“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.”