Maigret and the Nahour Case

by Georges Simenon

  ‘There’s a third witness,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Alvaredo, I know. I’ll see him when I leave here. Seeing as I don’t trust the telephone, Inspector Lucas will remain in the apartment until I relieve him.’

  She didn’t object.

  ‘Can I send down for something to eat? My friend Anna is always hungry. She is a real Dutchwoman. I’m going to bed.’

  ‘Do you mind if I go into your room for a moment?’

  It was in something of a mess, with clothes hastily tossed on the bed, shoes on the carpet. The telephone was plugged into the wall, like an electrical appliance. Maigret disconnected it and took it into the sitting room, then did the same with the telephone in Nelly’s room.

  The maid was putting underwear away in the drawers. She gave him a resentful look, as if he had reprimanded her.

  ‘Sorry about these precautions,’ he said as he took his leave of the two young women.

  Lina replied with a smile:

  ‘It’s your job, isn’t it?’

  The porter hailed a taxi for him. A pale sun was showing behind the clouds now, and children were sliding on the icy paths in the Jardins du Luxembourg. A few had even brought toboggans.

  He found the bar where Janvier was supposed to be waiting for him. He found the inspector sitting close to the misted-up window, which he wiped from time to time.

  ‘A glass of beer,’ Maigret ordered in a tired voice.

  The questioning had exhausted him, and he could still feel the mugginess of the little sitting room clinging to his skin.

  ‘Hasn’t he come out?’

  ‘No. I suppose he had lunch on the plane. He must be waiting for a telephone call.’

  ‘He’ll be waiting a while.’

  Maigret could have followed his colleague from Amsterdam’s example and had the telephone tapped, but maybe because he belonged to the old school, or more likely because of his upbringing, he was loath to resort to that method with anyone other than professionals.

  ‘Lucas is staying at the Hôtel du Louvre. Come and see this young man with me. I haven’t met him yet. By the way, what’s he like?’

  The beer was refreshing and helped him find his footing again. It was good to see a proper zinc bar with sawdust on the floor and a waiter in a blue apron.

  ‘Very handsome, casually elegant, slightly stand-offish.’

  ‘Did he check to see if he was being followed?’

  ‘Not as far as I could tell.’

  ‘Come on.’

  They crossed the boulevard, went into an opulent-looking building and took the lift.

  ‘Third floor,’ said Janvier. ‘I asked. He’s had the studio for three years.’

  There was neither a nameplate nor carte de visite on the door, which opened a few moments after Maigret rang. A young man, very tanned and quite tall, said with exquisite politeness:

  ‘Come in, gentlemen. I was expecting you. Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, I imagine?’

  He did not hold out his hand but led them into a light sitting room with modern furniture and paintings and a balcony roof window looking on to the boulevard.

  ‘Won’t you take your coats off?’

  ‘One question, Monsieur Alvaredo. Madame Nahour telephoned you yesterday in Amsterdam to tell you her husband was dead. She rang again in the afternoon to tell you which plane she would be taking with her friend. You left Amsterdam this morning, and there couldn’t have been anything about the case in the evening editions of the Dutch papers.’

  Alvaredo turned nonchalantly to the sofa and picked up a Parisian paper from the previous day.

  ‘They’ve even got your picture on the third page,’ he said with a wry smile.

  The two men took off their coats.

  ‘What can I get you?’

  A variety of spirits and aperitifs and several glasses stood on a low table. Only one of the glasses was to the side of the tray and still contained a little amber liquid.

  ‘Listen carefully, Monsieur Alvaredo. Before asking you any further questions, I want to say that so far in this case I have constantly been confronted with people who take great liberties with the truth.’

  ‘Are you talking about Lina?’

  ‘Her and others I don’t need to name. Will you first tell me the last time you were in the Nahours’ house?’

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying, detective chief inspector, that is a crude trap: excuse the expression, but it’s the only one I can think of. You must know that I have never set foot in that house, either on Friday night or at any other time.’

