Maigret and the Nahour Case Page 7

  ‘I have no intention of doing that. I’ll sleep in my brother’s room. I may go out, if only for dinner.’

  ‘Will you pass me back to my inspector? Hello, Lapointe? I’ve just given Pierre Nahour permission to come and go as he sees fit. The same does not apply to Ouéni, and I’d rather the maid didn’t leave the house either.

  ‘The cleaner can do her shopping and then go home if she wants.

  ‘I’ll send someone to relieve you towards the end of the afternoon. Goodbye for now.’

  He went into the inspectors’ office, where fifteen or so inspectors were working, some typing up reports, others making telephone calls.

  ‘Who here speaks English more or less fluently?’

  They looked at each other in silence until Baron shyly raised his hand.

  ‘I should warn you that I’ve got a terrible accent.’

  ‘You’re going to take over from Lapointe at Avenue du Parc-Montsouris between five and six and spend the night there. He’ll tell you more.’

  When he returned to his office soon afterwards, Maigret found Janvier in his overcoat; he had brought a blast of freezing air in from outside.

  ‘I’ve seen the owner of the Bar des Tilleuls, a fat, sleepy character who I suspect is far smarter than he’d like people to think. He claims that his only connection with the club upstairs, which is run by someone called Pozzi, is that punters have to go through his place to get there.

  ‘The bar’s full between eight and eleven, or midnight, because lots of people come to watch television.

  ‘It was even fuller than usual yesterday because the wrestling was on. He didn’t see Ouéni come in but he saw him leave around a quarter past one.’

  ‘So Ouéni could have got there any time before a quarter past one and only stayed a few minutes in the club?’

  ‘It’s possible. If you want, I’ll go and question Pozzi and the croupiers tonight, and, if necessary, the regulars.’

  Maigret would have liked to go too. He hesitated before admitting that he’d be better off getting some rest after his almost sleepless night. Tomorrow promised to be busy.

  ‘What about the restaurant?’

  ‘It’s tiny, with such a strong smell of Middle Eastern cooking it made my head spin. Boutros is a portly character who splays his feet out as he waddles along. Apparently he had no idea what happened last night because when I told him Nahour was dead he started crying.

  ‘ “My best customer! My brother!” he exclaimed. “Yes, that’s right, inspector, I loved that man like a brother. He used to come and eat here when he was a student, and I often gave him credit for weeks. When he became rich, though, he didn’t forget poor old Boutros and if he was in Paris he’d come and eat here almost every evening.

  ‘ “Look! There’s his table, in the corner, by the bar.” ’

  ‘Did he talk to you about Madame Nahour?’

  ‘He’s one of those old devils who watch you out of the corner of their eye as they he put on a great show. He went into raptures for hours about Madame Nahour’s beauty, her sweetness, her kindness.

  ‘ “And she’s not a bit stuck-up, inspector! She always shakes my hand when she arrives and when she leaves.” ’

  ‘When did he see her last?’

  ‘He doesn’t know. He’s very vague. In the early days of their marriage she used to come in with her husband more often than she had done recently, that was true. They were an attractive couple, very much in love. They had always been very in love. No, nothing went wrong between them, but of course she had to look after the house and the children.’

  ‘Doesn’t he know the children live on the Riviera?’

  ‘He pretends not to, at any rate.’

  Maigret couldn’t help smiling. Everyone was lying in this case, weren’t they? It had started at Pardon’s the night before with that unbelievable story of the shot from a car and the old woman pointing out the doctor’s building.

  ‘Wait a second,’ Maigret told Janvier, ‘I need to make a call. Stay here.’

  He got Lapointe on the telephone again.

  ‘Has the cleaner left?’

  ‘I think I can hear her getting ready to go.’

  ‘Put her on, will you?’

  He had to wait a while before a woman’s voice asked bluntly:

  ‘What do you want now?’

  ‘To ask you a question, Madame Bodin. How long have you lived in the fourteenth arrondissement?’

