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.