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.”