She sat down and watched Madame Brossette heave her body around the small desk, open a drawer and take out three photographs. These she laid in front of Sophia, then she sat down, showing her white teeth in a grin of triumph.
Aware that her heart was beating quickly, Sophia examined the photographs. Her shrewd, quick mind saw that the clock in each photograph was the story-teller.
Her face was expressionless as she looked at Madame Brossette.
“You want to sell these?”
“Yes. The man who took them was curious that the girl didn’t leave your apartment,” Madame Brossette said. “Anything odd interests him. He sat outside the door of your apartment until half-past three in the morning. Then he saw this young man carry the girl to the elevator. She was dead. With these pictures and his evidence, both of you could go for trial. Yes, I would be willing to sell them, providing the price is fair.”
“How much?” Sophia asked as she arranged a loose strand of hair that had escaped from the ribbon around her head.
Madame Brossette regarded her with unconcealed admiration.
“You will appreciate that if my friend doesn’t tell the police what he knows, he will become an accessory to murder?”
Sophia deliberately took out her cigarette case, selected a cigarette and then lit it. Her movements were unhurried, so that Madame Brossette could observe how steady her hands were.
“How much?” she asked, blowing a cloud of smoke into Madame Brossette’s face.
“Shall we say ten million francs now as an immediate payment?”
“And after?”
Madame Brossette lifted her dyed eyebrows.
“For an immediate payment of ten million francs you would have my word of honour that the police wouldn’t be shown the photographs. Later, my friend might need a little more money, but I assure you he isn’t interested in great wealth. He is a man of very simple tastes.”
“How much for the negatives?” Sophia asked.
Madame Brossette shook her rust-coloured hair.
“The negatives are not for sale. I’m sorry, but my friend is anxious to have a sense of security. One never knows: money can be useful from time to time.”
Sophia leaned forward and tapped the ash off her cigarette into the glass bowl on Madame Brossette’s desk.
“I haven’t ten million francs,” she said.
Madame Brossette lifted her fat, massive shoulders.
“That I can understand. You have a very rich husband, but he doesn’t give you much money. The diamond necklace you wore at the opening night of the Festival would do very well. Your husband wouldn’t miss it and I could make use of it. Suppose we agree that the first payment should be the necklace?”
Sophia drew in a lungful of smoke and let the smoke drift down her small, beautifully shaped nostrils.
“That might be arranged.”
Madame Brossette’s smile widened.
“You are not without experience, ma cherie,” she said. “In the past, you have had a hard life. Girls in trouble come to me from time to time. I deal lightly with them because I am sorry for them. I too have been in trouble. I’m willing to wait until to-morrow, but after to-morrow the photographs will go to the police. From now until nine o’clock to-morrow morning I will wait. After then, I must go to the police. Is that understood?”
Sophia got to her feet. She placed her small, beautiful hands on the desk and leaned forward so that her glittering eyes stared fixedly into the small, greedy eyes that looked up into hers.
“Don’t confuse me with the other women you have had to deal with,” she said softly and the viciousness in her voice would have shocked her husband could he have heard it. “Don’t make the mistake that you can dictate to me, you fat old cow! Don’t imagine that, if I get the chance, I won’t make you pay for this!”
Madame Brossette smiled. She had been often threatened in the past, threats had become meaningless.
“I appreciate how you feel,” she said. “I’d feel the same way. Bring the necklace before nine to-morrow morning.” Her white teeth glistened in the sunlight. “After the luxury you have found, you would not like to spend years in prison.” She pushed the photographs across the desk. “Take them and show them to the boy. I have plenty more.”
Sophia picked up the photographs, put them into the soiled envelope and the envelope into her bag. She stared for a long moment at the fat, evil face, then she walked out of the room, through the tiny lobby and into the sunshine.
Without looking at Jay she recounted the story of her meeting with Madame Brossette.
Jay sat opposite her, his hands folded in his lap, his face set and pale.
When she had finished, she said quietly: “Well? This is only the beginning. If I give her the necklace, she will ask for something else. What are you going to do, Jay?”
“We have until nine o’clock to-morrow morning,” Jay said. “I don’t think you will have to give her the necklace.” His pale lips curved into a meaningless smile. “Between now and nine o’clock to-morrow morning I will have arranged something.”
“What?”
Sophia’s voice was suddenly sharp.
“Something. Try not to think about this, Sophia. Don’t worry about it. Thank you for seeing this woman. It was kind of you.”
He made a move to the door.
“Jay!”
He paused, looking at her.
“Wait a moment,” Sophia said. “I must know what you are planning to do.”
He shook his head.
“I don’t think so, Sophia. It is best that no one knows that except myself.”
He opened the door and went out, closing the door behind him.
Sophia sat motionless, her heart beating fast, a sudden sick feeling of fear gripping her.
Chapter VIII
I
With the sun burning on his back, Jay walked slowly down Rue d’Antibes. The principal shopping street of Cannes was crowded. In his beach wear he blended with the crowd of tourists in their gay holiday clothes.
He walked slowly, his hands deep in the pockets of his pale blue and white striped cotton trousers, his eyes hidden behind the dark lenses of his sun-glasses.
He reached Rue Foch and paused.
La Boule d’Or stood at the corner, as Ginette had described and a little way down the narrow street was the hotel Beau Rivage, Madame Brossette’s establishment.
Jay took out his cigarette case and lit a cigarette whilst he looked beyond the café at the small hotel.
It was as Sophia had described it: small, sordid and dirty. The lace curtains, grey-white with age and dirt, that screened the windows gave it a poverty-stricken look.
As he stood at the corner, feeling the hot sun burning down on his head, a girl in a clinging flowered patterned dress, a big handbag slung over her arm, a dark flashily dressed man at her heels, walked into the hotel.
Jay crossed the street and paused outside La Boule d’Or. This was a gay, clean little café with five tables set out on the street and a blue and white sun awning, offering welcome shade.
Four of the tables were occupied by young holiday makers, sipping orange juice and eating ices. They glanced casually at Jay as he took the vacant table.
He looked into the dim cool interior of the bar.
Behind the bar sat a thickset man, around fifty years of age. His general appearance, with his big fleshy face, heavily tanned, his close-cropped white hair, his pale bright blue eyes, suggested that for most of his life he had been at sea and this was true.