He laid down his paper and stared across the small harbour, seeing the masts of the yachts sharply outlined against the sky and his mind brooded on his problem.
The waiter put the espresso on the table in front of him and Jay paid him. When he had finished the coffee, he got up and walked slowly towards Rue d’Antibes.
He reached Rue Foch a few minutes after ten o’clock. The back street was deserted. The only lights came from La Boule d’Or and from the entrance of the Beau Rivage hotel.
Jay walked slowly down the street, his hands in his trousers pockets, his head slightly bent, his eyes screened by his dark glasses.
The two detectives were still sitting at the table. They had beers in front of them and they were talking together in low tones. Neither of them paid any attention to him and he slowed his stride to look into the bar.
Ginette’s father sat behind the bar, staring emptily across the room. There was no sign of Ginette.
Jay moved on and a few yards further on, he passed the entrance to the hotel.
Madame Brossette was sitting behind the reception desk, a cigarette between her full lips while she flicked over the pages or a magazine, the expression on her face revealing her disinterest.
He had hoped by now the detectives would have gone. This was going to make things difficult and dangerous. If he went into the hotel they might wonder who he was and what he was doing going into the place alone and without luggage. The woman, too, might be suspicious of him.
He paused at the street corner and taking out a packet of cigarettes he slit the seal with his thumbnail while he considered the problem.
It was solved for him when he heard a soft voice behind him say, “Hello, cheri, were you looking for me?”
He turned.
A girl stood on the edge of the kerb: a thin, shabbily dressed girl who was eyeing him speculatively as her red, full lips curved into a professional smile.
“Hello,” he said. “Yes, I was looking for you as it happens.”
She giggled and moved up to him.
“Well, here I am. There’s a little hotel down the street.” He could smell the cheap scent on her and her hard, young-old eyes made him feel a little sick. “Come with me, cheri. I’ll arrange everything.”
He walked with her down the dark street.
“Are you on holiday, cheri?” she asked, keeping close to him so her bare arm rubbed against his coat sleeve.
“That’s right.”
“You’re American, aren’t you? You speak very good French.”
She had the Midi accent and he had to listen carefully to understand her.
“Do you think so? Is this the hotel?”
He slowed his pace a little, his mouth suddenly turning dry.
To do what he had to do with the police within fifty paces of the hotel was tempting providence, but he had no other alternative. He had to get the photographs and the negatives if he were going to survive.
“Yes,” the girl said, linking her arm through his as if she were suddenly frightened that he would lose his nerve and not go in. “It’s all right, cheri. I come here often. It’ll cost two thousand francs and then there’s my present.”
“Two thousand francs? That’s too much.”
“It isn’t, cheri. You can stay the night. Most gentlemen like to stay the night... ”
As they walked into the hotel, Jay didn’t look towards the two detectives, sitting across the way, but he was sure they had seen them go in. The girl wasn’t much shorter than he and by slightly bending his knees and by keeping his head down he managed to screen himself by her so that the detectives couldn’t get a good look at him.
Madame Brossette laid down her magazine and nodded to the girl.
“Well, Louisa?”
“My friend and I... ”
“Of course.”
Madame Brossette merely glanced at Jay as he put two one thousand franc notes down on the desk.
“The gentleman would like to stay the night,” the girl said and giggled.
Madame Brossette picked up the notes.
How strong she looked! Jay thought. He looked at her red, rough hands. They were as big and as strong as the hands of a man.
“You know the room, cherie? The usual one... ”
The girl took the key Madame Brossette pushed towards her and taking Jay’s arm she led him up the steep dark stairs to a dimly-lit landing.
A man and a girl, coming down the passage, paused at the head of the stairs to let Jay and his companion pass.
Jay saw the two girls exchange winks.
Sheepishly the man pushed past Jay and started down the stairs.
His companion said: “Mind how you fall, cheri.”
Louisa unlocked a door facing the head of the stairs. She turned on the light and walked in, followed by Jay.
The room was small and sordid. There was a bed, a chair, a washstand with a bowl and an enamel jug containing water on which floated a film of dust. A thread-bare rug by the bed sent up a puff of dust as Jay trod on it.
The girl shut the door and turned the key. She moved up to Jay, smiling invitingly.
Jay slumped down on the bed. He took from his hip pocket two crumpled five thousand franc notes.
“I’m sorry, mademoiselle,” he said and smiled at her, “but you must excuse me. I have changed my mind. I hope you will accept this. I regret wasting your time.”
The girl stared at the two notes as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.
“Are those for me?”
“Of course. I hope you will excuse me.”
She plucked the notes out of his hand as if she were afraid he would change his mind.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you like me?” she asked. Her voice was curious rather than hostile.
“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.
Chapter X
I
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.