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

I

At 6.15 a.m., a waiter making his way to the Service room on the third floor of the hotel noticed the elevator door was standing open and he went over to close it.

A few minutes later, in response to his frantic telephone call, Vesperini, the assistant manager and Cadot, the hotel detective, came hurriedly upon the scene.

Vesperini had been about to leave the hotel for the flower market. He was freshly shaven and immaculate, wearing a dark, well-cut suit and a carnation in his buttonhole.

Cadot, roused out of his bed, wore jacket and trousers, hastily pulled over his pyjamas. His fat face was unshaven and still puffy from sleep.

The two men looked at the dead girl and reacted in different ways. Vesperini immediately thought of the hotel’s reputation and what must be done to cause the hotel’s clients the least inconvenience.

Cadot, on the other hand, had difficulty in concealing his leased excitement. Nothing had happened in the hotel since his appointment to give him a chance to exercise his talents as a detective. Here was his big chance and he was already visualizing his photograph in all the newspapers.

Cadot said: “If Monsieur would be good enough to notify Inspector Devereaux, I will remain here. It would be better to arrange to have ‘out of order’ signs put on the elevator doors on all floors in case someone wishes to use this elevator.”

Vesperini instructed the staring waiter to get this done and then, leaving Cadot, he hurried away to call the police and inform the management.

Left on his own, Cadot examined the girl, being careful not to move her. He recognized her and he thought how fortunate it was that she was not without some fame. The murder, when the news broke, would cause a major sensation.

He lightly touched the girl’s arm. From the hard, board-like feel of her flesh, he judged she had been dead for at least twelve hours.

Had she been strangled in the elevator? This seemed unlikely. As she wasn’t a resident of the hotel, she must have come here to visit someone.

He closed the elevator door and leaning his fat back against it he speculated on whom the girl could have visited and why she had been strangled.

He was still cogitating ten minutes later when Inspector Devereaux of the Cannes Homicide hurried out of the elevator at the far end of the corridor with four plain-clothes men at his heels.

There was a brief consultation, then Cadot asked for permission to dress and shave while the Inspector made his preliminary investigation.

The inspector agreed to this and Cadot hurried away to his quarters in the basement.

Inspector Devereaux was a short, thickset man, in his late forties. He had a round face with a small beaky nose, a thin, hard mouth and bright, small black eyes. He was an efficient police officer with a reputation for thoroughness. As he looked down at the dead girl, recognizing her from the photographs he had seen in Jours de France and Paris-Match, he realized that this case would receive enormous publicity and it was going to be difficult to solve.

He realized that the girl couldn’t have met her death in the elevator. She had been murdered in one of the hotel’s five hundred bedrooms. Since all these bedrooms were occupied by people of wealth and importance, the investigation would have to be handled with extreme tact and caution.

It was necessary that the girl’s body should be removed from the elevator as quickly as possible and he gave orders for the body to be immediately photographed and then walking over to Vesperini, who was hovering in the background, he asked him if there was an unoccupied room where the body could be removed as soon as the police photographer had completed his task.

Vesperini suggested one of the bathrooms since all the bedrooms were occupied and Devereaux agreed to this.

Within ten minutes, the girl’s body had been photographed and then carried into a bathroom and laid on the floor. By this time the police surgeon had arrived and Devereaux left him to his examination.

His men were examining the cage of the elevator, dusting the surfaces for fingerprints.

“I want every print you find recorded,” Devereaux told them. Then, leaving them to work on this, he and Henri Guidet, his assistant, went down to the lobby with Vesperini.

Vesperini put his office at the inspector’s disposal and as soon as the Inspector had seated himself behind the big mahogany desk he asked for the hall porter.

From experience Devereaux knew that the most observant member of any hotel staff was the hall porter. He had found they made excellent witnesses and many a hotel case had been solved because of information supplied by these observant men.

The hall porter had just come on duty and he entered the office and shook hands with Devereaux, with whom he occasionally played boule when the Inspector had an hour to himself.

The hall porter had already heard the news so it wasn’t necessary for Devereaux to waste time explaining what had happened. He immediately launched into his interrogation.

“Can you tell me when this girl came into the hotel?”

