1958 - Not Safe to be Free

by James Hadley Chase

  “He will be,” Guidet said soothingly. “With a face like that. . .”

  “We still don’t know why the girl was up there. Who could she be visiting?” Devereaux picked up a typewritten list of the names of the occupants staying on the second floor.

  “There were only five suites occupied at the time of the girl’s death. The rest of the people were out. The fact she didn’t ask at the reception desk, but went straight up, looks as if she knew where she was going and the room number. Then who was she going to see?”

  Guidet shrugged his shoulders. He had puzzled his head about this point for the past half hour and had come to no conclusion.

  “It is possible,” Devereaux said, tapping on the desk with his pencil, “that she knew most of the important film executives have suites on this floor. She may have gone up there on the off-chance of meeting one of them with the view of getting herself noticed. So many young stars are doing that in the lobby. She may have thought there would be less competition up there.”

  Guidet grimaced. He didn’t think much of this idea.

  “Then she chose an odd time. There was scarcely anyone up there.”

  Devereaux consulted his list.

  “There’s this man from the London Studios: Monsieur Hamilton. He is a casting director. She may have been trying to see him.”

  “How did she know he was in? How did she know his room number?”

  “He may have told her.”

  “And you think Kerr was up there to see Delaney and finding himself alone in the corridor with a pretty girl, attacked her? She wasn’t assaulted.”

  “He didn’t mean to kill her,” Devereaux said. “When he found she was dead, he became frightened and ran away.”

  “There’s the curtain cord. If he had strangled her with his hands I might agree with you, but the cord makes it premeditated.”

  Devereaux nodded, frowning.

  “Yes. He would have had to entice her into an empty suite. If she saw him undo the cord she would know he meant harm and she would have had time to scream. Yes, you’re right, he must have had the cord ready. Then why did he kill her?”

  He dropped the pencil on the desk. “We must find him.” He again picked up the sheet of paper and studied it. “Take some men with you and examine all the suites that were unoccupied at the time of the girl’s death. Monsieur Vesperini will tell you if they are occupied now or not. We must work with him. His position is difficult. We mustn’t disturb his clients if we can help it.”

  While they were talking Jay had entered the hotel lobby. He could tell immediately from the buzz of excited conversation that the news had broken. No one paid any attention to him as he made his way through the crowd to the elevator.

  As the elevator took him to the second floor, he slid his hand into his hip pocket and with his thumbnail he broke the string of the necklace so the beads rolled free in his pocket.

  At the second floor, he left the elevator and began to walk slowly down the corridor.

  When he was near the door to suite 27, he paused and took out his cigarette case and casually glanced behind him.

  A big, heavily-built man was standing at the head of the stairs looking down the corridor at him.

  Jay wasn’t surprised. He had been prepared to find a detective up here by now.

  Having lit his cigarette, he moved on to suite 30. The occupant of this suite was Merril Ackroyd, one of his father’s top directors. Jay knew Ackroyd had been to Paris for the past two days. He knew also that he was due to return this morning. He paused outside the suite and rapped on the door, aware that the detective was watching him.

  This was an exciting moment and Jay felt his heart beating fast. He heard footsteps cross the room, then the door jerked open.

  Ackroyd, a small, thin man with a crew-cut and a tanned, handsome face, stared at Jay, surprised, then he grinned.

  “Hello there, Jay! Come on in! I’ve just this minute got back.”

  Jay followed him into the big sitting room and closed the door.

  “I was passing,” he said, wandering away from Ackroyd. “I wondered if you were back. Did you have a good trip?”

  “Yeah, swell.” Ackroyd was puzzled to have this visit from Jay, but, as Jay was Floyd Delaney’s son, he was prepared to waste a little time in being sociable. “Have a drink? What’s all this I hear about a murder here last night? Is it right the girl was Lucille Balu?”

  “Yes.” Jay said. He was now standing by the window. He saw the drapes hadn’t been caught back and were hanging loose. “The police are swarming all over the hotel.”

