Maigret and the Nahour Case Read online

  ‘It’s difficult to say exactly. I remember I picked up the bullet that had fallen on the ground while I was operating and threw the bloody swabs and towel in the basket … Two or three minutes? I went over to the door as I was talking and saw my office was empty.

  ‘First I rushed out to the waiting room, then on to the landing. I couldn’t hear the lift or anyone on the stairs, so I came back in here and looked out of the window but I couldn’t see the pavement at the foot of the building.

  ‘That’s when I distinctly heard a car drive off. From the sound of it I’d swear it was powerful, a big sports car. By the time I’d opened the window, Boulevard Voltaire was empty except for a salt truck at the République end and a solitary passer-by some way off in the other direction.’

  Apart from his closest colleagues such as Lucas, Janvier, Torrence and, more recently, young Lapointe, of whom Maigret was genuinely fond, Dr Pardon was his only friend.

  The two men were the same age, give or take a year, and spent their days dealing with the maladies of individuals and society, so they had plenty in common.

  They could talk for untold hours after their monthly dinners at Boulevard Richard-Lenoir and Boulevard Voltaire and the experiences they described were very similar.

  Was it the respect they felt for each other that prevented them from using their first names? Tonight, in the peace and quiet of the doctor’s office, they weren’t as relaxed as they had been a few hours earlier, perhaps because chance was bringing them together in a professional capacity for the first time.

  The doctor was in a funk and spoke faster than usual. He seemed anxious to prove his good faith, as he would if he were being questioned by the Medical Council.

  Maigret meanwhile refrained from asking too many questions, restricting himself to those he considered absolutely necessary, and only after a slight hesitation.

  ‘Tell me, Pardon, you said at the start that the man and woman didn’t seem to be locals.’

  The doctor tried to explain.

  ‘My patients are mainly shopkeepers, artisans and ordinary folk. I am not a fashionable doctor or a specialist, I’m the sort that lugs his bag up five or six flights of stairs because there’s no lift twenty times a day. There are smart, monied apartment blocks on my boulevard, but I’ve never seen anyone in the street like this evening’s patients.

  ‘The woman may not have said a word, but I still feel she was a foreigner. She looked very Nordic, with that milky complexion and fair hair you hardly ever see in Paris unless it’s dyed, which hers wasn’t. I think it highly probable, judging by her breasts, that she has had one or more children whom she breastfed.’

  ‘Any distinguishing marks?’

  ‘No … Wait … A scar about two centimetres long running from her left eye towards her ear. I noticed it because it looked like a sort of crow’s foot, which is rather fetching in a very young face.’

  ‘Do you think she kept silent voluntarily?’

  ‘I’d swear she did. Just as, when I saw them on the landing and then in my office, I would have sworn that they knew each other, even intimately. This may be foolish, but I think there’s a sort of aura around couples who are genuinely in love and that even when they’re not looking at each other, when they’re not touching each other, you can feel a bond between them.’

  ‘Tell me about him.’

  ‘I saw him more briefly, and he had an overcoat that he didn’t take off, made of some soft, smooth fabric.’

  ‘Was he wearing a hat?’

  ‘No. He was bare-headed. Brown hair, fine features, tanned skin, brown eyes, darker than the regular hazel. I’d put his age at twenty-five or twenty-six and, from the way he talked, his manner and his clothes, I’d be inclined to say that he had always moved in privileged circles. A handsome boy, gentle-looking, slightly melancholic. Probably Spanish or South American.

  ‘What should I do now? I don’t know their names so I can’t fill in their medical cards … I’d say it probably was a case of criminal assault.’

  ‘Did you believe the man’s story?’

  ‘I didn’t give it a second thought at the time. It was only when I found the office empty, and as I was waiting for you after I called, that I thought his explanation seemed strange.’

  Maigret studied the bullet carefully.

  ‘Probably from a 6.35. A gun that’s only really dangerous at close range and generally not very accurate.’

  ‘That explains the wound. The bullet had struck her back at an angle, grazing the skin for a few centimetres before penetrating enough to lodge between two ribs.’

