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

Jay Delaney lay back in the canvas slung chair, a book in his lap and listened to the voice that was speaking to him in his mind.

He had grown used to listening to this voice. It had been urging him to do various acts of violence now for the past eighteen months, but up to now, he had resisted the voice’s cajoleries.

But this afternoon, as he relaxed in the hot sunshine, the suggestion the voice was making to him tempted him.

The idea of murdering a girl had been in his mind for some time. It would be, he had told himself over and over again, the ultimate test of his wits, his intelligence and his courage.

From behind his heavily tinted blue sun-glasses, he had been watching a girl seated on the sand some thirty yards or so from him.

The girl was wearing a sky-blue bikini and she was posing on the sand before a group of sweating photographers who stood or knelt in a semicircle around her while a big crowd along the Croisette stared with insatiable curiosity at the spectacle.

The girl was blonde and very young with a body conforming to the standard requirements of the movie world and her skin was the colour of honey from the comb. She was pretty with small features and a bright, animated expression that would come out well in a photograph.

Sexually the girl didn’t interest Jay. No girls had ever interested him that way. The qualities that made her attractive to him were her freshness, her vitality and her animation.

The voice in his mind said persuasively, “This is the girl you have been waiting for. This is the girl you should kill. It won’t be difficult. She is a film star. It won’t be difficult to get her alone. You have only to tell her that your father wants to meet her for her to go anywhere with you.”

Jay reached in his shirt pocket and took out the gold cigarette-case that his step-mother had given him for his twenty-first birthday, four months ago. From it, he took out a cigarette and lit it.

The girl had turned over now, her chin cupped in her hands, her legs lifted, her ankles crossed, while photographers took pictures of her long slim back and the curve of her hips, scarcely concealed by the skimpy bikini she was wearing.

It was true, Jay thought, it wouldn’t be difficult to get her alone. Being the son of Floyd Delaney, who was to Pacific Motion Pictures what Sam Goldwyn was to M.G.M., made it easy to approach her without arousing her suspicions.

He was suddenly glad that his father had insisted that he should accompany him to Cannes. He hadn’t wanted to go and he had raised all kinds of objections, but finally his father, who always got his own way in the end, had persuaded him to come along.

The Cannes Film Festival was fun, his father had said: lots of pretty girls, wonderful food, swimming and good movies. Besides, he needed a vacation.

So he had reluctantly tagged along as he had always tagged along wherever his father went.

It was a lonely business, this trailing along in the wake of his father’s glory. Twelve years ago, Jay’s mother had thrown herself out of a hotel window. Since her death, his father had married twice, divorcing his second wife after two ears of constant bickering. His present wife, Sophia, was five years older than Jay: a fragile, dark beauty with enormous blue eyes, a slender lovely body and the face of a Raphael Madonna. She was an Italian and had been a celebrated film star before Floyd Delaney had married her. Now, because of his possessiveness and his millions, she had retired from the screen.

Jay was always a little uneasy in her presence. Her beauty disturbed him and he avoided her as much as he could. When they did get a few minutes alone together, he had an uneasy feeling that she suspected there was something a little odd about him. He had often caught her looking at him, a quizzing, puzzled expression in her eyes as if she were trying to probe into what was going on in his mind.

She was always kind and pleasant to him and she always made an effort to include him in the conversation when a crowd surrounded his father and this bothered him. He much preferred to remain on the fringe of his father’s activities rather than to be forced to talk to people who obviously weren’t interested in him.

The Delaneys had been at the Plaza hotel now for three days. From there they were going on to Venice and then on to Florence with a camera unit to shoot background material for a new movie that was going into production in the late autumn.

During these three days in Cannes, his father and Sophia had spent most of their time watching the best films Europe had to offer. His father’s own film offering, an all-colour, star-studded, glittering musical, was to be shown on the last day of the Festival and Floyd Delaney had no doubt that it would take the first prize.

Jay had said he preferred to remain on the beach, rather than watch a series of foreign movies. Reluctantly, his father had agreed. He would have liked his son to have taken more interest in the film business, but, as it was the boy’s vacation, he told him to go ahead and please himself.

Jay looked over at the girl in the sky-blue bikini. She was standing now, her long, slim legs apart, her hand shielding her eyes while she laughed at the group of photographers who grinned back at her because they thought she was a nice, cute kid and because she didn’t throw her weight around like some of these little bitches who didn’t know enough even to wash their feet before putting on their swim-suits and who behaved as if they had talent instead of just a body in search of a job.

A press photographer, shambling across the sand, recognized Jay and paused.

“Hello there, Mr. Delaney,” he said. “Giving the movies a miss this afternoon?”

A little startled, Jay looked up and nodded.

What a specimen! he thought, looking at the shabby figure before him and what a complexion!

The man looked pickled with drink, but Jay smiled at him. He made a point always to be polite to anyone who spoke to him.

“Who wants to watch a movie in this weather?”

“I guess that’s right, but your father’s in there.” The man moved a little closer and Jay could smell the whisky on his breath. “Your father’s keen: the keenest man in the business. I don’t reckon he’s missed one picture since he’s been here.”

“I don’t think he has.” Jay nodded over to the girl in the bikini. “Who’s that? Do you know her name?”

The man turned and peered at the girl.

“Lucille Balu: pretty nifty, huh? She’s working with a small independent French unit right now, but in a year, she’ll be up at the top. She’s got a lot of talent.”

“Yes,” Jay said and having got the information he wanted, he pointedly picked up his book.

The photographer studied him. A good-looking kid, he thought. He would make quite a movie actor and how the girls would rave about him!

“Look, Mr. Delaney, could you fix an exclusive for me with your father?” he asked hopefully. “I’d like to get his views on the future of the French cinema and take some pictures. Could you put in a word for me? My name’s Joe Kerr.”

Jay shook his head, smiling.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kerr, but you’d better talk to Mr. Stone. He handles that side of my father’s business.”

The red-raw face tightened in a grimace.

“I know, but I can’t get anywhere with him. Couldn’t you put in a good word for me?”

“It wouldn’t help. My father doesn’t listen to any suggestions I make.” Jay’s smile widened and he looked very young and boyish. “You know what fathers are.”

“Yeah.” Kerr’s raddled face fell and he shrugged his shoulders. “Well, thanks anyway,” then, seeing Jay made another pointed movement with his book, he went shambling away across the sand.