The hall porter screwed up his eyes while he thought.

“It would be about four o’clock in the afternoon,” he said finally.

This surprised Devereaux.

“Four o clock in the afternoon? So she had been in the hotel for over fourteen hours. Did she ask for anyone?”

“No. She crossed the lobby and made for the stairs as if she knew exactly where to go.”

“She didn’t use the elevator?”

“No.”

“Then it is possible the room she visited was on the first or second floor? If it had been on the third floor she would have used the elevator.”

The hall porter nodded.

“I agree.”

“Did anyone inquire for her?”

“At about half-past six; one of the press photographers asked if she had left the hotel,” the hall porter said after another long pause for thought. “I told him she hadn’t.”

“Who was this man?”

“Monsieur Joe Kerr,” the hall porter said and from the tone of his voice the Inspector gathered that he thought nothing of him. “He represents an American scandal sheet called Peep: a man I don’t care to see in the hotel. He is a drunkard and his appearance is distasteful.”

Devereaux made his first note on the sheet of paper he had laid before him. He wrote in his neat hand: Joe Kerr, drunkard, pressman, Peep. Asked information re L.B. 6.30 p.m.

“He didn’t say why he was interested in the girl?”

“No. Before then he had given me a thousand franc note to tell him when any of the Delaneys returned to their suite on the second floor. Knowing the man, I was surprised that he should give me as much as a thousand francs.”

“The Delaneys?” Devereaux was a rabid film fan and his knowledge of film stars and producers was extensive. “Would that be the American producer?”

“Of course. Monsieur Delaney, his wife and his son have a suite on the second floor.”

Again Devereaux made a note.

“No one else inquired for the girl?”

“No.”

Devereaux frowned, fiddling with his pencil. He was a little disappointed. He had hoped for more useful information from the hall porter. At least he had something to work on, but he was pretty sure this Joe Kerr had only been interested in Lucille Balu from a professional point of view. After all, Kerr had made his inquiry at six-thirty and the girl had been in the hotel apparently for two and a half hours.

He thanked the hall porter and said that if he could think of any way he could be of further help, he would consult him again.

When the hall porter had gone, Devereaux picked up the telephone and asked to be connected with the bathroom on the third floor where the police surgeon was making his examination.

The girl on the switchboard, who had heard the news and had kept herself informed of what was going on, immediately connected him.

“Have you anything for me yet?” the Inspector asked when the police surgeon came on the line.

“You are always in such a hurry,” the police surgeon grumbled. “However, I can tell you when she died. It would be between half-past three and half-past four in the afternoon: not later and not earlier.”

“She arrived at the hotel a few minutes to four.”

“Then she was killed between four and half-past.”

“Anything else?”

“She was strangled by a brocaded cord — almost certainly a curtain cord. The pattern of the cord has made an impression on her skin. The cord shouldn’t be difficult to trace.”

“Tell Benoit to photograph it immediately. See if he can develop the plate and let me have a print at once. Tell him it doesn’t matter if it isn’t dry.”

“I’ll tell him, but it will delay my examination.”

“The print is important. Anything else to tell me?”

“There are some fragments of skin under the fingernails of the girl’s right hand. She must have scratched her assailant while he was killing her. From the amount of skin, I’d say he would have three pretty deep scratches either on his wrist or his arm.”

Devereaux’s eyes half closed as he nodded.

“That is very good,” he said and hung up. Turning to Guidet, who had been sitting on the edge of the desk, listening, he said: “This may be less difficult than I had thought. I want you to find out where the girl was staying. She worked for the Paris Film Company. They should know. Find out what she was doing yesterday. I want her complete movements, especially between two and four o’clock. Put as many men as you need on the job, but do it thoroughly. I want all the boatmen, the beach attendants, the shop people questioned. They will know her and if she has been seen, they will be able to tell us. Find out where this man Kerr is staying and bring him here. As you go out, tell Cadot I want him.”

Guidet nodded and went quickly from the office.

A few minutes later, Cadot, freshly shaved and wearing his best suit, came in.

“Did you see this girl come into the hotel?” Devereaux asked as soon as Cadot had sat down.