  ‘Can the woman go far in her condition?’

  ‘I can’t tell. I wonder if she took a sedative before coming here because she hardly reacted, even though superficial wounds are often the most painful.’

  ‘Listen, Pardon,’ Maigret grunted as he stood up, ‘I’ll try to deal with them. Send me a report tomorrow morning, repeating what you’ve just told me.’

  ‘I won’t be in trouble, will I?’

  ‘It’s your duty to help people at risk, isn’t it?’

  He lit a fresh pipe before putting on his gloves and his hat.

  ‘I’ll let you know.’

  He went back out into the icy air and, looking intently at the snow piled up against the buildings, walked a hundred or so metres without seeing any bloodstains or signs of a fall. Retracing his steps, he then crossed Place Léon-Blum and went into the police station on the ground floor of the town hall.

  He had known Sergeant Demarie, who was sitting behind the counter, for years.

  ‘Hello, Demarie.’

  Surprised to see the head of the Crime Squad suddenly appearing out of nowhere, the sergeant stood up with an embarrassed look because he had been reading a comic.

  ‘Hello, Louvelle.’

  Sergeant Louvelle was making coffee on a spirit stove.

  ‘Did either of you hear anything about an hour ago?’

  ‘No, detective chief inspector.’

  ‘Something like a gunshot, a hundred metres from here?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Between one and ten past one.’

  ‘Which direction?’

  ‘Boulevard Voltaire, the République end.’

  ‘A two-man patrol, Officers Mathis and Bernier, went out at one on the dot, and took Boulevard Voltaire en route to Rue Amelot.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  Demarie glanced at the electric clock.

  ‘Around Bastille, unless they have already turned into Rue de la Roquette. The two men will be back at three. Do you want us to try and get hold of them?’

  ‘No. Call me a taxi. Ring me at the Police Judiciaire when they’re here.’

  It took two or three telephone calls to find a free taxi. Maigret then called Boulevard Richard-Lenoir.

  ‘Don’t worry if I’m not back until the early hours … I’m at the local station … A taxi’s coming to get me … Of course not! He’s got nothing to do with what’s happened … I’ve got to see to it tonight, though … No, I haven’t fallen over. See you soon.’

  The taxi passed the salt truck, which was inching its way forward, and they came across at most three cars before reaching Quai des Orfèvres, where the guard at the gate looked frozen stiff.

  Upstairs he found Lucas with Inspectors Jussieu and Lourtie. Otherwise the offices appeared empty.

  ‘Evening, boys. Stop whatever you’re doing and ring round all the hospitals and private clinics in Paris. I want to know whether two people, a man and a woman, came in after one o’clock tonight. The woman, who’s been shot in the back, may have come in on her own. Here’s their description.’

  He tried to repeat Pardon’s exact words.

  ‘Start with the east of town.’

  As the three men rushed to the telephones, he went into his office, turned on the light and took off his overcoat and thick knitted scarf.

  He didn’t believe the story of a shot being fired from a passing car
. That was a tactic gangsters used, and he’d never seen a gangster with a 6.35. Besides, only one shot had been fired, and that was pretty unusual for a shooting from a car. Like Pardon, he was certain the man and woman knew one another. Didn’t the fact that they had sneaked out without a word, like accomplices, while the doctor was in his tiny consulting room for a few seconds, prove it?

  He went back out to the three men, who had nearly got to the end of their list.

  ‘Still nothing?’

  ‘Nothing, chief.’

  He called the emergency services himself.

  ‘You didn’t get any calls around one in the morning, did you? Someone reporting a gunshot.’

  ‘Wait a minute, I’ll ask my colleagues.’

  A few moments later:

  ‘Just a brawl and a stabbing in a bar at Porte d’Italie. Ambulance call-outs for broken legs and arms. It’s easing up now that most people have gone home, but we’re still getting a call roughly every ten minutes.’

  He had barely hung up before Lucas called him over.

  ‘Telephone for you, chief.’

