One had a hooked nose, another a narrow jaw and slit eyes. The third one was little more than a kid. He still had smooth skin, but he was nervous. He couldn’t seem to sit still.

Shayne turned to the bartender, a wizened little man with a black mole high on one cheek, yellow teeth and schooled eyes that were wary. The eyes danced between Shayne and Rourke, went outside to the parked car. “Name’s Bart,” the bartender finally grunted. “You guys from the newspaper?”

Shayne heard stirrings in the booth and the slight scrape of a chair behind him. Down the bar, the Latin emptied his beer glass, turned from the stool a clomped out of the Red Fish without looking to the right or left.

“We’re from the Daily News, right,” Rourke told the bartender. “Your wife here? I think she left a message at the newspaper earlier today.”

“Ain’t married,” grunted Bart.

“Well, now... I see,” said Rourke. He leaned elbows on the bar, pondered as if in deep thought. Then he said, “Tell you what I’m going to do, Bart. I’m going to confide in you. I really shouldn’t. It’s kind of newspaper business, none of yours, but you look like a guy who can keep his yap shut and—”

“I got button lips if’n I’m of a mind, that’s for sure, fella,” Bart interrupted.

“Well, then, I’ll tell you,” Rourke nodded. “We’re looking for a woman who might be a regular customer here, who might live around here, who might give your telephone number as a...”

Shayne tuned out Rourke’s words and went to the woman who sat alone at the table. She looked up at him from bright eyes without stirring.

“May I?” he said politely, pulling out the chair opposite her.

“I ain’t sure,” said the woman.

“You were at the newspaper office this morning. You left a telephone number,” Shayne said conversationally as he sat opposite her. From his angle he could see the three sharpies in the booth. There were far enough away to be out of earshot of ordinary voices, but they were cocked.

“So how come you didn’t call?” said the woman.

Shayne smiled, attempted to be casual. He lit a cigarette, offered the woman the crumpled pack. She dug out a bent cigarette, straightened it with a practiced swipe of fingers, bent to take the match flame... She had deep creases in her skin, large blue veins, and there was a musty odor of age and too much drink about her.

Rourke joined them. The woman flicked him a glance, exhaled smoke, said nothing. Beyond the woman, Shayne saw the three sharpies shift in the booth. It was as if they suddenly had found themselves sitting on ant hills.

Shayne asked the woman, “Do you have a name?”

“Certainly,” she said, clipping the word. “Abigail Galloway.”

Shayne nodded, sat back and smoked. He motioned to the empty glass in her hand. “And you are drinking?”

“Get to the point, mister,” Abigail Galloway said. “How come you didn’t call?”

“You like getting telephone calls, Abbie?”

“I wanted to set up a meet.”

“Oh.” Shayne nodded. “Well, can we consider this a meet?”

“I ain’t sure,” repeated Abigail Galloway.

“I guess the information you have to pass along is important, huh?”

“I’m the only one in all of Miami that’s got it,” the woman said firmly. She smoked. “And that’s for sure, mister.”

Shayne took out his wallet, opened it, exposed a one hundred dollar bill, then tapped the bill back into the wallet and returned the leather to his inside coat pocket. “I consider this a meet,” he said.

Abigail Galloway’s eyes had brightened. She smoked jerkily. In the corner booth, the three sharpies shifted around on new ant hills.

Shayne hunched forward again. “Time to quit playing games, Abbie. What do you know about the Peking Man?”

Abigail smoked. “You the guy who put the ad in the paper?”

Shayne said nothing, stared at her hard, waited.

She butted the cigarette in a chipped ashtray on the table. “Look, mister, in your ad, you said $5,000...”

She cut off the words. Shayne continued to remain silent. Then Abigail Galloway suddenly went soft. She sat back, relaxed, smiled crookedly. “I’ve had quite a life, you know,” she said. Her eyes abruptly mirrored memories and her tone was edged in reminiscence.

“I once was a trapeze artist with the circus, traveled the world, Europe, Asia. Then I met Alexander Holstrom, the explorer. Well, we married and traveled Africa. But poor Alexander was killed in a rhinoceros charge one day, and...”

She waved a hand. “But never mind. Later, I married Phillip Alexander — two Alexanders, you see — and everything was beautiful until Phillip fell from the Dover Cliffs in England. It was a short time later that I became a friend of Marcia Spellman, the authoress, and it was Marcia who brought the Peking Man out of China at the start of World War II and sold it to Archibald Jaynes. That was Archibald Senior, of course, who lived right here in Miami and had this fabulous estate.

“Archibald and I never married, understand, but we were fabulous friends and I was a guest in his mansion on many occasions, and — well, Archibald died one day. Heart attack or something. I never did understand. But now there’s only Junior, that’s Archibald Junior, and I don’t like him, and... well, them bones are in the mansion, mister. Now, can I have my five thousand dollars?”

Shayne flicked a glance at Rourke. The newspaperman was silent, jaw tight, eyes narrowed slightly. Shayne knew Rourke was digesting, thinking. Finally Rourke said, “There is an Archibald Jaynes, Jr., Mike. We do a story on him and his crowd every so often. He’s supposed to be a swinger, the jet set type.”

Shayne reconsidered Abigail Galloway. “The bones are at the mansion? You’ve seen them?”

She nodded emphatically. “In the footlockers. There is this line of footlockers in Archibald’s — that’s Archibald Senior’s — vault. Well, it really isn’t a vault. I mean, there’s this thick red carpeting on the floor, very red carpeting, so I guess you can’t say it’s a vault, but it’s a big room and the footlockers filled with bones are there.”

“And are there deep shadows in this room?”

“Shadows?” She cocked her head, considered Shayne. “Oh my, yes, very deep shadows!”

“And candles?”

“Yes, candles, too!”

“Flickering.”

“Yes! Lots of them! Lots...”

“Abbie, your munchausen complex is showing.”

“Huh?”

Shayne shifted in the chair, butted the cigarette. “Now tell us the truths. How do you know about the bones?”

Her face fell: She stirred in the chair, reflexively reached for the dead cigarette butt in the ashtray. Shayne passed her his crumpled pack again and she looked everywhere but at the detective as she dug out a fresh cigarette. Rourke flicked a lighter flame for her. She exhaled with a hiss and suddenly looked Shayne straight in the eye.

She’d had a son named Howard who, long ago, had been a construction engineer in China. But at the beginning of World War II Howard had been captured by the Japanese and placed in a camp where he had become a friend of an aged missionary. The missionary had had the bones, seven footlockers of bones. The missionary had told Howard the bones were something called the Peking Man and were very valuable.

One day a Japanese officer had come to the camp in a truck. He had ordered Howard to load the footlockers into the truck, then Howard and the missionary were told to ride with the bones. But a few miles away from the camp, the truck had been stopped and the Japanese officer had come around to the rear and shot Howard and the missionary.

They were dumped on the road. The Japanese officer left them for dead. The missionary had been killed, but Howard had survived. And after many months of... living only on his wits had managed to make his way to friendly territory. Eventually, he had been returned to the United States.

Then about a year ago a funny thing had happened: Howard had discovered the same footlockers filled with the same bones right here in Miami. They were in the collection of Archibald Jaynes, Jr.

“Abbie,” Shayne said carefully, “you speak of your son as if he is dead.”

Her cheek muscles quivered. “He is,” she said. “He was killed ’bout a year ago. Hit-and-run driver.”

Shayne slid a glance at Rourke. The newspaperman sat without moving or changing expression.

Shayne pressed the woman, “But Howard told you about the footlockers and the bones before he died, right?”

“Me’n Howard never had any secrets,” she replied almost defiantly.

“And just how did Howard learn that the bones were in the Jaynes’ mansion?”

Abigail Galloway suddenly went distant. “That part ain’t important. I want my money. You gonna pay?”

“I’m not the right man, Abbie,” Shayne said. “The man who placed the ad is from Los Angeles. He is flying in here tonight. We will bring him to you tomorrow.”

She stood suddenly. “Finks!” she snarled.

She turned and marched out of the bar. Shayne and Rourke went after her. “Abbie!” Shayne said sharply.

She whirled on the sidewalk. She was angry. Her eyes were bright.

“You forgot your hundred,” Shayne said.

“I don’t want your lousy C-note. Stuff it, til you get me five grand. You can’t buy me that cheap. I know plenty I ain’t told you.” Her eyes blurred moistly.

“Let us drive you to your place,” Shayne said softly.

“I just live down the street!” she snapped.

“And we aren’t driving anywhere,” Rourke said sourly. “Take a look, Mike.”

The Daily News car was tilted, the left front wheel gone A siphoning hose dangled from the gas tank. Shayne looked up and down the sidewalk. The loiterers nearby didn’t change expressions. The detective whirled, saw the three sharpies skid out of the Red Fish. They moved out fast behind Abigail Galloway. Shayne stared, after them. Were they trailing the woman? She turned into another building suddenly, disappeared. The sharpies angled across the street, continued walking.

Shayne went back inside the Red Fish. Rourke already was at the bar, confronting the wizened man. “You mean to tell me you didn’t see anyone snapping off that wheel?” Rourke was shouting. “Man, from where you’re standing, you could see the street split!”

“I didn’t see nothun, mister,” Bart said, using the corner of a match book on his yellow teeth.

Rourke called for a Daily News tow truck.