“No. I was patrolling the corridors at four o’clock. It is my usual routine,” Cadot said. “At that hour, very few people remain in their rooms and I take the precaution to have a walk around. With so many strangers in the hotel because of the Festival, it is easy for a thief to slip upstairs.”

Devereaux pulled a face.

“Then it would be easy for a non-resident to use one of the bedrooms in which to kill this girl?”

“I wouldn’t say it would be easy, but some of our clients are careless and leave their keys in the doors. It is possible to use an unoccupied room, but it would be very risky.”

“It is a possibility that we mustn’t overlook, but I don’t think it happened like that. I think the girl was killed by someone staying in the hotel. As she died between four and half-past, her body must have been kept hidden until the killer felt it safe to put her in the elevator. That was a clever move. You can be sure she wasn’t killed on the third floor. The fact she walked up the stairs makes me think it happened on the first or second floors. Can we find out when the elevator was last used before the girl was found?”

Cadot smirked modestly.

“I have already found that out for you, Inspector. The elevator goes on automatic at three o’clock. It was standing on the ground level within sight of the night clerk at that time. Between half-past three and four — he doesn’t remember to the minute — the night clerk says he saw the red light flash up, indicating that someone was calling the elevator from upstairs. Some ten minutes later, the red light again flashed up, showing that the elevator had again been moved between the floors. It is safe to assume I think that the murderer was using the elevator at that time. The elevator didn’t move after that.”

Devereaux made a note.

“During your patrol, did you see anyone in any of the corridors who had no business to be there?”

Cadot nodded.

“Yes. There was a pressman on the second floor. I caught him listening outside Mr. Delaney’s suite.”

“And who was he?” Devereaux asked, pencil poised.

“His name is Joe Kerr. He... ”

“Ah, yes. I have information about this man already,” Devereaux said. “He begins to interest me. What was he doing outside Monsieur Delaney’s door?”

“He said he had been told at the desk that Monsieur Delaney was in.”

“And was he?”

“No. His son was, but he left a few minutes before I caught Kerr outside the door.”

“So no one was in the suite?”

“That’s right.”

“You say Kerr was listening outside the door?”

“That’s what it looked like. He may have knocked and was waiting for the door to be opened.”

“What time was this?”

“Quarter to five.”

Devereaux scratched the side of his nose with the end of his pencil.

“Soon after the girl was killed,” he said as if talking to himself. “So this man Kerr was in the hotel around the time of her death.”

“It looks like it.”

“Can you find out for me when he left the hotel?”

“It’s possible. I will ask the night clerk, who is waiting to see if he can be of help.”

While Devereaux waited, he turned over in his mind what he had learned. He glanced at the desk clock. The time was now twenty minutes to eight.

Cadot returned in a few minutes.

“The night clerk says he saw Kerr leave at three fifty-five this morning.”

Devereaux, who was tapping with his pencil on the blotter, stiffened and looked up.

“Did he say what he was doing in the hotel at such an hour?”

“No. He came down the stairs and the night clerk said he thought he was drunk — anyway, he was walking very unsteadily. He went out without saying anything.”

“This becomes interesting. This was the time about when the girl’s body must have been put in the elevator.” Devereaux consulted his notes. “The girl was strangled with a curtain cord. Are there such cords in every room in the hotel?”

Cadot shrugged his shoulders apologetically.

“I don’t know, but it is easy to find out.”

“Find out for me,” Devereaux said. “If the cords are different on the various floors let me have samples.”

Cadot said he would do what he could and left the office.

Devereaux relaxed back in the leather desk chair. He lit a cigarette and puffed at it while he frowned at the opposite wall.

Benoit, the police photographer, came in. He laid a damp print on the blotter in front of Devereaux.

“Here it is, Inspector,” he said. “It’s the best I can do until I get back to the lab.”

Devereaux studied the photograph. He took a magnifying glass from his pocket and bent close. Then he straightened and laid down the magnifying glass.

“It’s not bad. The cord is brocaded: the pattern is quite distinct. I don’t think it will be difficult to identify the cord if it is found.”

He was still studying the photograph when Cadot returned. He carried two silk curtain cords: one of them was scarlet and the other green.

He laid them on the desk.

