Maigret and the Nahour Case Read online

  ‘Do you need me or my men any more?’ asked the local chief inspector.

  ‘You’re free to go, my friend, but it would be a help if you left your inspectors a while longer, as well as the officer on guard at the door.’

  ‘Whatever you need.’

  The living room gradually emptied out, and at one point Maigret found himself standing in front of a bookcase containing over 300 books. He was surprised to see that they were almost all scientific works, mostly mathematics, and a whole row, in French and English, were devoted to probability theory.

  Opening the cupboards under the shelves, he found stacks of sheets of paper, some mimeographed, containing nothing but columns of numbers.

  ‘Let’s talk again before you leave, Moers … And send the gun to Gastinne-Renette for tests … Actually, put this in as well.’

  He reached into his pocket for the bullet Pardon had given him, which was wrapped in a piece of cotton.

  ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later. I need to know urgently whether it came from this gun.’

  He lit his pipe as he climbed the stairs and glanced into the room where Lapointe and the young Dutch woman were sitting facing one another. The inspector was taking notes in a notebook, using the dressing table as a desk.

  ‘Where’s the secretary?’ he asked the local inspector who was standing around looking bored in the corridor.

  ‘The door at the end.’

  ‘Has he been complaining?’

  ‘He opens his door now and then to have a listen. He had a telephone call.’

  ‘What did the chief inspector say to him this morning?’

  ‘That his boss had been murdered and that he was to stay in his room until told otherwise.’

  ‘Were you there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he seem surprised?’

  ‘He’s not the sort to show his feelings. You’ll see.’

  Maigret knocked at the same time as he turned the handle and pushed open the door. The room was neat, the bed carefully made, despite having been slept in the previous night. There was nothing on the floor. A little desk stood in front of the window with a tan leather armchair beside it, and a man was sitting in the armchair, watching Maigret coming towards him.

  It was difficult to tell his age. He was dark, very Arab-looking, and, although lined, his face could just as easily have been that of a forty-year-old as a sixty-year-old. His thick, bushy hair was jet black, without a speck of white.

  He did not get up, offered no form of greeting, merely looked at his visitor with his smouldering eyes, his features displaying no discernible emotion.

  ‘I imagine you speak French?’

  A nod.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, head of the Crime Squad. I assume you are Monsieur Nahour’s secretary?’

  Another nod.

  ‘May I ask you your full name?’

  ‘Fouad Ouéni.’

  His voice was muffled, as if he were suffering from chronic laryngitis.

  ‘Do you know what happened last night in the studio?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you’ve been told that Monsieur Nahour has been killed, haven’t you?’

  ‘That’s all.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  Not a flicker of response. Maigret had rarely come across such a lack of cooperation as he had since entering this house. The cleaner only answered questions in a hostile, evasive manner. The Dutch maid was monosyllabic.

  And now Fouad Ouéni, who was wearing an immaculate black suit, white shirt and dark-grey tie, was responding to Maigret with total indifference, if not contempt.

  ‘Did you spend last night in this room?’

  ‘From one thirty in the morning.’

  ‘You mean you got back at one thirty in the morning?’

  ‘I thought you’d gathered that.’

  ‘Where were you until then?’

  ‘At the Saint-Michel Club.’

  ‘A gambling club?’

  The man shrugged.

  ‘Where is it exactly?’

  ‘Above the Bar des Tilleuls.’

  ‘Did you gamble?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Wrote down the winning numbers.’

  It must have been the sarcasm that made him seem so pleased with himself. Maigret sat down on a chair and continued with his questions, as if he was oblivious to the hostility of the person facing him.

  ‘When you came back were there any lights on in the studio?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Were the curtains drawn?’

  ‘I suppose so. They were every evening.’

  ‘Did you see any light under the door?’

  ‘You never see any light under the door.’

  ‘Was Monsieur Nahour generally in bed by then?’

  ‘It depended.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On him.’

  ‘Did he often go out in the evening?’

  ‘When he felt like it.’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘Wherever he wanted.’

  ‘On his own?’

  ‘He’d leave the house on his own.’

  ‘Did he take the car?’

  ‘He’d call a taxi.’

  ‘Didn’t he drive?’

  ‘He didn’t like driving. I was his chauffeur during the day.’

  ‘What sort of car did he have?’

  ‘A Bentley.’

  ‘Is it in the garage?’

  ‘I haven’t checked. I haven’t been allowed out of my room.’

  ‘What about Madame Nahour?’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Has she got a car too?’

  ‘A green Triumph.’

  ‘Did she go out yesterday evening?’

  ‘I never had anything to do with her.’

  ‘What time did you leave the house?’

  ‘Ten thirty.’

  ‘Was she here?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What about Monsieur Nahour?’

  ‘I don’t know if he’d got back. He must have had dinner in town.’

  ‘Do you know where?’

  ‘Probably at the Petit Beyrouth, his usual place.’

  ‘Who did the cooking in the house?’

  ‘No one in particular.’

  ‘Breakfast?’

  ‘I made Monsieur Félix’s.’

  ‘Who is Monsieur Félix?’

