“Passenger Michael Shayne for New Orleans,” the voice of the loud-speaker called impatiently. “Flight Sixty-two is now ready to depart from Gate Three. Please go to Gate Three to board the plane.”

“That’s you,” Shayne told the smaller man. “Let’s go out and stall them long enough for the porter to exchange those bags.” He took his ticket from his pocket as he spoke, thrust it into the man’s pudgy hand, and they moved together toward the open gate.

The man gave a long sigh and mopped at his pasty face as they walked. With the ticket in his hand the stress left him; he suddenly became stiff and somewhat pompous. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this, Mr. Shayne. My name is Parson, sir. You’ve been most kind and obliging.”

“Think nothing of it,” Shayne told him. He stopped just inside the gate and watched Parson go toward the steps leading up to the cabin of the plane.

The baggage compartment behind the cabin was still open, and, as he watched, he saw the Negro porter hurrying across with Parson’s Gladstone in his hand.

Parson stopped at the foot of the wheeled loading platform and conferred briefly with the attendants while a blue-uniformed stewardess leaned out anxiously from the doorway above. Parson was showing his ticket, making some explanation. Shayne saw the porter step back from the baggage compartment with a suitcase in his hand. An attendant closed and locked the storage space. Parson then mounted the stairs nimbly and disappeared inside the cabin, followed by the two men who closed the cabin door from the outside and hurried down to wheel the loading platform away.

The four propellers of the huge airliner began to turn slowly, then two of them speeded up with a mighty roar to wheel the plane toward the runway.