Not Safe to Be Free [= The Case of the Strangled Starlet]

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 swim-suit she always put on a necklace, but she never wore one when in a swim-suit. I know what I’m talking about. I’ve known the girl for some years. She was not wearing a neck-lace 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:

He turned another page.

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. “Do you want something to eat?”

Jay’s lips moved into his meaningless smile.

So Kerr was in there!

He moved away from the door and walked silently back to his room, pushing the door nearly shut. Then, leaning against the wall, he waited.

Joe Kerr moved uneasily as he frowned up at Madame Brossette.

“I’m all right,” he mumbled. “What’s the idea? You woke me up.”

“I thought I’d see how you were getting on.” She patted his arm. “Are you hungry?”

“No. I’m all right.” He closed his eyes. She could see he was very drunk. “Just leave me alone, will you?”

“I’ll be up again,” she said and she remained at his side until he began to snore, then leaving him, she walked down the passage, down the stairs and back into the lobby.

“All right,” she said to her daughter. “You get off now. Don’t be back too late.”

Maria slid off the chair behind the reception desk.

“I won’t be back until two,” she said sulkily, “so don’t expect me before then.”

Madame Brossette grunted. She was long past worrying about her daughter. In another year the girl would be walking the back streets of Cannes and would be hiring a room at the hotel. Madame Brossette believed in sacrificing sentiment for profit. What had been good enough for her when she had been young should surely be good enough for her daughter.

She watched Maria leave the hotel, then, lighting a cigarette, she settled down on the chair her daughter had vacated and with a bored grimace, picked up her magazine and began to leaf through its pages.

Jay moved silently to the head of the stairs and looked down at her; then, satisfied she would be occupied for a while, he moved on bare feet down the corridor to the broom cupboard.

He paused to listen outside the door, then he put his hand on the door handle and turned it gently. He eased open the door a few inches and was surprised to find himself looking into total darkness. He listened and, hearing nothing, he moved into the cupboard, closing the door behind him. For some moments he remained motionless, his breathing coming hard and fast while he tried to pick up any sound that would tell him he was in the room in which Kerr was sleeping. Finally, hearing nothing, he took out his cigarette lighter and flicked the flame alight. Then he saw where he was — in a broom cupboard and seeing an electric light switch, he put on the light.

Madame Brossette’s conversation with Joe which he had overheard told him there must be a false wall in the cupboard and it didn’t take him more than a few minutes to discover the spring release that operated the false door.

He stood looking into a small room, not more than ten feet square. There was a bed, and, on the bed, lay Joe Kerr, his breathing heavy and punctuated with slow, strangled snores.

Jay moved back to the cupboard door and slid the bolt that was on the inside of the door, then he moved silently into the inner room until he reached the bed.

He stood looking down at Joe as he slept, the light from the outer room giving enough illumination for Jay to see the raddled, tired face in some detail.

He pulled the razor from his wrist-watch strap, then he sat on the bed and reaching out, gently shook Joe’s shoulder.

Joe was dreaming of his wife and for a change, the dream wasn’t a nightmare. He was seeing her, in slacks and a flowered patterned shirt, weeding the flagged path that led up to the cottage Joe had rented for their honeymoon and Joe smiled as he watched her in his dream.

Then he became aware of a hand on his shoulder gently shaking him and the dream was spoilt, stopping abruptly the way the picture on a movie screen stops when the film snaps.

Jeanne again! he thought angrily. Why can’t she leave a guy alone? He hunched his shoulders, mumbling a protest, then he tried to free himself from the persistently shaking hand.

Fingers gripped his coat more firmly and into his dream-dazed mind came a sudden sense of danger and a warning that these weren’t Jeanne’s thick, heavy fingers that had so often shaken him awake. Slowly he turned his head and opened his eyes.

He looked up at Jay, who sat motionless at his side, his left hand resting on Joe’s shoulder.

Joe couldn’t believe what he was seeing, then, with a gasp of fright, he started to sit up, but the fingers on his shoulder suddenly turned into steel claws and dug into his flesh, making him gasp with pain and fear and forcing him flat again.

He lay motionless, his heart thumping, sweat on his face, as he looked at the compact motionless figure who was sitting beside him and for the first time in his life, Joe experienced real fear: fear that turned him cold, that dried his mouth, that paralysed him.

The pale expressionless face with its dark glasses, the lips curved in a meaningless smile, struck a sick terror into him like a knife thrust.

