Cadot looked sharply at him.
“It sounds as if you thought he had something to do with it. . .”
Devereaux shrugged his shoulders.
“One has to think of everything, but obviously he couldn’t have. Well, we must see what Kerr has to say for himself. A drunkard.” He frowned. “What puzzles me is why the girl should have been killed.” He reached for the telephone and called the police surgeon. “Are there any signs that the girl was sexually interfered with?” he asked when the police surgeon came on the line. He listened for a moment or so, then grunted and hung up. “There was no assault and no attempt at assault. Then why was she killed?”
Frowning, he began again to make aimless patterns on his blotter.
II
A little after eight o’clock, Jay woke out of a heavy sleep. He lifted his head to look at the bedside clock, then, grimacing, he slid further down in the bed and shut his eyes. He lay for some minutes, thinking of Ginette and then, abruptly, he remembered Lucille Balu.
For a brief moment, a chill of uneasiness ran through him, then, with an impatient shrug, he told himself he had nothing to worry about.
It was unfortunate that he had given way to the stupid impulse and had killed the girl. But he had got rid of the body and the police couldn’t possibly trace the murder to him. There was no more difficult murder to solve than the murder without motive.
He wondered if she had been found, and, impelled by a sudden urgent curiosity, he lifted the telephone receiver by his bedside and ordered café complet to be sent to his room. He got out of bed and took a shower. As he was combing his hair the waiter came in and put the breakfast tray on the table. Jay eyed the man curiously, but the stolid fat face told him nothing.
“What is all the excitement about?” Jay asked casually as he slipped on his dressing gown.
“Pardon, monsieur?”
“I thought I heard some sort of commotion just now. Is someone ill? “
“Not that I know of, monsieur.”
Impatiently, Jay waved him away, and, when the waiter had gone, Jay walked over to the open window and looked out.
Although it was still early, there were a number of people bathing and also a larger number of people wandering along the promenade.
Parked opposite the hotel were two police vans and Jay smiled uneasily, stepping back and letting the curtain fall into place.
So they had found her.
A cold knot of excitement coiled into a tight ball in his stomach as he poured coffee and drank it thirstily. Then he went into the bathroom and rapidly shaved with his electric razor.
It would be interesting to go down and see what was happening, he thought. After all it would be a pity to miss any possible excitement after he had set the stage for the actors to strut on.
Finishing his second cup of coffee, he slipped on a singlet, a pair of cotton trousers and pushing his feet into a pair of espadrilles, he moved to the door, then paused. He remembered the three scratches on his arm and he examined them. They were slightly inflamed and startlingly red against his heavily tanned skin. It would be safer to wear a coat, he thought and going to his cupboard he took out a cotton jacket and slipped it on.
The first thing he noticed when he reached the corridor was the “out-of-order” sign on the elevator. So they had begun the investigation, he thought and he was aware of a growing feeling of excitement. Perhaps, after all, this thing he had done wasn’t going to be such a bore. It had been the waiting that had bored him. Now the police were active, this might turn out more exciting than he had imagined. Casually, he walked down the stairs. As he reached the head of the stairs leading into the lobby, he paused to look around.
The smooth machinery of the hotel appeared to be working with its usual efficiency. The hall porter was checking through a pile of letters. The reception clerk was writing at his desk. Vesperini, the assistant manager, stood by the revolving doors, apparently admiring the hydrangeas that stood either side of the entrance.
Jay took a few steps that brought him past the telephone booths and where he could have an uninterrupted view of the whole lobby.
There were no signs of any uniformed policemen and Jay felt vaguely disappointed. The hotel seemed to be taking the discovery of a dead girl in one of their elevators with extraordinary calm.
He crossed over to the hotel porter and bought a copy of the New York Times, then, choosing a chair that would give him a good view of the entrance to the hotel, he sat down.
He sat there, glancing at the newspaper, for some fifteen minutes before he saw a tall man, broad shouldered, with a hard face and alert eyes come into the lobby. He nodded to Vesperini who inclined his head in acknowledgement, then walked into the office behind the reception desk.
So that’s it, Jay thought. They’re in there having a conference. I bet they’re absolutely foxed. I wonder what line they are working on.
He took his gold cigarette case from his pocket and lit a cigarette. As he was putting the case away, one of the elevator doors opened and Jean Thiry and Guidet came out.
Guidet had taken Thiry up to identify the girl’s body. The shock of having to see her made Thiry walk a little unsteadily. His face was pale and there was a stunned expression in his
eyes.
Jay watched the two men disappear into the office behind the reception desk. He guessed Thiry had been up to identify the body and he felt a morbid curiosity to see how pale the man was. This was becoming interesting, he thought. It was a pity he couldn’t hear what was going on from this chair in the lobby, but at least he was keeping track of the developing drama.
Thiry was being questioned again by Inspector Devereaux who handled him gently, seeing the shock Thiry had had. Thiry had already told him about the message he had received telling him that the girl had gone to Monte Carlo for the evening. Devereaux had got Guidet to question the message clerks, but neither of them could recall who had given the message except that it had come over the telephone.