IV

Wednesday produced a brilliant morning Mike Shayne sat slumped slightly in the deep, leather swivel chair, the chair turned so he could look out an office window on the golden cast of the day.

Routine that had piled up while he had been in Minneapolis had been dispensed with and in the outer office Lucy Hamilton was typing a letter. Shayne was conscious of the subdued rhythm of the electric typewriter, but his thoughts were on Tim Rourke and a man named Randolph Foster. Had Rourke contacted Foster? Would Foster consent to talk to a private detective?

Upon leaving the Red Fish the previous afternoon, the detective had weighed what he had been told by Abigail Galloway and had decided to wait for Foster.

He didn’t think the Daily News was in any immediate danger, and he had no concrete leads to the potential bomber: only a male voice heard on a telephone by a switchboard girl. Attempting to chase down the owner of that voice, with no real lead, would be like trying to run in deep water. The logical route to the caller at this point was through turning up the Peking Man, and Foster could be the spearhead in that drive.

Abigail Galloway intrigued Shayne. Obviously a woman who thrived on inventing stories about herself, there still could be some truth in her claim that seven footlockers were in the possession of a young swinger named Archibald Jaynes, Jr. Shayne was not yet ready to meet Jaynes headon, and ask to see the lockers. That could tear everything. Jaynes could look the detective square in the eye and tell him to climb a rope straight into the big blue sky. If he’d kept the bones hidden all these years, he wouldn’t show them off to a private detective. On the other hand, Foster, another money-man, just might get things moving. Money men had their own language.

So, for the moment, the logical path seemed to lie with a California computer whiz.

Lucy Hamilton interrupted Shayne’s thinking with the announcement that Tim Rourke and Randolph Foster were in the outer office. She stood in the entry to Shayne’s private sanctuary, engaging in pale yellow, her brown curls glistening, eyes shining, a soft smile just barely visible at the corners of her unpainted lips. Her expression alerted Shayne. Randolph Foster had impressed her.

Foster was as tall as Shayne but that was where the resemblance ended: Shayne was broad and thick, had knots here and there where bones had mended, and his red hair was slightly ruffled. Foster was slender, probably in his mid-fifties, the detective quietly judged, but he looked toned and agile. His dark eyes were alert, his black and white hair stuck up in a crewcut like brush bristles, and there was a tiny cashew-shaped scar at the corner of his left eye. His clothing was neat, fitted, and quietly expensive.

“Shayne,” he said, matching his tone by the firm grip in his handshake. He didn’t smile.

“Mr. Foster.”

The detective shot a look at Rourke. The snap in Foster’s tone seemed to have bordered on being grim. And, looking at the newspaperman, Shayne knew instantly that all was not velvet on this brilliant morning in Miami.

“Mike,” Rourke said sounding as if he had just been whipped, “we went across town this morning to see Abigail Galloway and discovered that she was murdered sometime during the night. There were cops all over the place.”

Foster picked up immediately, “I blame you, and Mr. Rourke. I think she was killed because you two went to her yesterday afternoon. You shouldn’t have. You were interfering. I may sue the newspaper: breach of silent contract. I placed an anonymous advertisement, that anonymity was offered by the newspaper, it is a service extended, and now—”

“Foster,” Shayne said savagely, “shut up!”

Randolph Foster jerked, mild surprise showing on his face. But he suddenly remained silent and Shayne grunted satisfaction.

“Take it from the top, Tim,” Shayne said grimly.

Rourke’s long face was tight. “I went out to International last night to catch the 11:40 flight from Los Angeles. I had Mr. Foster paged. That brought him to the Information Desk where I introduced myself. He was not happy, but I drove him to The Dolphin, filling him in about the bomb threat and you — and some things about Abigail Galloway. He refused to come see you first thing this morning, rather he demanded to be taken straight to Abigail.

“Okay, no sweat. I figured to phone you while he was talking to Abigail — except there were cops coming out of the corners around her place, Mike. Abigail had been killed sometime during the night, beaten to death.

“I found an old geezer who lives in the same building and who claims he was her friend, Guy named Charlie Knowles. I got most of my information from him. Charlie says somebody in the building heard a lot of noise in Abigail’s place, called the cops, but they got there too late. They found her dead.”

“No arrests?” said Shayne.

“No.”

The redhead looked at Randolph Foster, said harshly, “You obviously had a change of mind — after a murder. Why are you here now, Mr. Foster?”

Foster had regained composure. “Because I still intend to find the Peking Man, Mr. Shayne. And you can begin by telling me what this Abigail Galloway told you two yesterday afternoon. I’ll pay, naturally.”

Shayne shot another look at Rourke.

“All I told him was that we had talked to Abigail,” Rourke said, “and that she had some information that might interest him. I wasn’t passing anything on second-hand. Especially from her, Mike. I think she was a nut.”

Shayne grunted. “Investigative work is a legitimate field, too, Foster. We’ve got our bums, yeah, cheats, gougers. But I’ve run into some pretty swift insurance boys, too, brokers who will milk a man dry without shedding a tear, grocers who will sell a bag of potato chips half filled with air. You are in computers, I understand. I guess everybody in your racket is turning out a number one product, huh? No fast buck artists?”

Randolph Foster sat silent.

“Point,” said Shayne, “I’m going to pass along what Abigail Galloway told us yesterday afternoon. No fee.”

Foster squirmed in his chair. He looked chagrined. “I’d like to hear it,” he said. “The Peking Man is very important to me. I’m for all cards on the table, Mr. Shayne.”

“Okay,” said the redhead. “So let’s see what kind of hand you have, Mr. Foster.”

V

Randolph foster had been a Marine, captured by the Japanese in 1941, interned. In the prison camp, he had met a missionary who had seven footlockers in his possession, footlockers filled with human bones. The missionary had told the story of the Peking Man, claimed he had been entrusted by the Chinese to get the bones to a safe place — Australia, the U.S., anywhere.

Then one day a Japanese officer had come to the camp and ordered the footlockers and the missionary loaded into a truck. A young laborer prisoner had done the loading. He, also, had been put in the truck. That was the last Foster had ever heard of the missionary, the laborer or the bones. But the missionary’s story about Peking Man had fascinated him, and later Foster had discovered that such a collection of bones actually existed.

Foster had spent the war in Japanese prison camps, survived and finally had been returned to the United States. After his discharge, he got into computers when they still were brainchildren, and had built a fortune. In time, he had acquired the means to pursue expensive hobbies, his being tracking down seven footlockers of human bones called the Peking Man.

“And about eighteen months ago a source I consider reliable informed me the Peking Man might be in the United States,” Foster continued. “My source is a legitimate private collector. He assisted me by contacting other collectors all over the States. He didn’t come up with anything concrete, but he continued to get stories the Peking Man was in the possession of someone in this country. This makes one suspect the bones were lifted from the Japs somewhere along the line, and probably smuggled into the U.S. Legitimate collectors are knowledgable about the items they seek; they know backgrounds, whether items have been stolen, whether or not they have been passed along through legitimate sales. It appears the Peking Man is being kept underground by someone.

“Anyway, my next step was to place newspaper ads. I’ve placed them, over the months, in various metropolitan papers, the same ad you saw in the Daily News. This is the first reaction I’ve had.”

Shayne used a thumb and forefinger to tug his ear. “Why is the Peking Man so important to you?”

“I’d like to own it,” Foster admitted. “But, more important, I want the bones preserved. I’ve done a great deal of study about their origin, what they mean to the Chinese. I have a houseman in California, a very intelligent man, who has filled me in on Chinese thinking and philosophy about the Peking Man, and I have spent hours with scholars, great Chinese thinkers.

“The Peking Man is very important to the Chinese people, to history, to the study of man, Mr. Shayne. I am vitally interested in that kind of thing. I want to buy the bones, if it comes down to that. I know, it is said they are priceless, but priceless things can be purchased. But for the moment, I merely want to establish the whereabouts of the bones. I’ll deal with the possessor once that is established.”

“Well,” said Shayne, “I’d say your ad has rippled some water. But I’m also puzzled. Why did it ripple? Look at it this way: assume someone in Miami has the bones. The guy would have to be a cool operator to get them in the first place, legally or otherwise, right?”

“Yes,” Foster nodded. “The Peking Man is not something just anyone would or could pick up.”

“Okay, if the guy is slick enough to obtain the bones, and if he has kept that possession quiet for any reason why bite on a little Classified ad? Why a bomb threat?”

Neither Foster nor Tim Rourke stirred. Each looked lost in thought.

“Do we assume,” continued Shayne, “he is a guy who knows what he has, knows the value, but doesn’t know what to do with it — and in the meantime doesn’t want somebody poking?”

“Perhaps,” Foster said slowly.

“And the ad made him nervous?”

Foster remained silent in deep thought.

Shayne shifted in his chair, yanked his ear, lit a fresh cigarette, went down another path. “This missionary, you ever try to trace him?”

Foster nodded, a deep frown creasing his forehead. “A long time ago. His name was Bernard Aikens, he was a Methodist, and probably sixty-five to seventy years old when I met him. Impossible to locate him. I’ve tried everything. Not surprising.

“Considering the man’s age and the fact he said he had been in China more than thirty years at that time, it means he was there when the world was not so large, when record keeping was not so important. Too, any records could have been destroyed in some file cleaning operation somewhere, a fire, almost any way.”

“You mentioned another guy at the camp, a laborer. Any information on him?”

