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

They walked to the door together and as Jay stepped into the corridor, he saw Guidet and three police officers entering a suite further down the corridor. The assistant manager of the hotel was with them. They didn’t notice Jay.

“Looks like business,” Ackroyd said, watching the detectives disappear into the suite. “Well, see you,” he said and, waving his hand, he shut the door.

Jay walked down the corridor and entered his suite.

Well, he had set the stage, now there was nothing he could do until nightfall. He must hope that the police wouldn’t find Joe Kerr before then. It was a risk he had to take.

He went into his bedroom, took the silk curtain cord from inside his shirt and put it in the top drawer of the chest, along with the razor and the rest of the beads. Then he locked the drawer and pocketed the key.

Taking his swimming-trunks and a towel, he left the suite.

The detective at the head of the stairs glanced at him casually, then looked away.

Jay had difficulty in expressing a giggle of excitement. If this man only knew what he had been doing, he thought, as he pressed the button for the elevator.

This was developing into an experience as exciting as he imagined it would be.

A little after three o’clock in the afternoon the telephone bell on Devereaux’s borrowed desk started into life.

For the past hour, the Inspector had been rearranging the notes he had taken during the morning and had been busy studying them. The more he studied them the more he became convinced that Joe Kerr was the man he was after and it irked him that Kerr hadn’t as yet been found.

So, with an impatient frown, he lifted the receiver and barked, “Yes? Who is it?”

“Will you come up to the second floor, Inspector?” Guidet said, excitement in his voice. “We have found the suite where she was killed.”

“You have?” Devereaux got hastily to his feet. “I’m coming.”

He left the office, pushed his way through the crowded, excited lobby, and, not waiting for the elevator, he ran up the stairs to the second floor.

He was immediately pursued by a group of pressmen and four or five photographers.

Guidet must have anticipated trouble, for he had posted four gendarmes at the head of the stairs who stopped the pressmen entering the corridor.

There was an immediate uproar and, impatiently, Devereaux told them that he would make a statement as soon as he could; then he hurried down the corridor to where Guidet stood outside the door of suite 30.

“Well?” Devereaux demanded.

“There’s a curtain cord missing in here and I’ve found two of the beads from the girl’s necklace on the floor.”

Devereaux’s face lit up with a triumphant smile.

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Who owns the suite?”

Vesperini came forward.

“It belongs to Monsieur Merril Ackroyd. He is an important American film director. He was in Paris last night and has only just returned. He got back at ten-fifteen this morning.”

“So the suite was empty last night?”

“That is right.”

Devereaux entered the suite and stood looking around.

“The beads?”

“They are under the settee. I left them where I found them for you to see.”

Two of the police officers picked up the settee and moved it out of the way. On the carpet lay two blue beads.

Devereaux bent over them and examined them without touching them.

“No more of them?”

“No.”

“In the struggle, the necklace must have broken. The beads would have shot all over the room. He missed these two. And a curtain cord is missing?”

“Yes.” Guidet pulled aside the drapes. “There’s one on the left, but the right one is missing.”

“Have the beads photographed as they lie,” Devereaux said. “Then test them for prints.” He turned to Vesperini.

“The suite was locked, of course, when Monsieur Ackroyd left for Paris?”

“Yes.”

“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 pass-key. 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 to-night, 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.