1958 - Not Safe to be Free Read online

  The whisky was beginning to have an effect on Joe. He rubbed his hand over his face, trying to think clearly.

  “What am I supposed to be doing in Marseille?” he demanded. “They’re certain to check up.”

  “Relax, Joe,” Madame Brossette said soothingly. “I know a fellow who’ll swear you spent the day with him. You’ve nothing to worry about.”

  “But she won’t part with the diamonds unless we give her the photographs and the negatives.”

  “She’ll get them.” Madame Brossette winked. “But the police will also get them. We won’t give the police her photograph and I’ll tell her I’ve kept one back. She’ll keep her mouth shut if she knows we’ve still got her photograph.”

  Joe reached out and took the whisky bottle from her and sloshed a huge drink into the glass.

  “You think she’ll part with the diamonds?” he asked. “Phew! What one could do with ten million francs.”

  “Yes, Joe.” Madame Brossette decided he was now over his scare and she could leave him. She didn’t like leaving Maria on her own in the lobby. “Now relax. Take a nap. You can leave it all to me.”

  Joe lay back on the bed. He drank some of the whisky, then put the glass on the table beside him.

  “Well, if you think you can handle it . . . I don’t want any trouble. Still if we get ten million francs it’ll put me on easy street for the rest of my life.”

  “And me too,” Madame Brossette said gently. “We go shares on this, Joe.”

  “Sure,” Joe said, but his face fell. Five million francs sounded much less attractive than ten.

  Madame Brossette got to her feet.

  “I’ll be back again in a little while. You stay here for tonight. I’ll call this fellow in Marseille and fix things for you.”

  His hand now much more steady, Joe finished his drink, then he closed his eyes.

  As Madame Brossette left the room, he began to snore.

  II

  Jay sat at a table of a cafe near the Casino, reading the late edition of Nice-Matin. The time was ten minutes to ten. It was dark, not starlit and there was a new moon.

  Jay was wearing a dark blue lightweight suit and a dark blue open neck shirt. He made a drab figure in comparison to the other people at the tables around him in their bright holiday clothes.

  He was reading the description of Joe Kerr that was printed on the front page of the paper with the statement that the police believed this man could help them in their inquiries.

  Jay was a little worried.

  Was Kerr still in the hotel or had he been smuggled away?

  He had satisfied himself that the two detectives hadn’t found him, for he had walked past the hotel several times during the past two hours and he had seen the two detectives sitting outside La Boule d’Or, obviously watching the Beau Rivage hotel.

  The watching detectives made Jay’s plan much more difficult.

  They would see him enter the hotel and that could be fatal.

  As the waiter passed with a loaded tray, Jay ordered another cafe espresso. He lit a cigarette, and, as he returned the lighter to his pocket, his fingers touched the coiled curtain cord he had brought with him.

  He felt in his other pocket for the loose beads of the necklace he had bought and then his fingers moved to the inside of his jacket and touched the leather case containing the razor.

  He laid down his paper and stared across the small harbour, seeing the masts of the yachts sharply outlined against the sky and his mind brooded on his problem.

  The waiter put the espresso on the table in front of him and Jay paid him. When he had finished the coffee, he got up and walked slowly towards Rue d’Antibes.

  He reached Rue Foch a few minutes after ten o’clock. The back street was deserted. The only lights came from La Boule d’Or and from the entrance of the Beau Rivage hotel.

  Jay walked slowly down the street, his hands in his trousers pockets, his head slightly bent, his eyes screened by his dark glasses.

  The two detectives were still sitting at the table. They had beers in front of them and they were talking together in low tones. Neither of them paid any attention to him and he slowed his stride to look into the bar.

  Ginette’s father sat behind the bar, staring emptily across the room. There was no sign of Ginette.

  Jay moved on and a few yards further on, he passed the entrance to the hotel.

  Madame Brossette was sitting behind the reception desk, a cigarette between her full lips while she flicked over the pages or a magazine, the expression on her face revealing her disinterest.

  He had hoped by now the detectives would have gone. This was going to make things difficult and dangerous. If he went into the hotel they might wonder who he was and what he was doing going into the place alone and without luggage. The woman, too, might be suspicious of him.

  He paused at the street corner and taking out a packet of cigarettes he slit the seal with his thumbnail while he considered the problem.

  It was solved for him when he heard a soft voice behind him say, “Hello, cheri, were you looking for me?”

  He turned.

  A girl stood on the edge of the kerb: a thin, shabbily dressed girl who was eyeing him speculatively as her red, full lips curved into a professional smile.

  “Hello,” he said. “Yes, I was looking for you as it happens.”

  She giggled and moved up to him.

  “Well, here I am. There’s a little hotel down the street.”

  He could smell the cheap scent on her and her hard, young-old eyes made him feel a little sick. “Come with me, cheri. I’ll arrange everything.”

  He walked with her down the dark street.

  “Are you on holiday, cheri?” she asked, keeping close to him so her bare arm rubbed against his coat sleeve.

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re American, aren’t you? You speak very good French.”

  She had the Midi accent and he had to listen carefully to understand her.

  “Do you think so? Is this the hotel?”