  ‘Monsieur Nahour.’

  ‘Why do you call him Monsieur Félix?’

  ‘Because there’s Monsieur Maurice too.’

  ‘Who’s Monsieur Maurice?’

  ‘Monsieur Nahour’s father.’

  ‘Does he live here?’

  ‘No. Lebanon.’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Monsieur Pierre, Monsieur Félix’s brother.’

  ‘Who lives where?’

  ‘Geneva.’

  ‘Who called you this morning?’

  ‘No one called me.’

  ‘But the telephone was heard ringing in your room.’

  ‘I asked to speak to Geneva and they called me back when they got through.’

  ‘Monsieur Pierre?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you inform him?’

  ‘I told him Monsieur Félix was dead. Monsieur Pierre will be at Orly in a few minutes, he took the first plane.’

  ‘Do you know what he does in Geneva?’

  ‘Banker.’

  ‘And Monsieur Maurice Nahour in Beirut?’

  ‘Banker.’

  ‘And Monsieur Félix?’

  ‘He didn’t have a job.’

  ‘Had you worked for him for a long time?’

  ‘I didn’t work for him.’

  ‘Didn’t you carry out the duties of a secretary? You said just now that you made his breakfast and drove for him.’

  ‘I helped him.’

  ‘Had y
ou done so for a long time?’

  ‘Eighteen years.’

  ‘Did you know him back in Beirut?’

  ‘I met him at Law School.’

  ‘In Paris?’

  He nodded, stiff and impassive in his armchair. Maigret felt himself losing patience.

  ‘Did he have enemies?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Was he involved in politics?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘So you went out around ten thirty without knowing who was or wasn’t in the house. You went to a gambling club on Boulevard Saint-Michel, where you noted the winning numbers but didn’t gamble. Then you came back at one thirty and came up here, still not knowing anybody’s whereabouts. Is that right? You didn’t see anything or hear anything, and the last thing you were expecting was to be woken up with the news that Monsieur Nahour had been shot dead.’

  ‘Nobody’s said anything about him being shot.’

  ‘What do you know about Félix Nahour’s family life?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s none of my concern.’

  ‘Was it a happy marriage?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I get the impression from what you’ve said that the husband and wife rarely spent time together.’

  ‘That’s quite common, I think.’

  ‘Why don’t the children live in Paris?’

  ‘Perhaps the Côte d’Azur suits them better.’

  ‘Where did Monsieur Nahour live before renting this house?’

  ‘All over the place. In Italy. In Cuba for a year, before the revolution. We also had a villa at Deauville.’

  ‘Do you often go to the Saint-Michel?’

  ‘Two or three times a week.’

  ‘And you never gamble?’

  ‘Hardly ever.’

  ‘Will you come downstairs with me?’

  They made for the stairs. Fouad Ouéni looked even thinner and leaner when he stood up.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘I don’t know. There wasn’t a registry office in the mountains when I was born. My passport says I’m fifty-one.’

  ‘Are you older or younger?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  In the studio Moers’ men were putting their equipment back in its boxes.

  When the van had driven off and the two men were left alone, Maigret asked, ‘Look around and tell me if anything’s missing. Or if there’s something that wasn’t here before.’

  Ouéni tore himself away from studying the pool of blood and opened the right-hand drawer of the desk.

  ‘The automatic has gone,’ he observed.

  ‘What sort of gun is it?’

  ‘A Browning 6.35.’

  ‘Pearl-handled?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did Félix Nahour have what’s generally considered a woman’s gun?’

  ‘It was Madame Nahour’s before.’

  ‘How many years ago?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did he take it off her?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘Did he have a licence to carry firearms?’

  ‘He never carried that pistol.’

  Considering the subject closed, the Lebanese man looked through the rest of the desk drawers, which contained an assortment of files, then went over to the bookshelves and opened the cupboards beneath them.

  ‘Could you tell me what those lists of figures are?’

  Ouéni looked at him with a mixture of surprise and sarcasm, as if Maigret should have worked it out for himself.

  ‘They’re the winning numbers in the major casinos. Agencies send out the mimeographed lists to their subscribers. Monsieur Félix got the others from a casino employee.’

  Maigret was going to ask another question, but Lapointe appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Will you come upstairs for a minute, chief?’

  ‘Progress?’

  ‘Not really, but I think I should bring you up to date.’

  ‘I must ask you not to leave the house without my permission, Monsieur Ouéni.’

  ‘Can I go and make myself a cup of coffee?’

  Maigret turned his back on him with a shrug.

  3.

  Maigret had rarely felt so disorientated, so far from normal life, beset by that feeling of unease that comes over you in dreams when the ground gives way under your feet.

  The few passers-by in the snow-covered streets concentrated on staying on their feet, the cars, taxis and buses drove slowly, and everywhere sand and salt trucks crawled along the pavements.

  Electric lights burned in almost every window, and snow still fell from a slate-grey sky.

  He could have guessed what was going on in all these boxy little dwellings filled with living, breathing human beings. For over thirty years, he had got to know Paris neighbourhood by neighbourhood, street by street, and yet here he felt immersed in a different world, where he couldn’t predict how anyone would react.