“Only the first- and second-floor rooms have brocaded cords,” he said. “Are these what you want?”

Devereaux examined the two cords, then he pushed aside the green cord, examined the scarlet cord again, then sat back, smiling at Cadot.

“This cord comes from — where?”

“The second floor.”

“We are getting warm. We now know she was strangled by a cord similar to this one and that means she was strangled in a room on the second floor. I would now like a list of everyone who is staying on this floor.”

At this moment the telephone bell on the desk rang.

Cadot answered it and then held the receiver out to the Inspector.

“It is for you.”

It was Guidet calling.

“I am at the girl’s hotel,” he said. “Her agent, Jean Thiry is coming over to see you. The girl was seen talking to a young fellow on the beach at three thirty yesterday afternoon. He has been identified by two witnesses. He is Jay Delaney: the son of the producer.”

Devereaux remained silent for so long that Guidet said, “Are you there, Inspector?”

“Yes. I was thinking. I want this man Joe Kerr. It is now urgent. Concentrate on finding him. Use as many men as you need,” Devereaux said and hung up.

He looked at Cadot.

“Jay Delaney,” he said. “What can you tell me about him?”

Cadot lifted his shoulders.

“He is about twenty-one or — two. He seems a nice, quiet, well behaved young fellow. All the Delaneys are nice people. Monsieur Delaney is, of course, very rich.”

“Can you find out if this young man was in the hotel at the time the girl died?”

“I’ll ask,” Cadot said and went out of the office.

Devereaux picked up his pencil and began to draw aimlessly on the blotter. He was still drawing and puffing at his cigarette when Cadot returned.

“Young Delaney returned to the suite a few minutes to four o’clock,” Cadot said. “Mrs. Delaney joined him immediately afterwards.”

“Mrs. Delaney?”

“Yes. The clerk remembers her asking for the key and he told her Mr. Delaney junior had just gone up to the suite.”

Devereaux pushed out his lower lip and tapped it gently with his pencil.

“So Mrs. Delaney was with her step-son at the time the girl died?”

Cadot looked sharply at him.

“It sounds as if you thought he had something to do with it... ”

Devereaux shrugged his shoulders.

“One has to think of everything, but obviously he couldn’t have. Well, we must see what Kerr has to say for himself. A drunkard.” He frowned. “What puzzles me is why the girl should have been killed.” He reached for the telephone and called the police surgeon. “Are there any signs that the girl was sexually interfered with?” he asked when the police surgeon came on the line.

He listened for a moment or so, then grunted and hung up.

“There was no assault and no attempt at assault. Then why was she killed?”

Frowning, he began again to make aimless patterns on his blotter.

II

A little after eight o’clock, Jay woke out of a heavy sleep. He lifted his head to look at the bedside clock, then, grimacing, he slid further down in the bed and shut his eyes.

He lay for some minutes, thinking of Ginette and then, abruptly, he remembered Lucille Balu.

For a brief moment, a chill of uneasiness ran through him, then, with an impatient shrug, he told himself he had nothing to worry about.

It was unfortunate that he had given way to the stupid impulse and had killed the girl. But he had got rid of the body and the police couldn’t possibly trace the murder to him. There was no more difficult murder to solve than the murder without motive.

He wondered if she had been found, and, impelled by a sudden urgent curiosity, he lifted the telephone receiver by his bedside and ordered café complet to be sent to his room.

He got out of bed and took a shower. As he was combing his hair the waiter came in and put the breakfast tray on the table.

Jay eyed the man curiously, but the stolid fat face told him nothing.

“What is all the excitement about?” Jay asked casually as he slipped on his dressing gown.

“Pardon, monsieur?”

“I thought I heard some sort of commotion just now. Is someone ill?”

“Not that I know of, monsieur.”

Impatiently, Jay waved him away, and, when the waiter had gone, Jay walked over to the open window and looked out.

Although it was still early, there were a number of people bathing and also a larger number of people wandering along the promenade.

Parked opposite the hotel were two police vans and Jay smiled uneasily, stepping back and letting the curtain fall into place.

So they had found her.

A cold knot of excitement coiled into a tight ball in his stomach as he poured coffee and drank it thirstily. Then he went into the bathroom and rapidly shaved with his electric razor.

