1958 - Not Safe to be Free (17 page)

“And yet someone got in here. How was that possible?”

Vesperini shrugged his shoulders.

“Although it is unlikely, someone could have got hold of a passkey. The maids do sometimes leave their keys in the doors while they are cleaning.”

“Test the room for prints,” Devereaux said. “It’ll be a job, but I want every print you find.” He turned to Vesperini. “Can you move Monsieur Ackroyd to another suite? It will be necessary for my men to seal this one after they have finished working.”

Vesperini nodded.

“I’ll arrange something.”

Signing to Guidet, Devereaux left the room.

“Kerr must now be found at once,” he said. “I am going to give the press his description with permission to print in the evening papers if we don’t find him by late this afternoon.”

“All right,” Guidet said. “The usual formula about believing he can help us in the investigation?”

“That’s it,” Devereaux said. “A description of him, but no photograph. While I’m talking to the boys, find Thiry and get him to identify the beads. Show them to the hall porter, too,” and, leaving Guidet to take the elevator, Devereaux marched down the corridor to where the pressmen were impatiently waiting.

After he had told them that they now knew where the girl had been murdered and had promised the photographers access to the room the moment the police had finished examining it, he went on: “Do any of you gentlemen know a photographer whose name is Joe Kerr?”

There was a roar of laughter from the pressmen and the New York Tribune photographer said sarcastically, “Is there anyone who doesn’t know him? Why, Inspector?”

“He may be able to help us in the investigation,” Devereaux said cautiously. “He was up on this floor about the time the girl met her death.”

The Tribune photographer looked around, frowning.

“Anyone seen Joe this morning?”

No one had.

“Perhaps one of you knows where he is staying?” Devereaux asked.

The Nice-Matin reporter said Joe was staying in some hotel off Rue d’Antibes.

Devereaux stiffened to attention.

“There are a great many hotels off Rue d’Antibes,” he said. “Do you remember the street or the name of the hotel? “

The Nice-Matin reporter shook his head.

“Can’t say I do. A couple of nights ago I dropped the old soak off by the Casino. He had asked me for a lift. I remember he said he was staying off the Rue d’Antibes.”

“He could be an important help,” Devereaux said, trying to appear casual. “If any of you see him you might tell him I’d like to talk to him.” He paused, then went on, “If we don’t trace him by five o’clock tonight, I’ll get you to put a paragraph in your paper. Just a description, saying we would like to interview him.”

“Hey! Just a moment.” Lancing of the Associated Press pushed forward. “Do you think the old buzzard killed the girl?”

Devereaux shook his head.

“I don’t know who killed her,” he said. “I know Kerr was on the second floor at the time she died. I’m hoping he might have seen the killer.”

“Yeah?” Lancing’s red, aggressive face sneered. “I bet! Let me tell you something: that old vulture was always making passes at the girls. Why, only last week he had the nerve to goose Hilda Goodman as she was passing through the lobby and Hilda took a swipe at him. She busted his bridgework. Maybe he tried the same stunt with the Balu girl and, when she socked him, he strangled her.”

“Pipe down!” the Tribune reporter said curtly. “Joe may be a soak, but he isn’t a killer. And let me tell you, if you had the nerve, you would have goosed our Hilda yourself—I know you would.”

There was a general laugh.

“Well, gentlemen,” Devereaux said, “you are holding me up. Just remember I would like to talk to Kerr if you see him.”

He pushed through the circle of men and hurried down the stairs.

So Kerr made passes at women, he was thinking. Maybe that was the motive. He had met the girl, made a pass at her, she had struck him and in a drunken rage he had dragged her into the suite and strangled her. But he knew it wasn’t quite right: it didn’t fit. There was an act of premeditation about this killing: there was the curtain cord and the fact the killer had used the passkey to get into the suite. No, this hadn’t been a sudden act of rage or panic.

Guidet met the Inspector in his office.

“The hall porter identifies the beads,” he said. “I haven’t been able to find Thiry yet. I think he must be in the cinema. We have a good fingerprint on one of the beads.”

