1958 - Not Safe to be Free

by James Hadley Chase

  He told the assistant that he couldn’t find anything to interest him and he went out into the evening sunshine.

  Ahead of him, the detectives were going steadily down the street, entering one shop after the other.

  Jay quickened his steps and reached La Boule d’Or. There was an elderly couple sitting at one of the tables, drinking wine. They looked hot and tired. Beyond, in the dim bar, Jay saw Ginette sitting behind the bar, her elbows on the polished counter, her fingers in her hair while she read a newspaper spread out before her. There was no sign of her father.

  He walked softly into the bar and paused before her. She glanced up and again he felt excited pleasure to see the blood mount to her face at the sight of him.

  “Hello,” he said. “I was passing so I thought I would come in. Isn’t your father here?”

  “No. He’s out. He likes to sit by the harbour in the evening.” It amused him to see the effort she was making to fight down the blush that stained her face. “You startled me. Look, you’ve made me go hot.”

  He laughed. His eyes behind their dark screens examined her face and he thought this face was something he wouldn’t grow tired of. It would be nice to look at even when it was old.

  “It’s quiet here.” He climbed up on a stool. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “I was reading about this horrible murder. Have you seen about it?”

  “Yes.” He was sorry that she had read about it. This was a personal thing. He didn’t want to discuss it with her. “Could I have a dry Vermouth with ice?”

  “Of course.”

  She was wearing a white singlet and dark blue jeans and as she reached up to get the bottle of Vermouth from the shelf he could see her full young breasts tighten under the thin stuff of the singlet and he felt a little stab of love for her dart into him.

  “I saw her once in a movie,” she said as she put the bottle on the counter before him. “She was pretty. I liked her.”

  Jay hunched his shoulders.

  “The police are looking for a man,” he said, watching her as she put a piece of ice into the glass. “They are going into all the shops along Rue d’Antibes.”

  “Then they know who did it?”

  “I don’t know, but they are looking for someone.”

  She poured the Vermouth into the glass.

  “I hope they find him quickly. It isn’t nice to think there is a madman loose in the town.”

  Jay stiffened. He hated to hear her talk like this.

  “Mad? I don’t think he is mad.” He sipped his drink, frowning. “I think he is a man who had to test his courage.”

  She bent her head to stare down at the newspaper and her hair fell forward, half screening her face.

  “Of course he is mad,” she said. “Look, it says so here.”

  “You didn’t hear what I said.” He was terribly anxious for her to understand. It was impossible to let her think that he was mad. “I said he must be a man who needed to test his courage.”

  She lifted her head and stared at him.

  “What an odd thing to say!” she said and he could see the blank, puzzled expression in her eyes.

  Jay felt a wave of irritation run through him.

  “It’s not odd at all,” he said sharply. “After all, the man has put his own life in danger by killing the girl. You can see that, can’t you? He may have had to do it—an inner compulsion—an urge that had been in him for a long time to find out what his personal and secret reactions to danger would be. To some people that is vitally important. Unless you put your courage, your wits and your intelligence to a test, how can you possibly know their quality?”

  The note of urgency and tenseness in his voice made her stare at him.

  “But surely not,” she said. “I can’t believe that. If you had to find out the quality of your courage, wits and intelligence, surely you don’t have to make someone else suffer? That is a horrible idea. There are many other ways of testing your courage without murdering someone.”

  He shifted impatiently on the stool and leaning forward, his fists clenched, he said fiercely. “You are wrong! To make an honest test, you must put yourself in a position where there is absolutely no escape. You might think mountain climbing tests your courage, but it doesn’t. Of course it is dangerous and people risk their lives, but if their nerve fails, if they feel it is too dangerous to go on, they can turn back, but if you kill someone there is no turning back; there is no bringing the body to life again.” He began to pound gently on the top of the bar. “Imagine a situation like this one. Imagine having a dead girl on your hands in a crowded hotel, knowing you have killed her and that one little slip will endanger your life. What a test that must be! It is the perfect test for one’s courage! Can’t you see that? If you commit murder, there is no possible escape except by your own nerve, cleverness and courage.”

