1958 - Not Safe to be Free (26 page)

She turned, smiling at him.

“We won’t do any more of this,” she said, waving her hands at the glasses still to be washed. “I’ll show you your room.”

He looked at her and he saw how bright her eyes were and how quickly she was breathing and because the excitement inside him was almost too strong for him to bear, he went out of the kitchen into the semidarkness of the bar room and picked up the sack he had left on the floor.

She turned out the light in the kitchen and moved to a door leading to a steep flight of stairs. She paused in the doorway, turning on the light so he could see the stairs and he looked at her; seeing the expression in her eyes he knew for certain what was going to happen and he hesitated.

Sexual experience was an unknown factor in his suppressed, enclosed life. He had never considered it because he had never expected any girl would want to yield to him. Now he saw Ginette was ready to offer herself to him, his nerve quailed. He thought of the girl he had killed and he regretted the act. The excitement, the test of his ingenuity, wits and courage seemed suddenly petty and ridiculous.

What Ginette would offer him was the ultimate thing in a man’s life, he told himself. He was suddenly sure of it. The other—the act of killing, the false excitement, the pitting of wits—was a sham and he was sickened at the thought that now he could never again lead a normal life. He would never know when the police would catch up with him.

“It’s on the first floor,” Ginette said.

He watched her climb the stairs and he was now acutely aware of her body in the tight-fitting singlet and cotton trousers she was wearing. He picked up the sack and followed her up the steep stairs to a door at the head of the stairs.

As she turned on the light in the room, she smiled at him.

“It’s not much of a room, but the bed is comfortable,” she said.

He moved up to her, looking beyond her into the small, clean room with its bed, its strip of carpet, its chest of drawers and the bright oil painting of Cannes harbour on the wall.

“It’s wonderful,” he said. “I couldn’t wish for anything better.”

He tossed the sack down by the bed, then deliberately went over to the window and faced her. They looked at each other, then Ginette came into the room and closed the door.

“Jay . . . I know I shouldn’t be doing this, but I can’t help myself. I love you so,” she said. “Please be kind to me.”

“Kind?” His breathing was quick and his heart hammering. “Why, of course.” He put his arms round her and drew her close to him. “You need never be frightened of me, Ginette.” He pressed his face against hers. “You are the special thing in my life.”

II

T
he hot sunlight coming through the shutters and lying across the bed woke Jay. He moved drowsily and then lifted his head, staring around the unfamiliar little room. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was, then looking around and seeing Ginette asleep at his side, he relaxed back on the pillow. He lay still, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the sounds in the street below.

Then, languidly, he reached for his watch, lying on the bedside table and saw it was twenty-five minutes past six.

He raised himself up on his elbow to look more closely at Ginette, who moved in her sleep, her hand sliding across his naked chest.

His mind came alert.

By this time the police would know he had killed the Balu girl and they would be searching for him. His description would probably be in the morning papers. He lay back, sliding his arm under Ginette’s shoulders, drawing her close to him and he thought of what he must do.

It would be better, he told himself, for him to remain out of sight in this room until the first intensive search for him had died down. He would be safe here. When he was sure the search had slackened, then he would slip away one night and make for Paris.

There would be difficulties. His description would be in all the newspapers. Ginette might see the description and recognize him. How would she react? Without her cooperation, he might easily fail to get away.

He turned his head to look at her and, as he did so, she opened her eyes, smiling sleepily at him.

“What is the time, Jay?” she asked.

“Half-past six.”

She gave a little sigh of content and pressed herself against him.

“We don’t have to get up until nine. Go to sleep,” she said, her lips now against his neck. “I’ve never been so happy . . .”

He lay motionless, his arm tightening around her and in a moment or so, her quick, light breathing told him she was sleeping.

I’ve never been so happy
. . .

Remorse bit into him as he thought of that ghastly moment when he had tightened the scarlet cord around the girl’s throat.