“You have? Well, that’s something,” Devereaux sat down behind his desk. “Ricco of the Nice-Matin says Kerr is staying at a hotel off the Rue d’Antibes.”

“Every hotel in that district has been covered,” Guidet said. “That was the first district to be checked.”

“And no one knew him?”

“No.”

“Then check again. It’s possible someone is hiding him. Put twenty men on the job and tell them not to come back until they have found him. Have them cover the shops as well.”

Guidet looked surprised.

“The shops?”

“Perhaps someone has noticed him going to and fro to the hotel. I want this man and I’m going to have him!”

At this moment the detective in charge of the fingerprint department came in.

“I’ve found a print in the elevator that matches the print on the bead, Inspector,” he said. “There’s no record down here. I’m having it checked at Headquarters.”

Devereaux grunted.

“If it’s Kerr’s print,” he said softly, “then I think we have him.”

He waved impatiently to Guidet to get off, nodded to the other detective, then, pulling his massive notes towards him, he began to go through them again.

Chapter Nine

I

I
t was a little after five o’clock when Jay left the beach. He had driven over to Antibes because he was anxious not to run into Sophia until he had done what he had to do, and, in Cannes, it was impossible to avoid meeting anyone you didn’t want to meet.

Now, driving slowly back to Cannes, caught up in a long stream of traffic, he decided he would go to La Boule d’Or for a drink and he felt an anticipation of pleasure at the thought of seeing Ginette again. Both his father and Sophia would be at the Nice Studios until late and then they would be going to the cinema. So long as he got back to the Plaza before eight o’clock and away again, he wouldn’t run into them.

Leaving his car by the Casino, he crossed the street and walked slowly into the busy shopping centre. He moved towards Rue Foch, spinning out the time by pausing to stare into the shop windows, and, as he wandered along, he became aware that there were several plainclothes detectives in the long, busy street and immediately his sense of caution was alerted.

These unmistakable men were going in pairs from shop to shop, spending only a few minutes in each shop, then coming out and entering another shop.

Coming towards Jay were two of these men, and, anticipating that they would be entering a bookshop close by, he went into the shop ahead of them. The shop was empty and the assistant came over to him.

Jay said he just wanted to look around and he stepped behind a counter piled high with books that screened him from anyone entering the shop. He had to wait five minutes before the two detectives entered.

He heard one of them say: “Police. We’re looking for a man who lives around here.” The detective went on to give an accurate description of Joe Kerr. “Have you seen him?”

Obviously flustered, the assistant said he was sorry but he hadn’t.

The detective grunted and the two of them left the shop.

Jay’s mouth tightened. So they were still hunting for Joe and they were getting warmer.

He told the assistant that he couldn’t find anything to interest him and he went out into the evening sunshine.

Ahead of him, the detectives were going steadily down the street, entering one shop after the other.

Jay quickened his steps and reached La Boule d’Or. There was an elderly couple sitting at one of the tables, drinking wine. They looked hot and tired. Beyond, in the dim bar, Jay saw Ginette sitting behind the bar, her elbows on the polished counter, her fingers in her hair while she read a newspaper spread out before her. There was no sign of her father.

He walked softly into the bar and paused before her. She glanced up and again he felt excited pleasure to see the blood mount to her face at the sight of him.

“Hello,” he said. “I was passing so I thought I would come in. Isn’t your father here?”

“No. He’s out. He likes to sit by the harbour in the evening.” It amused him to see the effort she was making to fight down the blush that stained her face. “You startled me. Look, you’ve made me go hot.”

He laughed. His eyes behind their dark screens examined her face and he thought this face was something he wouldn’t grow tired of. It would be nice to look at even when it was old.

“It’s quiet here.” He climbed up on a stool. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I was reading about this horrible murder. Have you seen about it?”

“Yes.” He was sorry that she had read about it. This was a personal thing. He didn’t want to discuss it with her. “Could I have a dry Vermouth with ice?”

“Of course.”

