Brett Halliday - Last Seen Hitchhiking

“Only three?”

“He’s been getting credit for more, but I can only personally remember three. You’re the fourth. And I can see you’re going to be a challenge. You’re the kind of subject that makes scientific investigation worthwhile.”

“How do you know you have four days?”

“That’s when the doctor gets back. This isn’t Bruno’s office. He borrowed it. There’s food in the house. Food for me. I don’t think we’re going to let you have any, to see what difference it makes.”

“I didn’t mean that. If somebody wrote down your license number and they’re tracing it now, you ought to rape me right away and get it over with.”

“Bruno’s not ready.” He added, “The car’s no problem. I stole it.”

“A friend of mine, Michael Shayne, was watching for the scarf. You fooled us. Mike doesn’t get fooled too often, and he doesn’t like it. Do you ever listen to the Tim Rourke show?”

“Now and again. That’s a son of a bitch who’s really crazy.”

“Mike was planning to be on it tonight. Turn it on. This is the big story of the day. They may be talking about you.”

“We don’t care what anybody says.”

“Don’t you want to find out how much time you really have?”

He went behind her, and she heard the rattle of ice. After a moment’s pause, he went to the radio and changed stations. Her heart jumped. Mike Shayne’s voice boomed into the room.

Bruno came into view, bringing two glasses. At the name Meri Gillespie he halted, tightening.

“Is that Shayne?”

“My dear Mike. Naturally I’m hoping to see him again.”

“You won’t,” he promised her. “He’s big and tough, no doubt, and he could beat me to a pulp using only one fist. But we’re safe here.”

Head cocked, he listened intently while Shayne described the condition of Meri’s body and where and how it had been found. His chin fell to his chest. For an instant he seemed on the edge of tears.

“She was so alive. God, how she fought. You see—” he said, turning. “You haven’t been taking this seriously, have you?”

“Good God, Bruno. I come to and find myself strapped to a table in a room with a naked man who is obviously somewhat insane. Believe me, I take it seriously.”

“Not enough.” He took a step toward the table, trembling, and said furiously, “Don’t talk in that calm way. There is absolutely no possibility. Stop hoping. Stop trying.”

“Meri Gillespie’s roommate in college was a girl named Joanne,” Shayne said. “I wasn’t told her last name. If anybody’s listening at the university—”

Rourke broke in. “I have a terrific following there. I’m the current thing at pot parties. Tim Rourke, who believes in legalizing everything.”

“I want to talk to this roommate,” Shayne said. “If anybody knows her, wake her up and tell her to come over to KMW, and we’ll let her finger some hundred dollar bills.”

A Palm Beach man called to report that he had seen a dazed-looking girl, wearing the costume Shayne had described, get out of a pick-up truck near the West Palm Beach golf course and wobble off. Shayne questioned him closely. Deciding that he was merely fishing for a piece of the money, Shayne cut him off. Two others said they had seen a woman who looked like Frieda, with a guitar case, being picked up on the interstate. They differed about the kind of car, but agreed that the driver’s face had given them a creepy feeling.

The switchboard was already beginning to overload. While Rourke read a message praising one of his public-spirited sponsors, Shayne gave the switchboard handlers a list of major names and instructions to screen other calls and put through only those that sounded important.

He was wearing a headset. He put it aside to use one of the three phones in front of him to dial the St. Albans.

“Mike?” Tree said thickly. “Woke me up. I thought I was through for the night; took a pill. Any news?”

“Not yet. Fair warning — this conversation is going out on the air.”

“What the devil do you mean?” Tree said more alertly.

“I think I explained to you that we can’t sit on our hands and wait. We have to force it, or we’ll be spending our time the next few days going to funerals. We’re on the Timothy Rourke show. He usually winds up at one, but tonight we have clearance to keep on talking as long as it takes, all night if necessary. Your money’s piled up on the table in front of me.”

“And we’ve had some very nice compliments on it,” Rourke put in. “Either the air-conditioning is on the blink or that money is warm. I’m sweating.”

“You really are broadcasting?” Tree said.

“Check it, 805 on the FM dial. I’ll hold.”

He waited until the museum director completed the loop.

“By God, you’re right, I’m getting an echo. Well, it’s no secret that I put up the two hundred thousand. It’s my signature on the check.”

“Are you still maintaining that you’re the mask’s legal owner?”

“I seem to remember some kind of arbitrator’s award. As I believe I told you, I employed my good friend Sam Holloway—”

“Holloway still claims the mask is his.”

After a moment: “We’re doing it that way, are we? Call me on another phone.”

“I’ve already told the story as far as I know it. I’m still not sure how many people are listening, but we’re beginning to get some feedback. I want our listeners to get everybody’s version — yours first, then Holloway’s, then Maxine’s.”

“Just don’t be too candid, Shayne, or you’ll find yourself on the receiving end of an action for slander.”

“I’ll defend on the facts,” Shayne said coldly. “If there’s any of this cash left, I’ll use it to hire a good lawyer.”

“You’re a bastard,” Tree said, but almost admiringly. “What the hell then, if the damage is already done. Unusual circumstances, unusual methods. One way or another, I fear I’m approaching the end of my string of years as a museum director. And I still don’t know what a museum is supposed to be, Shayne! Probably Holloway showed you some kind of papers. They’re fraudulent. I say that without hesitation, and if anybody’s offered him money on that basis, anybody in Terre Haute, for example, too fucking bad. There will be other masks. As soon as the grapevine picks up the fantastic amounts of money we’re making available, the jungles of Central America will be flooded with treasure hunters and thieves. I’ve done as much of this kind of thing as anybody. It was the only way I could get some of the things I coveted.”

“Coveted?”

“A strong word, I know. But it fits. I covet that mask. I want it for my museum. We have a small domed octagonal room. I’d hang the walls with bright fabric — orange, I think — and light the piece from above, as though it’s being picked out by a ray of sunlight. I know why you’re acting so unprofessionally here, Shayne — to save a life. As for me, I don’t care that much about any living person. I do care about that mask. So what the hell, as I think I said before. What else do you want to know?”

“Have you had any phone calls you didn’t tell me about?”

“One. In New York. This, again, was a male voice with a Spanish accent. I’d seen photographs of a certain mask, being offered for sale by, let us say, a certain Swiss dealer. Did I like it enough to come to Miami to hear more about it? I’m here, so obviously the answer was yes. This was two weeks ago.”

“I’ll file that,” Shayne said. “And while we’re talking about Spanish accents. A Cuban named García. He’s six feet three, and his neck is too long for the rest of his body. Mustache, heavy jaw. I’ll repeat my usual offer. The first person who tells this man to call in will get two hundred dollars of Tree’s money. Anything else, Tree?”