Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 35, No. 4, September 1974

The Clue of the Peking Man
by Brett Halliday
(ghost written by Max Van Derveer)

From archaeological treasure, to war booty, to a mystery that puzzled scientists and collectors the world over, the bones had seemingly returned to taunt a tired woman and threaten Mike Shayne!

I

Perspiration dribbled into Mike Shayne’s eye. Swiftly, he wiped away the film with the back of a huge hand and regripped the steering wheel, fingers working reflexively as he concentrated on the two fast moving station wagons ahead.

They flashed across intersections and shot along the streets of the quiet Miami residential neighborhood as if they were racing on an open highway.

Shayne — keeping a sharp eye for moving traffic coming from the sidestreets — piloted his powerful convertible expertly. Applying more pressure to the accelerator, he gained another foot on the station wagons.

Behind him, the large blue sedan continued to tailgate.

The private detective’s scowl deepened and he again wiped away sweat as he flashed another glance into his rear view mirror. The reflected blue sedan was occupied by four men who sat like statues.

Were the men killers?

“Foster,” Shayne graveled, raising his voice against the sound of the wind, “take a look behind us. Do you know them?”

Shayne’s passenger twisted on the seat, and out of the corner of his eye the detective saw Foster jerk. But Foster remained silent. Shayne grunted, returned his concentration to the station wagons.

Then the blue sedan made its move. It swung, into the left lane and moved up beside the convertible with a fresh surge of power. Shayne flicked it a glance. The four occupants of the sedan continued to sit like statues, two in front, two in back. They were Orientals.

Shayne jerked his foot from the accelerator and the convertible slowed immediately.

The move triggered. Foster. “No!” he shouted, reaching out and clamping fingers on the detective’s arm, “Stay with them! We can’t lose them!”

Shayne shook off the fingers. He had survival in mind now, nothing else. He had spotted what looked like the snouts of submachine guns sticking up like grave markers in the back seat of the sedan. One blast from either snout and Shayne figured he no longer would know the heaven of lush Miami. The other heaven might be lush, too, but he wasn’t ready to be an explorer.

“Shayne!” shouted Foster. “Catch them!”

The two station wagons and the blue sedan moved out, quickly widening the distance from the convertible. Shayne’s scowl darkened. The wagons and sedan would not lose him. But he puzzled now. The four Orientals had ignored him. The sedan had surged on to move up beside the wagons, then slowly inched out front, continuing, to speed down the left lane of the street.

Shayne waited for a blast from the machine gun. It had to come.

But the blue sedan was ahead of the wagons now, still rolling in the left lane. Shayne continued to drop back. He had no intention of piling his car into the rear of a shot-up station wagon.

And then the wall of fire bounced, off the street. It disappeared. Another wall appeared.

Shayne yelled and jammed the brake pedal. The convertible went into a skid, the rear coming around to the right. Foster shouted a startled oath as the detective concentrated on riding the skid. He worked the steering wheel expertly, turning into the skid. The convertible stopped bouncing, righted. Shayne kept his eyes on the station wagons. Both were weaving crazily as if being tested on a tire track. Then they swayed into the curbing and stopped simultaneously.

Shayne braked the convertible, and then snaked the .45 from his shoulder rig. He peeled out of the car and used the open door as a shield. Crouching behind it, he leveled the .45, its muzzle braced against the door edge.

A new wall of fire appeared up ahead. It formed a barrier that blocked the street.

Shayne flinched, shook his head. Perhaps the wall was appropriate. There had been another fire at the beginning of this crazy business.

II

The jetliner was settling softly into International Airport at Miami that Tuesday afternoon and Mike Shayne sat relaxed in the erect seat, seat belt fastened as instructed by the lithe, dark-haired stewardess.

Successfully completed was a case that had taken him to Minneapolis. He had liked Minneapolis as a city, but he preferred Miami, and he grinned as he looked out of the small window. The sun had spread another golden film on the area. And Lucy Hamilton, his secretary, would be waiting for him inside the terminal. Shayne’s grin widened as her image flashed across his mind.

Then he saw the crashed plane and the fire and smoke. He frowned and strained against the window but the crash scene was gone instantly as the jetliner touched down and rolled smoothly along the runway, the pressure of braking forcing him forward slightly.

