“Of course, but I have been walking all night and now I find I am very tired. Will it be all right for me to stay here a few hours and rest?”
The girl folded the notes and hastily put them in her purse. From her expression Jay could see she couldn’t make up her mind whether to be insulted or indifferent.
“What kind of poor fish are you?” she said, moving to the door. “This is the first time any man has ever told me he was too tired.”
“You must excuse me, mademoiselle. Will it be all right for me to stay a little while?”
“You paid for the room, didn’t you?”
She went out, slamming the door.
Jay sat motionless, his clenched fists squeezed between his knees.
Somewhere in this dingy hotel was Joe Kerr and where Kerr was the photographs and the negatives would be.
Now he had to find them.
He took the leather razor case from his pocket and took the razor from it, putting the empty case back in his pocket. The razor, closed, he slipped under the strap of his wrist-watch.
Then, moving silently, he crossed to the door, opened it a few inches and stood listening.
In the meantime...
A little after six o’clock, Jean Thiry walked into the Plaza lobby. He had spent the morning and the afternoon in the cinema, watching two foreign movies, trying to make up his mind to the fact that, by Lucille Balu’s death, he had now been reduced to the status of a third-rate agent and if he wanted to survive, he would have to get back into the harness of solid, grinding work. He realized these two movies had possibilities. He hoped he could sell at least bits of them to a Polish agent who was looking for “shorts” at a cut-rate price.
So he had put Lucille Balu out of his mind and had watched the movies, noting the bits that might be commercial.
Now, as he walked into the lobby, he saw that people looked at him out of the corners of their eyes and he knew they were thinking that, with Lucille Balu out of his stable, he was now of no account and he knew the judgment was just.
A detective moved over to him and touched his arm.
“Pardon, monsieur, the Inspector would like to speak to you.”
Devereaux sat behind his borrowed desk, his notes in a neat pile in front of him and he waved Thiry to a chair, half rising, his face grave and his brow wrinkled.
“We have found a blue bead in one of the suites on the second floor,” he said, taking the bead from a plastic envelope with a pair of stamp tongs. “We have reason to believe it is a bead from the necklace Mademoiselle Balu wore.”
He placed the bead on the white blotter and pushed the blotter forward so Thiry could examine the bead.
“It is possible,” Thiry said after looking at it. “She had so many necklaces. It could be one of hers. I don’t know.”
Devereaux moved impatiently.
“Surely, monsieur, you will remember this bead. You told me you were with her on the beach before she was killed. She was wearing the necklace at the time. Please try to think of the necklace which she was wearing on the beach.”
Thiry frowned.
“She wasn’t wearing a necklace,” he said in a flat, definite tone.
Again Devereaux made an impatient movement.
“But I have evidence that assures me that she was monsieur.”
Thiry shrugged.
“She wasn’t wearing a necklace. I can assure you of that.”
Impressed by his manner, Devereaux scratched the tip of his nose while he stared at Thiry.
“Yet it was you who told me of her habit of wearing necklaces, monsieur.”
“Yes, yes, but I didn’t say she wore a necklace when she was on the beach. She didn’t. As soon as she got out of her swim-suit she always put on a necklace, but she never wore one when in a swim-suit. I know what I’m talking about. I’ve known the girl for some years. She was not wearing a neck-lace when she was on the beach. That is final. If you don’t believe me, we can get the photographs of her that were taken when she was posing on the beach and you can see for yourself.”
Devereaux suddenly felt vaguely excited.
“I would be glad to see the photographs, monsieur.”
“That’s easily done. If you will wait, I’ll get them.”
“Thank you, monsieur.”
When Thiry left the office Devereaux again went through his notes and took, from the collection of the neatly written evidence, the interview he had had with Jay Delaney.
He read:
Q. You didn’t see her when you went up to your suite?
A. No, I didn’t. I would have told you if I had.
Q. And at no time after you had spoken to the girl on the beach did you see her in the hotel?
A. That is right.
He turned another page.
Q. I wonder if you could describe the bead necklace the girl was wearing?
A. Why yes. They were big sapphire blue beads...
Devereaux laid down the notes and lit a cigarette. He sat staring up at the ceiling, his expression blank until Thiry returned with the photographs.
“Here they are, Inspector,” he said and laid on the desk half a dozen pictures of Lucille Balu posing on the beach. “You see? She wasn’t wearing a necklace.”
Devereaux studied the photographs, then he swept them into a neat pile and laid them on top of his notes.
“Thank you, monsieur. You have been most helpful.”
When Thiry had gone, Devereaux sat for some minutes thinking, then, getting to his feet, he went to the office door and beckoned to Guidet, who was waiting outside.
“I would like to speak to young Delaney. Is he in the hotel?”
Guidet inquired from the hall porter.
Returning to Devereaux, he said: “No, he’s out somewhere. Do you want me to look for him?”
“Please tell the hall porter to let me know immediately he returns,” Devereaux said. “We won’t look for him. After all, he is the son of a very important man. We must be careful.” He smiled, lifting his shoulders in resignation. “It will be enough when he returns.”
It was fortunate for Jay that, when he did return to the hotel, the hall porter was having trouble with an irate American film actress who wanted to know why there was no berth for her on the Blue Train to Paris.
So Jay was able to go up to the suite and a little later leave the hotel without Devereaux being aware that he had done so.
It wasn’t until after ten o’clock that Devereaux regretfully telephoned headquarters and gave instructions for Jay to be found and brought immediately to the Plaza.
In the meantime...
All the afternoon Sophia had been wrestling with her conscience. She kept wondering what Jay was doing.
Between now and nine o’clock I will have arranged something he had said. I don’t think you will have to give her the necklace.
What could he arrange? she kept wondering. The photographs were damning. Knowing the kind of woman she had met with, Sophia was sure Madame Brossette had either to be paid or she would carry out her threat and send the photographs to the police.
Several times during the afternoon and the evening, Sophia had been tempted to tell her husband, but she flinched from the inevitable explosion she knew would follow. She blamed herself for not giving Jay away at once. By not doing so, she had made herself an accessory to murder and thinking about this as she sat at her husband s side, watching a French movie, she imagined herself in prison and the thought sent cold chills up her spine.
Jay must do something! she told herself. He had got her into this mess and he must get her out of it!
Then she came back to the thought that had nagged her ever since he had left her. How? How was he to do it?
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