Foster’s frown deepened. “Yes, he was a young American, a civilian. I never did know his name. He was brought into the camp one day, and the next the Japanese officer arrived with his truck, Aikens couldn’t load the footlockers because of his age, so the young man was ordered to do the lifting. Then he and Aikens were put into the back of the truck, too. That was the last I saw or heard of either of them.”

“Could this young guy have been an American engineer?”

“Sure,” Foster nodded, his eyes narrowing on Shayne. “He could have been anything. What made you ask?”

The detective told him Abigail Galloway’s story about her son, Howard. Foster nodded repeatedly as he listened. When Shayne had finished, he drew a deep breath. “Well, his name could have been Howard Galloway. I told you, I never did know. And that business about going down the road, being shot and left for dead could have happened. Easily.”

“The trouble is,” Shayne went on, “Howard Galloway is dead now. He was killed about a year ago by a hit-and-run driver, his mother said.”

Foster looked disappointed. “Well, who is Archibald Jaynes? How can I contact him?”

“You’ve never heard of him?” Shayne asked. “I thought you might have heard the name from your collector friend.”

“No,” Foster said, shaking his head. “Is Jaynes a collector?”

“I’ve done some more checking on the Jaynes clan, Mike,” Tim Rourke put in. “Archibald Senior and Mrs. Jaynes were killed in the crash of a private plane in Europe about three years ago. Archibald was an investor, big. When you talk about his wealth, you’re talking around ten-million. Junior is a lone offspring, inherited all. He hangs his hat in the family mansion and his sole interest appears to be in spending daddy’s money. He’s hot considered a collector of anything — if you eliminate pretty girls and leeches.

“Daddy, on the other hand, dabbled. I don’t think a genuine collector would consider him in the fold, but he did seem to have a yen to own things other people said couldn’t be had. I’d say that if Archibald Senior got the chance to obtain the Peking Man, legally or illegally, he’d have made his pitch. In other words, he damn well might have picked up those bones somewhere and Junior might damn well be sitting on them today.”

Foster stood up abruptly.

Shayne looked up at him from under grizzled brows. “Where the devil are you going?”

“To talk to Mr. Jaynes.”

“And drive him into a hole, huh?”

Foster looked puzzled.

“Look, pal, if Jaynes has the bones, and if that possession has been a deep, dark secret all of these years, you figure he’s going to trot them out just because you show up at his front door?”

Foster shuffled.

“He’ll nosedive,” said Shayne. “He’ll go into a hole with the bones and pull the hole in after him.”

Foster said firmly, “I tell you, Mr. Shayne, that even so-called priceless things have a price. And I speak from genuine knowledge.”

Shayne snorted and waved a hand. “Foster, you’re assuming Jaynes has the Peking Man. You’re going on a name dropped by a woman who got her kicks out of fantasy; she liked to invent stories about herself. Jaynes may never have heard of the Peking man.”

“I’ll know when I talk to him,” said Foster, cooling slightly. “I’ll be able... to tell from his reaction.”

“There’s one factor we haven’t discussed yet, Foster. Rourke’s paper got a bomb threat because of your ad.” Foster’s eyebrows rose. “That’s right. Now Rourke and I take that threat seriously. It’s just possible that whoever has the bones called in the threat. On top of that, an old lady, who answered your ad just got herself killed. Connection? Maybe, maybe not, I want to know. And I want some cooperation from you. We want to work with you on this — all the way. Maybe we can all solve our problems.”

“That, of course, depends on how you operate, Mr. Shayne,” Foster said, turning to the door.

Shayne stood and slammed a fist against the desk top. Rourke jumped. The phone receiver jiggled. An ashtray danced. Foster stopped with a hand on the door knob, stood staring over his shoulder at the redhead.

“Foster,” Shayne said savagely, “I figured you for a smart guy. This Archibald Jaynes might be our boy! Our boy! You want him for a bunch of bones! I want to know if he called in a bomb threat! Now we’ve cooperated with you. You can damn well cooperate with us!”

Foster looked startled.

“We approach him my way!” Shayne continued.

Foster stared.

“You had a reason for placing a blind ad, Mr. Foster,” Shayne went on, settling. “You have a reason for valuing anonymity. I don’t know what that reason is. I don’t care what it is. All I know is, Tim Rourke is sitting here just itching to get at a typewriter. He can turn out a yarn yet todays about the California man who is in town looking for the Peking Man.”

“That’s a threat, Shayne!” Foster said coldly.

“Is it?”

Foster stood shuffling, his face slightly flushed, his eyes hard, those eyes dancing from Shayne to Rourke, back to the detective. Finally, he released the door knob, turned into the office again. “I don’t like this,” he said.

“But the anonymity remains important, huh?” Shayne said with a crooked smile that lacked humor.

“Which also seems to have a price,” Foster admitted. He suddenly sounded temporarily defeated.

“Why is it important, Mr. Foster?”

“There are those in this world who would do anything to get their hands on the Peking Man. Those bones are that valuable. All right, I’ll hire you, Mr. Shayne, if that’s what you’re after. How much?”

Shayne shot a glance at Rourke. “How much, Tim?”

“The story when all of this is finished,” said the newspaperman.

“And I’ll take a would be bomber,” said Shayne.

Foster shook his head, looked confused. “I don’t understand any of this,” he said.

“No sweat, pal,” said Shayne. “I want to find a guy who made a phone call. I intend to do exactly that. If I happen to turn up the Peking Main along, the way, that’s your baby. All yours. Okay?”

Foster stood silent.

“What I don’t need is someone driving my caller into hiding.”

“Then you think—”

“I think,” interrupted Shayne, “I’m going to begin with a top cop and a murder.”

VI

The black cigar stub in the corner of an agitated Will Gentry’s mouth bobbed as he leafed through the papers in the folder on his desk. Finally he sat back and looked at Randolph Foster, Tim Rourke, and then Mike Shayne. It was obvious he was in a foul mood and had little time for sociabilities. It also was obvious he was curious about Foster, but he didn’t ask.

“Abigail Galloway was beaten to death,” Gentry said. “Probably with fists and feet. From one person or from a dozen. We haven’t determined. She lived on Social Security and Medicare. Maybe she had a little change stashed in her room. Murder for a few bucks sounds lame, but it happens. Anyway, what’s your interest in this woman, Mike?”

“She had a son, Howard Galloway. He was a hit-and-run victim about a year ago. Did you ever find the driver?”

Gentry stared hard, then called the computer room, waited, listened, finally hung up. “We didn’t get the driver,” he said darkly. “Why?”

Shayne tugged his ear. “Two violent deaths. Maybe there’s a connection, maybe not.” He told Gentry the story about the Peking Man, the bomb threat, the lead to Abigail Galloway.

Gentry listened in silence, cigar butt flicking, eyes bright, “And?” he said when Shayne finished.

“I might be able to get into this quicker than your people, Will. A lot of noise, and the killer could disappear fast.”

“Maybe,” Gentry said sourly. “If there really is a connection between Abigail Galloway and the Peking Man. She sounds as if she was a screwball.”

“I figure she knew something about those bones. Her story about her son and the Jap prison camp and Foster’s story dovetail.”

“Yeah, there’s that,” Gentry conceded, eyes narrowing in contemplation. “But I’ve got a hunch Abigail Galloway, or her son, and this Archibald Jaynes didn’t exactly move around in the same social circles. So how did she come up with him?”

“Which is one of the things I intend to find out,” Shayne said, standing.

“You don’t figure we could?” Gentry said from under a cocked eyebrow.

“Go on,” Gentry growled suddenly, waving a hand and looking out a window. “See what you can dig up. Just don’t get in our way. I’ve got enough problems this morning. Two patrol cops, on duty — and caught burglarizing a sporting goods store last night. Damnit!”

Shayne, Rourke and Foster, riding three in the front seat, cruised through the brilliant Miami morning in the redhead’s convertible. No one talked. Each man was lost in his own thoughts.

Shayne was thinking about Abigail Galloway, and her death. Why had she been killed? Because she had answered a newspaper ad? Because she had talked to a private detective and a reporter? If either or both were true, there was a third, unknown party who must have been watching Abigail. Who?

The redhead searched his mind for candidates. Bart the bartender? The Latin who had been sitting at the bar in the Red Fish and had made a fast departure? The three swifties who had occupied a booth and later had trailed the woman down the street? But what would any of them know about a collection of valuable bones?

So, was there someone else? A mystery man watching from a distance?

Or was Abigail Galloway’s death totally unrelated to the Peking Man?

Shayne’s frown deepened and he glanced again at the yellow compact reflected in his rear view mirror. The small car had been behind them for several blocks now, made the same turns, kept the same distance back. Were they being trailed?

Shayne made a right turn, saw the yellow car swing into view again. It was occupied by two men. He made a sudden turn into an alley, watched the yellow car go on past the alley entrance. He stopped, sat twisted in the seat and looking back, waiting for the yellow car to reappear.

“Tail?” Rourke asked.

“Maybe,” the redhead grunted.

He backed out of the alley. The yellow car was not in sight. He continued on toward the Red Fish, keeping a sharp eye on his mirror. The yellow car was gone. He had been successful in losing it, or his imagination had been playing tricks.

Bart the bartender became nervous at the mention of Abigail Galloway. He had heard about her murder, but he didn’t know any of the details and he didn’t want to hear them.

“But you’re going to the funeral, aren’t you?” Shayne asked, staring hard at the wizened little man.

