Michael Shayne's Long Chance by Brett Halliday

he and Margo Macon had emptied that afternoon. It was smeared and sticky with fresh blood. Bending down, he saw a few short strands of brown hair tangled in the crushed blood, and knew he was looking at the death weapon.
    He let the match burn out, worrying his left earlobe between thumb and forefinger, then abruptly strode to the bathroom and felt around for a towel. Returning hurriedly, he dropped it over the blood-smeared bottle, gathered it up loosely and went out onto the balcony.
    Light streamed through the French doors which he had left open, outlining his body clearly as he leaped across the railings and went into his room. He laid the towel-wrapped bundle on the bed and closed the doors, then searched swiftly through the dresser drawers in the hope of finding a piece of wrapping paper.
    Finding nothing suitable, he carefully cradled the awkward bundle in the crook of his arm, locked the door, and went down the corridor to the rear stairway and on through the narrow service alley. He hesitated at the end of the alley, glanced across the street at a lighted liquor store almost directly opposite, then went a few steps back into the alley where he placed his bundle on the ground behind a barrel of trash.
    Crossing the street, he entered the liquor store and brusquely ordered, “Wrap up a couple of quarts of your cheapest gin. Use plenty of paper so it won’t break, and tie it up tight.”
    Shayne turned his back to the clerk and pulled his hat brim low over his eyes, took three dollars from his wallet, and when the clerk said, “Here you are—is this wrapped to suit you?” he half turned, shoved the bills across the counter, said, “It’s okay, thanks,” and picked up his change.
    In the darkness of the alley he untied the gin bottles, tossed them into the trash barrel, and wrapped the murder weapon neatly in the paper, tying it securely. He then sauntered to the street with the package inconspicuously under his arm, hailed a loitering taxi, and got in.
    He said, “The St. Charles Hotel,” and laid the bundle on the floor as the cab slid away.
    Three blocks away, Shayne suddenly exclaimed, “Hold it, buddy. Sorry, but I’ve just remembered something. I’ve got to get out here.”
    The driver muttered something under his breath and pulled to the curb. Shayne got out and give him a dollar, saying, “That’ll make up for the short trip.” He noted the name of the cab and its number as it carried the damning murder evidence away, wrote them down in a small notebook, then whirled and long-legged it back to the Peloine Apartments.
    The time was 11:14 when he strode briskly to the front entrance—16 minutes had passed since he first discovered Barbara Little’s dead body.
    The Peloine entrance was on a corner of the building, wide double doors standing invitingly open at the top of stone steps. A small foyer was lighted by a naked bulb in the ceiling. He found Margo Macon’s name over the mailbox numbered 303, and pressed the button. He waited a moment, wiping sweat from his face, then held the button down with a knobby forefinger for a long interval.
    After another short wait, he deliberately pressed the button of apartment 301, under the name of Madame Le-grand, and started up the stairs, pounding his heels loudly on the worn carpeting.
    A middle-aged woman confronted him in an open doorway as he reached the third floor. Her untidy black hair was shot with strands of white and she wore an exotic negligee which was grossly inept on her hard, thin body and accentuated her sharp features with snapping black eyes. She looked at Shayne with anger and suspicion and demanded, “What reason have you for ringing my bell at this time of the night?” She spoke with a pronounced accent and a nasal twang.
    Shayne grinned. “I wasn’t ringing your bell.”
    “You certainly—”
    “I’ve been trying to get an answer from Miss Macon in three-oh-three. I have a date with her. I’m a little late and thought she might