She was tall. Big-boned and solid-fleshed. She wore a gray tailored suit that should have looked mannish on a woman her size, but didn’t. It merely managed to look slightly out of place on her, as though the fabric itself dishearteningly realized that the most cunning tailoring could not hide the full, feminine convolutions of her body. She was bareheaded, with two heavy braids of honey-colored hair wound about her head. She wore no make-up except a great deal of freshly applied and very crimson lipstick. Her face glistened with perspiration.

When she completed her slow survey of the room with big, wide-open eyes, her lashes came down to make narrow slits of them. Her mouth tightened and she turned purposefully to the nearest ticket counter and asked a question. The clerk’s reply sent her swinging toward the National Airlines counter with that steady and careful manner of placing each foot solidly before the other, a practice of experienced drinkers who are just sober enough to realize they are drunk.

Men got out of her way and turned to look at her as she passed them by.

She brushed a small man aside and took his place in front of the Immediate Departures window, planted both elbows on the counter, and thrust her face toward the smiling girl with the freckles on her nose. Her neck was a white column rising from solid shoulders. Wisps of honey-colored hair curled downward behind her ears and lay plastered against her moist skin. Her voice was warm and husky. Not loud, but it carried well, and Shayne heard her question clearly.

“Has your plane for New Orleans left yet?”

“Flight Sixty-two has just taken off.”

The woman’s shoulders lifted slightly, swelling the tight fit of her tailored coat A pulse throbbed in the white flesh on the right side of her throat. She said, “I wonder if my husband managed to get a seat on that plane at the last minute?”