  ‘As far as you know, was Nahour aware of your relationship with his wife?’

  ‘I don’t know, as I only saw him two or three times, from a distance, and always at a casino table.’

  ‘Do you know Fouad?’

  ‘Lina has mentioned him, but I’ve never met him.’

  ‘And yet on Friday evening you made no attempt to hide but waited in a very eye-catching car right in front of the gate.’

  ‘We didn’t have to hide any longer because we’d made our decision, and Lina was going to tell her husband.’

  ‘Were you worried how their talk would turn out?’

  ‘Why would I be? Lina had made up her mind, so he couldn’t force her to stay.’

  With a touch of resentment, he added:

  ‘This isn’t the Middle East.’

  ‘Did you hear the gunshot?’

  ‘I heard a muffled sound which I couldn’t place immediately. The next moment the door opened, and Lina came rushing out on to the pavement, struggling with her suitcase. I just had time to open the door. She seemed exhausted. It was only when we’d set off that she told me everything.’

  ‘Did you know Doctor Pardon?’

  ‘I had never heard of him. She gave me his address.’

  ‘Were you still planning to drive to Amsterdam?’

  ‘I didn’t know how serious her wound was. She was bleeding heavily. I was very worried.’

  ‘Which didn’t stop you lying to the doctor.’

  ‘I thought it safer not to tell him the truth.’

  ‘And then sneak out of his surgery.’

  ‘So he couldn’t get our names.’

  ‘Did you know that Nahour kept a gun in the drawer of his desk?’

  ‘Lina had never mentioned it.’

  ‘Was she afraid of her husband?’

  ‘He wasn’t the sort of man you could be afraid of.’

  ‘What about Ouéni?’

  ‘She didn’t say much about him.’

  ‘But he played an important role in the house.’

  ‘With his employer, perhaps, but he didn’t have anything to do with Lina.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  The blood suddenly rushed to Alvaredo’s cheeks and ears. Through furiously gritted teeth, he replied:

  ‘What are you implying?’

  ‘I’m not implying anything other than that Fouad, by virtue of his influence with Nahour, could indirectly have influenced what happened to Madame Nahour.’

  The young man calmed down, embarrassed that he had allowed himself to lose his temper.

  ‘You are very passionate, Monsieur Alvaredo.’

  ‘I’m in love …’ he said curtly.

  ‘May I ask how long you’ve been in Paris?’

  ‘Three and a half years.’

  ‘Are you a student?’

  ‘I studied law in Bogotá. I came here to do a course at the Institute of Comparative Law. I also volunteer at Maître Puget’s on Boulevard Raspail, just round the corner; he’s a professor of international law.’

  ‘Are your parents rich?’

  ‘For Bogotá, yes,’ he replied apologetically.

  ‘Are you an only child?’

  ‘I’ve got a younger brother who’s at Berkeley in the United States.’

  ‘Am I right in thinking that, like most Colombians, your parents are Catholic?’

  ‘My mother is fairly devout.’

  ‘A
re you planning to take Madame Nahour to Bogotá?’

  ‘That’s my intention.’

  ‘Don’t you expect some trouble with your family if you marry a divorcee?’

  ‘I’m an adult.’

  ‘May I use your telephone?’

  Maigret called the Hôtel du Louvre.

  ‘Lucas? You can leave them to their own devices. But stay in the hotel. I’ll send someone to relieve you at the end of the afternoon.’

  Alvaredo gave a bitter smile.

  ‘You left one of your men in Lina’s room to stop her ringing me, didn’t you?’

  ‘I’m sorry I have to take these precautions.’

  ‘I suppose your inspector will watch me too?’

  ‘I’m not making a secret of it.’

  ‘Can I go and see her?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘The journey wasn’t too trying for her, was it?’

  ‘Not enough to make her lose any of her composure or quick-wittedness.’

  ‘She’s a child.’

  ‘A very clever child.’

