“Ah, yes. I have information about this man already,” Devereaux said. “He begins to interest me. What was he doing outside Monsieur Delaney’s door?”
“He said he had been told at the desk that Monsieur Delaney was in.”
“And was he?”
“No. His son was, but he left a few minutes before I caught Kerr outside the door.”
“So no one was in the suite?”
“That’s right.”
“You say Kerr was listening outside the door?”
“That’s what it looked like. He may have knocked and was waiting for the door to be opened.”
“What time was this?”
“Quarter to five.”
Devereaux scratched the side of his nose with the end of his pencil.
“Soon after the girl was killed,” he said as if talking to himself. “So this man Kerr was in the hotel around the time of her death.”
“It looks like it.”
“Can you find out for me when he left the hotel?”
“It’s possible. I will ask the night clerk, who is waiting to see if he can be of help.”
While Devereaux waited, he turned over in his mind what he had learned. He glanced at the desk clock. The time was now twenty minutes to eight.
Cadot returned in a few minutes.
“The night clerk says he saw Kerr leave at three fifty-five this morning.”
Devereaux, who was tapping with his pencil on the blotter, stiffened and looked up.
“Did he say what he was doing in the hotel at such an hour?”
“No. He came down the stairs and the night clerk said he thought he was drunk — anyway, he was walking very unsteadily. He went out without saying anything.”
“This becomes interesting. This was the time about when the girl’s body must have been put in the elevator.” Devereaux consulted his notes. “The girl was strangled with a curtain cord. Are there such cords in every room in the hotel?”
Cadot shrugged his shoulders apologetically.
“I don’t know, but it is easy to find out.”
“Find out for me,” Devereaux said. “If the cords are different on the various floors let me have samples.”
Cadot said he would do what he could and left the office.
Devereaux relaxed back in the leather desk chair. He lit a cigarette and puffed at it while he frowned at the opposite wall.
Benoit, the police photographer, came in. He laid a damp print on the blotter in front of Devereaux.
“Here it is, Inspector,” he said. “It’s the best I can do until I get back to the lab.”
Devereaux studied the photograph. He took a magnifying glass from his pocket and bent close. Then he straightened and laid down the magnifying glass.
“It’s not bad. The cord is brocaded: the pattern is quite distinct. I don’t think it will be difficult to identify the cord if it is found.”
He was still studying the photograph when Cadot returned. He carried two silk curtain cords: one of them was scarlet and the other green.
He laid them on the desk.
“Only the first- and second-floor rooms have brocaded cords,” he said. “Are these what you want?”
Devereaux examined the two cords, then he pushed aside the green cord, examined the scarlet cord again, then sat back, smiling at Cadot.
“This cord comes from — where?”
“The second floor.”
“We are getting warm. We now know she was strangled by a cord similar to this one and that means she was strangled in a room on the second floor. I would now like a list of everyone who is staying on this floor.”
At this moment the telephone bell on the desk rang.
Cadot answered it and then held the receiver out to the Inspector.
“It is for you.”
It was Guidet calling.
“I am at the girl’s hotel,” he said. “Her agent, Jean Thiry is coming over to see you. The girl was seen talking to a young fellow on the beach at three thirty yesterday afternoon. He has been identified by two witnesses. He is Jay Delaney: the son of the producer.”
Devereaux remained silent for so long that Guidet said, “Are you there, Inspector?”
“Yes. I was thinking. I want this man Joe Kerr. It is now urgent. Concentrate on finding him. Use as many men as you need,” Devereaux said and hung up.
He looked at Cadot.
“Jay Delaney,” he said. “What can you tell me about him?”
Cadot lifted his shoulders.
“He is about twenty-one or — two. He seems a nice, quiet, well behaved young fellow. All the Delaneys are nice people. Monsieur Delaney is, of course, very rich.”
“Can you find out if this young man was in the hotel at the time the girl died?”
“I’ll ask,” Cadot said and went out of the office.
Devereaux picked up his pencil and began to draw aimlessly on the blotter. He was still drawing and puffing at his cigarette when Cadot returned.
“Young Delaney returned to the suite a few minutes to four o’clock,” Cadot said. “Mrs. Delaney joined him immediately afterwards.”
“Mrs. Delaney?”
“Yes. The clerk remembers her asking for the key and he told her Mr. Delaney junior had just gone up to the suite.”
Devereaux pushed out his lower lip and tapped it gently with his pencil.
“So Mrs. Delaney was with her step-son at the time the girl died?”
Cadot looked sharply at him.
“It sounds as if you thought he had something to do with it... ”
Devereaux shrugged his shoulders.
“One has to think of everything, but obviously he couldn’t have. Well, we must see what Kerr has to say for himself. A drunkard.” He frowned. “What puzzles me is why the girl should have been killed.” He reached for the telephone and called the police surgeon. “Are there any signs that the girl was sexually interfered with?” he asked when the police surgeon came on the line.
He listened for a moment or so, then grunted and hung up.
“There was no assault and no attempt at assault. Then why was she killed?”
Frowning, he began again to make aimless patterns on his blotter.
II
A little after eight o’clock, Jay woke out of a heavy sleep. He lifted his head to look at the bedside clock, then, grimacing, he slid further down in the bed and shut his eyes.
He lay for some minutes, thinking of Ginette and then, abruptly, he remembered Lucille Balu.
For a brief moment, a chill of uneasiness ran through him, then, with an impatient shrug, he told himself he had nothing to worry about.
It was unfortunate that he had given way to the stupid impulse and had killed the girl. But he had got rid of the body and the police couldn’t possibly trace the murder to him. There was no more difficult murder to solve than the murder without motive.
He wondered if she had been found, and, impelled by a sudden urgent curiosity, he lifted the telephone receiver by his bedside and ordered café complet to be sent to his room.
He got out of bed and took a shower. As he was combing his hair the waiter came in and put the breakfast tray on the table.
Jay eyed the man curiously, but the stolid fat face told him nothing.
“What is all the excitement about?” Jay asked casually as he slipped on his dressing gown.
“Pardon, monsieur?”
“I thought I heard some sort of commotion just now. Is someone ill?”
“Not that I know of, monsieur.”
Impatiently, Jay waved him away, and, when the waiter had gone, Jay walked over to the open window and looked out.
Although it was still early, there were a number of people bathing and also a larger number of people wandering along the promenade.
Parked opposite the hotel were two police vans and Jay smiled uneasily, stepping back and letting the curtain fall into place.
So they had found her.
A cold knot of excitement coiled into a tight ball in his stomach as he poured coffee and drank it thirstily. Then he went into the bathroom and rapidly shaved with his electric razor.