Burt flinched, dug deeper into his yellow teeth with the corner of the match book. “What you talkin’ ’bout, man?”

“Abigail was a regular in here, wasn’t she?”

“Oh... well, yeah.”

“And lived just down the street?”

“Yeah... sure.”

“This is her neighborhood.”

Bart turned to a new corner of the match book, dug into a fresh black crevice in his teeth.

“I just figured all of you neighbors would be going to the funeral,” continued Shayne, “especially since Abby didn’t have any family.”

“So you ain’t figurin’ right,” said Bart.

“She had family?”

Bart looked dumbfounded for a moment, then grunted. “Naw, no kin I know ’bout. You figured wrong ’bout me goin’ to any damn funeral. Can’t stand them.”

“I’ve been told Abby had a son.”

“Yeah, guess so. But he was killed.”

“You didn’t know him?” Shayne leaned forward.

“I never saw the dude in my life. Only heard ’bout him. Man, how I heard ’bout him!”

“From Abby.”

“Tell you true, Shayne,” said Bart, “I never was sure in my mind she really had a son. He could’ve been just ’nother one of her stories.”

“Yeah, I guess she liked to tell tales.”

“Oh, Chris’! The woman was goofy, I tell you true! She had more wild stories ’bout herself than... well, she was wiggly in the head, tha’s all! Man got so he just let her rattle, never paid no mind, just let the words go in one ear, out the other.”

“Nobody paid any attention to Abigails talk, huh?” Shayne asked.

“Nobody on this street, tha’s sure!”

“She ever tell you the one about the Peking Man?”

“Huh? Naw... naw, don’t think I heard that one,” Bart said.

“Or how she might have a little green dropped on her in the next few days?”

“Yeah... oh, yeah! Now that one I’ve heard! It’s all she was babblin’ ’bout recently, how she was gonna be in riches fast, move out of the neighborhood. Yeah, she’d seen this ad in the newspaper and... Chris’, I dunno! I turned her off! Although...” Bart hesitated, then almost managed a sly grin. “...tell you true, Shayne, when you and your newspaper buddy showed here yesterday afternoon, I thought for a second or two the old gal was on somethin’.”

“Just for a second or two, huh?”

“She was nuts!” Bart said.

“Know Charlie Knowles?” Shayne asked suddenly.

“Sure,” Bart nodded. “Who don’t?”

“I don’t.”

“Well, him and Abby been sleepin’ together. Guess Charlie puts cotton in his ears. Say, maybe Charlie killed her!”

“Why would he?” Shayne asked.

“No reason I know of, tha’s sure, but—”

“Charlie and Abby, a couple of December playmates, right?”

Bart simply shrugged.

“Could it be they just happened to have apartments in the same building, were friends?” Shayne asked sarcastically.

“Room,” said Bart, missing the sarcasm. “No apartments in that joint. And ain’t you heard, man? Abby Galloway invented sex! Made the first dirty flick ever turned out! Was the first girl to pose all nude for a mag! Had this massage joint years ago, long before massage joints ever were heard of. She—”

“Is Charlie Knowles a regular here?” Shayne interrupted.

Bart sobered. “He’s a dry gulch. No booze.”

“What’s his building number?”

“Down the street to the right, 4520, second deck. But you’re nuts goin’ down there this mornun. There’s fuzz all over the place, like moss.”

“Somehow they don’t frighten me, Bart,” Shayne said, turning to the front door. Rourke and Foster fell in beside him. Foster was somber. A twinge of a grin played at the corners of Tim Rourke’s mouth.

Then Shayne saw the kid entering the Red Fish. He had been in a booth with two other men the previous afternoon. Now the youth slid into the bar, almost as if he were dodging someone, and then he stopped short. He stared at Shayne and his eyes and mouth rounded in surprise.

Shayne was immediately alert. The boy stood rooted and stared. It was as if he was anchored. But Shayne sensed that he was near panic.

Shayne leaped forward. The boy yelped and turned to dive out the door. Shayne clamped both huge hands on the back of the boy’s jacket and spun him into the interior of the Red Fish.

The boy reeled off balance. Shayne had to dodge around a table, but Rourke had a straight shot at the kid and was moving in. Then the boy went into a crouch and came around fast. He was snarling and Shayne saw the light reflected from metal now clasped in the youth’s hand.

The redhead bellowed an alarm. He was too late. Rourke already had made his move. The youth brought the knife blade down in a vicious cutting swipe. Rourke screamed and peeled off, diving across the top of a table and clamping his head with both hands as chairs scattered.

VII

Mike Shayne went into a crouch, feet widespread, arms up, bent to 45-degree angles at the elbows, palms flat, fingers spread. The kid was loose, knees flexible, springy, the knife held close to his thigh, his other hand held up, palm out.

His lips were drawn back from very white teeth and dark eyes held a wild gleam. He looked cornered, but not trapped. He never would be trapped as long as he was on his feet and he had that knife in his hand.

Shayne figured he could bring the holstered .45 out from his ribs, open the kid’s skull without taking another step. On the other hand, the boy was swift. He could move in fast. Or he might even throw.

Shayne watched the boy’s eyes for a telltale hint of his next move. The boy remained balanced on the balls of his feet, crouched, springy. He could go right or left, forward or back, easily. He was experienced. He was waiting for Shayne to make the move: charge or back off.

The boy obviously felt in command now. He was in his kind of fight. He probably had been reared with a knife blade in his hand, and he felt as if he excelled. And it probably was good reasoning. In his mind. He was still alive after twenty-some years, wasn’t he?

Shayne inched to his left. The boy went right. Shayne stepped back. The boy stepped forward, kept the same distance between them. Shayne went to his right. The boy went left. Shayne indicated a step forward. The boy didn’t move, crouched slightly lower, sucked a breath, held it. Shayne didn’t take the step.

And then from somewhere Randolph Foster yelled: “My God, what—”

The boy flinched. His knife hand went out slightly and his eyes left Shayne for an instant. Shayne faked left and stepped to the right. He brought his hands down to go in low. But the boy leaped in place and brought the knife high, flashing it in a face-high semi-circle. Shayne yanked his nose back from the gleaming tip.

The boy brought the knife back in a reverse slash and then went deeper into his crouch and pointed the tip up toward the detective’s abdomen. Shayne backed off, was tempted again by the weight of the .45 on his ribs. He now knew the boy would not throw.

But he wanted the boy alive.

The redhead stood straight suddenly, shoved his hand inside his coat. It brought the boy up. His eyes rounded and spittle formed on his lower lip. It was as if he suddenly realized the redhead might be carrying a gun. He leaped forward, shot the knife in low. Alley training ground technique had been briefly blunted by surprise.

Shayne, grinned savagely, stepped to the right, away from the slash, brought his hands down and clamped the knife wrist. He went down on his knees in a twisting move as he lifted the boy’s arm high. His back was into the youth now, and he brought the boy’s wrist down sharply. The kid yelled and flipped off to the side, the knife dropping from his fingers.

Shayne went after him, captured the back of his jacket in one hand and... the seat of his pants in the other. He pitched the boy straight forward into a booth seat. The boy went headlong, out of control until the top of his skull smashed against the walk Shayne leaped into the air and came down with an extended knee smashing against the boy’s spine. The boy howled and writhed. Shayne caught his hair and yanked his head, keeping his knee jammed down tight.

Then he took out the .45 and jammed the muzzle against the boy’s ear. “Talk!” he snarled.

The youth babbled, wiggled. The wiggle was a feeble effort.

Shayne yanked the hair. “Did you kill her?”

“N-not... me...” babbled the boy. “Frankie and... Slick.”

“Frankie... Frankie Booth. Slick Lawrence.”

“And you?”

“Danny... Danny Hernandez.”

“Where are Frankie and Slick?”

“I dunno!”

“Still in town?” Shayne growled.

“Oh, yeah, man... probably... probably snoozing in their pads! Hey, man, you’re hurtin’ like hell!”

Shayne drew the boy’s head back another inch, kept his knee tight against the spine. “You want a snapped back, Danny?”

“Oh, God, no, man! Look, ease off! You cops ain’t supposed to... How’d I know you was fuzz? You was supposed to be the guy with the green stuff... you was in here yesterday, you was flashing bread at her, you went outside with her... and she’s been tellin’ everybody how she was gonna fall on riches... she’s been yakking it up for three days... well, hell, man, we figured you was the Daddy, with, the loaf... you laid it on her outside... after you walked out of here yesterday... but, man, you’re nothin’ but fuzz! Just fuzz! Is that the truth, man?”

“You three hit Abby Galloway last night, figuring she had a bundle in her pillow case, huh?”

“Yeah, man... you was supposed to be the man she’s been waitin’ for! You was supposed to be... but you’re only fuzz! Oh, God!”

“What did you turn out, Danny?” Shayne asked.

Hernandez squirmed, remained silent.

Shayne drew his head back another half inch. “Twenty-three smacks!” Hernandez gasped. “I found... it in a cup!”

“You three hit her place. Frankie and Slick worked on Abby while you searched. Is that what you’re telling me, Danny?”

“That’s it, man! Hey... you’re breaking my spine! I think I’m gonna... ship!” Hernandez groaned.

“They killed her.”

“I... heard this morning! I didn’t know last night! I didn’t even think ’bout it. She wasn’t movin’ when we skinned out... but that don’t have to mean she’s dead. Then I’m coming along the street this morning and I hear... I hear she was croaked. I was coming in here to get it straight in my head, and you... you jumped me, man.”

