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

While he was walking back to the Plaza hotel, the news of the murder exploded like a hand grenade among the pressmen haunting the Plaza lobby.

For more than half an hour Inspector Devereaux was besieged in the assistant-manager’s office. Then when the pressmen were satisfied that they had all the information he could give them, there was a mad rush to the telephones.

Left alone with Guidet, Devereaux sat back and mopped his perspiring face.

He had said nothing about Joe Kerr to the pressmen. He had given them the details of the girl’s death. He had given them permission to visit the morgue where she had now been taken. He had said that the investigation was proceeding but so far there were no clues.

This was all very well for a few hours, but he knew before long pressure would be brought to bear on him for further information and a demand made for an arrest.

“Still no sign of Kerr?” he asked Guidet.

“Not yet. He’s not staying at any of the hotels here,” Guidet said. “We are extending the search further afield and I have every available man on the job. It looks suspicious. The hall porter tells me that Kerr always arrives before eleven in the morning and hangs about up to midnight. To-day, so far, there has been no sign of him.”

Devereaux dug his pencil viciously into the much-marked blotter.

“He was up there at the time the girl died; he left at the time she was put in the elevator. Now he has vanished. It looks like he is our man. He’s got to be found!”

“He will be,” Guidet said soothingly. “With a face like that... ”

“We still don’t know why the girl was up there. Who could she be visiting?” Devereaux picked up a typewritten list of the names of the occupants staying on the second floor. “There were only five suites occupied at the time of the girl’s death. The rest of the people were out. The fact she didn’t ask at the reception desk, but went straight up, looks as if she knew where she was going and the room number. Then who was she going to see?”

Guidet shrugged his shoulders. He had puzzled his head about this point for the past half hour and had come to no conclusion.

“It is possible,” Devereaux said, tapping on the desk with his pencil, “that she knew most of the important film executives have suites on this floor. She may have gone up there on the off-chance of meeting one of them with the view of getting herself noticed. So many young stars are doing that in the lobby. She may have thought there would be less competition up there.”

Guidet grimaced. He didn’t think much of this idea.

“Then she chose an odd time. There was scarcely anyone up there.”

Devereaux consulted his list.

“There’s this man from the London Studios: Monsieur Hamilton. He is a casting director. She may have been trying to see him.”

“How did she know he was in? How did she know his room number?”

“He may have told her.”

“And you think Kerr was up there to see Delaney and finding himself alone in the corridor with a pretty girl, attacked her? She wasn’t assaulted.”

“He didn’t mean to kill her,” Devereaux said. “When he found she was dead, he became frightened and ran away.”

“There’s the curtain cord. If he had strangled her with his hands I might agree with you, but the cord makes it premeditated.”

Devereaux nodded, frowning.

“Yes. He would have had to entice her into an empty suite. If she saw him undo the cord she would know he meant harm and she would have had time to scream. Yes, you’re right, he must have had the cord ready. Then why did he kill her?” He dropped the pencil on the desk. “We must find him.” He again picked up the sheet of paper and studied it. “Take some men with you and examine all the suites that were un-occupied at the time of the girl’s death. Monsieur Vesperini will tell you if they are occupied now or not. We must work with him. His position is difficult. We mustn’t disturb his clients if we can help it.”

While they were talking Jay had entered the hotel lobby. He could tell immediately from the buzz of excited conversation that the news had broken.

No one paid any attention to him as he made his way through the crowd to the elevator.

As the elevator took him to the second floor, he slid his hand into his hip pocket and with his thumbnail he broke the string of the necklace so the beads rolled free in his pocket.

At the second floor, he left the elevator and began to walk slowly down the corridor.

When he was near the door to suite 27, he paused and took out his cigarette case and casually glanced behind him.

A big, heavily-built man was standing at the head of the stairs looking down the corridor at him.

Jay wasn’t surprised. He had been prepared to find a detective up here by now.

Having lit his cigarette, he moved on to suite 30. The occupant of this suite was Merril Ackroyd, one of his father’s top directors. Jay knew Ackroyd had been to Paris for the past two days. He knew also that he was due to return this morning. He paused outside the suite and rapped on the door, aware that the detective was watching him.

This was an exciting moment and Jay felt his heart beating fast. He heard footsteps cross the room, then the door jerked open.

Ackroyd, a small, thin man with a crew-cut and a tanned, handsome face, stared at Jay, surprised, then he grinned.

“Hello there, Jay! Come on in! I’ve just this minute got back.”

Jay followed him into the big sitting-room and closed the door.

“I was passing,” he said, wandering away from Ackroyd. “I wondered if you were back. Did you have a good trip?”

“Yeah, swell.” Ackroyd was puzzled to have this visit from Jay, but, as Jay was Floyd Delaney’s son, he was prepared to waste a little time in being sociable. “Have a drink? What’s all this I hear about a murder here last night? Is it right the girl was Lucille Balu?”

“Yes.” Jay said. He was now standing by the window. He saw the drapes hadn’t been caught back and were hanging loose. “The police are swarming all over the hotel.”

Ackroyd said: “Well, what do you know! Hang on a second, Jay. I haven’t unpacked yet. I’ve got a bottle of White Label in my grip. I’ll get it.”

He went into his bedroom.

Jay took the scarlet cord off its hook, twisted it into a coil and slid it inside his shirt. Then, taking out two of the blue beads, he flicked them under the settee.

He was sitting in a lounging chair by the time Ackroyd came back with the whisky.

“That kid!” Ackroyd said as he poured two big shots into glasses. “For heaven’s sake! Who would want to kill her? What’s your father think? He was going to get her under contract.”

“I don’t think he knows yet,” Jay said mildly. “He left for the Nice Studios before the news broke.” He took the whisky, noticing with a sense of pride how steady his hand was.

“Must have been some lunatic, I guess. Well, I sure hope they catch the sonofabitch.” Ackroyd finished his drink. “A kid like that! I’m sorry for Thiry. She was the only string in his stable worth a damn.”

“Did you see any good shows in Paris?” Jay asked abruptly, changing the subject. The reference to a lunatic sent a wave of irritation through him. Why must everyone jump to the conclusion that the girl had been killed by a lunatic?

“Nothing worth getting excited about,” Ackroyd said. He talked about this Paris trip for a few minutes, then pointedly asked Jay if he would like another drink.

“No, thanks. I must be getting along,” Jay said and got to his feet. “Are you going to Nice?”

“Yup.” Ackroyd pushed himself out of the lounging chair. “I promised your father to have lunch with him.” He looked at his wrist watch. “Suffering cats! It’s after twelve!”