  ‘I don’t know what that’s got to do with …’

  ‘I can easily ask at the station, where I’m sure you’re registered.’

  ‘Three years.’

  ‘And where did you live before?’

  ‘Rue Servan, in the eleventh.’

  ‘Were you ill there?’

  ‘My health is no one’s business.’

  ‘But you went to Doctor Pardon, didn’t you?’

  ‘He’s a good man, that doctor – never asks people questions, just makes them better.’

  So a little mystery that had been bothering Maigret since he had heard Pardon’s story had been resolved.

  ‘Is that all? Can I go and do my shopping?’

  ‘One more thing. You were fond of Doctor Pardon, so you probably sent people you knew to him, did you?’

  ‘I might have.’

  ‘Try to remember. Who did you mention him to in the house you’re working in now?’

  There was a fairly long silence, during which Maigret could hear the old woman breathing.

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Madame Nahour?’

  ‘She’s never been ill.’

  ‘Monsieur Ouéni? The maid?’

  ‘I’m telling you, I don’t even remember mentioning him to anyone! Honestly, if I can’t even go and do my shopping, you might as well arrest me.’

  Maigret hung up. His pipe had gone out, and he asked Janvier to ring Orly as he filled another.

  ‘Ask the inspector if the flight that landed just after eleven was Air-France or Swissair.’

  Janvier repeated the question to the person on the other end of the line.

  ‘Swissair?’ Janvier said. ‘Wait a second …’

  ‘Get him to put you through to the office that registers arrivals.’

  ‘Hello! Can you …’

  A few minutes later Maigret had cleared up something else. Pierre Nahour had definitely arrived that morning from Geneva on a Metropolitan in which he had got a seat at the last minute.

  ‘What now, chief?’

  ‘As you see, I’m checking. Do you know what time Félix Nahour had dinner yesterday evening?’

  ‘Around eight thirty. He left just after nine thirty. He had lamb and an almond and raisin cake.’

  ‘Go next door and pass that on to Doctor Colinet, who needs it to establish the time of death.’

  Then Maigret looked up Maître Leroy-Beaudieu’s telephone number, thinking the name was familiar. When he got him on the telephone, the lawyer exclaimed:

  ‘What news, my dear detective chief inspector? It’s a very long time since I had the pleasure of seeing or hearing you.’

  As Maigret racked his brains, the lawyer went on:

  ‘The Montrond case, do you remember? That old client of mine whose wife …’

  ‘Yes … Yes.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I believe the will of someone called Félix Nahour is in your possession.’

  ‘Very true … He cancelled the old one and wrote a new one about two years ago.’

  ‘Do you know why he changed his mind?’

  There was an embarrassed silence.

  ‘It’s a delicate matter, and I am in an awkward position … Monsieur Nahour has never confided in me and, as far as the will itself is concerned, as you will realize I am bound by professional confidentiality. But, if it’s of any help, I can tell you that the reasons were purely personal.’

  ‘Félix Nahour was murdered last night in his office.’

  ‘Oh! There
hasn’t been anything in the newspapers.’

  ‘There will be in the next editions.’

  ‘Has the murderer been arrested?’

  ‘We’ve only been able to make contradictory assumptions so far. Isn’t it quite common – I think you will be able to tell me this – when a husband writes his will that the wife writes hers at the same time?’

  ‘I’ve known that to happen.’

  ‘With Monsieur and Madame Nahour?’

  ‘I’ve never met Madame Nahour and I’ve never had any dealings with her. She’s a former beauty queen, isn’t she?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘When is the funeral?’

  ‘I don’t know because the body is still with the pathologist.’

  ‘We normally wait for the funeral before we get in touch with the people concerned. Do you think it will take a while?’

  ‘It might.’

  ‘Have you informed the family?’

  ‘His brother, Pierre Nahour, arrived in Paris this morning. His father, who was still in Beirut at midday, has apparently taken the first plane.’

  ‘What about Madame Nahour?’

  ‘We’re expecting her tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Listen, my dear detective chief inspector, I’ll send out the notifications this evening. Would you like the will to be read the day after tomorrow, in the afternoon?’