“It’s Mr. Kerr, isn’t it?” Jay said, leaning forward slightly so Joe could see his own reflection in the two dark screens of the boy’s glasses.

“How did you get in here?” Joe croaked. “You... you’ve no business in here.”

The thin, pale lips moved into a smile that accelerated Joe’s heartbeat.

“Oh, but I have. I’ve come for the photographs and the negatives. Where are they?”

Joe tried to pull himself together. Again he attempted to sit up, but again the steel fingers bit into his flesh. He was horrified to realize this slight boy was so strong.

“Where are they, Mr. Kerr?” Jay repeated. “I want them.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Joe mumbled, shrinking back on his pillow. “You get out of here.”

Jay withdrew his hand from Joe’s shoulder. His very stillness made him seem more menacing to Joe.

“The photographs and the negatives, please,” he said softly. “I haven’t much time.”

There was a threat in his voice that made Joe touch his dry lips with the tip of his tongue.

“I haven’t got them. She’s got them. You ask her for them.”

Jay said gently: “I could persuade you, Mr. Kerr.”

He lifted his right hand so Joe could see it. The razor lay in his open palm and Joe suddenly felt very sick. He watched the boy open the blade that glittered in the electric light.

“The photographs, please,” Jay said. He lifted the razor. “Unless you give them to me... ” He paused and his pale lips moved into a smile that chilled Joe’s blood. “I wouldn’t wish to hurt you, Mr. Kerr.”

The flashing strip of sharp steel filled Joe with horror. What was left of his drink-sodden courage disintegrated.

“Don’t touch me!” he said, his voice quavering. “You can have them! I’ve got them here... ”

He pulled out his wallet and spilled its contents out on to the bed. Among the few crumpled thousand franc notes, his press card and a faded snap-shot of his wife was a soiled envelope.

Jay picked up the envelope, got to his feet and moved away from the bed. He put the razor on the table, then he opened the envelope and took out three negatives and a number of prints. He checked them, then laid them in the ashtray on the table.

“Are there any more, Mr. Kerr?”

Joe shook his head.

Jay stared at him and he felt certain the man was so frightened he was telling the truth.

“She hasn’t any either?”

Again Joe shook his head.

Taking out his cigarette lighter, Jay applied the flame to one of the photographs. He stood over the little burning pile until there was nothing left but black ash which he scattered over the carpet.

“So now, Mr. Kerr, it is your word against mine,” he said. “I wouldn’t advise you to talk to the police. My father has a lot of influence. Besides, the police would want to know why you hadn’t told them before. Attempted blackmail carries quite a stiff prison sentence. From what I hear a French prison isn’t very comfortable.”

Joe felt if he didn’t have a drink, he would faint and with a hand that shook violently, he grabbed up the bottle of whisky and poured whisky into the glass by his bedside. He half-filled the glass with whisky before Jay moved up to him and took the bottle out of his hand.

The touch of Jay’s cold fingers against his feverish skin made Joe start back. Then, as Jay moved away and set the bottle on the table, Joe picked up the glass and drank greedily.

The effect of the whisky on him was immediate. He felt as if he had been hit on the back of his head and he realized the mistake he had made in drinking the whisky so quickly.

He felt the glass slide out of his hand and he heard it, as from a long way off, thud on to the carpet. His brain now seemed to be wrapped in a hotbed of cotton wool. He lay back, feebly blowing out his raddled cheeks, feeling the violent acceleration of his heartbeats.

He was aware that Jay was standing over him and the dark glasses, reflecting the light, frightened Joe. Then suddenly he saw his wife standing behind Jay and smiling at him. She was wearing the white brocaded dress in which she had died and he felt vaguely surprised that there was no blood on the dress.

She was beckoning to him and he tried to lift his head to see her more clearly, but the effort was too much for him. Then he became aware that the boy was doing something and his dazed eyes shifted from his wife to the boy’s hands.

The boy was holding a scarlet cord between his fingers and the cord formed into a loop.

Joe thought this was odd and he made a desperate effort to try to understand what was happening, but the whisky fumes now had taken control of him.

He felt himself grinning stupidly as the boy moved slowly and silently up to him, the scarlet loop held in front of him.

Joe looked from the boy to his wife and he saw a big patch of blood was now forming on the front of her dress. He started up, not feeling the loop of silk as it dropped around his neck, staring with drunken horror at the steadily increasing circle of red on the white dress.

