“It is.” She lifted a telephone and tucked it under her ear while she drew a ticket blank in front of her and began filling in the spaces. Into the mouthpiece she said, “Sixty-two. Michael Shayne. That’s right. He’s ticketing now.” She waited a moment, then replaced the receiver. “Have you any baggage, Mr. Shayne?”

“One bag. It has been checked here at the airport since yesterday noon.” He took the check from his pocket. The girl lifted her brows to a uniformed Negro porter who came forward and took it from Shayne’s hand.

“Sixty-two,” she informed the porter, and he hurried away while she continued filling out the ticket.

Shayne took out his billfold. The girl said, “That will be forty-five seventy-seven, Mr. Shayne. That is, if your bag doesn’t weigh more than forty pounds.”

“It doesn’t,” he assured her, sliding a fifty across the counter.

The porter came up with Shayne’s Gladstone while she was making change. He set it on the weighing platform beside the desk, glanced at the weight, and affixed a New Orleans tag, writing the number 62 on it.

He handed the detective the stub, grinned and said, “Thank you, boss,” when Shayne gave him a half dollar.

The girl laid his change and ticket on the counter, saying, “Gate Three. I hope you have a pleasant trip.”

“Thanks.” Shayne glanced at the clock again. There were still seven minutes before departure time. He strolled back to the men’s room, and a couple of minutes later was walking toward Gate 3 when the loud-speaker stopped him in mid-stride.

“Passenger Michael Shayne for New Orleans. A telephone call at the National ticket counter for Michael Shayne.”

He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder and frowning bleakly. It was less than five minutes before midnight. Lucy Hamilton had been stalling an impatient client in New Orleans for twenty-four hours, and he was determined not to miss this plane.