“This ad in the newspaper,” Shayne pressed. “Do you really think she knew something about the Peking Man, Mr. Knowles?”
He nodded. “She became very excited the first day she saw the ad. Abby read the Classifieds, understand. Daily. I taught her that. I told her: ‘Abby, if you are a newspaper reader, read the Classifieds. There is more human life, more happiness, more sadness, more huckstering, in Classifieds than in any other column of a newspaper.’
“Anyway, Abby was an avid reader of Classifieds, so it was no surprise that she saw this ad about the Peking Man. The surprise to me came with her excitement. She vowed she would have the offered five thousand dollars within this week. I admit, after listening to her story about her son, Howard, I thought she might have a chance, for a thousand or so. I didn’t think she could claim the entire five thousand. She really didn’t have that much information. But a thousand? Maybe. It depended on the person who placed the ad.”
“Why couldn’t she go for the whole bundle?” Shayne asked.
Knowles waved a limp hand. “You heard her story, Mr. Shayne. And, from your explanation when you arrived at my door, I gathered you saw through Abby, too — as most people did, eventually. Anyway, she was mixing again, taking a small portion of fact about the Peking Man and stirring it with a large portion of fantasy. Howard, I think, probably was in a Japanese prison camp, probably did meet this missionary, probably was put in a truck with the bones, probably was shot, left for dead.”
Knowles hesitated, wagged his head, then continued, “But as for someone named Archibald Jaynes who supposedly lives here in Miami and who supposedly possesses these same bones today well, Mr. Shayne, how would Abby know an Archibald Jaynes? Especially if he is a man of the financial stature she claimed. And how would she know he has the bones? Okay, maybe there is an Archibald Jaynes, maybe the man collects bones, how would Abby know those bones are what is called the Peking Man? Do you see, Mr. Shayne? There are just too many ‘Hows?’ ”
“You ever meet her son, Mr. Knowles?”
“He came here twice to see her in the eight years I knew Abby. And that isn’t right, is it? A son living in the same city and not making frequent visits with his mother...”
“Did she visit him?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Where?”
“At the bowling alleys. Take a hundred of them, Mr. Shayne. Pick one. Howard worked there at one time or another. Never for long, understand, but he worked in bowling alleys.”
“How about the last one, Mr. Knowles?”
“The Let Her Roll That’s original, isn’t it?”
“When was this?” Shayne asked.
“He was working there at the time of his death. He was leaving there at night, crossing the street when he was run down. It happened around one o’clock in the morning.”
“Know where the place is?” Shayne asked.
“I didn’t, I don’t. And I’m not even sure if the alley exists anymore. All I know about Howard Galloway is we buried him, Abby and me. There wasn’t anyone else at the funeral. Not even his friend. Just Abby and me. We pooled our Social Security that month, buried the boy. We didn’t eat too well for a while afterward, but we buried him Abby needed the help, Mr. Shayne. She liked her son I didn’t.”
“I haven’t figured you,” said Shayne.
Knowles suddenly looked surprised. “What?”
“You and Abby Galloway.”
“Oh, you mean those stories you hear up and down the street?” Knowles chuckled.
“No. Abby dipped in sauce. You, I’m told, don’t. I don’t get the—”
Knowles nodded, “I had my day, Mr. Shayne. I put many a groove in a brass rail. Abby’s day just came later than mine, that’s all.”
“You are a tolerant man.”
Knowles laughed softly, waved a hand around the room. “Take a look. I’ve known better days. I can live or I can dive off a highrise. I decided a long time ago.”
Shayne stood. “A moment ago you mentioned a. friend of Howard’s who didn’t show up at the funeral.”
“Yes,” Knowles nodded. “A man named Ray Burlington. I think he and Howard might have roomed together at one time. Abby occasionally mentioned him.”
“You know if this Burlington is still around?”
Knowles shrugged. “No.”
“Okay, thanks, Mister Knowles.”
Knowles stood, continued to smile. “I like you, Mr. Shayne. I wish we could have known one another a few years ago. I think we might have dented a brass rail or two together.”
“Know something, pal,” Shayne said with a genuine grin, “I think you are entirely correct.”
“Mr. Knowles?” Randolph Foster had taken a wallet from an inside coat pocket. He sifted bills from the wallet, placed the bills in a stack near the black snap brim hat on the dresser.
“I assume,” he said, “you will see to it that Mrs. Galloway has a proper service.”
Knowles looked crafty. “You the man who placed the ad?”
“I am the man.”
Knowles fingered the bills, looked at Foster. “I hope you find your Peking Man someday, mister.”
“I will,” Foster vowed quietly.
Shayne and Foster returned to the sidewalk where the sunshine was brilliant and the day had taken on heat. Shayne caught the movement of the small yellow car in the corner of his eye and he stopped abruptly.
“What’s the matter?” Foster wanted to know.
“Nothing,” the redhead scowled, watching the yellow compact pull away from the curbing down the street and disappear as swiftly as a shark around a corner.
IX
Mike Shayne used a friend at the telephone company to get an address for a bowling alley called the Let Her Roll, which no longer had a listing or existed. The friend had to do some digging in computer records and Shayne grunted when he got the former address. It figured. The Let Her Roll had been in a neighborhood where survival after dark was a neat trick.
The detective sat in the front seat of his car and stared at the boarded front of the former bowling alley. Beside him, Foster stirred. “We are wasting time, Shayne. What do you expect to find here?”
The detective didn’t answer.
Shayne left the car and moved across the sidewalk. A young Negro who had been leaning against the front of the boarded building flicked the redhead a startled glance and started off down the sidewalk.
“Hold it!” snapped Shayne, palming a five dollar bill.
The youth was wary. It was obvious that Shayne’s hulk and dogged movement warned him. On the other hand, money, any kind of money, was a strong temptation.
“Know a Ray Burlington?” said Shayne.
He saw a light flicker in the youth’s eyes. The boy shuffled. “Yeah... maybe.”
Shayne held up the bill.
The boy said, “Out back.”
“You lead,” said Shayne.
The boy hesitated. “Would I con you, man?”
“You might.”
He hadn’t. There was a door in the back of the building. Shayne knocked. The door opened under his large fist and the detective inventoried a medium-statured, unclean man of some thirty years. The man had a murky complexion and wore dirty jeans and tennies and an old red knit shirt. A purple discount store baseball cap was stuck on the back of his head.
“Ray Burlington?”
“No,” growled the man. He moved the door toward the detective.
Shayne stuck a foot against the door and moved into the dank room behind the door. There was a small bed in one corner, a rickety table and two chairs, a single lamp and the stink of mildew. The man stood near the bed. He looked apprehensive.
“So I’m Burlington,” he said. “So I’m clean!”