  “But you don’t really believe that anyone in his right mind would kill someone just as a test of courage?” Ginette asked. “I can’t believe that! What about the victim? This girl who was killed—she was only just beginning her life. No one but a madman would have done such a thing.”

  Jay started to protest, then his caution warned him to be careful. This girl was intelligent. He must be careful not to talk too much. She must never become suspicious of him. It would spoil everything.

  He smiled at her and shrugged.

  “Well, it’s nothing really to do with us, is it? If the killer is ever found, I’m willing to bet that he is as sane as I am.”

  It was while he was speaking that he became aware of two shadows falling across the bar. He looked around and saw the two detectives come in and he felt a sudden tightening band around his chest as they came up to the bar and paused within three feet of him. He looked at them out of the corners of his eyes. They were big, heavy men, their faces shiny with sweat and he could smell the sweat on their shabby clothes.

  They asked Ginette for beers, and, while she poured the beers into glasses, they glanced at Jay and then back to Ginette.

  “Mademoiselle,” the taller of the two said as Ginette put the glasses before them, “perhaps you can help us. We are police officers.”

  Ginette looked at Jay, but he kept his eyes fixed on his glass of Vermouth.

  “We are looking for a man,” the detective went on. “Perhaps you have seen him pass here from time to time.” He gave a detailed description of Joe Kerr. When he had completed the description he asked, “Have you seen him?”

  “Why, yes,” Ginette said. “He always carried a camera hanging by a strap around his neck. Isn't that right?”

  Jay felt a chill crawl up his spine. He sensed the excitement in Ginette’s voice and he was sure she had seen Kerr.

  “That’s the man!”

  The two detectives leaned forward.

  “The description fits the man who passes here every day,” Ginette went on. “He came in here once for a drink. I remember he asked for whisky and we hadn’t any. He has a room down this street: either at the Beau Rivage or the Antibes hotel.”

  Casually, Jay finished his Vermouth, then slid off his stool and walked without fuss across the bar to the telephone that Stood on a shelf away from the detectives. He picked up the directory, flicked through the pages until he found the Beau Rivage hotel number, then dialled. He was quite calm, although his heart was beating a little faster.

  The detectives were still questioning Ginette: both men seemed excited and tense.

  There was a click on the line and a woman’s voice, hoarse and deep, demanded: “Who is it?”

  Cupping his hand around the telephone mouthpiece, he whispered into it: “Is that Madame Brossette?”

  “Yes.” The hoarse voice sharpened. “Who is that?”

  “Listen carefully. Two detectives are coming to your hotel within the next few minutes. They are looking for Joe Kerr. They have a warrant for his arrest.”

  Jay waited long enough to hear Madame Brossette catch her breath sharply, then h
e gently replaced the receiver. As he did so, he saw the two detectives walk briskly out of the cafe and cross the street.

  He watched them. If they found Kerr it wouldn’t be very long before they would start looking for him. This was a moment of intense excitement and when he saw them disappear into the Hotel Antibes, he drew in a quick breath of relief.

  “Did you hear what they said?” Ginette said excitedly.

  “Why I’ve actually spoken to the man! Is he the one who did it? A horrible looking man! He could have done it.”

  Jay smiled at her, his lips stiff.

  “They may only want information from him.” He looked at his wristwatch. “I’ve just remembered I have to see someone. I’m late already. I’ll see you tonight at the harbour.”

  Without giving her time to say anything, he left the cafe, crossed the hot sunbaked street and walked slowly past the Beau Rivage hotel.

  As he passed the entrance he glanced into the dark doorway.