  He slowed his pace a little, his mouth suddenly turning dry.

  To do what he had to do with the police within fifty paces of the hotel was tempting providence, but he had no other alternative. He had to get the photographs and the negatives if he were going to survive.

  “Yes,” the girl said, linking her arm through his as if she were suddenly frightened that he would lose his nerve and not go in. “It’s all right, cheri. I come here often. It’ll cost two thousand francs and then there’s my present.”

  “Two thousand francs? That’s too much.”

  “It isn’t, cheri. You can stay the night. Most gentlemen like to stay the night. . .”

  As they walked into the hotel, Jay didn’t look towards the two detectives, sitting across the way, but he was sure they had seen them go in. The girl wasn’t much shorter than he and by slightly bending his knees and by keeping his head down he managed to screen himself by her so that the detectives couldn’t get a good look at him.

  Madame Brossette laid down her magazine and nodded to the girl.

  “Well, Louisa?”

  “My friend and I . . .”

  “Of course.”

  Madame Brossette merely glanced at Jay as he put two one thousand franc notes down on the desk.

  “The gentleman would like to stay the night,” the girl said and giggled.

  Madame Brossette picked up the notes.

  How strong she looked! Jay thought. He looked at her red, rough hands. They were as big and as strong as the hands of a man.

  “You know the room, cherie? The usual one. . .”

  The girl took the key Madame Brossette pushed towards her and taking Jay’s arm she led him up the steep dark stairs to a dimly-lit landing.

  A man and a girl, coming down the passage, paused at the head of the stairs to let Jay and his companion pass. Jay saw the two girls exchange winks. Sheepishly the man pushed past Jay and started down the stairs.r />
  His companion said: “Mind how you fall, cheri.”

  Louisa unlocked a door facing the head of the stairs. She turned on the light and walked in, followed by Jay. The room was small and sordid. There was a bed, a chair, a washstand with a bowl and an enamel jug containing water on which floated a film of dust. A threadbare rug by the bed sent up a puff of dust as Jay trod on it.

  The girl shut the door and turned the key. She moved up to Jay, smiling invitingly.

  Jay slumped down on the bed. He took from his hip pocket two crumpled five thousand franc notes.

  “I’m sorry, mademoiselle,” he said and smiled at her, “but you must excuse me. I have changed my mind. I hope you will accept this. I regret wasting your time.”

  The girl stared at the two notes as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.

  “Are those for me?”

  “Of course. I hope you will excuse me.”

  She plucked the notes out of his hand as if she were afraid he would change his mind.

  “What’s the matter? Don’t you like me?” she asked. Her voice was curious rather than hostile.

  “Of course, but I have been walking all night and now I find I am very tired. Will it be all right for me to stay here a few hours and rest?”

  The girl folded the notes and hastily put them in her purse.

  From her expression Jay could see she couldn’t make up her mind whether to be insulted or indifferent.

  “What kind of poor fish are you?” she said, moving to the door. “This is the first time any man has ever told me he was too tired.”

  “You must excuse me, mademoiselle. Will it be all right for me to stay a little while?”

  “You paid for the room, didn’t you?”

  She went out, slamming the door.

  Jay sat motionless, his clenched fists squeezed between his knees.

  Somewhere in this dingy hotel was Joe Kerr and where Kerr was the photographs and the negatives would be.

  Now he had to find them.

  He took the leather razor case from his pocket and took the razor from it, putting the empty case back in his pocket. The razor, closed, he slipped under the strap of his wristwatch.

  Then, moving silently, he crossed to the door, opened it a few inches and stood listening.

  Chapter Ten

  I

  In the meantime. . .

  A little after six o’clock, Jean Thiry walked into the Plaza lobby. He had spent the morning and the afternoon in the cinema, watching two foreign movies, trying to make up his mind to the fact that, by Lucille Balu’s death, he had now been reduced to the status of a third-rate agent and if he wanted to survive, he would have to get back into the harness of solid, grinding work. He realized these two movies had possibilities. He hoped he could sell at least bits of them to a Polish agent who was looking for “shorts” at a cut-rate price.

  So he had put Lucille Balu out of his mind and had watched the movies, noting the bits that might be commercial. Now, as he walked into the lobby, he saw that people looked at him out of the corners of their eyes and he knew they were thinking that, with Lucille Balu out of his stable, he was now of no account and he knew the judgment was just.

  A detective moved over to him and touched his arm.

  “Pardon, monsieur, the Inspector would like to speak to you.”

  Devereaux sat behind his borrowed desk, his notes in a neat pile in front of him and he waved Thiry to a chair, half rising, his face grave and his brow wrinkled.

  “We have found a blue bead in one of the suites on the second floor,” he said, taking the bead from a plastic envelope with a pair of stamp tongs. “We have reason to believe it is a bead from the necklace Mademoiselle Balu wore.”

  He placed the bead on the white blotter and pushed the blotter forward so Thiry could examine the bead.

  “It is possible,” Thiry said after looking at it. “She had so many necklaces. It could be one of hers. I don’t know.”

  Devereaux moved impatiently.