Devereaux said: “Of course the girl didn’t send the message. It was sent by the killer to gain time. You can make no suggestions as why she was killed?”
Thiry shook his head.
“No. It must have been the work of a lunatic. Who would want to kill her? She was just a kid,” and he blew his nose violently to conceal his emotion.
“So Monsieur Delaney was interested in her future as a star?” Devereaux said, consulting his notes, “and you had an appointment with him at nine?”
“Yes. He wanted to meet her. I had already arranged to meet her in the bar here at six and then I got this message. Feeling Delaney was going to make her an offer, I went at once to Monte Carlo to bring her back, but I couldn’t find her.”
“Naturally. She was dead by then. You left the girl by herself on the beach at around half-past three and you went to the cinema, where you met Monsieur Delaney. That’s correct, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You saw Monsieur Delaney at nine and explained the girl had gone to Monte Carlo and you couldn’t find her?”
“Yes.”
“This is a very unfortunate thing for you, monsieur.”
“Yes.” Thiry’s face was bitter. “It was her great chance and mine too. The man who did this must be caught and punished.”
“Certainly, but I must have as much help as possible,” Devereaux said. “First, can you tell me if she made a practice of carrying a handbag with her? When she was found in the elevator she had no handbag and this strikes me as curious. Usually, a girl never moves without some kind of handbag.”
“Yes, she had one. It was one I gave her. It was small. She only carried a powder compact, handkerchief and lipstick in it. It was a narrow, lizard-skin bag with her initials on it.”
“She could have left it at her hotel, of course. I must have a search made for it.”
“She wouldn’t have left it at her hotel. I’ve never seen her without some bag or other.”
Devereaux mad
e a note on the sheet of paper lying in front of him.
“There is another thing also,” Thiry went on. “She had a habit of wearing bead necklaces. I suppose the doctor removed her necklace when making his examination. I didn’t notice it when I saw her.”
“A bead necklace? She wasn’t wearing any necklace when she was found in the elevator. I’ll check that. There is nothing else you can tell me? She had no lover?”
“No. She was a serious girl. All she thought about was her career. She knew it was too soon to think of getting married.”
When Thiry had gone, Devereaux gave instructions that a search should be made for the handbag and then he went out into the lobby and crossed over to the hall porter’s desk.
“Do you remember if Mademoiselle Balu was wearing a bead necklace when you saw her come into the hotel?”
The hall porter thought for a long moment, his face tight with concentration, then he nodded.
“Yes, she was. I remember I thought how well the blue beads looked against her tan: a necklace of big sapphire blue beads, about the size of walnuts.”
“Your memory is remarkable,” Devereaux said. “I congratulate you.”
The hall porter inclined his head, gratified.
Watching, Jay wondered who this man who had come out of the office and was now speaking to the hall porter could be. It was obvious that he was a police officer and there was an air of importance and authority about him. Perhaps he was the man in charge of the investigation.
He studied him.
A hard, shrewd man, he decided and again he felt the chill of excitement run through him.
He became aware that the hotel detective whom he recognized had come into the lobby and had given him a quick, hard stare. Then the hotel detective crossed over to the police officer. Jay, interested, watched the men talk together in low tones, then both of them suddenly turned their heads and looked directly at him.
Jay had been so curious and interested in what had been going on that it hadn’t occurred to him that he was the only non-member of the hotel staff in the lobby nor had it occurred to him that he was in any way conspicuous. Until these two men suddenly turned to stare at him he had considered himself as an invisible spectator, enjoying what was going on without being noticed himself.
With a sudden quickening of fear, he glanced away from the two men and, as casually as he could, he pretended to be reading the newspaper he was holding. Perhaps he had been rash to come here so early in the morning, he thought, his heartbeat quickening. Perhaps he was drawing attention to himself; not, of course, that it could matter. The police had no reason at all to connect him with the dead girl. All the same it might be safer to leave now. He would take a stroll along the promenade and return when there were more people in the lobby.
Casually, he folded the newspaper, and, behind the screen of his dark glasses, he glanced quickly at the two men, then his heart skipped a beat and he stiffened as the police officer suddenly moved away from the hotel detective and came directly towards where he was sitting.
Jay watched him come, sudden panic gripping him. He remained motionless, his cigarette burning between his fingers, aware of a cold dampness breaking out all over his body. The police officer’s face was expressionless, his small black eyes probing as he stopped in front of Jay.
“Monsieur Delaney?”
“That’s right,” Jay said and his voice was husky.
“I am Inspector Devereaux, Cannes police. I would like you to give me a few minutes of your time, if you please.”
Jay found it necessary to touch his lips with the tip of his tongue before saying, “Why? What is it? “
“Will you be good enough to come with me where we won’t be interrupted?” Devereaux said. “In this office, over here.”
Turning, he started across the lobby, not looking to see if Jay was following him.
For perhaps ten seconds, Jay remained in the chair. What did this mean? Fear tugged at his heart. Had something gone wrong? Had he done something unbelievably stupid and they were now on his track already? Was this man going to arrest him? Then, pulling himself together, he got to his feet and sauntered across the lobby.
