1958 - Not Safe to be Free

by James Hadley Chase

  He lay motionless, his arm tightening around her and in a moment or so, her quick, light breathing told him she was sleeping.

  I’ve never been so happy . . .

  Remorse bit into him as he thought of that ghastly moment when he had tightened the scarlet cord around the girl’s throat.

  Why had he done this thing? he asked himself. It wasn’t because he had been bored. That was a lie he had told Sophia to try to justify his act. Neither was it because he wanted to test his courage and his wits. He realized that now. That had also been a lie to try to justify what he had done to himself.

  He felt a cold chill creep over him as he was forced to recognize the fact that he had killed the girl because of an inner compulsion. Something inside him had urged him to kill her: a force he had been powerless to control.

  Was this then the thing people called insanity? Was he really out of his mind? Yet, lying here, with this girl at his side, feeling her breath against his neck, he felt as sane as he imagined any sane person would feel.

  He drew Ginette closer. His thoughts were of the activity that must be going on at the Cannes police headquarters. The police were already hunting for him. If he made one slip, he would be caught.

  Guilty but insane.

  If the jury brought in that verdict, what would they do with him?

  He would be put away in a cell, away from Ginette, shut up like a dangerous animal, not just for a few months, but for the rest of his days.

  Sweat broke out on his face at the thought.

  What a fool he had been! To have deliberately put himself in such a situation!

  Unable to remain any longer in bed, he drew his arm gently from under Ginette’s shoulders, moved the sheet aside and silently left the bed. Moving over to the window he lifted the blind a few inches. Already the early sun felt hot against his face as he looked down the narrow street.

  A few people were walking to work. The shutters of the shop windows were still drawn. A man pushing a handcart on which were piled vast bunches of white, red and purple carnations passed just below the bedroom window.

  Jay looked over at the Beau Rivage hotel. A gendarme stood in the shade, just inside the entrance, his face tight with boredom. A little further up the road stood a police van, its long radio aerial pointing like an accusing finger towards the blue sky.

  The sight of the gendarme and the police van made Jay feel sick. He remained motionless, watching the gendarme, unable to drag his eyes away from this symbol of his possible destruction.

  “Jay . . . what have you done to your arm?”

  He started and looked quickly around.

  Ginette had thrown aside the sheet and lay outstretched on the bed. She made a picture of beauty that quickened his heartbeat.

  “My arm? Why, nothing.”

  He moved away from the window.

  “But you have . . . look.”

  Then he saw the three long ragged scratches, the marks from Lucille Balu’s fingernails. They looked inflamed against the brownness of his skin.

  “Oh, that . . .” He shrugged. “It is nothing. I scratched myself on a nail.”

  “But doesn’t it hurt?” She was solicitous and he was pleased. No one had ever bothered before when he had hurt himself.

  “It’s nothing.”

  He came and sat beside her and bending over her, he put his mouth gently on hers. She gave a little sigh and her arms slid around his neck, pulling him to her.

  “Dear, dear Jay . . .”

  And no one had ever spoken to him like that before and he felt hot tears sting his eyes as he gripped her fiercely and lovingly.

  The hands of the clock moved on from six-thirty to eight o’clock.

  When Jay woke again he found Ginette no longer at his side and immediately he started up, his mind crawling with alarm.

  Where was she?

  Had the police come for him?

  In sudden panic, he scrambled off the bed and darted across the room to where he had left his clothes. He was groping frantically for the gun he had left in his trousers pocket when the door swung open.

  He felt a kick of fear against his heart as he looked over his shoulder.

  Ginette came in carrying a breakfast tray. She was wearing the blue jeans and a yellow cotton shirt. She was smiling, but her smile faded as she paused in the doorway and stared at him.

  The stiff motionless way in which he was crouching, the expression on his face, gave her the idea that he was frightened.

  “What is it, Jay?”

  He made an effort and pulled himself together.

