He met Norma in the salon. She had changed into a heavy satin housecoat that molded her arms to the wrists, clung to her waist and breasts and throat, and outlined her hips and thighs. Painted toenails were provocatively visible below the hem as she sat there with her legs crossed, tossing her foot up and down.
"Thought we were about to take off again," she asked. Her voice was soft and personal and friendly. She was plying the affectionate line as smoothly as an experienced woman could.
Farradyne shook his head. Having a plan of action made him feel better. "Got a call from the tower," he said. "More business. I'll be back in a couple of hours."
Norma held up her hand for his cigarette and he gave it to her. She puffed deeply and offered it back. Farradyne refused it. The memory of her needling and her desire for violence had not had time to fade. Another twenty hours of this calmness and he would begin to look upon the sharing of a cigarette as a pleasant gesture of companionship.
Norma shrugged at his wave of the hand in refusal. "I'll be here when you get back," she said comfortably, wriggling down against the cushions and giving him the benefit of an inviting smile.
Farradyne left the salon swearing under his breath. If this parking of her did not work, Farradyne was licked.
He walked. He did not like walking, but he preferred walking to remaining in the Lancaster with Norma for the next couple of hours. He tried to think, but he could not come to any conclusion because he had all his hope tied on the Bennington outfit and what they might turn up.
He was shown into the office of Peter Lawson, who was a bright-eyed elderly man with a body surprisingly lithe for his years.
"Now, before we go any further," said Lawson pleasantly, "I'd like to hear your reasons for becoming interested in this case."