  Ackroyd said: “Well, what do you know! Hang on a second, Jay. I haven’t unpacked yet. I’ve got a bottle of White Label in my grip. I’ll get it.”

  He went into his bedroom.

  Jay took the scarlet cord off its hook, twisted it into a coil and slid it inside his shirt. Then, taking out two of the blue beads, he flicked them under the settee. He was sitting in a lounging chair by the time Ackroyd came back with the whisky.

  “That kid!” Ackroyd said as he poured two big shots into glasses. “For heaven’s sake! Who would want to kill her? What’s your father think? He was going to get her under contract.”

  “I don’t think he knows yet,” Jay said mildly. “He left for the Nice Studios before the news broke.” He took the whisky, noticing with a sense of pride how steady his hand was.

  “Must have been some lunatic, I guess. Well, I sure hope they catch the sonofabitch.” Ackroyd finished his drink. “A kid like that! I’m sorry for Thiry. She was the only string in his stable worth a damn.”

  “Did you see any good shows in Paris?” Jay asked abruptly, changing the subject. The reference to a lunatic sent a wave of irritation through him. Why must everyone jump to the conclusion that the girl had been killed by a lunatic?

  “Nothing worth getting excited about,” Ackroyd said. He talked about this Paris trip for a few minutes, then pointedly asked Jay if he would like another drink.

  “No, thanks. I must be getting along,” Jay said and got to his feet. “Are you going to Nice?”

  “Yup.” Ackroyd pushed himself out of the lounging chair. “I promised your father to have lunch with him.” He looked at his wrist watch. “Suffering cats! It’s after twelve!”

  They walked to the door together and as Jay stepped into the corridor, he saw Guidet and three police officers entering a suite further down the corridor. The assistant manager of the hotel was with them. They didn’t notice Jay.

  “Looks like business,” Ackroyd said, watching the detectives disappear into the suite. “Well, see you,” he said and, waving his hand, he shut the door.

  Jay walked down the corridor and entered his suite.

  Well, he had set the stage, now there was nothing he could do until nightfall. He must hope that the police wouldn’t find Joe Kerr before then. It was a risk he had to take.

  He went into his bedroom, took the silk curtain cord from inside his shirt and put it in the top drawer of the chest, along with the razor and the rest of the beads. Then he locked the drawer and pocketed the key.

  Taking his swimming trunks and a towel, he left the suite.

  The detective at the head of the stairs glanced at him casually, then looked away.

  Jay had difficulty in expressing a giggle of excitement. If this man only knew what he had been doing, he thought, as he pressed the button for the elevator. This was developing into an experience as exciting as he imagined it would be.

  II

  A little after three o’clock in the afternoon the telephone bell on Devereaux’s borrowed desk started into life. For the past hour, the Inspector had been rearranging the notes he had taken during the morning and had been busy studying them. The more he studied them the more he became convinced that Joe Kerr was the man he was after and it irked him that Kerr hadn’t as yet been found.

  So, with an impatient frown, he lifted the receiver and barked, “Yes? Who is it?”

  “Wi
ll you come up to the second floor, Inspector?” Guidet said, excitement in his voice. “We have found the suite where she was killed.”

  “You have?” Devereaux got hastily to his feet. “I’m coming.”

  He left the office, pushed his way through the crowded, excited lobby, and, not waiting for the elevator, he ran up the stairs to the second floor. He was immediately pursued by a group of pressmen and four or five photographers.

  Guidet must have anticipated trouble, for he had posted four gendarmes at the head of the stairs who stopped the pressmen entering the corridor. There was an immediate uproar and, impatiently, Devereaux told them that he would make a statement as soon as he could; then he hurried down the corridor to where Guidet stood outside the door of suite 30.

  “Well?” Devereaux demanded.

  “There’s a curtain cord missing in here and I’ve found two of the beads from the girl’s necklace on the floor.”