  “Nothing. I woke suddenly and I wondered where you had got to,” he said, his voice a little unsteady. He pulled on his pale blue cotton trousers. “Breakfast? Good. I’m hungry.”

  She gave him a puzzled look, then set the tray down on the table. There was crisp bread, a large pat of butter, jam and coffee.

  They sat side by side on the bed while they breakfasted.

  Ginette said suddenly, “Jay . . . I don’t even know what work you do, except you do something in the film world.”

  “I’m in publicity,” Jay said. “It’s not much of a job.”

  “Will you be working this morning?”

  “Oh, no. My work’s finished here now. I’m taking a vacation. Then I’ll have to go to Venice.”

  “Won’t you be coming back, Jay?” she asked as she refilled his coffee cup.

  “I don’t know. Would you like to come to Venice with me?”

  She stared at him, her eyes opening wide.

  “Venice?” She shook her head. “I’d love it, but it’s not possible. I couldn’t leave my father.”

  He said what he knew was now impossible because he would never again be able to use his real name in safety.

  “We could get married.”

  She smiled at him and put her hand on his.

  “My father is helpless. He has no other means of earning a living. We French are loyal to our parents. It is a tradition. It’s something in our blood. I can’t marry so long as he is alive.”

  “You’re wasting your life,” Jay said impatiently. “When he dies what will happen to you?”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “Don’t let’s talk about it. What are you going to do this morning? I won’t be free until half past two; then we can go for a swim. The cafe reopens at six.”

  “I’ll stay here,” Jay said. “Do you mind? I’m tired.”

  “Of course you can stay here, but wouldn’t it be better for you to go out in the sun?”

  He finished his coffee and then lay back on the bed.

  “I’ve had enough of the sun. I like it here.” He smiled at her. “We have a few days together, Ginette. We are going to be very happy.”

  She touched his face gently.

  “I must go now. I have a lot to do.”

  “Is the cafe open yet?”

  “We don’t open until ten.”

  She bent over him and kissed him, her fingers smoothing back his hair, then, smiling at him, she picked up the tray and went out of the room.

  He put his hand to the place where she had kissed him and he had to struggle against the desire to weep. For some time he lay in an emotional vacuum, then he forced himself to think how he could get out of this trap he had dug for himself.

  If he could get to Paris, he felt he might be safe.

  As he lay thinking, he heard a murmur of voices downstairs.

  Immediately, he stiffened and sat up.

  The police?

  He went over to the window and looked out. The gendarme still guarded the entrance to the Beau Rivage hotel, but the police van had gone.

  Leaving the window, he crossed the room and eased open the door, his hand closing over the butt of the gun in his hip pocket.

  He heard a man’s voice say something and Ginette reply, although he couldn’t hear what was said. He moved silently into the passage and peered over the banister rail.

  He could see Ginette�
��s slim legs and small feet as she stood by the bar. The man she was talking to was out of sight.

  “It was murder,” Jay heard the man say. “There’s no doubt about it. I was talking to the gendarme just now. He says it was a clumsy attempt to make it look like suicide.”

  Jay’s fingers gripped the banister rail as he leaned forward to catch what the man was saying.

  “He told me the killer is insane. They know who he is. You’d better be careful who comes in here today.”

  Ginette laughed.

  “I’m not worrying. He isn’t likely to return to this district,” she said.

  “That’s where you are wrong. Killers often come back. They can’t keep away from the scene of their crime. Still, you don’t have anything to worry about. The gendarme are across the way. He’ll keep an eye on you.”

  “Well, I must get on. I have work to do.”

  “You’ll be busy today. People will come to look at the hotel. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Ginette moved out of Jay’s sight. He heard the cafe door open, then close and the key turn in the lock. How had the police found out that Kerr hadn’t killed himself? Jay wondered. If they were as clever as this, how was he to get away? Moving like a ghost, he started down the stairs until he could see into the bar.

  Ginette was bending over a table on which was spread a newspaper, her back turned to him. He watched her and, after a few moments, she became aware of him and she turned.