She was wearing a white singlet and dark blue jeans and as she reached up to get the bottle of Vermouth from the shelf he could see her full young breasts tighten under the thin stuff of the singlet and he felt a little stab of love for her dart into him.

“I saw her once in a movie,” she said as she put the bottle on the counter before him. “She was pretty. I liked her.”

Jay hunched his shoulders.

“The police are looking for a man,” he said, watching her as she put a piece of ice into the glass. “They are going into all the shops along Rue d’Antibes.”

“Then they know who did it?”

“I don’t know, but they are looking for someone.”

She poured the Vermouth into the glass.

“I hope they find him quickly. It isn’t nice to think there is a madman loose in the town.”

Jay stiffened. He hated to hear her talk like this.

“Mad? I don’t think he is mad.” He sipped his drink, frowning. “I think he is a man who had to test his courage.”

She bent her head to stare down at the newspaper and her hair fell forward, half screening her face.

“Of course he is mad,” she said. “Look, it says so here.”

“You didn’t hear what I said.” He was terribly anxious for her to understand. It was impossible to let her think that he was mad. “I said he must be a man who needed to test his courage.”

She lifted her head and stared at him.

“What an odd thing to say!” she said and he could see the blank, puzzled expression in her eyes.

Jay felt a wave of irritation run through him.

“It’s not odd at all,” he said sharply. “After all, the man has put his own life in danger by killing the girl. You can see that, can’t you? He may have had to do it—an inner compulsion—an urge that had been in him for a long time to find out what his personal and secret reactions to danger would be. To some people that is vitally important. Unless you put your courage, your wits and your intelligence to a test, how can you possibly know their quality?”

The note of urgency and tenseness in his voice made her stare at him.

“But surely not,” she said. “I can’t believe that. If you had to find out the quality of your courage, wits and intelligence, surely you don’t have to make someone else suffer? That is a horrible idea. There are many other ways of testing your courage without murdering someone.”

He shifted impatiently on the stool and leaning forward, his fists clenched, he said fiercely. “You are wrong! To make an honest test, you must put yourself in a position where there is absolutely no escape. You might think mountain climbing tests your courage, but it doesn’t. Of course it is dangerous and people risk their lives, but if their nerve fails, if they feel it is too dangerous to go on, they can turn back, but if you kill someone there is no turning back; there is no bringing the body to life again.” He began to pound gently on the top of the bar. “Imagine a situation like this one. Imagine having a dead girl on your hands in a crowded hotel, knowing you have killed her and that one little slip will endanger your life. What a test that must be! It is the perfect test for one’s courage! Can’t you see that? If you commit murder, there is no possible escape except by your own nerve, cleverness and courage.”

“But you don’t really believe that anyone in his right mind would kill someone just as a test of courage?” Ginette asked. “I can’t believe that! What about the victim? This girl who was killed—she was only just beginning her life. No one but a madman would have done such a thing.”

Jay started to protest, then his caution warned him to be careful. This girl was intelligent. He must be careful not to talk too much. She must never become suspicious of him. It would spoil everything.

He smiled at her and shrugged.

“Well, it’s nothing really to do with us, is it? If the killer is ever found, I’m willing to bet that he is as sane as I am.”

It was while he was speaking that he became aware of two shadows falling across the bar. He looked around and saw the two detectives come in and he felt a sudden tightening band around his chest as they came up to the bar and paused within three feet of him. He looked at them out of the corners of his eyes. They were big, heavy men, their faces shiny with sweat and he could smell the sweat on their shabby clothes.

They asked Ginette for beers, and, while she poured the beers into glasses, they glanced at Jay and then back to Ginette.

“Mademoiselle,” the taller of the two said as Ginette put the glasses before them, “perhaps you can help us. We are police officers.”

Ginette looked at Jay, but he kept his eyes fixed on his glass of Vermouth.

“We are looking for a man,” the detective went on. “Perhaps you have seen him pass here from time to time.” He gave a detailed description of Joe Kerr. When he had completed the description he asked, “Have you seen him?”

“Why, yes,” Ginette said. “He always carried a camera hanging by a strap around his neck. Isn't that right?”