  Devereaux’s face lit up with a triumphant smile.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere. Who owns the suite?”

  Vesperini came forward.

  “It belongs to Monsieur Merril Ackroyd. He is an important American film director. He was in Paris last night and has only just returned. He got back at ten-fifteen this morning.”

  “So the suite was empty last night?”

  “That is right.”

  Devereaux entered the suite and stood looking around.

  “The beads?”

  “They are under the settee. I left them where I found them for you to see.”

  Two of the police officers picked up the settee and moved it out of the way. On the carpet lay two blue beads. Devereaux bent over them and examined them without touching them.

  “No more of them?”

  “No.”

  “In the struggle, the necklace must have broken. The beads would have shot all over the room. He missed these two. And a curtain cord is missing?”

  “Yes.” Guidet pulled aside the drapes. “There’s one on the left, but the right one is missing.”

  “Have the beads photographed as they lie,” Devereaux said. “Then test them for prints.” He turned to Vesperini.

  “The suite was locked, of course, when Monsieur Ackroyd left for Paris?”

  “Yes.”

  “And yet someone got in here. How was that possible?”

  Vesperini shrugged his shoulders.

  “Although it is unlikely, someone could have got hold of a passkey. The maids do sometimes leave their keys in the doors while they are cleaning.”

  “Test the room for prints,” Devereaux said. “It’ll be a job, but I want every print you find.” He turned to Vesperini. “Can you move Monsieur Ackroyd to another suite? It will be necessary for my men to seal this one after they have finished working.”

  Vesperini nodded.

  “I’ll arrange something.”

  Signing to Guidet, Devereaux left the room.

  “Kerr must now be found at once,” he said. “I am going to give the press his description with permission to print in the evening papers if we don’t find him by late this afternoon.”

  “All right,” Guidet said. “The usual formula about believing he can help us in the investigation?”

  “That’s it,” Devereaux said. “A description of him, but no photograph. While I’m talking to the boys, find Thiry and get him to identify the beads. Show them to the hall porter, too,” and, leaving Guidet to take the elevator, Devereaux marched down the corridor to where the pressmen were impatiently waiting.

  After he had told them that they now knew where the girl had been murdered and had promised the photographers access to the room the moment the police had finished examining it, he went on: “Do any of you gentlemen know a photographer whose name is Joe Kerr?”

  There was a roar of laughter from the pressmen and the New York Tribune photographer said sarcastically, “Is there anyone who doesn’t know him? Why, Inspector?”

  “He may be able to help us in the investigation,” Devereaux said cautiously. “He was up on this floor about the time the girl met her death.”

  The Tribune photographer looked around, frowning.

  “Anyone seen Joe this morning?”

  No one had.

  “Perhaps one of you knows where he is staying?” Devereaux asked.

  The Nice-Matin reporter said Joe was staying in some hotel off Rue d’Antibes.

  Devereaux stiffened to attention.

  “There are a great many hotels off Rue d’Antibes,” he said. “Do you remember the street or the name of the hotel? “

  The Nice-Matin reporter shook his head.

  “Can’t say I do. A couple of nights ago I dropped the old soak off by the Casino. He had asked me for a lift. I remember he said he was staying off the Rue d’Antibes.”

  “He could be an important help,” Devereaux said, trying to appear casual. “If any of you see him you might tell him I’d like to talk to him.” He paused, then went on, “If we don’t trace him by five o’clock tonight, I’ll get you to put a paragraph in your paper. Just a description, saying we would like to interview him.”

  “Hey! Just a moment.” Lancing of the Associated Press pushed forward. “Do you think the old buzzard killed the girl?”

  Devereaux shook his head.

  “I don’t know who killed her,” he said. “I know Kerr was on the second floor at the time she died. I’m hoping he might have seen the killer.”