“I’m not a cop, Danny,” Shayne said.

“Oh... damn!” Hernandez breathed. “Man, look... you ain’t fuzz, and you ain’t the bread man... hey, look, so okay, we didn’t know! You don’t hafta put the heat on me, mister! I don’t know nothin’ ’bout that old woman, I don’t wanna know nothin’. You don’t hafta dump me in a swamp, mister! I got a tight mouth!”

“Yeah, you sound like it, Danny. You’ve already told me who your pals are.”

Hernandez groaned, attempted to shake his head. “Jus’ leave me alone, huh?” he babbled. “Gimme a second chance!”

“You want to grow up to join the mob, huh?” Shayne snorted.

“Mister, I’m not bad with the knife. You tricked me, yeah, but it’s the first time that’s ever happened! Honest! I can take care of myself! What I mean is... what I mean is...”

“Take me to Frankie and Slick,” the red head growled.

“Huh?” Hernandez looked hopeful. Shayne looked grim.

“We didn’t want Abigail Galloway to die. We didn’t know, man!”

“But you didn’t kill her, Danny.”

“Yeah! Tha’s right! Frankie and Slick... they laid it on her while I was lookin’ for the bread!” The boy was panting.

“So too bad for your friends,” Shayne said. “Take me to them, Danny.”

VIII

An hour later, seated before a stonefaced Will Gentry in police headquarters, Frankie Booth and Slick Lawrence remained angry and silent. It was not their baptism. Danny Hernandez remained confused. He continued to flick periodic looks at Shayne. “I thought... I thought...”

“Will?” said Shayne.

Gentry waved a hand. “Rourke got a cut ear, that’s all?”

“We dropped him off at an emergency clinic. He bled, but he’s okay.”

“I’ll talk to you later — and thanks, Mike.”

Shayne and Randolph Foster turned out of the office, then Danny Hernandez shrieked, “Shayne, you lied to me! You made me think...” He didn’t finish it.

“Welcome to the real world of crime, kid,” Shayne snapped.

Outside police headquarters, Randolph Foster shook his head. He seemed awed. “Did those three really beat the woman to death with fists?”

“And probably feet,” Shayne grunted, sliding into the convertible.

“Is this...” Foster paused, then finished, “how murder is solved? Is it always this easy?”

“There are no mysteries to most murders, Foster,” the redhead said, piloting the convertible into street traffic. “People talk. Self preservation is a helluva thing. You accuse one guy, he tells you about another buy. Pretty soon you have a killer. Anyway, most murders are domestic, no sweat.”

Foster went silent for several blocks. Finally he straightened in the car seat and looked around. “Are we returning to the Red Fish?”

“I want to yak it up a bit with Charlie Knowles. He and Abigail Galloway apparently were close friends. She could have confided in him about your Peking Man.”

“Oh?” Foster considered it, then said, “Does this mean you are going to start looking for the collection now? I mean, since you’ve solved...”

“It means,” Shayne said, “I’m still working on the theory that if I turn up those bones I may also turn up a would-be bomber.”

The police had vacated the murder scene. But Charlie Knowles was at home in his room, and he answered Shayne’s knock immediately. A short, slight man, he stood holding the door and cocked his head slightly in curiosity. He was aged, his shirt and trousers were threadbare, but he was neat, freshly shaven, and his eyes were bright with awareness.

After Shayne had explained his presence, Charlie Knowles ushered him into a room that was large, airy, cheaply furnished, but clean. Shayne noticed the diamond stickpin and the black snap-brim hat on a dresser that had a cement block for one leg, and he thought that if Charlie Knowles had possessed a few bucks he might be a chipper Dapper Dan.

“You say the murderers of Abigail have been apprehended?” Charlie Knowles asked, seeking confirmation.

“They are in the custody of the police,” Shayne repeated.

Knowles shook his head, sat on the edge of a lumpy bed. He waved a hand to the only two chairs in the room Shayne sat on the edge of one, Foster folded into the other.

“They killed for twenty-three dollars,” Knowles said, still wagging his head. “It is difficult to accept.”

“They had more like five thousand in mind,” Shayne replied.

Knowles looked up. “I assume you are referring to the classified ad that appeared this week in the Daily News.”

“Un-huh,” Shayne nodded.

“You know,” said Knowles reflectively, “I was a newspaper printer once. It was my life’s work. But the computers came into being and annihilated the printing profession. It’s all done by buttons now. But — to Abby: I’ve known her for approximately eight years, ever since I moved in here. She already was here. We became friends the first day. I liked her. She probably should have lived in a past century, but she didn’t.

“By that, Mr. Shayne, I mean she could have been a woman of grandeur. She could have carried it off. Instead, she lived in this century and her means did not provide. So she invented. I liked that about her. I sat for hours and listened to her stories, and I enjoyed every one of them.”

He stopped and gave Shayne a sharp look. “For one thing, they helped keep my mind off my own troubles.”

“This ad in the newspaper,” Shayne pressed. “Do you really think she knew something about the Peking Man, Mr. Knowles?”

He nodded. “She became very excited the first day she saw the ad. Abby read the Classifieds, understand. Daily. I taught her that. I told her: ‘Abby, if you are a newspaper reader, read the Classifieds. There is more human life, more happiness, more sadness, more huckstering, in Classifieds than in any other column of a newspaper.’

“Anyway, Abby was an avid reader of Classifieds, so it was no surprise that she saw this ad about the Peking Man. The surprise to me came with her excitement. She vowed she would have the offered five thousand dollars within this week. I admit, after listening to her story about her son, Howard, I thought she might have a chance, for a thousand or so. I didn’t think she could claim the entire five thousand. She really didn’t have that much information. But a thousand? Maybe. It depended on the person who placed the ad.”

“Why couldn’t she go for the whole bundle?” Shayne asked.

Knowles waved a limp hand. “You heard her story, Mr. Shayne. And, from your explanation when you arrived at my door, I gathered you saw through Abby, too — as most people did, eventually. Anyway, she was mixing again, taking a small portion of fact about the Peking Man and stirring it with a large portion of fantasy. Howard, I think, probably was in a Japanese prison camp, probably did meet this missionary, probably was put in a truck with the bones, probably was shot, left for dead.”

Knowles hesitated, wagged his head, then continued, “But as for someone named Archibald Jaynes who supposedly lives here in Miami and who supposedly possesses these same bones today well, Mr. Shayne, how would Abby know an Archibald Jaynes? Especially if he is a man of the financial stature she claimed. And how would she know he has the bones? Okay, maybe there is an Archibald Jaynes, maybe the man collects bones, how would Abby know those bones are what is called the Peking Man? Do you see, Mr. Shayne? There are just too many ‘Hows?’ ”

“You ever meet her son, Mr. Knowles?”

“He came here twice to see her in the eight years I knew Abby. And that isn’t right, is it? A son living in the same city and not making frequent visits with his mother...”

“Did she visit him?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Where?”

“At the bowling alleys. Take a hundred of them, Mr. Shayne. Pick one. Howard worked there at one time or another. Never for long, understand, but he worked in bowling alleys.”

“How about the last one, Mr. Knowles?”

“The Let Her Roll That’s original, isn’t it?”

“When was this?” Shayne asked.

“He was working there at the time of his death. He was leaving there at night, crossing the street when he was run down. It happened around one o’clock in the morning.”

“Know where the place is?” Shayne asked.

“I didn’t, I don’t. And I’m not even sure if the alley exists anymore. All I know about Howard Galloway is we buried him, Abby and me. There wasn’t anyone else at the funeral. Not even his friend. Just Abby and me. We pooled our Social Security that month, buried the boy. We didn’t eat too well for a while afterward, but we buried him Abby needed the help, Mr. Shayne. She liked her son I didn’t.”

“I haven’t figured you,” said Shayne.

Knowles suddenly looked surprised. “What?”

“You and Abby Galloway.”

“Oh, you mean those stories you hear up and down the street?” Knowles chuckled.

“No. Abby dipped in sauce. You, I’m told, don’t. I don’t get the—”

Knowles nodded, “I had my day, Mr. Shayne. I put many a groove in a brass rail. Abby’s day just came later than mine, that’s all.”

“You are a tolerant man.”

Knowles laughed softly, waved a hand around the room. “Take a look. I’ve known better days. I can live or I can dive off a highrise. I decided a long time ago.”

Shayne stood. “A moment ago you mentioned a. friend of Howard’s who didn’t show up at the funeral.”

“Yes,” Knowles nodded. “A man named Ray Burlington. I think he and Howard might have roomed together at one time. Abby occasionally mentioned him.”

“You know if this Burlington is still around?”

Knowles shrugged. “No.”

“Okay, thanks, Mister Knowles.”

Knowles stood, continued to smile. “I like you, Mr. Shayne. I wish we could have known one another a few years ago. I think we might have dented a brass rail or two together.”

“Know something, pal,” Shayne said with a genuine grin, “I think you are entirely correct.”

“Mr. Knowles?” Randolph Foster had taken a wallet from an inside coat pocket. He sifted bills from the wallet, placed the bills in a stack near the black snap brim hat on the dresser.

“I assume,” he said, “you will see to it that Mrs. Galloway has a proper service.”

Knowles looked crafty. “You the man who placed the ad?”

“I am the man.”

Knowles fingered the bills, looked at Foster. “I hope you find your Peking Man someday, mister.”