This was the test he had deliberately invited, he was thinking.
How can they prove anything?
But the cold fear that gripped him made him feel slightly sick. He didn’t like the feeling and his heart was hammering as he walked into the office where the Inspector waited for him.
Chapter Seven
I
Whenever Joe Kerr came to report on the Cannes Film Festival and this was his third visit, he stayed at the Beau Rivage hotel because it was extremely cheap, because he was allowed to use the bathroom to develop his films and because the owner, Madame Brossette, allowed him from time to time to share her bed.
After so many years as a widower, Joe grasped at any crumb of feminine kindness and although he was a little frightened of this woman because of her size, strength and outbursts of temper, he eagerly looked forward to his yearly visits.
A few minutes after half-past nine a.m., he slid the prints he had finished into the toilet basin for their final wash. He bent over the toilet basin and examined the prints.
There were three of them. One showed Jay Delaney unlocking the door to suite 27; the second one showed Lucille Balu knocking on the same door and the third one showed Sophia
Delaney, her hand on the door handle, an impatient frown on her face. The three pictures were linked together by the wall clock that showed plainly in each print. It showed that Jay Delaney had arrived at the door a few minutes to four, that the girl had arrived exactly at four and Sophia had arrived at seven and a half minutes past four.
Joe blew out his cheeks as he studied the prints. If they got into the hands of the public prosecutor, the boy would be a dead duck, he thought and what was more, Delaney’s wife would face an accessory rap.
He changed the water, then, lighting the butt-end of a cigarette, he began to clear up the mess he had made in the bathroom. As he was tipping the hypo down the W.C., he heard a tap on the door. A little startled, he went to the door, unlocked it and opened it a few inches.
Madame Brossette stood in the narrow passage, her arms akimbo and looked at him, her green eyes probing, her small red mouth set in a hard line.
Madame Brossette was forty-five. She had buried two husbands and wasn’t anxious now to take on a third. Her last husband had left her the hotel, the main business of which was to let out rooms by the hour to the girls who walked the back streets of Cannes during the early afternoon and far into the night. Apart from this source of income, Madame Brossette worked hand-in-glove with the tobacco smugglers of Tangiers and also she had important connections in Paris for the disposal of stolen jewellery.
Her appearance was impressive. Close on six feet tall and massively built, she always reminded Joe of a character out of a gangster picture. Her face was heart-shaped, her hair was the colour of rust and she was enormously fat.
“Hello,” Joe said feebly. “Did you want me?”
Madame Brossette moved forward like a steam roller and Joe hastily gave ground. She came into the bathroom, closed the door, then settled herself with ominous composure on the
toilet seat.
“What have you been up to, Joe?” she demanded, her eyes as hard as emeralds.
“Up to? What do you mean?” Joe said, leaning his back against the toilet basin to hide the prints from her sight. “I’ve been up to nothing. What’s wrong?”
“So long as you haven’t been up to anything, then it’s all right,” she said, settling her massive buttocks more comfortably on the toilet seat. “I’ll tell them then you’re here and they can talk to you.”
Joe felt a tug at his heart. His raddled face lost some of its colour.
“They? Who?”
“Who do you think? The police have just been here asking for you.”
“For me?”
Joe suddenly felt so bad he s
at down abruptly on the side of the bath.
“The police? For me?”
“Don’t keep saying that!” There was an impatient note in her voice. She had never been afraid of the police and she had no patience with those who were afraid of them. “I told them you weren’t here, because I thought you might have got yourself into some kind of trouble last night.” Her eyes were accusing. “You were late enough back here.”
Joe ran his fingers through his thinning hair and opened and shut his mouth without saying anything.
“It’s the homicide men on the job,” Madame Brossette went on, watching him closely. “They told me if you did come here, I was to call them. What have you been up to?”
Joe hadn’t been a crime reporter for nothing. He suddenly realized the danger he was in. That damned hotel detective must have told the police he had seen him in the corridor around the time the girl had died. The night clerk must have told them the time he had left the hotel. They would want to know what he had been doing in the hotel all those hours and what he had seen. He felt another tug at his heart. They might be crazy enough to imagine he had killed the girl!
Madame Brossette, watching him, saw his raddled face turn slightly green. So he had been up to something, she thought and she began to grow anxious, for she liked Joe. She was a woman who needed a lover. When Joe wasn’t in Cannes, she found a variety of substitutes, but Joe’s lovemaking was something special. He was the only man who was tender with her and to a woman who had lived hard, who trusted no one and who was becoming sharply aware of her advancing years, tenderness from a man meant a great deal.
“You’d better tell me, Joe,” she said, her harsh voice softening. “Come on: get it off your chest. You know you can trust me. What have you done?”
“I haven’t done a thing,” Joe protested violently. “Don’t look at me like that! I swear I haven’t done a thing!”
She lifted her massive shoulders.
“All right, don’t get so excited. Then it’s all right for me to call the police and tell them you’re here?”
1958 - Not Safe to be Free Page 10