It would be interesting to go down and see what was happening, he thought. After all it would be a pity to miss any possible excitement after he had set the stage for the actors to strut on.

Finishing his second cup of coffee, he slipped on a singlet, a pair of cotton trousers and pushing his feet into a pair of espadrilles, he moved to the door, then paused.

He remembered the three scratches on his arm and he examined them. They were slightly inflamed and startlingly red against his heavily tanned skin. It would be safer to wear a coat, he thought and going to his cupboard he took out a cotton jacket and slipped it on.

The first thing he noticed when he reached the corridor was the “out-of-order” sign on the elevator. So they had begun the investigation, he thought and he was aware of a growing feeling of excitement. Perhaps, after all, this thing he had done wasn’t going to be such a bore. It had been the waiting that had bored him. Now the police were active, this might turn out more exciting than he had imagined.

Casually, he walked down the stairs. As he reached the head of the stairs leading into the lobby, he paused to look around.

The smooth machinery of the hotel appeared to be working with its usual efficiency. The hall porter was checking through a pile of letters. The reception clerk was writing at his desk. Vesperini, the assistant manager, stood by the revolving doors, apparently admiring the hydrangeas that stood either side of the entrance.

Jay took a few steps that brought him past the telephone booths and where he could have an uninterrupted view of the whole lobby.

There were no signs of any uniformed policemen and Jay felt vaguely disappointed. The hotel seemed to be taking the discovery of a dead girl in one of their elevators with extraordinary calm.

He crossed over to the hotel porter and bought a copy of the New York Times, then, choosing a chair that would give him a good view of the entrance to the hotel, he sat down.

He sat there, glancing at the newspaper, for some fifteen minutes before he saw a tall man, broad shouldered, with a hard face and alert eyes come into the lobby. He nodded to Vesperini who inclined his head in acknowledgement, then walked into the office behind the reception desk.

So that’s it, Jay thought. They’re in there having a conference. I bet they’re absolutely foxed. I wonder what line they are working on.

He took his gold cigarette case from his pocket and lit a cigarette. As he was putting the case away, one of the elevator doors opened and Jean Thiry and Guidet came out.

Guidet had taken Thiry up to identify the girl’s body. The shock of having to see her made Thiry walk a little unsteadily. His face was pale and there was a stunned expression in his eyes.

Jay watched the two men disappear into the office behind the reception desk. He guessed Thiry had been up to identify the body and he felt a morbid curiosity to see how pale the man was. This was becoming interesting, he thought. It was a pity he couldn’t hear what was going on from this chair in the lobby, but at least he was keeping track of the developing drama.

Thiry was being questioned again by Inspector Devereaux who handled him gently, seeing the shock Thiry had had. Thiry had already told him about the message he had received telling him that the girl had gone to Monte Carlo for the evening. Devereaux had got Guidet to question the message clerks, but neither of them could recall who had given the message except that it had come over the telephone.

Devereaux said: “Of course the girl didn’t send the message. It was sent by the killer to gain time. You can make no suggestions as why she was killed?”

Thiry shook his head.

“No. It must have been the work of a lunatic. Who would want to kill her? She was just a kid,” and he blew his nose violently to conceal his emotion.

“So Monsieur Delaney was interested in her future as a star?” Devereaux said, consulting his notes, “and you had an appointment with him at nine?”

“Yes. He wanted to meet her. I had already arranged to meet her in the bar here at six and then I got this message. Feeling Delaney was going to make her an offer, I went at once to Monte Carlo to bring her back, but I couldn’t find her.”

“Naturally. She was dead by then. You left the girl by herself on the beach at around half-past three and you went to the cinema, where you met Monsieur Delaney. That’s correct, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“You saw Monsieur Delaney at nine and explained the girl had gone to Monte Carlo and you couldn’t find her?”

“Yes.”

“This is a very unfortunate thing for you, monsieur.”

“Yes.” Thiry’s face was bitter. “It was her great chance and mine too. The man who did this must be caught and punished.”

