Margo — Barbara herself must have sneaked in and taken it. So she did believe him when he said he was a detective. He muttered aloud, “Damn a snooping dame.”
He hurriedly slid his arms into the shirt sleeves and rammed the tail into his trousers, buttoned his trousers and fastened his belt. He groped for a fresh tie without looking and went to the dresser to tie it.
He remembered Margo Macon’s kiss — her slim body dancing away from him — her gay retort, “That’s to seal our date tonight — so you won’t let some hussy pick you up.” Why the hell was her apartment dark if she was expecting him?
He drew his tie into a tight knot and turned to the long windows leading onto the balcony. Faint light from a street lamp shone upon the narrow slit between the two buildings. He could vaguely discern the outline of the deck chair on the larger and opposite balcony where the girl had been curled up in the afternoon.
He stared somberly across the gap. This messed up his plans. If she had the photograph, his plan for pretending to be taken in by her imposture was out.
As he stared and meditated upon just how to meet this new situation, his eyes slowly focused upon a curious blotch of whiteness protruding from her door leading out onto the balcony. Wall shadows darkened the door, but he finally perceived that it was open.
He studied the odd object for a moment, then leaned forward to catch the opposite railing and vaulted across.
The protruding object was a woman’s bare foot.
Shayne struck a match, but he knew before the light flared that Barbara Little was dead.