Shayne knew the crash was probably only seconds old, otherwise this area of International would have been sealed off. The stewardesses kept plastered smiles and the plane captain intoned only a routine welcome to Miami as the Jet hooked up for debarking.

Inside the terminal, Shayne found Tim Rourke, the veteran Miami newspaperman and a friend of long standing, waiting for him. Shayne was curious.

“Hey, Tim,” the redhead said as they shook hands, “missing a scoop? Or didn’t you see that little accident out there.”

The thin man’s usually sombre countenance lightened. “I phoned in the lead,” he said, “but the paper’s sending out a man for the details — I’m on another assignment — and I want your help.”

“That’s why Lucy’s not here.”

“Right,” Rourke said.

“What’s up?” the detective asked as the two walked toward the baggage check-out counter.

“A bomb threat at the paper — and a helluva interesting yarn if it holds up. Come on, I’m driving a company car. Easier for them to get gas than a mere citizen, these days. I’ll fill you in.”

After they had collected Shayne’s single suitcase and had settled in the Daily News car, Rourke passed the redhead a folded newspaper. An ad in the Personals column of the Classified section was encircled in red. It said: “$5,000 for information leading to the Peking Man. Box 100. Daily News.”

Rourke moved the sedan into the line of traffic leaving the parking lot and said, “A man named Randolph Foster from Los Angeles placed the ad and sent money for a week’s run. That was three days ago. Yesterday, we got a phoned, anonymous bomb threat demanding that the ad not appear again. The threat was ignored. We get a lot of them these days. Then this morning there was an answer to the ad. A woman came in, told the Classified people she had information about the Peking Man, left a phone number.

“Classified didn’t get too excited with the placing of the ad. We get all kinds of screwball things to run. But with the bomb threat and the woman this morning, people started stirring stumps. Looked like it might be news. Dirksen sicced my buddy Joe Roberts — who volunteered he had a vague recollection of something legitimate called the Peking Man — on to research and me into checking out Foster in Los Angeles. The papers out there have morgue files a foot thick each on the guy.

“He’s one of these whiz kids who came out of nowhere after World War II and made it big. He got a leg up as computers came into being and his outfit continues to produce some of the world’s best. Randolph Foster is legit, wealthy, and will sip a warm glass of beer with a factory worker or some exotic ulcer-breeder with a shah. He’s painted as a guy who is at home in either company, a rare character.

“Joe, meanwhile, tagged the Peking Man. The way I get it, it’s a general term for a collection of human bones, about forty skulls, one hundred fifty teeth and numerous other bones that date man back something like two million years. Chinese in origin, the collection — considered priceless, incidently — supposedly disappeared around the beginning of World War II. Stories about the Peking Man circulate among collectors, but all are vague.

“Foster apparently has some reason to think this treasure might be here in Miami. Incidently, he’s flying in here tonight. I wanted to talk to him, but there’s a line, I discover, between protecting the anonymity of one who places a blind ad and a news story. Classified is screaming that Foster has paid for anonymity and is entitled.

“Dirksen, of course, is screaming that Foster and his Peking Man and the bomb threat is a hot news story. The hierarchy debates. Meanwhile, I’ve got a hunch that bomb threat may tie in — and since you’re such a pal of mine, I thought you might be interested in helping me track it down.

“I might add, Mike,” the reporter said grimly, “that if Foster really is hunting the Peking Man, and if he’s digging up information, he could also be digging up trouble.”

“So you take this bomb threat seriously?” Shayne said.

“Yes and no. I think a few guns might be in order. Men have died because of these bones already, I understand from Roberts.”

“So we keep a sharp eye out. We take the caller seriously, for now, anyway. This all sounds like just my kind of case, Tim.”

“That’s what I thought,” Rourke grinned. “Do you want to ride along with me? See what we dig up?”

“You know it,” the redhead smiled back. “I don’t like threats any more than you do. And it sounds like you have a hell of a story building here. I’d like to watch it develop. Now — tell me how the threat came in, who handled it, the details.”

“One of the switchboard girls caught the call. Local call, male voice. According to the girl, the guy says ‘One more ad about the Peking Man and you get a bomb in the front door.’ The guy hangs up.”

“You talked to the girl?”

“Yeah, T spent almost an hour with her,” Rourke said. “She’s, the level-headed type, Mike. The caller had a bass voice, she said, words distinct. On the other hand, she thinks the caller was a young person, say mid-to-late twenties.”