  ‘That would suit me.’

  ‘I’d like to help as much as I can, without infringing our professional rules. All I can tell you is that Madame Nahour, if she was aware of the first will, is going to have quite an unpleasant surprise when she reads the second. Is that useful?’

  ‘Very. Thank you, maître.’

  Janvier had come back into Maigret’s office.

  ‘There’s been a development,’ Maigret muttered wryly. ‘If I’ve understood correctly, Madame Nahour was the principal beneficiary of the first will. Around two years ago, the husband wrote a second one, and I’d be surprised if he’s left his wife more than the legal minimum.’

  ‘You think that she …’

  ‘You’re forgetting that I don’t think anything until the end of an investigation.’

  He added with a sceptical smile:

  ‘If then.’

  It was definitely an afternoon for telephone calls.

  ‘Get me the Pension des Palmiers in Mougins.’

  He rummaged in his pockets and fished out a scrap of paper on which he had written the nanny’s name.

  ‘See if Mademoiselle Jobé is there.’

  He went and stood by the window because he felt numb from sitting in his chair so long. The snowflakes were thinning. The streetlights had been on for a while – in some places all day.

  A traffic jam had brought Pont Saint-Michel to a halt. Three uniformed policemen were trying to disentangle the snarl of cars and buses, blowing loudly on their whistles.

  ‘Hello? That’s Mademoiselle Jobé, is it? One moment, please, I’ll put Detective Chief Inspector Maigret on … No … Police Judiciaire, in Paris.’

  Maigret took the call standing up, a thigh propped on his desk.

  ‘Hello, Mademoiselle Jobé? The two children are with you, I imagine … What? You haven’t been able to go out because of the rain and the cold. Well, if it’s any comfort, the snow’s making driving almost impossible here in Paris …

  ‘I’m wondering if you’ve heard from Monsieur Nahour … He rang you yesterday? Roughly at what time? Ten in the morning … Yes, I understand. He either rings before their walk or in the evening. Did he have a special reason for calling? Nothing particular … He does so two or three times a week.

  ‘What about Madame Nahour? Not so often, once a week … Sometimes she doesn’t call for a fortnight …

  ‘No, mademoiselle, I’m asking you these questions because Monsieur Nahour was murdered last night … No one has been arrested … May I ask how long you’ve been working for the family? Five years. So, since the birth of the first child …

  ‘Unfortunately I can’t come to Mougins at the moment … I may have to authorize Cannes’ Crime Squad to take your statement … Oh no! Don’t worry at all. I understand your situation.

  ‘Listen, when you started working, the Nahours travelled a lot, didn’t they? Yes … Cannes sometimes, Deauville, Evian … Most of the time they rented a villa for the season or some of it. Did you go with them? You often did. Yes, I can hear you perfectly.

  ‘You lived in the Ritz with them and the little girl. Then, three years later, the boy was born, is that it? He’s not a sickly child who needs a warmer climate than Paris, is he? … He’s two now, if I’m not mistaken … And a rascal, I see …

  ‘Of course … Off you go … I’ll stay on the line.’

  He told Janvier:

  ‘The kids are fighting in the next room. She seems a lovely girl. She answers clearly, no hesitation – long may it last!

  ‘Hello? Yes … So, Monsieur Nahour was more involved with the children than his wife … You sent him a short report every day on their health and what they were doing.

  ‘Did you notice any tension between the husband and wife? Hard to tell, I know … They each had their own life … That didn’t surprise you? Only at first? You got used to it …

  ‘Did they come to see them together? Hardly ever? I am very grateful for your help … You don’t know any more than that, I quite understand … Thank you, mademoiselle …’

  Maigret sighed deeply and relit his pipe, which he had let go out.

  ‘And now for the tedious part … Actually I only say that out of habit because Examining Magistrate Cayotte is a good sort.’

  He picked up Doctor Pardon’s report from his desk and leisurely made his way to the examining magistrates’ corner of the Palais de Justice. Cayotte hadn’t been eligible for modern offices, and his room was straight out of a nineteenth-century novel.