“Certainly, but I must have as much help as possible,” Devereaux said. “First, can you tell me if she made a practice of carrying a handbag with her? When she was found in the elevator she had no handbag and this strikes me as curious. Usually, a girl never moves without some kind of handbag.”

“Yes, she had one. It was one I gave her. It was small. She only carried a powder compact, handkerchief and lipstick in it. It was a narrow, lizard-skin bag with her initials on it.”

“She could have left it at her hotel, of course. I must have a search made for it.”

“She wouldn’t have left it at her hotel. I’ve never seen her without some bag or other.”

Devereaux made a note on the sheet of paper lying in front of him.

“There is another thing also,” Thiry went on. “She had a habit of wearing bead necklaces. I suppose the doctor removed her necklace when making his examination. I didn’t notice it when I saw her.”

“A bead necklace? She wasn’t wearing any necklace when she was found in the elevator. I’ll check that. There is nothing else you can tell me? She had no lover?”

“No. She was a serious girl. All she thought about was her career. She knew it was too soon to think of getting married.”

When Thiry had gone, Devereaux gave instructions that a search should be made for the handbag and then he went out into the lobby and crossed over to the hall-porter’s desk.

“Do you remember if Mademoiselle Balu was wearing a bead necklace when you saw her come into the hotel?”

The hall porter thought for a long moment, his face tight with concentration, then he nodded.

“Yes, she was. I remember I thought how well the blue beads looked against her tan: a necklace of big sapphire blue beads, about the size of walnuts.”

“Your memory is remarkable,” Devereaux said. “I congratulate you.”

The hall porter inclined his head, gratified.

Watching, Jay wondered who this man who had come out of the office and was now speaking to the hall porter could be. It was obvious that he was a police officer and there was an air of importance and authority about him. Perhaps he was the man in charge of the investigation.

He studied him.

A hard, shrewd man, he decided and again he felt the chill of excitement run through him.

He became aware that the hotel detective whom he recognized had come into the lobby and had given him a quick, hard stare. Then the hotel detective crossed over to the police officer. Jay, interested, watched the men talk together in low tones, then both of them suddenly turned their heads and looked directly at him.

Jay had been so curious and interested in what had been going on that it hadn’t occurred to him that he was the only non-member of the hotel staff in the lobby nor had it occurred to him that he was in any way conspicuous. Until these two men suddenly turned to stare at him he had considered himself as an invisible spectator, enjoying what was going on without being noticed himself.

With a sudden quickening of fear, he glanced away from the two men and, as casually as he could, he pretended to be reading the newspaper he was holding.

Perhaps he had been rash to come here so early in the morning, he thought, his heart-beat quickening. Perhaps he was drawing attention to himself; not, of course, that it could matter. The police had no reason at all to connect him with the dead girl. All the same it might be safer to leave now. He would take a stroll along the promenade and return when there were more people in the lobby.

Casually, he folded the newspaper, and, behind the screen of his dark glasses, he glanced quickly at the two men, then his heart skipped a beat and he stiffened as the police officer suddenly moved away from the hotel detective and came directly towards where he was sitting.

Jay watched him come, sudden panic gripping him. He remained motionless, his cigarette burning between his fingers, aware of a cold dampness breaking out all over his body.

The police officer’s face was expressionless, his small black eyes probing as he stopped in front of Jay.

“Monsieur Delaney?”

“That’s right,” Jay said and his voice was husky.

“I am Inspector Devereaux, Cannes police. I would like you to give me a few minutes of your time, if you please.”

Jay found it necessary to touch his lips with the tip of his tongue before saying, “Why? What is it?”

“Will you be good enough to come with me where we won’t be interrupted?” Devereaux said. “In this office, over here.”

Turning, he started across the lobby, not looking to see if Jay was following him.

For perhaps ten seconds, Jay remained in the chair. What did this mean? Fear tugged at his heart. Had something gone wrong? Had he done something unbelievably stupid and they were now on his track already? Was this man going to arrest him?

Then, pulling himself together, he got to his feet and sauntered across the lobby.

This was the test he had deliberately invited, he was thinking. How can they prove anything?

But the cold fear that gripped him made him feel slightly sick. He didn’t like the feeling and his heart was hammering as he walked into the office where the Inspector waited for him.