  “Surely, monsieur, you will remember this bead. You told me you were with her on the beach before she was killed. She was wearing the necklace at the time. Please try to think of the necklace which she was wearing on the beach.”

  Thiry frowned.

  “She wasn’t wearing a necklace,” he said in a flat, definite tone.

  Again Devereaux made an impatient movement.

  “But I have evidence that assures me that she was monsieur.”

  Thiry shrugged.

  “She wasn’t wearing a necklace. I can assure you of that.”

  Impressed by his manner, Devereaux scratched the tip of his nose while he stared at Thiry.

  “Yet it was you who told me of her habit of wearing necklaces, monsieur.”

  “Yes, yes, but I didn’t say she wore a necklace when she was on the beach. She didn’t. As soon as she got out of her swimsuit she always put on a necklace, but she never wore one when in a swimsuit. I know what I’m talking about. I’ve known the girl for some years. She was not wearing a necklace when she was on the beach. That is final. If you don’t believe me, we can get the photographs of her that were taken when she was posing on the beach and you can see for yourself.”

  Devereaux suddenly felt vaguely excited.

  “I would be glad to see the photographs, monsieur.”

  “That’s easily done. If you will wait, I’ll get them.”

  “Thank you, monsieur.”

  When Thiry left the office Devereaux again went through his notes and took, from the collection of the neatly written evidence, the interview he had had with Jay Delaney.

  He read:

  Q. You didn’t see her when you went up to your suite?

  A. No, I didn’t. I would have told you if I had.

  Q. And at no time after you had spoken to the girl on the beach did you see her in the hotel?

  A. That is right.

  He turned another page.

  Q. I wonder if you could describe the bead necklace the girl was wearing?

  A. Why yes. They were big sapphire blue beads. . .

  Devereaux laid down the notes and lit a cigarette. He sat staring up at the ceiling, his expression blank until Thiry returned with the photographs.

  “Here they are, Inspector,” he said and laid on the desk half a dozen pictures of Lucille Balu posing on the beach.

  “You see? She wasn’t wearing a necklace.”

  Devereaux studied the photographs, then he swept them into a neat pile and laid them on top of his notes.

  “Thank you, monsieur. You have been most helpful.”

  When Thiry had gone, Devereaux sat for some minutes thinking, then, getting to his feet, he went to the office door and beckoned to Guidet, who was waiting outside.

  “I would like to speak to young Delaney. Is he in the hotel?”

  Guidet inquired from the hall porter.

  Returning to Devereaux, he said: “No, he’s out somewhere. Do you want me to look for him?”

  “Please tell the hall porter to let me know immediately he returns,” Devereaux said. “We won’t look for him. After all, he is the son of a very important man. We must be careful.” He smiled, lifting his shoulders in resignation. “It will be enough when he returns.”

  It was fortunate for Jay that, when he did return to the hotel, the hall porter was having trouble with an irate American film actress who wanted to know why there was no berth for her on the Blue Train to Paris.

  So Jay was able to go up to the suite and a little later leave the hotel without Devereaux being aware that he had done so.

  It wasn’t until after ten o’clock that Devereaux regretfully telephoned headquarters and gave instructions for Jay to be found and brought immediately to the Plaza.

  II

  In the meantime . . .

  All the afternoon Sophia had been wrestling with her conscience. She kept wondering what Jay was doing. Between now and nine o’clock I will have arranged something he had said. I don’
t think you will have to give her the necklace.

  What could he arrange? she kept wondering. The photographs were damning. Knowing the kind of woman she had met with, Sophia was sure Madame Brossette had either to be paid or she would carry out her threat and send the photographs to the police.

  Several times during the afternoon and the evening, Sophia had been tempted to tell her husband, but she flinched from the inevitable explosion she knew would follow. She blamed herself for not giving Jay away at once. By not doing so, she had made herself an accessory to murder and thinking about this as she sat at her husband s side, watching a French movie, she imagined herself in prison and the thought sent cold chills up her spine.

  Jay must do something! she told herself. He had got her into this mess and he must get her out of it!

  Then she came back to the thought that had nagged her ever since he had left her. How? How was he to do it?

  It was while she was in the cinema, her nerves tense, her mind far away from the lighted screen, that Madame Brossette told her daughter to take over the reception desk and then plodded up the steep stairs to see how Joe was getting on.

  She was uneasy about Joe. The detective had said they had enough evidence to convict him for the girl’s murder. What possible evidence could they have except that he had been seen on the second floor of the hotel at the time of the murder? And now Nice-Matin had printed a description of him. If the two detectives continued to watch outside, how was she going to get Joe out of the hotel without his being seen?

  She walked heavily down the passage to the broom cupboard.

  There she paused to listen and to look up and down the passage.

  From a door close by she heard a girl protesting shrilly and a man cursing her. Shrugging, she opened the cupboard door and stepped inside.

  Moving like a ghost, Jay stole out of his room and down the passage. He had taken off his shoes and he made no sound as he reached the cupboard door. It was shut now and he put his ear against the panel and listened. He heard a sharp clicking sound of a released spring, then a sliding noise. He waited, his heart beating fast, his ears straining.

  “Anything I can get you, Joe?” he heard the woman ask.