It wasn’t until the scarlet cord bit savagely into his raddled, ageing throat that it flashed through his mind that he was being murdered.

III

It was a little after a quarter past eleven when Madame Brossette, bending over her magazine, suddenly lifted her head to listen.

Somewhere upstairs she could hear a tap running and she frowned. The only person she allowed to use the bathroom was Joe. Surely he hadn’t gone in there when she had told him to remain in the hideout? Maybe it was one of those wretched girls, although what they would want in the bath-room puzzled her.

Again she listened and her frown turned into an angry scowl as the sound of running water continued. If there was one thing Madame Brossette hated more than anything else it was waste.

Grunting with annoyance, she pushed back her chair and got up. She walked to the foot of the stairs and stared up them, listening.

Water was gushing out of the taps, she decided. Someone had been in the bathroom and not only had left the taps open but had also left the bathroom door open.

“Turn that water off!” she bawled but without much hope that anyone up there would take any notice. The thought of climbing the long, steep flight of stairs in the night heat irritated her, but after waiting a few more seconds, she caught hold of the banister rail and started the long plod up.

Jay watched her come through the crack between the door and the door post. He had turned on the taps and had left the bathroom door open in the hope the sound of the running water would bring the woman up the stairs.

He was very tense. He could feel a muscle twitching in his cheek and he had difficulty in controlling his quick, hard breathing.

He watched the woman reach the head of the stairs, then move heavily down the passage to the bathroom.

Silently he opened the door, stepped out into the passage and going down three of the stairs, he laid across the fourth stair the bolster he had taken from his bed. Then he stole up the stairs and back into his room as Madame Brossette, muttering angrily, turned off the tap.

She came out of the bathroom, turned off the light, then walked half way down the passage and paused outside the door of the broom cupboard.

Jay stiffened. This was the risk he knew he would be taking if he brought the woman up the stairs. Would she look in to see how Joe was?

But he relaxed as Madame Brossette shrugged her heavy shoulders and then continued on down the passage.

Jay watched her. He tensed himself and as Madame Brossette reached the head of the stairs and turned to descend them, her back now to him, Jay silently opened the door and stole out behind her.

Madame Brossette had reached the third stair before she became aware that there was someone behind her. She suddenly felt hot, quick breath on the back of her neck and she had a vague idea that she could hear the thump-thump-thump of heartbeats.

Her foot descended to the fourth stair as she turned her head. She saw a crouching figure of a man just behind her, his hands outstretched and in the dim light the dark glasses he wore gave him an inhuman look.

She caught her breath sharply. Then she felt the stair give under her weight as she stepped on to something that had a horrible soft feeling.

She lost her balance. She made a desperate grab at the banister rail.

Jay put his hand on her shoulder and gave her a violent push.

She began to fall backwards, her mouth wide open, her eyes bulging with shock and a thin, wailing scream starting from her throat.

Jay reached down and snatched up the bolster as the woman’s great body landed in the lobby with a crash that shook the house.

The thud of her body made an appalling sound and it was immediately followed by a violent crashing of bottles on the shelf over the bar, jerked loose by the shock of the woman’s fall.

Jay jumped up the three stairs and moved quickly into his bedroom, closing the door. He threw the bolster on the bed, then taking out his handkerchief he wiped his sweating face.

Was she dead?

He couldn’t imagine anyone falling like that without being instantly killed, but there was a chance that she had survived the fall.

For a few seconds there was no movement nor sound in the hotel. It was as if everyone who had heard the sound of the fall were paralysed, staring at each other, listening and wondering.

Then doors began to open. There came the sound of running footfalls and girls screaming.

The two detectives, sitting at the table outside La Boule d’Or, heard the sound of the fall and they started to their feet, staring at each other.

The senior officer, Lemont, said: “What the devil was that?”

He started across the street at a run, followed by the other detective.

As he entered the hotel, he pulled up short.

Lying in the dimly lighted lobby was the gross, broken body of Madame Brossette.

A girl, wearing only a brassiere and a skirt, was standing over her, her hands in her hair, her mouth open as she screamed softly.

Looking up, Lemont saw several men and a number of girls leaning over the banister rail, staring down.

He shoved the screaming girl aside and knelt beside Madame Brossette. He put his finger on one of her staring eyes and seeing no flicker, he grimaced, then touched the artery in her neck.

Farcau, his companion, moved closer.

“She’s dead,” Lemont said. “Better get statements. I’ll call the ambulance.”

