He woke with a start as Floyd Delaney and his wife came from the elevator and crossed the corridor, pausing outside the door to their suite while Delaney fumbled with the key.
Joe heard Delaney say: “Phew! I’m ready to hit the sack. How do you feel, honey?”
Sophia said: “Me too. I feel I could sleep for weeks.”
Joe watched them enter the suite and he shook his aching head, trying to clear his fuddled brain. He looked at his watch. The time was ten minutes to three o’clock.
How long had he slept?
He remembered he had looked at the time at twenty-five minutes to one. Then he must have fallen asleep. Had the Balu girl left the suite while he had been sleeping? He doubted it. The fact that he had woken when Delaney and his wife had returned assured him that, if the girl had left, he would have known about it.
He groped for his half-pint flask of whisky, then paused as he heard the whine of the ascending elevator. A moment later the door swished back and Jay Delaney stepped into the corridor.
Joe watched him cross the corridor to the door of suite 27. He watched him tentatively turn the handle, then open the door.
Well, the family was back now. What was going to happen? Where was the Balu girl? With resigned patience, Joe prepared himself for another long wait.
In the suite, Sophia had kissed her husband good night and had gone into her room, shutting the door. She leaned against the door, listening. After a few minutes she heard the sound of the shower that told her Floyd was preparing for bed and cautiously, she opened her bedroom door and moved into the lounge as Jay came in.
Jay glanced quickly around, then asked softly: “Where’s father?”
“He’s gone to bed. I want to talk to you, Jay.”
“In here?” He waved to his bedroom and she nodded.
They went in together and Jay sat on the edge of the bed while Sophia leaned against the door. Sophia was tense and pale, but Jay was relaxed; his eyes hidden behind his dark glasses gave her no chance of knowing what his true feelings were.
She said, “Have you thought what you are going to do?”
Since leaving Ginette, Jay had been irritated to discover that he was now bored with having Lucille’s body to cope with. When he had killed her, he had thought the business of disposing of her body would be an exciting test for his ingenuity and his wits, but now, his mind still full of Gillette’s lovely little face, he wished he could give her his full attention and not to have to be bothered with the dead girl.
“I’m going to put her in the elevator, take the elevator to the top floor and leave it there,” he said. “No one will be able to guess where she died. It’s the safest way.”
Sophia considered this. Her sharp wits told her that because of its simplicity it could be successful.
“But you may be seen,” she said.
Jay shrugged his shoulders.
“Yes but no plan is completely foolproof. I must take that risk unless . . .” He paused and looked intently at her.
“Unless—what?” she said sharply.
“Unless you would be willing to help me.”
Sophia stiffened.
“Help you? If I did and you were caught, it would make me an accessory.”
“Yes, I suppose it would.” He rubbed his jaw, frowning. “It was only an idea. It would have made it foolproof if I had someone in the corridor to warn me if anyone was coming while I got her into the elevator. That’s where the risk is.”
“Are you going to do it now?” Sophia asked.
Jay looked at his watch. It was now half-past three.
“I may as well. The elevator is now on automatic. This is the best time.”
“Now? This very moment?”
“Yes, when you have gone.”
Sophia hesitated, then she made the decision. Everything she had gained during her struggle to fame and everything that her husband had gained was in the balance, depending on whether or not some late comer strolled up the stairs when Jay carried the girl’s body into the corridor. To take such a risk would be inviting disaster, she told herself.
She had to help him.
“I’m going to the head of the stairs,” she said quietly. “If anyone comes I’ll call out ‘good night’. You must be very quick, Jay.”
He stared at her, startled.
“You mean you are going to help me? I don’t understand. Why are you doing this? They could send you to prison.”
“Never mind why I am doing it,” she said curtly. “I’m going to do it.” She looked at him, her face pale and her eyes glittering. “But don’t imagine you won’t have to pay for this, Jay, because you will and you’ll pay dearly.”
He frowned and his hands turned into fists.
“Of course.” His voice was bitter. “I was stupid enough to think for a moment you were thinking of me. You are doing it only for father and yourself, aren’t you?”
“Is that so surprising?” Sophia said coldly. “Why should we suffer because of what you have done? If your father knew, he would hand you over to the police. He has the courage to face the horrible publicity of the trial and the pity of our friends, but I’m not going to let a brutal, callous act of a mentally deranged boy ruin my husband’s future if I can help it. I’m prepared to take the risk of going to prison rather than see all your father’s hard work go for nothing and my social life ruined. So I’m going to help you, but don’t imagine you won’t pay for this degenerate thing you have done.”
Jay took out his cigarette case, opened it and offered it to Sophia. She hesitated, then took a cigarette. She stood motionless while he lit it for her and then one for himself.
“So you think I’m insane?” he said, sitting on the bed again. “That’s interesting. You are quite wrong, of course. I’m not insane. I did it because I was bored. You don’t know what it is to be really bored. For years now I have craved for something to happen that would be unusual and exciting. There can’t be anything more exciting than to risk one’s life. That was why I killed her.” He paused and his hands moved uneasily up and down his thighs as he stared at her. “But I’ll be frank with you, Sophia. This thing has misfired. It’s nothing like so exciting as I had imagined it would be. There was one moment when it was worthwhile. It was quite a moment when you came back here unexpectedly. I got a thrill out of that, but after, it has all been flat and dull.”