“I will,” Foster vowed quietly.

Shayne and Foster returned to the sidewalk where the sunshine was brilliant and the day had taken on heat. Shayne caught the movement of the small yellow car in the corner of his eye and he stopped abruptly.

“What’s the matter?” Foster wanted to know.

“Nothing,” the redhead scowled, watching the yellow compact pull away from the curbing down the street and disappear as swiftly as a shark around a corner.

IX

Mike Shayne used a friend at the telephone company to get an address for a bowling alley called the Let Her Roll, which no longer had a listing or existed. The friend had to do some digging in computer records and Shayne grunted when he got the former address. It figured. The Let Her Roll had been in a neighborhood where survival after dark was a neat trick.

The detective sat in the front seat of his car and stared at the boarded front of the former bowling alley. Beside him, Foster stirred. “We are wasting time, Shayne. What do you expect to find here?”

The detective didn’t answer.

Shayne left the car and moved across the sidewalk. A young Negro who had been leaning against the front of the boarded building flicked the redhead a startled glance and started off down the sidewalk.

“Hold it!” snapped Shayne, palming a five dollar bill.

The youth was wary. It was obvious that Shayne’s hulk and dogged movement warned him. On the other hand, money, any kind of money, was a strong temptation.

“Know a Ray Burlington?” said Shayne.

He saw a light flicker in the youth’s eyes. The boy shuffled. “Yeah... maybe.”

Shayne held up the bill.

The boy said, “Out back.”

“You lead,” said Shayne.

The boy hesitated. “Would I con you, man?”

“You might.”

He hadn’t. There was a door in the back of the building. Shayne knocked. The door opened under his large fist and the detective inventoried a medium-statured, unclean man of some thirty years. The man had a murky complexion and wore dirty jeans and tennies and an old red knit shirt. A purple discount store baseball cap was stuck on the back of his head.

“Ray Burlington?”

“No,” growled the man. He moved the door toward the detective.

Shayne stuck a foot against the door and moved into the dank room behind the door. There was a small bed in one corner, a rickety table and two chairs, a single lamp and the stink of mildew. The man stood near the bed. He looked apprehensive.

“So I’m Burlington,” he said. “So I’m clean!”

“Howard Galloway.”

“Huh?” Burlington jerked, yanked at the baseball cap. “Hey, man, Howie went down ’bout a year ’go! What gives?”

“You and Howie were pals.”

“Well... we chummed a little, yeah. I mean... Howie was an old man compared to me, but we got along, yeah. But he got killed. Some bastard in a heap knocked him off — and you cops didn’t even bother to look for who done it!”

“Where did it happen?”

“Out front! Don’t you know?”

“You see the accident, Ray?” Shayne snapped.

“Naw.”

“Was Howie working here at the time?”

“Yeah!” Burlington said.

“You too?”

“Sure — we was bunkin’ back here! There was... another bed then. I... I tossed it out after Howie got knocked off.”

“You keep saying Howard Galloway was knocked off, Ray. You figured he was murdered?” Shayne asked sharply.

“Naw, naw, man... you’re gettin’ the wrong drift! Knocked off... that’s an expression... just an expression!”

“What are you doing these days?”

“I manage,” Burlington said.

“A liquor store, here, a gas station there, a—”

“Man, I never hit a store in my life! Hey...” He stopped stared at Shayne. “You ain’t fuzz?”

“I don’t know. Am I?”

Ray Burlington continued to stare. Then he snorted and sat on the edge of the bed. “Naw, you ain’t fuzz, Red. You’ve got heat on you. I see it under your arm, but you ain’t fuzz. You don’t know my pedigree. I’m a genuine house man, nothin’ else, Red. What’s your pitch? How come all this crap about Howie?”

“You and Howie a team when he was alive?” Shayne said.

Burlington squinted, became stubborn as he regained confidence. “You didn’t give me your pitch.”

“Eye.”

“Shamus?” Burlington cocked one eyebrow. “And your friend?”

“Partner.”

“What do you two want?”

“Howie and you — a team a couple of years ago?”

“You gotta be kiddin’, man! Howie couldn’t lift a glass to drink water without droppin’ it. He was muscle. Nothin’ else. He was as thick in arm and butt as between his ears. And that’s it, Red. We’re through rappin’ until I see some color.”

Shayne got out his wallet, rifled bills for Ray Burlington to see. “Depends,” the redhead said.

Burlington considered. “Okay, so lay a few questions on me, let’s see where we go.”

“Howie Galloway hired out as private muscle?”

“There’s always a job around,” Burlington nodded, and added, “for you big guys.”

“Howie was a large man?”

“Very large, Red. Not very swift of foot, else he never woulda got knocked down by that heap, but very large. When he leaned against a building it was with his elbow on the third deck.” Burlington chuckled. “That’s a bit of humor.”

“Galloway once was a construction engineer, I understand,” Shayne said.

Burlington almost smiled. “Long ago, he told me, he worked for some buildin’ outfit in China, some. Godforsaken place like that. I dunno, I forget. Anyway, he claimed he once was captured in a war by the Japs, said he escaped. Maybe he did, maybe it all was a lot of crap, I dunno. But I do know one thing: Howie weren’t no engineer. He was a ditch-digger!”

“So maybe a little of his mother’s sense of grandeur wore off on him, huh?” Shayne said.

“Huh?”

“Forget it,” Shayne yanked at his earlobe. “You work houses. Ever hear of a guy named Archibald Jaynes?”

Burlington stirred on the edge of the bed, suddenly found something interesting on the concrete floor. Nerve ends were flicking at him now. He fidgeted. Finally he said, “You promised bread, man!”

“Spill!” Shayne grated.

“Okay, okay. Nobody has to get excited. It ain’t no big deal anyway. So I hit this Jaynes place. It’s a big place, spread out all over hell, it should be ripe picking. Only it ain’t I get a statue, a tiny little statue of some kind and then bells start ringin’ all over the joint. I gotta cut.”

“Come on, man,” said Shayne carefully. “You can do better than that.”

Burlington twisted his hands together. “Well, there was one thing. I seen these boxes — footlockers, they was. At least, that’s what I think they was. I seen a line of ’em, and I was gonna have a look, but then them damn bells went off, and... well, later, I was tellin’ Howie ’bout them, the lockers, and he surprised hell outta me. He got all curious, wanted to know ’bout them lockers.

“Trouble is I couldn’t tell him a damn thing, except they did have this funny little thing, like a dragon, painted on one end, and... anyway, that’s what got Howie excited, and he said maybe him and me was gonna get a big pot of gold fast. Then he went out to see this Jaynes cat the next day, wouldn’t tell me how come he was so excited, just went out there, and then—

“Well, it was that night Howie got knocked off by the heap, so I never did find out what in hell got him jumpin’ like a rubber ball. That’s it, Red. That’s the Jaynes eager. You couldn’t get it better: on film — and it’s gotta be worth fifty, huh?”

“You didn’t see Howie after he had talked to Jaynes?”

“Nope, I ain’t even sure he seen Jaynes I mean, you know, that’s a big spread out there. I don’t figure the gates is open to—”

“How come you didn’t talk to Howie?” Shayne asked.

“Well... ’cause that afternoon the fuzz picked me up on a bummer! There was a place over on the Northside got hit. The fuzz started pointin’ fingers at me. But it weren’t me. Hell, I was on the Southside, working the Jaynes layout... ’course I couldn’t say nothin’ ’bout that, so I had to sleep that night in the slammer. And that’s the night. Howie got knocked off.”

“Anybody ever tried to hit you, Ray?”

“Huh?”

“Since your friend Howard Galloway was killed?”

“Naw. That’s crazy. Why the hell—”

“Maybe Howie was murdered,” Shayne interrupted.

“Huh?”

“Because he asked questions about the footlockers.”

“Oh, come on!” Burlington grinned, unbelieving.

“You ever tell anyone else about those lockers?”

“No!”

“Sure about that?” Shayne insisted.

“Positive, man!”

“Okay,” Shayne put his wallet away. “But keep sharp eyes, huh?”

Burlington leaped to his feet. “Hey, man, you owe me!”

Shayne said, “We’re going out to see Archibald Jaynes, and, of course, we’ll have to tell him how we got on him. Now, if it just happens Archibald Jaynes doesn’t want people knowing about his footlockers, doesn’t, want people coming around asking questions, if it just happens Archibald Jaynes might have a few connections in the underworld, can get a job done with a phone call, and if we happen to drop your name while we’re talking to him, Ray, and—”

“Red, you’re scum!” Ray Burlington shrilled, going down on his knees and yanking a scuffed suitcase out from under the sagging bed.

“You got to take the bad with the good in this world,” Shayne said philosophically. He stopped in the doorway, looked back at Burlington. “You also can look at it from the standpoint of being lucky. You’re getting a chance to put miles between you and Miami.”

Ray Burlington spit. The spittle landed very near Shayne’s toe.

X

Outside the room, Mike Shayne slipped the convertible keys into Foster’s palm and growled out of a corner of his mouth, “Walk natural around to the car, drive down the street a couple of blocks, circle around and watch for me,”

Foster looked startled. “Wha—”

“Burlington isn’t flying,” said the redhead, looking at the building walls around him. He spotted a fire ladder he could reach. “I didn’t scare him. The suitcase business was fake. What did you see in that room he could put in a suitcase?”