The men at the head of the stairs, hearing this, started down the stairs, anxious to get away before their names could be taken, but found their way barred by Farcau.

From his room, Jay watched the activity. He had heard Lemont say Madame Brossette was dead and his lips curved into a quick grin of relief. Now he had to get out of the hotel without being seen.

The stairs were blocked by men and girls trying to get down. Their backs were turned to him.

He opened the door and moved out of the room, then he went softly and quickly down the passage to the broom cupboard, opened the door, stepped inside, groped his way to the back wall, found the spring release and opened the false door.

Leaving it open, he left the broom cupboard, leaving that door also wide open.

Then he returned to his bedroom, took out a ten franc piece from his pocket, unscrewed the light bulb, put the ten franc piece on the lamp socket and screwed it into the lamp holder.

The lights in the hotel were instantly fused and the place was plunged into darkness.

The men, caught on the stairs, realizing their chance to get away without getting involved with the police, plunged madly down through the darkness, swept Farcau aside and rushed out into the street. At their heels ran Jay.

Once out in the open the men broke up and Jay was on his own. He walked quickly to Rue d’Antibes, then crossing the car park, he made his way over to the harbour.

There were still a number of holiday makers taking advantage of the hot, perfect night and they were wandering along the harbour, staring at the lighted boats and Jay mingled with them.

He was in an exalted mood of triumph.

The experiment, he told himself, had succeeded. At one time it looked as if it were heading for complete disaster, but thanks to his ingenuity and his wits, he had pulled the thing off.

He was safe now! He had destroyed the negatives and the photographs. He had silenced two blackmailers. He had left evidence that would prove to the police beyond all doubt that Joe Kerr had killed the girl. One person in a million could have done what he had done! A million? That was ridiculous! Only he could have done it!

He reached the far end of the harbour where he could see Ginette’s boat and he sat on a bollard to wait for her. He had only twenty minutes to wait and he found he was impatient and anxious to see her again.

He was lighting a cigarette and preparing to settle down to wait when a tall, heavily built man strolled over to him and paused in front of him.

“Mr. Jay Delaney?” the man asked.

Jay stiffened. He felt a sudden cold knot of fear form inside him. The man was obviously a police officer and for a moment Jay was too shocked to speak.

Then he said, “Yes, what is it?”

“I’m a police officer,” the man said. “Inspector Devereaux would like a word with you, monsieur. If you will please come with me... ”

Had he done something stupid after all? Jay wondered, his heart beginning to pound. Had he been seen leaving the Beau Rivage hotel?

“Please tell the Inspector that I will see him when I return to the hotel,” he said, aware that his voice sounded stilted. “I have an appointment with someone now. I should be back just after two o’clock.”

The detective made an apologetic gesture.

“I’m sorry, monsieur, but the matter is urgent. The Inspector won’t keep you long. I have a car here,” and he waved to where a black car was parked a few yards away.

There was another detective standing by the car and he began to move slowly over towards Jay.

Jay stood up.

“Well, all right, but I must say this is most irritating.”

The thought that he might miss seeing Ginette made him angry and his anger forced down the fear that had flared up in him.

“I’m sorry, monsieur,” the detective said in his flat, impersonal voice.

Jay walked with him to the car and got in the back seat. The detective sat beside him. The other detective got under the driving wheel and drove quickly off the harbour and along the Croisette towards the Plaza hotel.

Nothing was said during the drive. Jay stared out of the window, reeling very tense and angry, but he had got over his first scare.

If he had been seen leaving the Beau Rivage hotel, it wasn’t likely they would be taking him to the Plaza, but he would have to watch out. This Inspector Devereaux was no fool. He wouldn’t have sent two detectives to look for him unless it was something pretty serious — but what?

The car pulled up a few yards from the Plaza and the two detectives got out, holding the door open for Jay.

“Perhaps you would like to go on in, monsieur,” one of them said. “No point in making the press curious. You will find the Inspector in the assistant manager’s office.”

“Thank you,” Jay said.

He walked towards the Plaza, aware that the two detectives were strolling after him.

So it can’t be all that serious, he thought. If they really thought I had killed her, they wouldn’t let me out of their reach. But I must be careful. This may be a trick to get me off my guard.

He entered the Plaza lobby, which was fairly empty. Most of the people were still in the cinema, and, crossing the lobby, he went to the assistant manager’s office, knocked on the door, turned the handle and entered the room.