Why had he done this thing? he asked himself. It wasn’t because he had been bored. That was a lie he had told Sophia to try to justify his act. Neither was it because he wanted to test his courage and his wits. He realized that now. That had also been a lie to try to justify what he had done to himself.

He felt a cold chill creep over him as he was forced to recognize the fact that he had killed the girl because of an inner compulsion. Something inside him had urged him to kill her: a force he had been powerless to control.

Was this then the thing people called insanity? Was he really out of his mind? Yet, lying here, with this girl at his side, feeling her breath against his neck, he felt as sane as he imagined any sane person would feel.

He drew Ginette closer. His thoughts were of the activity that must be going on at the Cannes police headquarters. The police were already hunting for him. If he made one slip, he would be caught.

Guilty but insane.

If the jury brought in that verdict, what would they do with him?

He would be put away in a cell, away from Ginette, shut up like a dangerous animal, not just for a few months, but for the rest of his days.

Sweat broke out on his face at the thought.

What a fool he had been! To have deliberately put himself in such a situation!

Unable to remain any longer in bed, he drew his arm gently from under Ginette’s shoulders, moved the sheet aside and silently left the bed. Moving over to the window he lifted the blind a few inches. Already the early sun felt hot against his face as he looked down the narrow street.

A few people were walking to work. The shutters of the shop windows were still drawn. A man pushing a handcart on which were piled vast bunches of white, red and purple carnations passed just below the bedroom window.

Jay looked over at the Beau Rivage hotel. A gendarme stood in the shade, just inside the entrance, his face tight with boredom. A little further up the road stood a police van, its long radio aerial pointing like an accusing finger towards the blue sky.

The sight of the gendarme and the police van made Jay feel sick. He remained motionless, watching the gendarme, unable to drag his eyes away from this symbol of his possible destruction.

“Jay . . . what have you done to your arm?”

He started and looked quickly around.

Ginette had thrown aside the sheet and lay outstretched on the bed. She made a picture of beauty that quickened his heartbeat.

“My arm? Why, nothing.”

He moved away from the window.

“But you have . . . look.”

Then he saw the three long ragged scratches, the marks from Lucille Balu’s fingernails. They looked inflamed against the brownness of his skin.

“Oh, that . . .” He shrugged. “It is nothing. I scratched myself on a nail.”

“But doesn’t it hurt?” She was solicitous and he was pleased. No one had ever bothered before when he had hurt himself.

“It’s nothing.”

He came and sat beside her and bending over her, he put his mouth gently on hers. She gave a little sigh and her arms slid around his neck, pulling him to her.

“Dear, dear Jay . . .”

And no one had ever spoken to him like that before and he felt hot tears sting his eyes as he gripped her fiercely and lovingly.

The hands of the clock moved on from six-thirty to eight o’clock.

When Jay woke again he found Ginette no longer at his side and immediately he started up, his mind crawling with alarm.

Where was she?

Had the police come for him?

In sudden panic, he scrambled off the bed and darted across the room to where he had left his clothes. He was groping frantically for the gun he had left in his trousers pocket when the door swung open.

He felt a kick of fear against his heart as he looked over his shoulder.

Ginette came in carrying a breakfast tray. She was wearing the blue jeans and a yellow cotton shirt. She was smiling, but her smile faded as she paused in the doorway and stared at him.

The stiff motionless way in which he was crouching, the expression on his face, gave her the idea that he was frightened.

“What is it, Jay?”

He made an effort and pulled himself together.

“Nothing. I woke suddenly and I wondered where you had got to,” he said, his voice a little unsteady. He pulled on his pale blue cotton trousers. “Breakfast? Good. I’m hungry.”

She gave him a puzzled look, then set the tray down on the table. There was crisp bread, a large pat of butter, jam and coffee.

They sat side by side on the bed while they breakfasted.

Ginette said suddenly, “Jay . . . I don’t even know what work you do, except you do something in the film world.”

“I’m in publicity,” Jay said. “It’s not much of a job.”

“Will you be working this morning?”

