Devereaux went over to the hall porter.
“Did you see Mr. Jay Delaney leave the hotel?”
The hall porter shook his head.
“No, Inspector. I don’t think he has left.”
Harry Stone, waiting for his key, said: “Yeah, young Delaney went out about half an hour ago. He’s gone fishing.”
Devereaux thanked him and, jerking his head at Leroy, he crossed the lobby and took the elevator to the second floor.
Guidet was prowling about the corridor.
“He hasn’t appeared,” he said as Devereaux and Leroy joined him.
“He isn’t in the suite. They say downstairs he has gone fishing.”
“Shall I have him picked up?” Guidet asked.
“Not yet. I’d better talk to his father first. You two wait here. When I want you, I’ll call you,” and, leaving the two detectives by the elevator, Devereaux crossed the corridor and rapped on the door to suite 27.
The door opened immediately and Floyd Delaney, in pyjamas and dressing gown, stood aside.
“Inspector Devereaux?”
“Yes. I’m sorry to disturb you... ”
“Come in. What’s it all about?”
Devereaux entered the lounge.
“I understand your son isn’t here?”
“That’s right. I guess he’s gone out for a breath of air. He wasn’t well. We’ve had a nasty shock. My wife had an accident. She slipped in the bath and pretty nearly died. It upset the kid.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Devereaux said, glancing around the room. “Is Madame better?”
“Yeah, she’s coming along. Why are you interested in my son?”
“I’m investigating the murder of Lucille Balu,” Devereaux said. “I wanted to ask him some questions.”
Delaney stared at him.
“What the hell for?” Then with a sudden apologetic wave of his hand, he said, “Sit down, Inspector. I didn’t mean to sound touchy, but I’ve had quite a night.”
Devereaux sat down in an armchair.
“I appreciate that, monsieur and I regret having to trouble you. Your son was the last person to speak to the girl.”
“He was? I didn’t know he even knew her. Well? What’s that to do with it?”
“He made a statement to me this morning and the statement wasn’t entirely satisfactory,” Devereaux said, choosing his words.
Delaney crossed over to the table, picked up a box of cigarettes and offered it to the Inspector.
Devereaux took a cigarette and lit it with his lighter. As he returned the lighter to his pocket, it slipped out of his sweating hand and dropped into the chair, sliding down between the cushion and the arm.
Delaney said sharply; “In what way — not satisfactory?”
Devereaux paused to retrieve his lighter and his finger closed over another object that had slipped down between the cushion and the chair arm. He pulled it into sight.
He found himself looking at a narrow lizard-skin handbag, with the initials L.B. in gold in one of the corners.
He stared at the bag, remembering what Jean Thiry had said: Yes, she had a handbag. It was one I gave her. It was quite small. She carried a powder compact, handkerchief and lipstick in it. It was a narrow lizard-skin bag with her initials on it.
Delaney moved forward, frowning.
“What have you got there?”
“Mademoiselle Balu’s handbag,” Devereaux said quietly. “There’s no doubt about that. Look, it has her initials on it. The girl was murdered in this room.”
Delaney stiffened.
“What the hell do you mean? In this room? What is this?”
Devereaux got to his feet.
“I’m afraid, monsieur, it is very serious. I must ask you to allow my men to examine your son’s room.”
“My son?” Delaney suddenly remembered that Sophia had told him Jay had had a girl up in their suite. Could the girl have been Lucille Balu? “What’s my son got to do with this?”
“I have reason to believe he is responsible for the girl’s death,” Devereaux said.
“That’s a lie!” Delaney said, his voice even and quiet. “Are you suggesting that my son murdered the girl?”
“I have reason to believe that he did.”
Delaney drew in a long, deep breath.
“You have? Then you’d better state your reasons pretty damn quick or you could find yourself out of a job!”
“Have you any objections to my men examining your son’s room, monsieur?” Devereaux asked. He felt sorry for this big, powerful American whose eyes plainly showed his increasing anxiety.
“Go ahead! I am quite sure my son has nothing to hide!”
Devereaux stepped to the door, opened it and beckoned to Guidet and Leroy.
The two detectives entered the suite.
“Look for prints,” Devereaux said to Leroy in an undertone, “and hurry.”
The two detectives went into Jay’s room and there was a long, awkward pause.
Delaney sat down and stared at the carpet, his face was pale.
He remembered what Sophia had said about Jay being queer. He also thought of Harriette and how she had crept towards him, knife in hand, with that animal-like, insane expression on her face. Surely the boy hadn’t done this thing! But if he had! Delaney’s mind shied away from the consequences of such a thing. And the premier of the picture he had sunk so much money in was on to-night!
Leroy came out of Jay’s bedroom.
Devereaux looked anxiously at him and Leroy gave him a cheerful nod and a grin.
“No doubt about it, Inspector,” he said briskly. “The room is full of the print we’ve found.”
Delaney got to his feet.
“What print?”
“If you will give me a few seconds, monsieur, I’ll explain everything to you,” Devereaux said gently, then, turning to Guidet, he went on in an undertone: “Get him as quickly as you can. He may have bolted. Put as many men on the job as you want, but get him!”
Guidet nodded and he and Leroy left the suite.
Devereaux sat down in the lounging chair.
“I’m afraid this is going to be a great shock to you, monsieur,” he said quietly. “Your son is now wanted for two murders.”
“Two murders?”
Delaney’s face went white and he sat down abruptly.
“Yes,” and, speaking rapidly, Devereaux gave him the facts of the case.
Chapter XIII
I
The unexpected telephone call that had sent Ginette’s father off hurriedly to St. Tropez had left Ginette on her own to handle the care trade.
As the café offered a vantage point to watch the Beau Rivage hotel, a number of people, curious to see why there was so much police activity going on in the hotel, had crowded into the café and Ginette was kept busy attending to their needs while they sat at the tables gaping at the lighted entrance across the way.
It wasn’t until half-past one that the spectators decided there was nothing further to see and began to drift away to their homes and Ginette was able to shut the café.
This was the first time she had been left entirely alone in the café, but it didn’t worry her. After locking the café door and pulling down the blind, she turned off the lights in the bar room and then going into the kitchen, she set about the business of washing up the fifty or so glasses and the dozen or so coffee cups before going to bed.
While she worked she thought of Jay. She was disappointed that she hadn’t been able to see him this night, but she was pleased he had suggested coming to see her in the morning.
She liked him, she told herself. She knew he liked her. It was an instinctive feeling and she was sure she wasn’t mistaken.
Perhaps the word “like” was too mild a word to express her feelings, she thought, as she slid coffee cups into the sink. Could she be falling in love with him?
It was while she was drying the cups and putting them in neat rows on the shelf, her mind still occupied with her thoughts of Jay, that she became aware that someone was gently tapping on the street door.