“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.
The Deadly Taxicab
by Talmage Powell
The man in the back seat moved and suddenly he could feel the cold steel at his neck. “Don’t try anything,” the man said. Gus shrugged. The next stop for him was Death!
The needling rain had all but stopped, and Gus Coulakis knew the boom of business was tapering off for the night. He cruised north on Gramercy, his taxicab a cozy swathe of warmth against the late-hour chill that had swept in behind the rain.
Traffic had thinne’d to an occasional swish of tires peeling along otherwise deserted streets that still reflected a black-slick. Then there was movement half a block ahead, a tall, bareheaded figure in a flapping raincoat angling into the cold halo of a street light and waggling a signal.
Gus slowed, craning his stumpy neck. With all the street violence nowadays, Gus sometimes wondered if he hadn’t been as safe in that old war, the one in Korea. He studied the raincoated figure as it enlarged in the headlights. Blondish young guy with wind whipping through shorter-than-yippie hair and a well-trimmed beard. Clean-cut. Seemed to be sober. He was carrying a suitcase, which seemed to Gus a good sign.
Gus slid the wheel to the right, braking at the curb. Anyway you cut it, you maybe bought trouble every time you made a payment on the hack. After all, the most angelic looking young fellow he’d ever taken aboard was the one who’d tried to cut Gus’s throat with a dull fisherman’s knife.
Ushered by a wash of cold air and a rustling of the raincoat, the passenger plopped in the rear seat. “Union Bus Station, please.” He talked straight, not like he was goofballed or geared up.