“But—”

“He’s a house man, Foster. That means he burglarizes homes. Okay, a guy steals to possess, use or sell. Burlington is interested in owning only one thing: dough. So he sells. Which means he has a fence, maybe three or four, but he’s got one, a mainliner somewhere, a guy he always goes to first with his merchandise.

“Now, get rolling. Take a drive. Burlington sees my heap out front, he’ll go to an ice cream parlor. He isn’t stupid. Get the car out of sight. When you come back watch for both of us. If you see Burlington walking along the sidewalk, cut off again, get behind us if you can. I’ll want the car if Burlington suddenly whistles for a cab.”

“But... but...”

“Move, man! Do I tell you how to slap together computers?”

Foster cut, walking fast. He didn’t look back. Shayne caught the bottom rungs of the fire ladder, hoisted himself, went up the ladder to the roof. He was only three stories off the ground. He started to move to the front of the building to watch Foster cut out, but then he heard a scraping sound below him. He looked over the parapet, saw Ray Burlington shuffling out to the alley. Burlington stopped, looked around. Shayne knew he was seeking eyes.

Burlington took off. He seemed satisfied. He went down the alley to the street. Above him, Shayne trailed quietly. Burlington stopped again, looked up and down the sidewalk, went out to the curbing, inventoried the street in both directions. He moved out.

Shayne dashed to the back of the building, went over the side and down the ladder. He ran out of the alley to the sidewalk, saw Burlington far ahead now and moving fast.

Shayne looked for Foster, didn’t spot the par. He cursed. Burlington had swung into the street suddenly, flagged a cab. Helplessly, Shayne watched Burlington dive into the cab and the cab move out.

Foster came out of a side-street ahead of Shayne, waved-frantically to the detective. The redhead bolted. Foster had pulled into the street, had the car facing the right direction. He slid over to the passenger side and waited for Shayne. The detective rolled in behind the steering wheel and moved out with a surge of power.

“Good work!” he said.

Foster said nothing, stared ahead. Shayne caught sight of the cab he wanted and eased off on the accelerator. This was going to be a difficult tail job. The cab already was rolling toward a residential area. There would be very little street traffic and a trailing automobile would be all too easy to spot.

Then the cab turned into a sidestreet. Shayne rolled across the intersection, saw the cab braked at a curbing. He parked the car, hurried back to the intersection. The cab was gone. Had Burlington pulled a swift one on him? Was he now moving out in the cab, laughing?

Foster joined Shayne. “What are we doing?” He sounded totally puzzled.

“Let’s take a walk,” growled the redhead.

They walked along the sidewalk to the house where the cab had been braked. It was a small, square place, neat. There was a small sign in the yard that said: Custom Cabinet Work. Ask Inside.

Beside the house, a drive went to the back of the lot and another square building. Shayne moved cautiously along the drive.

“What are you looking for Shayne?” Foster wanted to know.

“Burlington.”

“But I thought we were attempting to trail him without being seen.”

“If he’s here,” Shayne said heavily, “he’s taken us to where I wanted to go. I don’t care if he does see us now.”

Foster said nothing. He obviously was deeply puzzled.

Shayne heard the sound of a saw coming from the square building. He went to a window, shaded his eyes, looked inside. He saw Ray Burlington talking avidly to a man who was carefully using an electric handsaw on a large sheet of paneling. The saw sliced relentlessly through the wood. A saw blade with that kind of power could split a man’s skull in seconds.

Shayne looked at Foster. “It’s a workshop. A guy also could be fencing from here. Burlington is inside. Come on, let’s see if we can stir some answers.”

Shayne banged on the door of the building with a large fist, and Burlington called out, “It’s open, shamus. Come on in.”

The redhead grunted and looked at Foster over his shoulder. “So we were brought here. I thought Burlington made it easy for us to follow. Well, there has to be a reason. Let’s go.”

The two men inside stood side by side, facing the door. The electric saw had been turned off. Shayne glanced around the open room. Cabinets in various stages of construction were scattered around. Behind Burlington was a workbench and an air-powered stapling gun, various other small wood tools.

Burlington’s friend had ex-con written all over him. He was a macabre looking guy, thick in shoulder, trunk and leg. He had a concaved forehead and shallow cracks marked his cheeks. He also held a small gun in his fist and the muzzle was pointed at the detective and Foster.

“Come on in, Shayne,” he said. “Bring your pal. Kick the door shut. The name’s Ace Hart.”

Shayne and Foster entered,

Ace Hart wiggled the gun, squinted as he inventoried the redhead. “Damn, but you’re a big one. So you’re Shayne, huh? Heard of you. Here and there, that is. Who’s your friend? And don’t hand me that bull ’bout partner. I’ve heard enough ’bout you, snooper, to know you’re a loner.”

“Put the heat away, Ace,” Shayne said flatly. “All we’re after from you is a little information.”

Hart grinned, hefted the gun. The grin was twisted, lacked humor. “Me too. Like how come you’re interested in a guy who’s been dead a year? How come you wanna know ’bout a joint Ray here hit a long time ago? What’s this jazz ’bout some footlockers? What—”

“Ace,” Shayne interrupted, “I was hoping you could help, but if we’re going to play cute with one another... well, nobody wins, right?”

“Nobody wins, tha’s a fact,” Ace Hart admitted, nodding.

“You knew Howie Galloway?”

“Naw.”

“But you heard about him.”

“Yeah, sure... he was Ray’s pal.” Ace Hart said.

“You figure Galloway was hit?”

“Could be. Dunno, don’t really care. Is that how come you came ’round to my friend Ray today? You think he might know something ’bout Galloway gettin’ knocked off? Why would anyone bump Galloway? Did it have somethun to do with these footlockers you was askin’ Ray ’bout?”

Shayne sighed. “I can see, friend, we’re playing cute again or you are fishing.”

“No fishing, Shayne,” Ace Hart said flatly. “I don’t know what the he’ll is going on — but I’m all of a sudden interested in a bunch of footlockers, I think.”

“See you ’round, Ace.”

“Move an inch, shamus — and your friend is dead.”

Shayne froze.

Ace Hart waved the gun, “Bring ’em over here, Ray.” Burlington moved in behind Shayne and Foster, shoved each. They moved toward Ace Hart. He used the gun to motion Foster toward the saw table. Ray Burlington propelled Foster forward. Ace kept the gun on Shayne, snapped on the electric handsaw.

“Hold the guy’s hand on the table, Ray,” Ace graveled. “Spread his fingers.”

Burlington slapped Foster’s hand on the table, held his arm.

“Now,” said Ace Hart, “I wanna know ’bout them footlockers. How come they’re so valuable? What’s in them?”

He moved the handsaw toward Randolph Foster’s extended fingers. His eyes danced between the fingers and Shayne. Then Foster yelped in fright and the sound captured Ace Hart for a couple of seconds.

Shayne leaped, slammed a forearm across Ace Hart’s gun hand, knocking the gun aside. He whipped a fist into Ace Hart’s groin. Hart yelled and dropped the handsaw. Shayne heard Foster scream in pain. The redhead whirled, whipped up the stapling gun. He jammed it against Ace Hart’s thigh, yanked the trigger. There was an odd sound.

Ace Hart went up on his toes, his face registering surprise and dismay, and then he yelled and plunged to the floor and caught his thigh and writhed.

Shayne turned with the staple gun just as Ray Burlington came down from flight. Burlington had leaped at him. Shayne triggered a staple into Burlington’s shoulder, spun aside. Burlington bounced off, went to the floor with a high-pitched scream.

Shayne pitched the staple gun aside, lunged to Foster. Foster clamped his right hand with his left. Blood oozed through the fingers of his left hand.

The detective carefully pried Foster’s left hand open. All of the fingers on the right hand remained intact. There was a slice across the outside of his palm.

Shayne grunted relief. “Okay, let’s roll, Foster. There’ll be a hotel doctor at the Dolphin.”

XI

The hotel doctor took Foster into a private cubicle. Mike Shayne grunted satisfaction. He’d been waiting for this opportunity. He eased out of the hotel quickly. Foster would be angry, but Foster was not paying the detective’s tab — and the redhead had decided he could move more efficiently without a rookie accomplice.

The Jaynes’ mansion sparkled in the late afternoon sunshine. It might have been a low-slung fishing lodge. It was large, sprawling, rustic looking, with an expensive veneer. There were flowers and green things in the vast yard. Balconies on the front of the house overlooked the parking areas and the gleaming array of scattered station wagons and sports cars.

Shayne sat in his braked car for a moment, scowling. So many cars around. Party time at the Jaynes abode? He figured he would prefer to have Archibald Jaynes alone.

“Hi.”

Shayne looked over his shoulder. The girl stood behind him. She lounged against the car, head cocked in curiosity. She looked mid-twenty, wholesome and perkly in a yellow-white ponytail worn absurdly long. Her attire was simple: blouse and jean shorts. Obviously no more. She was braless and barefooted.

“Mike Shayne,” said the defective with a grin.

“New,” said the girl speculatively. “And older,” she added.

“Came out of nowhere,” nodded Shayne.

“Don’t we all,” said the girl. “Ada here.”

“Hi, Ada.”

“Hi, Mike.”

“Archie around?” Shayne asked.

“Yeah, somewhere.”

“Getting ready for the blast, huh.”

“What blast, man?” Ada said.

“Cars,” Shayne said, waving his hand.

