“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 felclass="underline" 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.