  The thin girl was sitting at the desk, running her fingers through her untidy hair and staring fixedly out into the hot evening sunshine. There was no sign of Madame Brossette. This was not surprising, for Madame Brossette, as soon as she received Jay’s telephone call, had called her daughter, Maria, told her to watch the lobby and then she had plodded up the steep stairs to Joe’s room. She found Joe lying on his back on the bed in a heavy, drunken sleep. An empty bottle of Scotch lay by his side, his mouth hung open and he snored. She shook him roughly and Joe sat up, his eyes dazed as he stared at her.

  “Wazzamatter?” he asked feebly and would have toppled backwards if she hadn’t caught hold of him.

  “Wake up, Joe!”

  The snap in her voice brought Joe’s drink-fuddled mind awake and he blinked, shaking his head as he heaved his feet to the floor.

  “The police are searching the hotels. They are looking for you. Come on. I’ve got to get you out of sight.”

  “Me?” Joe’s face lost colour. “Why? They came here this morning, didn’t they?”

  “Yes and they’re, across the road at the Antibes right now. Come on, Joe.”

  He got unsteadily to his feet.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Just come with me.” Her big hand closed over his and she dragged rather than led him to the door and out into the corridor.

  “What’s the idea?” Joe asked, trying to clear his fuddled mind. “Maybe I’d better talk to them. Maybe we’d better give up this idea. I don’t like it. It’s blackmail. I’ll talk to them and give them the photographs. . .”

  She propelled him down the corridor, making soft soothing noises that one makes to a nervous cat. She opened a door into a cupboard full of brooms and pails.

  “You leave this to me, Joe,” she said, and, reaching for a hidden spring, she pressed it and the back of the cupboard slid aside. Beyond was a small room, equipped with a table, chair and a bed. It was lit by a tiny electric lamp let in the ceiling and ventilated by a shaft that connected with the chimney in the room next door. “In you go, Joe and stay quiet. I’ll be back in a little while. Just stay quiet.”

  Protesting and mumbling, Joe felt himself propelled forward and then there was a sharp clicking noise as the panel slid shut.

  Moving with a speed remarkable for one of her bulk, Madame Brossette hurried back to Joe’s room, bundled all his belongings into his shabby suitcase and put the suitcase in the cupboard, then she opened the window to let in some fresh air, snatched up the empty whisky bottle and went downstairs.

  As she entered the lobby, the two detectives came in.

  “You again?” she said, showing her white teeth in a grin of welcome. “What’s troubling you now?”

  Both the detectives knew Madame Brossette well. They had called on her from time to time trying to pick up evidence against the tobacco smugglers and they both knew what went

  on in the hotel.

  “Look, Jeanne,” the taller detective said, “We have had a tip that Kerr is here. Do you want us to get a warrant or do you let us look the place over?”

  Madame Brossette’s grin widened.

  “You’re wasting your time, boys,” she said, “but you can look. He’s not here. Mind how you go.” She closed one heavy eyelid. “Some of the rooms are occupied. Better knock before you walk in.”

  “Has he been here?”

  Madame Brossette spread her hands.

  “You didn’t ask me that before, did you? This morning you asked me if he was here and I said that he wasn’t. Now you ask me if he is here and I still say he isn’t, but when you ask me if he has been here, then I say he has. Yes, monsieur, he has been here.”

  The detective hunched his shoulders in exasperation.

  “Listen, you old fox, you know as well as I do when I asked this morning if he was here I meant was he staying here.”

  “I didn’t. You can’t expect me to read your mind. You asked me if he was here and I said he wasn’t.”

  “So he has been here?”

  “Certainly. He stayed here for eight days. What is all the fuss about? This morning you gave me a description of the fellow, then asked if he was here. You can’t blame me, monsieur. I told the truth.”

  “Then where is he?”

  “He left this morning before nine o’clock. I think he was going to Marseille. He mentioned something about it but I was busy and didn’t pay much attention. But he is coming back. He has left all his things here.”

  “Let’s have a look,” the detective said.

  Madame Brossette turned to her daughter.

  “You’d better run up and get the boys and girls out of here. These gentlemen will want to look at the other rooms. We don’t want to embarrass anyone.”

