1958 - Not Safe to be Free (12 page)

“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 stepson 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?”