  It was Demarie from the eleventh arrondissement.

  ‘The patrol’s just got back. Mathis and Bernier didn’t see anything out of the ordinary and only reported a few falls on the ice. Mathis did notice a red Alfa Romeo parked outside 76a, Boulevard Voltaire, however. He even said to his colleague: “We should have one of those to do our beat in.” ’

  ‘What time was it?’

  ‘Between five and ten past one. Mathis touched the bonnet out of habit and noticed it was still warm.’

  In other words, the man and woman had just gone into the building, where they had rung the doctor’s doorbell at ten past one.

  How did they know Pardon’s address? Mathis had been asked about the old woman and said he hadn’t seen anyone of that description anywhere on the street.

  Where had the couple come from? Why had they stopped on Boulevard Voltaire specifically, almost directly opposite a police station?

  It was too late to alert the radio cars because the red car would have had time to reach its destination, wherever that might be.

  Maigret was muttering away, frowning and taking little pulls on his pipe, while Lucas tried to guess what he was saying to himself.

  ‘Foreigners … He was Latin-looking … The woman didn’t say anything … because she can’t speak French? Nordic-looking … but why Boulevard Voltaire and why Pardon?’

  That’s what bothered him most. If the couple lived in Paris they were bound to have an apartment in one of the smart neighbourhoods, and there were doctors on almost every street in the city. If the shot had been fired in an apartment building, why didn’t they call a doctor rather than drag the wounded woman around town in sub-zero temperatures?

  What if they were staying in a big hotel? … It was unlikely. The noise of a gunshot rarely went unnoticed in such places.

  ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ he snapped at Lucas, apparently only just realizing he was standing opposite him.

  ‘I’m waiting for you to tell me what to do.’

  ‘What makes you think I know?’

  Maigret smiled, amused by his own truculence.

  ‘It’s all pretty far-fetched, and I don’t know where to start. Not to mention that I was woken up by the telephone in the middle of some nightmare or other.’

  ‘Do you want some coffee?’

  ‘I’ll go out and get one. So, a Spanish-looking man and a Nordic-looking woman ring my friend Pardon’s bell at ten past one in the morning …’

  As he gruffly told the story, its weak points made themselves apparent.

  ‘The shot wasn’t fired in a hotel. Or in the street. So it must have been in an apartment or a house.’

  ‘Do you think they’re married?’

  ‘I get the feeling they’re not, although I can’t say why. If they’d called their usual doctor, assuming they have one, he would have had to report it to the police.’

  What intrigued him most was their choice of Pardon, a humble local doctor. Had they picked his name at random out of the telephone book?

  ‘The woman isn’t in any of the hospitals or clinics. Pardon offered to lend her one of his wife’s bathrobes because her slip and dress were soaked in blood. She preferred to put her clothes back on. Why?’

  Lucas opened his mouth, but Maigret had already come up with an answer.

  ‘Because they were planning to make a run for it. I’m not claiming it’s a brilliant piece of reasoning, but it stands up.’

  ‘The roads are pretty much impassable. Especially if you’ve got someone injured in the car.’

  ‘I thought that too. Call Breuker at Orly. If he’s not there, get me his idiotic assistant whose name I can never remember.’

  Breuker, an Alsatian still who had kept his accent, was head of border police at the airport. He wasn’t on duty, and it was his assistant who replied:

  ‘Assistant Chief Inspector Marathieu speaking.’

  ‘Maigret here,’ he grunted, irritated by the man’s supercilious tone.

  ‘What can I do for you, detective chief inspector?’

  ‘No idea yet. How many international flights have taken off since two, no, two thirty this morning?’

  ‘Only a couple. One for Amsterdam and another for India via Geneva. Departures have been suspended for the last forty minutes because of ice on the runways.’

  ‘Are you far from the car park?’

  ‘Not very, but it’s not easy walking outside because of the aforementioned black ice.’

  ‘Would you mind going anyway and seeing if there’s a red Alfa Romeo …’

  ‘Have you got its number?’