Sophia looked at him with loathing.
“I don’t want to listen to your explanations, Jay. You have done this horrible thing, now you must try to save your father and me from the consequences.”
“Of course.”
His indifferent smile riled her.
“Are you ready?” she said and opened the door.
“Yes.”
“I’ll call the elevator. Be quick.”
Bracing herself, she walked into the lounge. As she went to the door leading out on to the corridor, she heard Jay cross his room and unlock the cupboard door.
She looked into the deserted corridor, then she crossed to the elevator and pushed the call button. She heard the faint whining sound as the elevator ascended. She walked quickly to the head of the stairs and peered over the banister rail. She looked down the deserted stairs, her heart hammering so violently she could scarcely breathe. She stood there, a rigid, frightened figure, watching the stairs and listening.
Jay must have moved very quickly and silently, for she heard nothing and alarmed at the time he seemed to be taking, she was about to turn when she heard the swish of the elevator door as it closed and a moment later, the whining sound that told her the elevator was in motion.
She looked around and stared down the corridor at the red indicator light that showed the elevator was climbing. For a moment or so she remained still, then she walked unsteadily back to the suite. She entered and closed the door, then she went into Jay’s room.
The cupboard doors stood open. She looked into the cupboard, feeling a cold cramped sensation in her stomach. There was nothi
ng in the cupboard to show that a dead girl had lain there for more than twelve hours.
Leaving the room, she went back into the lounge and sat down. She felt cold and sick and very tired. She shut her eyes, letting her head drop back against the headrest of the chair. She remained like that for a long five minutes, then she heard the door open and she looked up.
Jay came in. He closed the door and locked it. He was pale and his upper lip shone with sweat.
They looked at each other.
“It’s all right,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
He nodded as he took out his handkerchief and wiped his hands and wrists.
“Yes. No one saw me. I took the elevator to the top floor and left it there. I didn’t meet anyone on the way down.”
“The police will be here soon. There will be an investigation. What about your fingerprints in the elevator?”
He shrugged impatiently.
“Hundreds of people use the elevator. I’m not worried about that.”
“What have you done with her beads?”
“I’ve thrown them into the sea.”
“Are you sure nothing of hers has been left here?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Didn’t she have a handbag?”
“No.”
“Are you quite sure? Girls always have handbags, Jay.”
“She didn’t. I’m sure.”
Sophia began to relax a little. Perhaps after all it would be all right, she thought. How could the police guess the girl had died in this suite? Surely their name and reputation would put them beyond suspicion?
“Then we must hope, Jay. I’m going to bed now.”
“Thank you for helping me,” Jay said. “You don’t have to worry. No one saw me.”
But there he was wrong.
Joe Kerr had seen Sophia leave the suite and press the elevator call button. He had watched her move furtively down the corridor to the head of the stairs and look over the banister rail. He had leaned forward, blankly surprised, wondering what she was doing when he saw Jay come unsteadily out of the suite with Lucille Balu slung limply over his shoulder. Joe recognized the girl’s blue and white dress and the colour of her hair.
He was so surprised to see Jay carrying the girl out of the suite that he remained transfixed and it wasn’t until it was too late that he groped for his camera. By then the elevator door had closed and the elevator had begun to climb. He watched Sophia come back along the corridor and as she passed under one of the ceiling lights, he saw how bad she looked; as if she were going to faint.
He waited.
A few minutes later, he saw Jay come down the stairs, walk across the corridor to the door of suite 27, open the door and disappear inside. He heard the key turn in the lock.
Still Joe sat motionless, staring with his frog-like, watery eyes at the door to suite 27.
His drink-sodden brain took some time before it accepted the evidence of his eyes and even then, he was suspicious of what he had seen.
He had been waiting outside the door of Delaney’s suite for a long time, and, as the hours had passed, he had become resigned to the fact that he was wasting his time, as he had wasted it so often on some hopeless assignment he had hoped would turn out to be something that would interest Manley and make him some money.
Lucille Balu had walked into the suite at four o’clock in the afternoon. This boy, Jay Delaney, had carried her out, apparently unconscious, twelve hours later and had taken her upstairs in the elevator.
Why was she unconscious? What had been happening to her during those twelve hours?
Joe grappled with this puzzle, his mind baffled.
Obviously, Floyd Delaney’s high-toned wife was in the secret.
She had acted as a scout, making sure the way was clear for the boy to get the unconscious girl out of the suite.
Had the girl been drugged or made drunk so the boy could seduce her? Joe wondered. Surely a woman like Sophia Delaney wouldn’t have associated herself with such a situation? But the fact remained that the girl had been in the suite for twelve hours and had been carried out unconscious. If he could prove that young Delaney had drugged the girl and Sophia Delaney had assisted in such an act, what a story it would make!
Unsteadily he got to his feet.