“Why does she think that?”

Rourke shrugged. “She listens to voices on a phone five days a week. She subconsciously categorizes voices, fits them to people.”

Shayne used the thumb and forefinger of his right hand to tug the lobe of his left ear. “Your bosses think the caller might have been a nut?”

“The possibility was discussed, voted down.”

“And Will Gentry?”

Rourke took time to pass a sedan before he replied, “Will hasn’t been informed so far. No need to yet — and Dirksen’s still thinking story, naturally, and he figures that if Will and his cops are called, the door is opened to the TV boys. Dirksen thinks a private look-see is the only way to go — for the moment. And I agree. So I came to you, like I said.”

The detective said, “Dirksen understands, I assume, that if I turn up something big, Will gets it.”

Rourke nodded.

“Okay. You said Foster is flying in tonight?”

“When the Classified people called him this morning about the woman who answered the ad, he asked about hotels. I checked around this afternoon, found he’d made a reservation at the Dolphin, but that he’s not expected until after midnight. While waiting for you at the airport, I also checked incoming flights. There’s one in from Los Angeles at eleven-forty tonight. That should be Foster’s.”

Shayne grunted satisfaction. Rourke was not a man to allow moss to grow under his feet. “And I suppose you’ve got the woman staked out too?”

“Not staked out,” Rourke admitted. “But I checked the phone number she left for Foster in the Polk directory, and found it’s at a bar named the Red Fish. No one at the newspaper ever heard of it, so it must be a hole in the wall.”

“The Red Fish,” Shayne grunted. “Let’s hope our bomber and our lady aren’t just a couple of red herrings.”

III

The Red Fish had a narrow front, a sunken doorway and a broken neon sign. It was squashed among other low, squeezed business ventures that looked as if they should have gone the way of brick streets. Lethargic sidewalk loiterers were young Latins, and it was as if they were seeing moonmen. It was that kind of neighborhood.

As the detective and the newspaperman crossed the sidewalk, Rourke remarked, “I’ve got a suspicion, pal, we’d be more welcome if it was the first of the month and we were postmen bearing welfare checks.”

Inside, the Red Fish was a dingy, shallow watering hole oozing stale odors. A Latin man who hadn’t been to a barber in a year sat alone at the bar. He wore a sweat shirt, wrinkled pants and shower togs, and he didn’t bother to look up from his beer mug as Shayne and Rourke moved into the bar.

Shayne glanced around. From his vantage, he could see three sharpies huddled in a booth in a corner and a woman sitting alone at a table. The woman looked to be in her late sixties and weathered; her attire had survived since, the 1950s. She cupped a small glass in her hand and did not seem to be interested in new arrivals.

Shayne shot another glance at the sharpies. They were interested. They continued to huddle, but each had a head cocked so that with no more than a side glance he could take in the strangers. They were silent now, returning Shayne’s inventory. One had a hooked nose, another a narrow jaw and slit eyes. The third one was little more than a kid. He still had smooth skin, but he was nervous. He couldn’t seem to sit still.

Shayne turned to the bartender, a wizened little man with a black mole high on one cheek, yellow teeth and schooled eyes that were wary. The eyes danced between Shayne and Rourke, went outside to the parked car. “Name’s Bart,” the bartender finally grunted. “You guys from the newspaper?”

Shayne heard stirrings in the booth and the slight scrape of a chair behind him. Down the bar, the Latin emptied his beer glass, turned from the stool a clomped out of the Red Fish without looking to the right or left.

“We’re from the Daily News, right,” Rourke told the bartender. “Your wife here? I think she left a message at the newspaper earlier today.”

“Ain’t married,” grunted Bart.

“Well, now... I see,” said Rourke. He leaned elbows on the bar, pondered as if in deep thought. Then he said, “Tell you what I’m going to do, Bart. I’m going to confide in you. I really shouldn’t. It’s kind of newspaper business, none of yours, but you look like a guy who can keep his yap shut and—”

“I got button lips if’n I’m of a mind, that’s for sure, fella,” Bart interrupted.

“Well, then, I’ll tell you,” Rourke nodded. “We’re looking for a woman who might be a regular customer here, who might live around here, who might give your telephone number as a...”

Shayne tuned out Rourke’s words and went to the woman who sat alone at the table. She looked up at him from bright eyes without stirring.