1958 - Not Safe to be Free

by James Hadley Chase

  The hall porter shook his head.

  “No, Inspector. I don’t think he has left.”

  Harry Stone, waiting for his key, said: “Yeah, young Delaney went out about half an hour ago. He’s gone fishing.”

  Devereaux thanked him and, jerking his head at Leroy, he crossed the lobby and took the elevator to the second floor.

  Guidet was prowling about the corridor.

  “He hasn’t appeared,” he said as Devereaux and Leroy joined him.

  “He isn’t in the suite. They say downstairs he has gone fishing.”

  “Shall I have him picked up?” Guidet asked.

  “Not yet. I’d better talk to his father first. You two wait here. When I want you, I’ll call you,” and, leaving the two detectives by the elevator, Devereaux crossed the corridor and rapped on the door to suite 27.

  The door opened immediately and Floyd Delaney, in pyjamas and dressing gown, stood aside.

  “Inspector Devereaux?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry to disturb you . . .”

  “Come in. What’s it all about?”

  Devereaux entered the lounge.

  “I understand your son isn’t here?”

  “That’s right. I guess he’s gone out for a breath of air. He wasn’t well. We’ve had a nasty shock. My wife had an accident. She slipped in the bath and pretty nearly died. It upset the kid.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Devereaux said, glancing around the room. “Is Madame better?”

  “Yeah, she’s coming along. Why are you interested in my son?”

  “I’m investigating the murder of Lucille Balu,” Devereaux said. “I wanted to ask him some questions.”

  Delaney stared at him.

  “What the hell for?” Then with a sudden apologetic wave of his hand, he said, “Sit down, Inspector. I didn’t mean to sound touchy, but I’ve had quite a night.”

  Devereaux sat down in an armchair.

  “I appreciate that, monsieur and I regret having to trouble you. Your son was the last person to speak to the girl.”

  “He was? I didn’t know he even knew her. Well? What’s that to do with it?”

  “He made a statement to me this morning and the statement wasn’t entirely satisfactory,” Devereaux said, choosing his words.

  Delaney crossed over to the table, picked up a box of cigarettes and offered it to the Inspector.

  Devereaux took a cigarette and lit it with his lighter. As he returned the lighter to his pocket, it slipped out of his sweating hand and dropped into the chair, sliding down between the cushion and the arm.

  Delaney said sharply; “In what way—not satisfactory?”

  Devereaux paused to retrieve his lighter and his finger closed over another object that had slipped down between the cushion and the chair arm. He pulled it into sight. He found himself looking at a narrow lizard-skin handbag, with the initials L.B. in gold in one of the corners.

  He stared at the bag, remembering what Jean Thiry had said: Yes, she had a handbag. It was one I gave her. It was quite small. She carried a powder compact, handkerchief and lipstick in it. It was a narrow lizard-skin bag with her initials on it.

  Delaney moved forward, frowning.

  “What have you got there?”

  “Mademoiselle Balu’s handbag,” Devereaux said quietly. “There’s no doubt about that. Look, it has her initials on it. The girl was murdered in this room.”

  Delaney stiffened.

  “What the hell do you mean? In this room? What is this?”

  Devereaux got to his feet.

  “I’m afraid, monsieur, it is very serious. I must ask you to allow my men to examine your son’s room.”

  “My son?” Delaney suddenly remembered that Sophia had told him Jay had had a girl up in their suite. Could the girl have been Lucille Balu? “What’s my son got to do with this?”

  “I have reason to believe he is responsible for the girl’s death,” Devereaux said.

  “That’s a lie!” Delaney said, his voice even and quiet. “Are you suggesting that my son murdered the girl?”

  “I have reason to believe that he did.”

  Delaney drew in a long, deep breath.

  “You have? Then you’d better state your reasons pretty damn quick or you could find yourself out of a job!”

  “Have you any objections to my men examining your son’s room, monsieur?” Devereaux asked. He felt sorry for this big, powerful American whose eyes plainly showed his increasing anxiety.

  “Go ahead! I am quite sure my son has nothing to hide!”

  Devereaux stepped to the door, opened it and beckoned to Guidet and Leroy.

  The two detectives entered the suite.

  “Look for prints,” Devereaux said to Leroy in an undertone, “and hurry.”

  The two detectives went into Jay’s room and there was a long, awkward pause.

  Delaney sat down and stared at the carpet, his face was pale.

  He remembered what Sophia had said about Jay being queer. He also thought of Harriette and how she had crept towards him, knife in hand, with that animal-like, insane expression on her face. Surely the boy hadn’t done this thing! But if he had! Delaney’s mind shied away from the consequences of such a thing. And the premier of the picture he had sunk so much money in was on tonight!

  Leroy came out of Jay’s bedroom.

  Devereaux looked anxiously at him and Leroy gave him a cheerful nod and a grin.

  “No doubt about it, Inspector,” he said briskly. “The room is full of the print we’ve found.”

  Delaney got to his feet.

  “What print?”

  “If you will give me a few seconds, monsieur, I’ll explain everything to you,” Devereaux said gently, then, turning to Guidet, he went on in an undertone: “Get him as quickly as you can. He may have bolted. Put as many men on the job as you want, but get him!”