  Even the clerk seemed out of a drawing by Forain or Steinlen and could easily have been wearing oversleeves.

  Files were piled up on the floor for lack of space on the black wooden shelves, and the light over the magistrate’s desk had lost its shade.

  ‘Sit down, Maigret … Well?’

  Maigret didn’t conceal anything. For over an hour he sat on an uncomfortable chair spelling out everything he knew. When he finally left, the smoke from his pipe and the chain-smoking magistrate’s cigarettes hung in a thick pall around the lightbulb.

  Maigret was at the airport by 9.30 a.m., even though the flight from Amsterdam wasn’t expected until 9.57. It was Sunday. As he was shaving he had heard the radio advising people not to drive unless absolutely necessary because the snow crust on the roads had become harder and more slippery than ever.

  Lucas had driven him and was waiting outside in the Police Judiciaire car. The airport concourse was busier than Paris’s streets, and the air in there was warm, almost body temperature, making the blood rush to his head.

  After having a glass of beer at one of the bars, Maigret felt scarlet in the face and regretted loading himself down with the stifling scarf Madame Maigret had knitted and insisted he wear.

  The loudspeakers announced that the Copenhagen flight via Amsterdam was going to be delayed by around ten minutes. He paced up and down, looking at the policemen who were checking passports at Arrivals, glancing briefly at the travellers’ faces and stamping or not stamping their passports accordingly.

  The day before, at around eight in the evening, Keulemans had telephoned him at Boulevard Richard-Lenoir just as he was sitting down to watch television.

  ‘Lina Nahour has booked two seats on the 8.45 flight to Orly.’

  ‘Is Alvaredo going with her?’

  ‘No. The second seat is for her friend Anna Keegel. The young man booked a seat on the 11.22 flight, which gets into Paris at twelve forty-five.’

  ‘Have they talked on the telephone again?’

  ‘This afternoon, about five. Lina Nahour gave him the time of her flight, adding that her friend was g
oing with her. He said he would get the next flight. When he asked how she was, she said she felt very well and that her temperature was down to 37.5.’

  The flight’s arrival was finally announced. Maigret went and pressed his face against the cold window, his eyes following the customary bustle of activity around the plane.

  He couldn’t recognize the woman he was looking for among the first batch of passengers, which included four children, and was starting to worry she had changed her mind when he saw a young woman dressed in a sealskin coat leaning on her friend’s arm as she came down the stairs.

  Anna Keegel, a short brunette, was wearing a bulky woollen coat in a distinctive shade of acid green.

  At the last moment, the air hostess helped Lina into the little shuttle bus, which was already crammed with the other passengers, and the door shut immediately behind them.

  Having been last off the aeroplane, the two women were also last to show their passports, and Maigret, leaning against the window, had time to study them closely.

  Was Lina Nahour really beautiful? It was a matter of taste. She had the fair, almost golden Nordic complexion Pardon had mentioned, with a little pointed nose and porcelain-blue eyes.

  Her features were drawn that morning, and it was clearly a huge effort for her to stand upright.

  Anna Keegel, on the other hand, was ugly yet appealing and, although there was nothing humorous about the situation, looked as if she was quick to laugh.

  Keeping a discreet distance, Maigret followed them to customs, where they waited a few minutes for a green suitcase and another, cheaper-looking bag which must have belonged to Anna.

  A porter took their luggage and hailed a taxi for them outside. Maigret got back into the police car next to Lucas.

  ‘Is that them?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t let them give you the slip.’

  It wasn’t hard to keep up with them, because the taxi-driver drove carefully, and they took three-quarters of an hour to reach Parc Montsouris.

  ‘Did you think they’d go somewhere else?’

  ‘I didn’t think anything. I just wanted to make sure. Stop behind the taxi when it parks and wait for me.’

  The two women got out. Lina Nahour looked the house up and down, as if she were hesitating, before finally letting her friend help her through the garden gate.