  The detective looked over to where his companion was standing.

  “Stay here and check them as they come out,” he said, then as Maria hurried up the stairs, he turned to Madame Brossette, “This is a serious matter, Jeanne. Kerr is wanted for murder.

  He killed this Balu girl.”

  Madame Brossette’s face remained impassive, but inwardly she was badly shocked.

  “He wouldn’t hurt a fly. What makes you think he did such a thing?”

  “We have enough evidence to put his neck under the knife,” the detective said. “Come on: show me his room.”

  Twenty minutes later, the detective came down the stairs, his face showing his disappointment. He had examined Joe’s belongings and had gone through all the rooms in the hotel and had found nothing. He was satisfied that Joe wasn’t in the hotel and now he walked over to the telephone and called Inspector Devereaux.

  Devereaux listened to his report, then he said: “Leave Evrard to watch the hotel and come back here. I’ll send another man down right away. Is there a back exit?”

  “No, Inspector.”

  “You’re sure he isn’t in the hotel?”

  “Yes, Inspector.”

  “All right. Tell Evrard that, if Kerr enters the hotel, he is to bring him to me at once. You come back here,” and Devereaux hung up.

  Madame Brossette watched the two detectives leave the hotel. She saw the shorter of the two stroll over to La Boule d’Or cafe and sit down at one of the tables that gave him a clear view of her hotel and her thick lips tightened.

  She went into her private office and sat down. The situation was becoming complicated. She now regretted giving the Delaney woman so much time to hand over the necklace. She decided, she had better hurry up the transaction. What possible evidence could the police have against Joe? She reached for the telephone and called the Plaza hotel.

  “Connect me with Madame Delaney,” she said.

  There was a pause, then the girl on the switchboard said, “Madame Delaney is out. She is not expected back until after the film showing.”

  Madame Brossette grunted and hung up. She stroked the side of her fat face, frowning, then she got to her feet, went into the bar, took up a bottle of whisky and plodded up the stairs.

&nbs
p; She found Joe sitting on the edge of the bed, his face glistening with sweat and she could almost hear the thudding of his heart.

  “What’s going on?” he demanded anxiously. “Look, I don’t like this! I’m going to the police right away. The whole thing was a mistake.”

  Madame Brossette sat down on the chair, which creaked under her weight. She poured two inches of whisky into the glass and gave the glass to Joe.

  “Don’t get excited,” she said. “It’s going to be all right.”

  Joe drank the whisky greedily, blew out his raddled cheeks and set the glass down. He needed the drink. It restored his shaken nerves.

  “What do you mean—all right?” he demanded. “The police are looking for me, aren’t they? If I’m not damn careful they may think I killed the girl. What do they want? What did they say?”

  “They think you might have seen the boy,” Madame Brossette lied smoothly. “They know you were in the hotel from the time the girl was killed until pretty late. They are looking for information. That’s all. There’s nothing to get excited about.”

  “I’m not excited,” Joe said, sweat running down his face. “They don’t think I killed her, do they?”

  “Don’t talk like a fool! Why should they?” Madame Brossette said. “All the same I think it would be better if we changed our plans.” She tipped some more whisky into the glass. “I think we should ask for more money and settle for one payment. I think you’ll have to tell them the truth, Joe and show them the photographs, but before you do that, we’ll get as much as we can out of the Delaney woman.”

  His hand shaking, Joe drank the whisky.

  “I don’t like it. I’m going to give the photographs to the police right away.”

  Madame Brossette moved impatiently. Although she was fond of Joe, she wasn’t going to lose the chance of picking up an easy ten million francs.

  “I told them you had gone to Marseille, Joe,” she said, “but that you would be back tomorrow. Don’t let’s spoil this thing. By tomorrow I’ll get the Delaney woman to part with her diamonds. As soon as we’ve got them, then you can go to the police. The diamonds are worth at least ten million.”