  Guidet nodded and he and Leroy left the suite.

  Devereaux sat down in the lounging chair.

  “I’m afraid this is going to be a great shock to you, monsieur,” he said quietly. “Your son is now wanted for two murders.”

  “Two murders?”

  Delaney’s face went white and he sat down abruptly.

  “Yes,” and, speaking rapidly, Devereaux gave him the facts of the case.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I

  The unexpected telephone call that had sent Ginette’s father off hurriedly to St. Tropez had left Ginette on her own to handle the care trade.

  As the cafe offered a vantage point to watch the Beau Rivage hotel, a number of people, curious to see why there was so much police activity going on in the hotel, had crowded into the cafe and Ginette was kept busy attending to their needs while they sat at the tables gaping at the lighted entrance across the way.

  It wasn’t until half-past one that the spectators decided there was nothing further to see and began to drift away to their homes and Ginette was able to shut the cafe.

  This was the first time she had been left entirely alone in the cafe, but it didn’t worry her. After locking the cafe door and pulling down the blind, she turned off the lights in the bar room and then going into the kitchen, she set about the business of washing up the fifty or so glasses and the dozen or so coffee cups before going to bed.

  While she worked she thought of Jay. She was disappointed that she hadn’t been able to see him this night, but she was pleased he had suggested coming to see her in the morning.

  She liked him, she told herself. She knew he liked her. It was an instinctive feeling and she was sure she wasn’t mistaken.

  Perhaps the word “like” was too mild a word to express her feelings, she thought, as she slid coffee cups into the sink. Could she be falling in love with him?

  It was while she was drying the cups and putting them in neat rows on the shelf, her mind still occupied with her thoughts of Jay, that she became aware that someone was gently tapping on the street door.

  She paused to l
isten, surprised and a little uneasy. The knocking continued.

  She hesitated, then she turned off the light and moved silently into the dark bar room.

  The faint light from the moon reflecting into the room gave her enough light to find her way to the street door. Against the blind that covered the glass door, she could see the shadowy outline of a man and she stopped, wondering who it could be, her uneasiness growing.

  Knuckles continued to knock against the glass, then a voice said very softly: “Ginette? Are you there? It’s Jay.”

  She went immediately to the door and pulled aside the blind.

  They looked at each other through the glass panel. The moonlight fell fully on her, while he was in the shadow and she smiled at him as she turned the key in the lock and opened the door.

  “Why, hello,” she said. “What are you doing here at this time?”

  He stood motionless, looking at her. She couldn’t see him clearly, but she did see he had taken off his dark glasses and over his shoulder he carried what looked like a canvas sack.

  “I’ve come to stay,” he said. “You said there was a room for me.”

  She hesitated, then, as he moved forward, she gave ground and he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. She heard him fumble with the key and turn it.

  “I—I don’t think you can stay here tonight,” she said a little breathlessly. “You see I’m alone here. Father had to go to St. Tropez.”

  “Yes, you told me. I’m sorry,” he said, dropping the sack on the floor. “But you can’t turn me away. I have nowhere else to go.”

  She found it exciting and disturbing to be in the semidarkness so close to him. She could feel the heat of his body as he stood by her.

  “Wait a moment,” she said. “I’ll put on a light.”

  “No, don’t do that.” His voice sharpened and surprised her. “Wasn’t there a light just now at the back?”

  “Yes, I was clearing up. When I heard your knock I was startled. I put the light out.”

  “Clearing up? Let me help you.” He walked past her into the kitchen and turned on the light. “You have all this to do?” he asked as she came to the door and he waved his hand at the trays of glasses on the table. “Don’t you have any help?”

  She laughed.

  “I’m used to it. It won’t take very long.”

  She moved into the kitchen and over to the sink.

  “Have you really nowhere to sleep?”

  “No. I’ve left my hotel. You said you had a room for me, so naturally I came here.”

  She began to slide the glasses into the sink.

  “Well, I suppose you could have a room, but I don’t think my father will approve.” She smiled at him. “Will you want it for long?”

  “Two days. When is he coming back?”

  “I don’t know. His brother is very ill. He may be away for a week.”

  “Then it doesn’t matter if he approves or not, for he won’t know, will he?”

  He picked up a cloth and began to dry the glasses as she rinsed them.

  “I don’t like doing anything that I know he would disapprove of,” she said, wanting him to stay, but making excuses to her conscience.

  He watched her, his heart beating rapidly, thinking how beautiful she was and loving her.

  “Then I’ll go. As soon as I have finished helping you, I’ll go and I’ll sleep on the harbour somewhere.”

  She laughed.

  “I’m sure you don’t intend to do any such thing. You are trying to work your way into my heart.”

  “Would that be very difficult?”

  She paused, her hands in the water and looked over her shoulder at him.

  “I don’t think it would.”

  He put down the glass he was drying and let the cloth drop out of his hand, then he moved towards her. She smiled as she faced him.

  “You’re like no other girl I have ever known. Up to now, girls have never meant anything to me but you . . .”