  “The police have found the man they were asking about yesterday—Joe Kerr,” she said, a little breathlessly. “They found him dead in the Beau Rivage hotel across the way. They say he was murdered and they think the man who killed Lucille Balu did it. They say he is insane.”

  “He isn’t insane,” Jay said, suddenly angry. “I explained that to you before. Of course he isn’t insane.”

  “But he must be,” Ginette said, turning back to the newspaper. “Inspector Devereaux is in charge of the case. He is very clever. He comes here quite often to talk to father. The paper says the Inspector knows who did it and he says that this man killed Kerr to make the police think it was Kerr who killed the girl.”

  “How do they know Kerr didn’t kill himself?” Jay asked, his lips stiff.

  “They don’t say.” Ginette paused while she studied the account in the newspaper, then she began to read the account aloud: “A quantity of human skin was found under the dead girl’s fingernails. It is believed she put up a desperate struggle while the killer was strangling her and she inflicted deep scratches on his arms and hands. The police ask anyone who has noticed a man with recent scratches on his arms to notify them at once.” She straightened and turned. “It’s strange isn’t it, how it is the little things that give murderers away? The scratches on his arm . . .” She stopped short, staring at Jay, who had begun to back away, his face white, his eyes glittering, his left hand trying to cover the inflamed scratches that ran from his wrist to his elbow.

  They stood staring at each other, then Ginette’s eyes opened very wide and she put her hand to her mouth as if to stop a scream.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I

  Soon after eight o’clock, as Floyd Delaney was finishing his morning coffee, the night nurse came into the lounge.

  “Madame Delaney is asking for you, monsieur,” she said. “You’ll be careful not to excite her?”

  “Sure, sure,” Delaney said, getting hastily to his feet. “How is she?”

  “She has a bad headache, but otherwise she is doing very well.”

  Delaney went into Sophia’s bedroom.

  Sophia, her head in bandages, lay flat on her back. She looked very small and fragile and beautiful and Delaney felt a tug at his heart as he sat by her side and took her hand.

  “Hello, honey doll,” he said. “Gee! You certainly gave me a fright. I thought I was going to lose my lovely.”

  Her fingers tightened on his.

  “Where’s Jay, Floyd?”

  This was unexpected and Delaney’s face stiffened. Ever since Devereaux had explained why he suspected Jay of killing Lucille Balu and Joe Kerr, Delaney had been in a fever of apprehension. He had told the Inspector that he didn’t believe his son was guilty, but, after the Inspector had gone and he had had time to recover from the shock and to think over what the Inspector had told him, he was forced to accept the fact that the insane fool of a boy had done this thing.

  He didn’t intend to tell Sophia while she was in this condition, so he said casually: “I guess he’s out taking a swim or something. Look, baby . . .”

  “He tried to kill me,” Sophia said huskily. “I’m so frightened.”

  Delaney stared at her.

  “Jay? He tried to kill you? Why, the boy rescued you. If it hadn’t been for him . . .”

  “He hit me with the paperweight. He intended to silence me. Oh, Floyd darling, I’ve been so stupid. I knew he had killed the girl. I didn’t tell anyone, as I wanted to protect us from the awful publicity.”

  Delaney drew in a sharp breath.

  “Now take it easy, Sophia. The nurse says you’re not to get worked up.”

  “Oh, damn the nurse!” Sophia exclaimed. “Where’s Jay? I must know! I’m frightened he’ll come back here and finish me. He’s mad, Floyd! He’s not safe to be free.”

  “It’s all right, kid,” Delaney said soothingly. “The police are hunting for him now and you have nothing to worry about. Do you think you feel like telling me about it? How did you know he killed the girl?”

  Speaking rapidly, Sophia poured out the whole story right from the moment she had walked into the suite and had suspected the girl was in Jay’s bedroom to the moment when she had realized the safety-catch was still on the gun and she had seen the paperweight flashing down on her head.