Where had the boy taken her? he wondered. He was pretty sure the girl wasn’t staying at the hotel. Where had she been dumped to sleep off the effects of the drug or drink the boy had plied her with?
Joe moved out of his hiding place and walked softly down the corridor to the elevator, then, deciding it might be dangerous to bring the elevator down to that floor, he started up the stairs to the floor above.
He was breathing heavily by the time he reached the third floor. Stair climbing and a diet of two bottles of whisky a day didn’t agree with him.
He thumbed the elevator button and, leaning against the wall, he waited for the elevator to descend, planning to start on the top floor and search any empty room he found until he discovered the girl.
A few seconds later, he was standing rigid, sweat on his face, as he stared down at Lucille Balu’s dead body. She lay on her back, her legs bent, her skirts above her knees. There was a look of frozen terror on her blood-congested face that sent a chill up Joe’s spine. Around her throat was the mark of a cord that had been pulled brutally tight, leaving a deep impression on her brown, tender skin. Her long slim fingers were hooked in agony; her eyes, starting out of her head, were fixed in the impersonal stare of death.
Joe felt a sudden thump of pain at his heart as he looked at the dead girl. The pain made him giddy and faint. He took a step back, grimacing. For some moments he stood motionless, aware that the shock had been a dangerous one and that his heart, which he had suspected for some time, had reacted badly. Then, making an effort, he turned and started a slow, shambling retreat down the corridor to the stairs.
The night clerk who sat the reception desk, idly turning the pages of Paris-Match, was surprised to see Joe lurch down the stairs and cross unsteadily to the revolving doors that led out
to the Croisette. He recognized Joe and grimaced. He supposed that Joe had been somewhere upstairs sleeping off a bout of drinking and he watched him manoeuvre himself through the revolving doors with a feeling of relief that Joe wasn’t going to make a nuisance of himself.
Joe kept walking: his brain frozen and numbed.
It wasn’t until he had reached the Beau Rivage hotel, a fifth-rate hotel in Rue Foch, where he was staying and had got up to his bedroom that he recovered sufficiently from the shock to begin to analyse what he had seen.
Twenty years ago, Joe had been the crime reporter on the New York Inquirer. During the four years he had worked on the paper, he had photographed innumerable bodies, murdered violently. He had become hardened to the horrors he had had to see. Also, he had been able to tell at a glance how the unfortunates he had had to photograph had died.
He knew that Lucille Balu had been strangled by a cord that had been looped around her throat and then pulled tight. From her congested face, the marks around her throat and her expression of agony, he had no doubt that she had been murdered.
His first and immediate reaction was to talk to Manley. A story as big as this needed cooperation and he was about to reach for the telephone to put through an unheard-of-expensive call to Hollywood, when he paused. An idea dropped into his mind and he leaned back to consider it.
Floyd Delaney was a millionaire four or five times over. In Joe’s Rolliflex was incontestable evidence that Lucille Balu had entered Delaney’s suite at four o’clock. Any police surgeon worth a damn could tell within a half an hour when she had died and Joe was pretty sure the girl had been murdered between four and four forty-five, when Jay Delaney had been in the suite.
That meant either young Delaney or Sophia Delaney had murdered her and Joe thought it wasn’t likely that Sophia had done it, but obviously she was an accessory.
Here then was a
situation that could be turned into profit.
Why call Manley? Why bother to write the story? All Joe had to do was to talk to Delaney, come to a financial understanding with him to keep his mouth shut and he would be on easy street for the rest of his life.
Joe’s raddled face lit up at the thought and he shifted the grimy pillow at his head, making himself more comfortable. Delaney might be persuaded to part with half a million.
With that Joe could retire and settle somewhere on the French Riviera. He could buy a small villa, get a housekeeper to look after him and give up the struggle of competing with the smart young punks who were trying to push him out of his job. What a terrific kick he would get out of telling Manley to go jump in a lake!
He frowned, stroking his red, raddled nose.
A half a million! With that money, he could get a villa with a view of the sea; he could afford a comfortable armchair, a good radio and a continuous flow of whisky. Pretty good, he thought and no more work.
As he lay thinking about this, a sudden uneasy thought came into his mind.
Technically speaking, if he went to Delaney and asked him for half a million in return for his silence, he would be committing blackmail. If Delaney wasn’t prepared to make a deal with him, he might find himself in the hands of the police. Also, by keeping silent, even if Delaney parted with the money, he would be making himself an accessory to murder and if he were found out, he could be faced with a stiff prison sentence.
Joe flinched at the thought of getting into trouble with the police and again he was tempted to call Manley, to give him the story and let him handle it, but, as his hand moved to the telephone, he again hesitated.
“Take it easy,” he said aloud. “Wait and see how this thing develops. You’ve got the pictures. You mustn’t rush this. If the police get a lead on the boy, Delaney might jump at the chance of buying the pictures off me. The thing to do is to take it nice and easy and wait. It’ll be tricky, but you can cope with it. This could be the biggest thing that has ever happened to you if you don’t make a mess of it.”
1958 - Not Safe to be Free Page 8