“Oh, no. My work’s finished here now. I’m taking a vacation. Then I’ll have to go to Venice.”

“Won’t you be coming back, Jay?” she asked as she refilled his coffee cup.

“I don’t know. Would you like to come to Venice with me?”

She stared at him, her eyes opening wide.

“Venice?” She shook her head. “I’d love it, but it’s not possible. I couldn’t leave my father.”

He said what he knew was now impossible because he would never again be able to use his real name in safety.

“We could get married.”

She smiled at him and put her hand on his.

“My father is helpless. He has no other means of earning a living. We French are loyal to our parents. It is a tradition. It’s something in our blood. I can’t marry so long as he is alive.”

“You’re wasting your life,” Jay said impatiently. “When he dies what will happen to you?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Don’t let’s talk about it. What are you going to do this morning? I won’t be free until half past two; then we can go for a swim. The cafe reopens at six.”

“I’ll stay here,” Jay said. “Do you mind? I’m tired.”

“Of course you can stay here, but wouldn’t it be better for you to go out in the sun?”

He finished his coffee and then lay back on the bed.

“I’ve had enough of the sun. I like it here.” He smiled at her. “We have a few days together, Ginette. We are going to be very happy.”

She touched his face gently.

“I must go now. I have a lot to do.”

“Is the cafe open yet?”

“We don’t open until ten.”

She bent over him and kissed him, her fingers smoothing back his hair, then, smiling at him, she picked up the tray and went out of the room.

He put his hand to the place where she had kissed him and he had to struggle against the desire to weep. For some time he lay in an emotional vacuum, then he forced himself to think how he could get out of this trap he had dug for himself.

If he could get to Paris, he felt he might be safe.

As he lay thinking, he heard a murmur of voices downstairs.

Immediately, he stiffened and sat up.

The police?

He went over to the window and looked out. The gendarme still guarded the entrance to the Beau Rivage hotel, but the police van had gone.

Leaving the window, he crossed the room and eased open the door, his hand closing over the butt of the gun in his hip pocket.

He heard a man’s voice say something and Ginette reply, although he couldn’t hear what was said. He moved silently into the passage and peered over the banister rail.

He could see Ginette’s slim legs and small feet as she stood by the bar. The man she was talking to was out of sight.

“It was murder,” Jay heard the man say. “There’s no doubt about it. I was talking to the gendarme just now. He says it was a clumsy attempt to make it look like suicide.”

Jay’s fingers gripped the banister rail as he leaned forward to catch what the man was saying.

“He told me the killer is insane. They know who he is. You’d better be careful who comes in here today.”

Ginette laughed.

“I’m not worrying. He isn’t likely to return to this district,” she said.

“That’s where you are wrong. Killers often come back. They can’t keep away from the scene of their crime. Still, you don’t have anything to worry about. The gendarme are across the way. He’ll keep an eye on you.”

“Well, I must get on. I have work to do.”

“You’ll be busy today. People will come to look at the hotel. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Ginette moved out of Jay’s sight. He heard the cafe door open, then close and the key turn in the lock. How had the police found out that Kerr hadn’t killed himself? Jay wondered. If they were as clever as this, how was he to get away? Moving like a ghost, he started down the stairs until he could see into the bar.

Ginette was bending over a table on which was spread a newspaper, her back turned to him. He watched her and, after a few moments, she became aware of him and she turned.

“The police have found the man they were asking about yesterday—Joe Kerr,” she said, a little breathlessly. “They found him dead in the Beau Rivage hotel across the way. They say he was murdered and they think the man who killed Lucille Balu did it. They say he is insane.”

“He isn’t insane,” Jay said, suddenly angry. “I explained that to you before. Of course he isn’t insane.”

“But he must be,” Ginette said, turning back to the newspaper. “Inspector Devereaux is in charge of the case. He is very clever. He comes here quite often to talk to father. The paper says the Inspector knows who did it and he says that this man killed Kerr to make the police think it was Kerr who killed the girl.”