“Oh... just the regulars, man,” said Ada. “Like you. Now if you become a regular, one more car, see?”

“Got it. Everybody kinda floats in and out, right?”

Ada waved an arm. “This is the scene, man. No pressures. Friends come, friends go, you never know. That’s how Archie figures it.”

“Archie’s a pretty groovy cat, okay,” Shayne nodded.

“You gonna be around for a few days?” Ada asked.

“I don’t know.”

“I hope you are,” said Ada. “You’ve kinda got an air about you. Archie’s inside — by the indoor pool.”

Shayne got out of the car, stood tall.

“God Almighty,” breathed Ada, “they make ’em that big?”

And then she went between cars and down the slight slope of the green lawn toward the front fence. Shayne watched her tight young hips work. She didn’t look back. He turned to the mansion, went to the wide open front door. He stepped inside to vast elegance. No one greeted him; no one was in sight. He heard voices from somewhere, looked into expensively furnished room’s, didn’t find anyone.

He wandered into the middle of the mansion, found a small indoor swimming pool. There was a cluster of humanity at the far end of the pool: two girls, five boys hovering around a long young man who was sprawled on a webbed layback chair. The group seemed to look up in unison with Shayne’s arrival. No, one moved for several seconds.

And then the young man on the chair sat up and the group parted. The man probably was in his late twenties. He was trim, had straight-browed good looks, smooth dark skin and predatory eyes, long styled brown hair. Those around him were of different colors, skin tones, eyes, hair, but there was a carbonness about all of them, including a hungry, unsatiated air of restlessness and a slightly megalomaniac manner.

Shayne made a quick decision. He had to dominate. He took out the .45, fired a shot into the pool water, then stood bouncing the large gun in his palm, waiting.

No one moved until the young man on the webbed chair said, “I think the gentleman desires to discuss something with me alone, group. So everybody to their own thing. Outside. Okay?”

Only a black-haired girl remained with the young man. She was indolent and ripe, defiant in snap of eyes and manner.

“Kitty,” the young man on the chair said gently. He patted her hip.

She left. She was reluctant. Shayne would not have trusted her behind him. But she disappeared through a door on the opposite side of the open area and he kept an eye on the archway as he said, “You are Archibald Jaynes?”

“And you have intruded,” nodded the young man. “Why?”

Shayne fired a direct statement. “The Peking Man.”

Jaynes stood suddenly. He was rigid.

“And a bomb threat to the Daily News.”

Jaynes said stiffly, “You found your way in, find your way out. Now!”

“You don’t want to show me those footlockers?”

“Who are you, man?”

“Mike Shayne, private investigations.”

“Ahh.” Jayned leaped into the swimming pool, stood defiant. “Shoot me down now, man.”

Shayne stared at Archibald Jaynes for a moment, then plopped the .45 into its rig, turned and walked out of the mansion. Everyone seemed to have disappeared. He seemed totally alone as he left. He went to his car, walked around the hood — and heard the motor of a sports car leap alive. The car catapulted at him. He launched himself over the side of his car and yanked in his feet. When he straightened, the sports car was gone. But he had had a glimpse of the driver. It was the girl, Kitty.

Then Shayne heard laughter. He twisted and looked up at balconies across the front of the Jaynes mansion. There was a gallery of young people. They applauded and shouted “Bravo!” as he got into the front seat and headed out of the grounds.

Shayne was angry, too angry. Two blocks from the Jaynes place he pulled into the curbing and parked, shut off the motor of the car, slouched behind the wheel, letting himself cool off. He sat in the early evening Miami sun, pounding the steering wheel.

A cab approached. He saw the cab slow. Then, he saw Randolph Foster. The cab stopped. Foster was leaning out the back window. Foster paid off the cabbie, joined Shayne. His right hand was bandaged.

“You deserted me,” said Foster. “But I had a suspicion this is where I would find you. Is Jaynes available?”

“Yeah,” grunted Shayne. “He’s sitting in the middle of a swimming pool.”

“Wh-at?” Foster was startled.

“He defied me to shoot him between the eyes.”

“Shayne!”

“Foster,” Shayne said grimly, “he’s got the footlockers. I didn’t see any, but he has some. They may contain what you are after, they may not. The way I’ve got Jaynes figured at the moment is, he has a priceless object, he inherited it from his father, he could care less about the object itself, but he is hanging on to it for security.

“I don’t know how much his pappa left him. Maybe he can’t go through it in a normal lifetime. But if he thinks there is that possibility, he wants those bones, and he wants the fact that he has them kept quiet. After all, if he runs through one fortune, the Peking Man could provide him another someday.”

“Shayne,” Foster said, “take me to Archibald Jaynes. All I really want to know at the moment is does he have what is known as the Peking Man? Everything else can be handled appropriately later.”

“I think,” said Shayne, suddenly alert again, “You are getting your answer.” He kept a sharp eye in his rear view mirror. The two station wagons whisked past, back ends low, hoods riding high off the front wheels.

Foster looked confused.

“Those wagons,” Shayne said. “I saw both at the Jaynes’ place. Do they look loaded?”

“With footlockers?” Foster gapped.

“It could be,” Shayne said, “Jaynes is getting nervous. Maybe he has decided to move the lockers to another location until he knows exactly what is going on.”

“Follow them!” Foster shouted.

Shayne moved out, keeping the station wagons in sight. He wasn’t sure what he would do if they split, one going north, the other going south. And then the blue sedan appeared in his rear view mirror and he forgot about the split as the sedan with the four Orientals swung around him and powered its way up ahead of the station wagons.

The flash of fire across the street in front of the wagons was the trigger...

“Flame throwers!!” yelled Shayne, riding the skid of the car into the curbing.

He peeled out, used the door for a shield, levelled the .45.

XII

The two station wagons were pressed against the curbing. Two young men scrambled out of each, stopped dead in the street as the wall of fire disappeared and four Orientals pushed into view.

One of the Orientals stepped forward. He was short and round, well-dressed and carried, an air of quiet toughness and confidence.

“Hop!” breathed Foster.

Shayne shot him a quick glance.

“Brother of my houseman,” said Foster. “What’s he doing here?”

Shayne had a clear recollection of a yellow compact car. “Foster, I’ve got a hunch you were tailed from California.”

Foster thought about it, then sagged. “Yes. Of course, entirely possible. The Peking Man is very important to the Chinese. And — even though my intention might be good — I am not Chinese.”

Foster moved out around the shield of the car door. “Hop?”

The Chinaman waved a hand. “Please remain where you are, Mr. Foster,” he said politely. “We have very little time. I am truly sorry about all of this, but the Peking Man is very valuable to those of us from Taiwan who still have families in Red China. It is a tremendous bargaining tool. I hope you will understand.”

One of Archibald Jaynes’ leeches waved a limp hand and said, “Hey, man, ain’t we got anything to say about all of this?”

Hop looked at his friends. A sheet of flame shot out of a gun, bounced off the street, sent Archibald Jaynes’ crew scattering.

Hop waved a hand again. An Oriental got into each station wagon, moved out, disappeared.

“Hop,” Shayne said crisply, “you’re stealing.”

“The cars will be returned to the mansion within two hours. Neither will be damaged.”

“How about the bones?”

Hop said, “The bones are another matter, Mr. Shayne. For the moment, we will remove them for safekeeping. There will be a day in court. Mr. Jaynes will have his chance to claim ownership if he cares to come forward. He also will have his chance to tell how he came to possess the Peking Man.”

Shayne looked at Foster. The computer man looked sour. “So what’s your problem?” asked Shayne. “I thought you told me your real interest was in preserving the bones. You don’t think Hop is going to—”

Hop interrupted, “Mr. Foster has another reason for wanting the Peking Man, Mr. Shayne. Mr. Foster wants to sell computers in China. That’s Red China. Negotiations are pending. Of course, if he could offer the return of the Peking Man, he might be in an excellent bargaining position.”

Shayne whirled and returned to his car.

“Where are you going?” Foster called out.

Shayne waved a hand. “Look Foster, my work with you is over. You know where your bones are, but I still have a few loose ends to tie up. Like a guy who phoned in bomb threats to a newspaper. I have a hunch my friend Will Gentry’s going to want to have a talk with a certain Archibald Jaynes. If he hasn’t skipped. I don’t think he has. I’ve got a helluva big suspicion about where I can find him — in the middle of a swimming pool, if he hasn’t moved.

“And Foster, let this be a lesson to you. If you get too sharp, you can cut yourself.”

Leaving a crestfallen Foster beside the highway, it took Mike Shayne only a few minutes to retrace the route to the Jaynes estate.

Archibald Jaynes was standing in front of the mansion, still in his swimming trunks. He seemed surprised to see Mike Shayne pull up. “So what do you want, Shamus,” he said as Shayne’s car pulled alongside him.

There was fear in Jaynes’ eyes. As Shayne didn’t say anything but continued to look at the small man, Jaynes backed away. “You...” Jaynes started to say, and then broke off into a choked silence.

Shayne gave a grunt of disgust. “Jaynes,” he said, “You’ve lost your bones. I was going to turn you over to Gentry for phoning in that bomb threat to the Miami News. But you know what, Jaynes? You’re just too small. You’re a little frog in a little pool. I’m going to leave you there.”

“You... you can’t prove...” Jaynes stuttered.

Shayne grinned and shook his head. “I don’t have to. I don’t even want to.” His car scattered gravel as Mike Shayne gunned out of the drive.