  Delaney sat motionless, his face hard and lined, his hand covering hers as he listened. When she had finished, he bent and kissed her, then he got up and began to prowl around the room.

  “Darling, what about the film tonight?” Sophia asked, her eyes bright with tears.

  “Never mind about the film,” Delaney said. “It’s good enough to ride this. I’m not worrying about that. It’s the boy! I never realized he was that crazy. I blame myself for not realizing the condition he was in.” He frowned suddenly. “I’ll be right back.” He went into Sophia’s bathroom and looked around. On the toilet table stood the heavy paperweight, but he wasn’t interested in that, he was looking; for Sophia’s gun. When he was satisfied it wasn’t in the bathroom, he went back to Sophia. “Look, honey, I must talk to the Inspector. I must tell him how dangerous the boy is. I’ll keep you out of this. Maybe it’ll have to come out that you knew what was happening, but we’ll take that when it comes. For the moment, I’ll say nothing about it, but I must tell him the boy attacked you.” He patted her hand, then said casually: “By the way, honey, was your gun loaded?”

  “Yes.”

  He saw her eyes open very wide. She tightened her grip on his arm.

  “Has he taken the gun?”

  “Yeah. I’m afraid he has. At least, it’s not in the bathroom. I’ll look in his room just to make sure, but I think he’s taken it.”

  “Oh, God!”

  Sophia closed her eyes and began to weep.

  Delaney went to the door and beckoned to the nurse.

  “Don’t leave her for a second. I’ll be back in a little while.”

  He went briskly into Jay’s room and glanced around. It was so obvious that the two detectives had searched the room thoroughly that he didn’t waste time looking for the gun. If

  Jay had left it in the room, the detectives would have found it.

  He left the suite, carefully locking the door after him, then went downstairs to Devereaux’s office. The time was now five minutes past nine.

  Devereaux sat behind the desk, drinking coffee. His face was drawn with fatigue and his eyes were deep-set, but he got to his feet briskly enough when Delaney came in.

  “Have you fou
nd him?” Delaney asked as he shut the door.

  “No, monsieur; not yet.”

  “Have you released the news to the press?”

  “It will be soon enough when we’ve caught him.”

  “You may have to get the press to help you,” Delaney said grimly. “He has a gun.”

  Devereaux stiffened.

  “You are sure of that, monsieur?”

  “Pretty sure. He’s not only got a gun, but he has a cutthroat razor as well. You’d better warn your men to be careful how they corner him.”

  Devereaux crossed to the door and opened it. He beckoned to Guidet, who was trying to keep awake as he lolled in a lounging chair waiting for orders. Devereaux spoke to him, then he returned to the office.

  “I’m afraid the boy’s completely out of his mind,” Delaney said. “His mother was the same. She killed herself after trying to kill me. Now this boy tried to kill my wife.” He went on to give Devereaux the details of Sophia’s escape.

  “Why do you think he tried to kill your wife, monsieur?” Devereaux asked, poking holes in the blotter with the paperknife he had picked up.

  “I don’t know. It looks as if he gets the urge to kill and he just kills.”

  “Have you a photograph of him, monsieur?”

  “Not here. I have a number in my New York home, of course. I don’t know if my publicity man has any.”

  “I’ll have to give this to the press now. There is no sign of him and we’ll have to ask the public to help. He may have left Cannes. He may be anywhere by now. He’s had a seven hour start. A photograph would be helpful.”

  “I’ll see if I can get one for you,” Delaney said. “He has money. He took nearly three million francs from my wallet.”

  Devereaux looked at him.

  “I realize what this means to you, monsieur, but I am afraid the consequences are inevitable. At least, it won’t be necessary to tell the press about the attack on your wife.”

  Delaney nodded.

  “Thanks, Inspector. Well, I guess I asked for it. I should have taken more interest in the boy. I’ll see if I can dig up a photograph for you.”

  When he had gone, Guidet came in.

  “The warning has gone out that he is armed,” he said, closing the door. “There’s still no sign of him.”