  ‘Still no to a drink?’

  ‘I’d rather not.’

  ‘Meaning you still consider me a suspect?’

  ‘It’s my job to consider everyone a suspect.’

  When he was outside on the pavement Maigret sighed, then took a deep breath.

  ‘There we are!’

  ‘Do you think he was lying, chief?’

  Maigret went on without answering:

  ‘I should get in the car if I was you. That red car will soon be racing off to Rue de Rivoli. Have a good afternoon. Keep headquarters posted so you can be relieved.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m going back to Avenue du Parc-Montsouris. Tomorrow a few of us will have to conduct these interrogations officially.’

  Jamming his hands in his pockets, he set off for the taxi rank on the corner of Boulevard Saint-Michel, cursing the unwieldy knitted scarf, which was making his neck itch.

  The Nahours’ house looked empty from the outside. Asking the taxi-driver to wait, Maigret crossed the small garden, the snow crunching under his feet, and rang the doorbell.

  A sleepy Torrence let him in, yawning.

  ‘Any news?’

  ‘The father’s here. He’s in the office with his son.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘About seventy-five, very thick white hair, wrinkled face that’s still full of energy.’

  The studio door opened. Recognizing Maigret, Pierre Nahour asked:

  ‘Do you need me, detective chief inspector?’

  ‘I’d like to see Ouéni.’

  ‘He’s upstairs.’

  ‘Has your father seen him?’

  ‘Not yet. I imagine he’ll have some questions for him in a moment.’

  Maigret hung his coat, scarf and hat on the coat rack and headed upstairs. The corridor was dark. He made his way to Fouad’s room, knocked and received an answer in Arabic.

  When he pushed the door open, he found Ouéni sitting in an armchair. He wasn’t reading. He wasn’t doing anything. The look he gave Maigret was expressionless.

  ‘You can come in. What have they been telling you?’

  6.

  It was the simplest, most basic room in the house. The painter who had rented the house furnished to the Nahours must have had a teenage son, because Ouéni’s bedroom was like a student’s. The secretary appeared not to have changed anything, and there were no personal possessions to be seen.

  Sitting in his leather armchair, legs outstretched, looking perfectly relaxed, the man was dressed as austerely as the day before in a dark, excellently cut suit. He was close-shaven. His shirt was very white, and his nails manicured.

  Appearing not to notice his insolent attitude, Maigret planted himself in front of him and looked him straight in the face, as if sizing him up. The two of them were like children playing who blinks first.

  ‘You’re not very cooperative, Monsieur Ouéni.’

  The secretary’s face didn’t betray any anxiety. If anything, he seemed to be enjoying defying Maigret with his self-assured, sarcastic smile.

  ‘Lina …’

  Fouad didn’t let the familiarity go.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Madame Nahour, if you’d rather, doesn’t entirely agree with your account of what you were doing on Friday evening. She claims that when she went into the studio, you were there with Monsieur Nahour. Specifically, she says that you were standing next to him, and that he was sitting at his desk.’

  Fouad smiled as Maigret waited for a reply that was not forthcoming.

  ‘It’s her word against mine, isn’t it?’ Fouad said eventually.

  Throughout their conversation, he spoke with the same deliberate slowness, enunciating each syllable.

  ‘Are you denying it?’

  ‘I answered your questions yesterday.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean you told me the truth.’

  Fouad’s fingers tightened on the arm of his chair, as if he were reacting to an insult. Nevertheless he controlled himself and remained silent.

  Maigret walked over to the window and stood in front of it for a while, then paced up and down the room with his hands behind his back and his pipe in his mouth.

  ‘You say you left the Bar des Tilleuls just after one in the morning, which the owner confirms. But he doesn’t know what time you got there. There is no proof that you didn’t arrive after midnight and only looked in to give yourself an alibi.’

  ‘Have you questioned all the club members who were in the two gaming rooms that night?’

  ‘You know very well that we haven’t had a chance to do that yet, and that today’s Sunday so the club and bar are shut.’