  She put her hands on his chest, pushing him back.

  “I don’t think we should be doing this, Jay.”

  “You are only saying that because it is the conventional thing to say. You don’t really mean it, do you?”

  She hesitated, then shook his head.

  “No, you’re quite right. I don’t mean it at all.”

  She dropped her hands and let him draw her against him and she leaned against him, her heart beating violently.

  Jay thought, this is something I have never experienced before. Why have I been so utterly stupid? Why have I put my future in jeopardy? I could have found everything I have been searching for in this girl.

  His kiss was clumsy, but Ginette reacted to it in a way that set his blood on fire. They clung to each other, their bodies hard against each other’s, her fingers moving gently up the back of his neck and through his hair.

  Then suddenly she broke free and turned away, her breathing quick and hard.

  “We mustn’t do this, Jay. Please . . .”

  For some seconds, he remained motionless, his mind in a daze, then he said unsteadily: “Why not? I love you.”

  The words sounded horribly trite to him. Every character in every one of his father’s movies said I love you sooner or later: the cheap, stylized jargon of the commercial cinema.

  She looked over her shoulder, her eyes searching and questioning.

  “I know so little about you,” she said. “You are a stranger to me. I can’t understand why I should feel as I do feel about you. We’ve only met for an hour or so and we talk of love.”

  “I know.” He lifted his hands helplessly. “For me it is different. I’ve been lonely and unwanted all my life. Then I meet you and I’m no longer lonely.”

  She turned, smiling at him.

  “We won’t do any more of this,” she said, waving her hands at the glasses still to be washed. “I’ll show you your room.”

  He looked at her and he saw how bright her eyes were and how quickly she was breathing and because the excitement inside him was almost too strong for him to bear, he went out of the kitchen into the semidarkness of the bar room and picked up the sack he had left on the floor.

  She turned out the light in the kitchen and moved to a door leading to a steep flight of stairs. She paused in the doorway, turning on the light so he could see the stairs and he looked at her; seeing the expression in her eyes he knew for certain what was going to happen and he hesitated.

  Sexual experience was an unknown factor in his suppressed, enclosed life. He had never considered it because he had never expected any girl would want to yield to him. Now he saw Ginette was ready to offer herself to him, his nerve quailed. He thought of the girl he had killed and he regretted the act. The excitement, the test of his ingenuity, wits and courage seemed suddenly petty and ridiculous.

  What Ginette would offer him was the ultimate thing in a man’s life, he told himself. He was suddenly sure of it. The other—the act of killing, the false excitement, the pitting of wits—was a sham and he was sickened at the thought that now he could never again lead a normal life. He would never know when the police would catch up with him.

  “It’s on the first floor,” Ginette said.

  He watched her climb the stairs and he was now acutely aware of her body in the tight-fitting singlet and cotton trousers she was wearing. He picked up the sack and followed her up the steep stairs to a door at the head of the stairs.

  As she turned on the light in the room, she smiled at him.

  “It’s not much of a room, but the bed is comfortable,” she said.

  He moved up to her, looking beyond her into the small, clean room with its bed, its strip of carpet, its chest of drawers and the bright oil painting of Cannes harbour on the wall.

  “It’s wonderful,” he said. “I couldn’t wish for anything better.”

  He tossed the sack down by the bed, then deliberately went over to the window and faced her. They looked at each other, then Ginette ca
me into the room and closed the door.

  “Jay . . . I know I shouldn’t be doing this, but I can’t help myself. I love you so,” she said. “Please be kind to me.”

  “Kind?” His breathing was quick and his heart hammering. “Why, of course.” He put his arms round her and drew her close to him. “You need never be frightened of me, Ginette.” He pressed his face against hers. “You are the special thing in my life.”

  II

  The hot sunlight coming through the shutters and lying across the bed woke Jay. He moved drowsily and then lifted his head, staring around the unfamiliar little room. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was, then looking around and seeing Ginette asleep at his side, he relaxed back on the pillow. He lay still, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the sounds in the street below.

  Then, languidly, he reached for his watch, lying on the bedside table and saw it was twenty-five minutes past six.

  He raised himself up on his elbow to look more closely at Ginette, who moved in her sleep, her hand sliding across his naked chest.

  His mind came alert.

  By this time the police would know he had killed the Balu girl and they would be searching for him. His description would probably be in the morning papers. He lay back, sliding his arm under Ginette’s shoulders, drawing her close to him and he thought of what he must do.

  It would be better, he told himself, for him to remain out of sight in this room until the first intensive search for him had died down. He would be safe here. When he was sure the search had slackened, then he would slip away one night and make for Paris.

  There would be difficulties. His description would be in all the newspapers. Ginette might see the description and recognize him. How would she react? Without her cooperation, he might easily fail to get away.

  He turned his head to look at her and, as he did so, she opened her eyes, smiling sleepily at him.

  “What is the time, Jay?” she asked.

  “Half-past six.”

  She gave a little sigh of content and pressed herself against him.

  “We don’t have to get up until nine. Go to sleep,” she said, her lips now against his neck. “I’ve never been so happy . . .”