  “Yeah?” Lancing’s red, aggressive face sneered. “I bet! Let me tell you something: that old vulture was always making passes at the girls. Why, only last week he had the nerve to goose Hilda Goodman as she was passing through the lobby and Hilda took a swipe at him. She busted his bridgework. Maybe he tried the same stunt with the Balu girl and, when she socked him, he strangled her.”

  “Pipe down!” the Tribune reporter said curtly. “Joe may be a soak, but he isn’t a killer. And let me tell you, if you had the nerve, you would have goosed our Hilda yourself—I know you would.”

  There was a general laugh.

  “Well, gentlemen,” Devereaux said, “you are holding me up. Just remember I would like to talk to Kerr if you see him.”

  He pushed through the circle of men and hurried down the stairs.

  So Kerr made passes at women, he was thinking. Maybe that was the motive. He had met the girl, made a pass at her, she had struck him and in a drunken rage he had dragged her into the suite and strangled her. But he knew it wasn’t quite right: it didn’t fit. There was an act of premeditation about this killing: there was the curtain cord and the fact the killer had used the passkey to get into the suite. No, this hadn’t been a sudden act of rage or panic.

  Guidet met the Inspector in his office.

  “The hall porter identifies the beads,” he said. “I haven’t been able to find Thiry yet. I think he must be in the cinema. We have a good fingerprint on one of the beads.”

  “You have? Well, that’s something,” Devereaux sat down behind his desk. “Ricco of the Nice-Matin says Kerr is staying at a hotel off the Rue d’Antibes.”

  “Every hotel in that district has been covered,” Guidet said. “That was the first district to be checked.”

  “And no one knew him?”

  “No.”

  “Then check again. It’s possible someone is hiding him. Put twenty men on the job and tell them not to come back until they have found him. Have them cover the shops as well.”

  Guidet looked surprised.

  “The shops?”

  “Perhaps someone has noticed him going to and fro to the hotel. I want this man and I’m going to have him!”

  At this moment the detective in charge of the fingerprint department came in.

  “I’ve found a print in the elevator that matches the print on the bead, Inspector,” he said. “There’s no record down here. I’m having it checked at Headquarters.”

  Devereaux grunted.

  “If it’s Kerr’s print,” he said sof
tly, “then I think we have him.”

  He waved impatiently to Guidet to get off, nodded to the other detective, then, pulling his massive notes towards him, he began to go through them again.

  Chapter Nine

  I

  It was a little after five o’clock when Jay left the beach. He had driven over to Antibes because he was anxious not to run into Sophia until he had done what he had to do, and, in Cannes, it was impossible to avoid meeting anyone you didn’t want to meet.

  Now, driving slowly back to Cannes, caught up in a long stream of traffic, he decided he would go to La Boule d’Or for a drink and he felt an anticipation of pleasure at the thought of seeing Ginette again. Both his father and Sophia would be at the Nice Studios until late and then they would be going to the cinema. So long as he got back to the Plaza before eight o’clock and away again, he wouldn’t run into them.

  Leaving his car by the Casino, he crossed the street and walked slowly into the busy shopping centre. He moved towards Rue Foch, spinning out the time by pausing to stare into the shop windows, and, as he wandered along, he became aware that there were several plainclothes detectives in the long, busy street and immediately his sense of caution was alerted.

  These unmistakable men were going in pairs from shop to shop, spending only a few minutes in each shop, then coming out and entering another shop.

  Coming towards Jay were two of these men, and, anticipating that they would be entering a bookshop close by, he went into the shop ahead of them. The shop was empty and the assistant came over to him.

  Jay said he just wanted to look around and he stepped behind a counter piled high with books that screened him from anyone entering the shop. He had to wait five minutes before the two detectives entered.

  He heard one of them say: “Police. We’re looking for a man who lives around here.” The detective went on to give an accurate description of Joe Kerr. “Have you seen him?”

  Obviously flustered, the assistant said he was sorry but he hadn’t.

  The detective grunted and the two of them left the shop.

  Jay’s mouth tightened. So they were still hunting for Joe and they were getting warmer.