  What sort of life had Félix Nahour been leading until a few hours ago? What exactly was his relationship with his secretary – secretary in everything but name – and wife and two children? Why were the children on the Côte d’Azur, why …

  There were so many whys that he couldn’t address them individually. Nothing was straightforward or clear-cut. Nothing was the way it was in other families, other households.

  Pardon had felt a similar unease last night when a couple of strangers had burst into his local doctor’s surgery.

  The story of a shot fired from a moving car was hard to credit, as was the old woman who pointed out the doctor’s building.

  Félix Nahour with his works on mathematics and his lists of winning and losing numbers in various casinos did not fit into any category Maigret knew of, and Fouad Ouéni was from an equally unfamiliar world.

  Everything here seemed to be fake and everyone seemed to be lying, an intuition that Lapointe confirmed as they went upstairs.

  ‘I wonder if this girl’s completely normal, chief. Judging by her answers, when she agrees to give any that is, and the way she looks at me, she seems to have the naivety and mentality of a ten-year-old, but I wonder if it isn’t all a trick or a game.’

  As they went into Madame Nahour’s bedroom, where Nelly was still sitting in a silk-covered chair, Lapointe remarked:

  ‘Incidentally, chief, the children aren’t the age they were when the photo was taken. The girl’s five now, and the little boy is two.’

  ‘Do you know where they’re living with the nanny?’

  ‘In Mougins, in a hotel called the Pension des Palmiers.’

  ‘Have they been there long?’

  ‘As far as I can work out, the boy was born in Cannes and has never been to Paris.’

  The maid was looking at them with her clear, pale eyes, apparently not understanding a word they were saying.

  ‘I’ve found other photographs in a drawer she showed me. A dozen snaps of the children as babies, then walking, then there’s this one, on a beach, of Nahour and his wife when she was young, probably when they first met. And, last one, here’s a photo of Madame Nahour with a female friend by a canal in Amsterdam.’

  The friend was ugly, with a flat nose and poky little eyes, but nevertheless she had a likeable, open face.

  ‘The only letters I’ve found in the room are from a girl in Dutch. They cover a period of about seven years, and the last one was written about a fortnight ago.’

  ‘Has Nelly ever gone to the Netherlands with her employer?’

  ‘She says not.’

  ‘Does she go there often?’

  ‘Occasionally. By herself, apparently. But I’m not sure that Nelly completely understands the questions I ask her, even in English.’

  ‘Find a translator for these letters. What does she say about yesterday evening and night?’

  ‘Nothing. She doesn’t know anything. The house isn’t that big, and yet everyone seems in the dark about what the others are doing. She thinks that Ma
dame Nahour had dinner in town.’

  ‘Alone? Didn’t anyone come and pick her up? She didn’t order a taxi.’

  ‘She says she doesn’t know.’

  ‘Didn’t she help Madame Nahour dress?’

  ‘I asked her that, and she says no one rang for her. She ate in the kitchen, as usual, then went up to her room, read a Dutch newspaper and went to bed. She showed me the newspaper, which is from the day before yesterday.’

  ‘Didn’t she hear any footsteps in the corridor?’

  ‘She wasn’t paying attention. Once she falls asleep apparently nothing can wake her.’

  ‘What time does she start in the morning?’

  ‘There’s no set time.’

  Maigret was vainly trying to work out what was going on behind the ivory-smooth forehead of the maid, who was smiling vaguely at him.

  ‘Tell her she can go and have her breakfast but that she is not allowed to leave the house.’

  When Lapointe had translated these instructions, Nelly stood up, gave a little curtsey like a girl at a boarding school and headed calmly for the stairs.

  ‘She’s lying, chief.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘She says she didn’t come into this room last night. And the local police stopped her leaving her room this morning. But when I asked her what coat her employer was wearing, she answered without a moment’s hesitation:

  ‘ “The sealskin one …”

  ‘Well, the cupboards were closed, and in one of them I found a mink coat and a grey astrakhan in the other.’

  ‘I want you to take the car and go to Doctor Pardon’s on Boulevard Voltaire. Show him the photograph on the desk downstairs.’

  There was a telephone in the bedroom. When it started ringing, Maigret picked it up and heard two voices, the pathologist’s and Ouéni’s.

  ‘Yes,’ the latter was saying. ‘He’s still here. Wait, I’ll let him know …’

  ‘There’s no need, Monsieur Ouéni,’ Maigret put in. ‘Will you hang up, please?’

  So the three telephones in the house, including the secretary’s, were on the same line.

  ‘Hello, this is Maigret.’

  ‘Colinet here. I’ve only just started the post-mortem, but I thought you’d like to know the first finding right away. It wasn’t suicide.’

  ‘I never thought it was.’

  ‘Nor did I, but now we know for certain. I’m not a ballistics expert but I’m still confident that the bullet I found in the skull, as I’d expected, was fired by a medium- or large-calibre gun, a 7.32 or .45. I’d say it was fired from between three and four metres away, and the skull has been split.’