  ‘No. But there can’t be that many Alfa Romeos that colour in your car park at this hour of the night. If it’s there, ask passport control if they’ve seen a couple go through answering to this description.’

  He repeated what he’d already told Lucas and the other two.

  ‘Call me back at Quai des Orfèvres as soon as you can.’

  With a shrug of his shoulders, Maigret turned to the trusty Lucas and added:

  ‘You never know.’

  It was a strange investigation, and Maigret seemed not to be taking it entirely seriously, to be approaching it rather like doing a crossword puzzle.

  ‘Marathieu must be fuming,’ observed Lucas. ‘Imagine sending that stuck-up dandy out into the snow, to skid around on the ice.’

  Almost twenty minutes passed before the telephone rang. Maigret announced to no one in particular:

  ‘Assistant Chief Inspector Marathieu speaking …’

  And those were indeed the first words he heard.

  ‘Well, what about the red car?’

  ‘There’s a red Alfa Romeo with Greater Paris number plates in the car park.’

  ‘Locked?’

  ‘Yes. A couple matching the description you gave me took the three ten flight to Amsterdam.’

  ‘Do you have their names?’

  ‘The inspector who checked them off can’t remember them. He can only remember the passports. The man had a Colombian passport, and the woman’s was Dutch. Both passports had copious visas and stamps.’

  ‘What time are they meant to be landing in Amsterdam?’

  ‘If there aren’t any delays and the runway is usable, they’ll touch down at four seventeen.’

  It was 4.22. The couple were probably showing their passports and going through customs. Anyway, Maigret couldn’t take the liberty of contacting the Dutch airport police directly, especially not at this stage in the investigation.

  ‘Well, chief? What do I do?’

  ‘Nothing. Wait to be relieved. I’m going home to bed. Goodnight, boys … Actually, can one of you take me home?’

  Half an hour later he was fast asleep next to his wife.

  2.

  Some cases appear dramatic from the outset and immediately make the front pages of all the newspapers. Other seemingly humdrum on
es are only deemed worthy of three or four lines on the sixth page until it emerges that a minor news item is really concealing a drama veiled in mystery.

  Maigret was having breakfast, sitting across the table from his wife by the window. It was eight thirty in the morning, on such a drab day that they had had to leave all the lights on. He felt heavy from lack of sleep, his mind fuddled and full of confused thoughts.

  There was still ice in the corners of the windowpanes, and he thought of how he used to draw pictures or his initials in it as a child. He remembered the strange feeling, pleasurable but also slightly painful, when a sliver of ice worked its way under his fingernails.

  After three bitterly cold days, it had started snowing again, and he could barely make out the houses and lock-ups on the other side of the street.

  ‘You’re not too tired, are you?’

  ‘Another cup of coffee and I’ll be just fine.’

  In spite of himself he tried to imagine the couple of elegant foreigners who had suddenly turned up out of the blue in a humble local doctor’s surgery. Pardon had immediately sensed they were from another world, different to his and Maigret’s and to Picpus, the neighbourhood in which they both lived.

  Maigret had often been called on to deal with individuals of this sort, people who were equally at home in London, New York and Rome, who took planes the way others took the Métro, who stayed in grand hotels, where they fell in with friends and established routines, whatever the country, and who formed a sort of international freemasonry.

  It wasn’t just money. It was a certain way of life too, certain attitudes, even a certain morality unlike that of ordinary mortals.

  Maigret never felt completely at ease with them and he had trouble suppressing feelings of irritation that might have been taken for jealousy.

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  He wasn’t consciously thinking. Whatever he was doing was too vague for that, and he gave a start when he heard the telephone ring. It was quarter to nine now, and he had been about to get up from the table to put on his overcoat.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Lucas here.’

  Lucas, who was meant to have come off duty at nine.

  ‘I’ve just had a call from Chief Inspector Manicle from the fourteenth arrondissement, chief. A man was killed last night in a little town-house on Avenue du Parc-Montsouris. Someone called Nahour, a Lebanese citizen. The cleaner found him when she started work at eight.’