PROMPTLY AT THREE O’CLOCK VICKI ENTERED the airport terminal building. From a pay phone she put in a call for Mr. Quayle’s office upstairs. He had asked her to report anything to him that didn’t “feel” right to her. Her meeting with Mr. Tytell yesterday certainly qualified as not “feeling right.” She had tried to call him yesterday but had been unable to reach him.

But, once again, the FBI man wasn’t in his office. His secretary thought he’d be back shortly.

Vicki went to the reservations desk to look at the passenger list for Flight 17. There was his name, all right. Amos Tytell. So the old man had made it! Before this day was over, Vicki thought to herself, she ought to have the answers to a lot of troubling questions!

She looked around. The old man was nowhere in sight.

133 “Has Mr. Tytell checked in?” she asked the clerk at the desk.

The girl looked down her list.

“Why, yes. He was in over an hour ago to validate his ticket.” She looked at her watch. “About one-thirty.”

Then he must be somewhere around, Vicki knew. Possibly in the snack bar.

She had plenty of time, so she sauntered toward the restaurant. There was no sign of the old man at the counter or any of the tables, but Captain March was sitting on one of the stools, hastily gulping a cup of coffee.

“Vic,” he said, “you’re just in time to do me a favor. I can’t find my best pair of pigskin gloves, and I think I may have lost them somewhere in the terminal. I have to rush to weather briefing, so be a good girl and see if they might be at Lost-and-Found. You’ll know them by the Abercrombie label.”

Vicki walked across the big waiting room, casting her glance around for Mr. Tytell, but he was nowhere to be seen. At the Lost-and-Found desk, the boy in charge grinned when she asked about the captain’s gloves.

“These were turned in Thursday,” he said, reaching under the counter and coming up with a n............