  ‘You have plenty of time. So do I.’

  Had he adopted this attitude just to irritate Maigret? He had the coolness, the absence of nerves of a chess player, and it wasn’t going to be easy to catch him out.

  Maigret stopped in front of him again and asked innocuously:

  ‘Have you been married, Monsieur Ouéni?’

  The secretary replied with what might have been a proverb in his country:

  ‘A man who isn’t satisfied with the pleasures a woman can give him in one night is putting a noose around his neck.’

  ‘Does this apply to Monsieur Nahour, say?’

  ‘His private life is no concern of mine.’

  ‘Do you have mistresses?’

  ‘I’m not homosexual, if that’s the question.’

  His contempt was even more explicit this time.

  ‘Meaning, I assume, that you sometimes have affairs with women?’

  ‘If the French legal system is that curious, I can provide names and addresses.’

  ‘You weren’t seeing a woman on Friday evening, were you?’

  ‘No. I’ve answered that already.’

  Maigret turned back towards the window and looked vaguely at the snow-covered Avenue du Parc-Montsouris, where, despite the cold, some Sunday walkers could be seen.

  ‘Do you own a gun, Monsieur Ouéni?’

  The man stood up slowly, as if reluctant to get out of his armchair, opened the chest of drawers and took out a long, high-precision pistol. It wasn’t the sort of thing you could carry in your pocket, but a practice weapon with a barrel at least twenty centimetres long. The calibre didn’t match the bullet removed from Nahour’s skull.

  ‘Satisfied?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you asked Monsieur Alvaredo the same question?’

  It was Maigret’s turn not to answer. The interrogation was very slow and cautious, like a game of chess, with each of the two men carefully preparing their feints and ripostes.

  Maigret’s face was serious. He took long pulls on his pipe, making the tobacco crackle. The silence enveloped them; no sound reached them from the muffled world outside.

  ‘Did you know that Madame Nahour had been trying to get a divorce for almost two yea
rs?’

  ‘I’ve already told you that those matters are no concern of mine.’

  ‘Nevertheless, given how close you and Monsieur Nahour were, it’s likely he talked to you about it, isn’t it?’

  ‘So you say.’

  ‘I’m not saying anything. I’m questioning you, and you’re not answering.’

  ‘I’m answering the questions that concern me.’

  ‘Did you also know that Madame Nahour had been planning to go to Amsterdam for more than a week, and that this would mean a final break with her husband?’

  ‘Same comment.’

  ‘Do you still maintain that you weren’t in the room at the time of the tragedy?’

  Fouad shrugged, considering the question redundant.

  ‘You’ve known Nahour for twenty years or so. You hardly left his side in all that time. He became a professional gambler, a scientific gambler one might say, and you helped him in his calculations.’

  Ouéni, who seemed not to be listening, had sat back down in his armchair. Maigret grabbed the back of a chair and sat astride it less than a metre from him.

  ‘You were poor when you came to Paris, weren’t you? How much did Nahour pay you?’

  ‘I’ve never been on a salary.’

  ‘You still needed money.’

  ‘When I did he gave it to me.’

  ‘Do you have a bank account?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How much did he give you at a time?’

  ‘What I asked for.’

  ‘Large amounts? Do you have savings?’

  ‘I’ve never owned anything except my clothes.’

  ‘Were you as good a gambler as him, Monsieur Ouéni?’

  ‘It’s not for me to judge.’

  ‘Did he ever suggest you take his place at a roulette or baccarat table?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Did you win?’

  ‘I won and lost.’

  ‘Did you keep the winnings?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So there wasn’t any sort of partnership between you? He could have given you a percentage of his winnings, for instance.’

  Ouéni’s only response was a shake of the head.

  ‘You weren’t his partner or his equal, therefore, since you were completely dependent on him. So, all in all, your relationship was that of master and servant. Weren’t you afraid when he got married that your relationship would become less close?’