‘Better now?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
‘Let’s get back to the wallet.’
‘Why?’
‘Because that was what made you telephone me.’
‘There wasn’t enough in it anyway.’
‘Enough money? What for?’
‘To get away … To go somewhere else, anywhere, Belgium, Spain …’
And then, looking suspicious again:
‘You did come on your own, didn’t you?’
‘I don’t drive. One of my inspectors brought me over here and he’s waiting for me at the corner of Rue Saint-Charles.’
The man raised his head suddenly.
‘You’ve identified me?’
‘No, your photo isn’t on file.’
‘But you did look?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why?’
‘Because of the wallet, but especially because of my badge.’
‘Why did you stop at the corner of Rue Saint-Charles?’
‘Because it’s near here, and it was on our way.’
‘You haven’t had a report?’
‘What about?’
‘About an incident in Rue Saint-Charles?’
Maigret found it hard to follow the expressions succeeding one another on the young man’s face. He had rarely come across anyone so anxious, so anguished, clinging on to heaven only knew what hope.
He was afraid, that was clear. But of what?
‘The police station here didn’t contact you?’
‘No.’
‘Do you swear it?’
‘The only time I swear is in the witness box.’
The young man seemed to want to drill into him with his eyes.
‘Why do you think I asked you to come?’
‘Because you need me.’
‘And why do I need you?’
‘Because you’re in some kind of trouble and you don’t know how to get out of it.’
‘That’s not true.’
The voice was firm. The unknown young man lifted up his head, as if relieved.
‘It’s not me that’s in trouble, and I’ll swear that, in court or anywhere else. I’m innocent, do you understand me?’
‘Not so loud.’
He looked round. A young woman was applying lipstick while peering in a mirror, then turning towards the street in the hope of seeing the man she was waiting for. Two middle-aged men, leaning their heads together over a table, were talking in low voices and, from the few words he guessed at rather than heard, Maigret gathered the subject was horse-racing.
‘Well, tell me who you are, and what it is you say you’re innocent of.’
‘Not here. Not now.’
‘Where, then?’
‘Back at my place. Can I have another beer? I’ll be able to pay you back, soon, unless …’
‘Unless?’
‘Unless, her bag … Anyway … a beer?’
‘Waiter! Two beers. And the bill.’
The young man wiped his forehead with a handkerchief that was still quite clean.
‘You’re twenty-four?’ the inspector asked him.
‘Twenty-five.’
‘So how long have you lived in Paris?’
‘Five years.’
‘Married?’
He was avoiding asking questions that were too personal and intimate.
‘I was. Why do you ask?’
‘You don’t wear a wedding ring.’
‘Because when I got married, I couldn’t afford one.’
He lit another cigarette. He had smoked the first with long deep pulls, and only now was he appreciating the taste of tobacco.
‘So all the precautions I took didn’t work.’
‘What precautions?’
‘About you. You’ve got your hands on me, whatever I do. Even if I tried to run off, now you’ve seen me close up, and you know I live nearby.’
He was smiling ironically, the bitter irony addressed to himself.
‘I always overdo things. Is your inspector in the car still on the corner of Rue Saint-Charles?’
Maigret looked at the electric clock on the wall. Three minutes to midday.
‘Either he’s just left or he will be leaving any minute, because I asked him to wait half an hour and, if I wasn’t back, to go for lunch.’
‘It doesn’t matter, though, does it?’
Maigret did not reply and when his companion rose to go, he followed. They went together towards Rue Saint-Charles, at the corner of which there was a fairly new modern building. They crossed over, turned down the street and walked only about thirty metres further.
The man had stopped in the middle of the pavement, opposite a wide carriage door giving on to the courtyard of the large apartment block that went through to Boulevard de Grenelle; cycles and babies’ prams were stored under an archway.
‘You live here?’
‘Listen, inspector …’
He was paler and more nervous than ever.
‘Have you ever trusted somebody, even when all the evidence was against him’
‘It has happened.’
‘What do you think of me?’
‘That you’re rather complicated, and that I don’t have enough elements to make a judgement.’
‘Because you will make a judgement?’
‘That wasn’t what I meant. Let’s say, to form an opinion about you.’
‘Do I look like a criminal?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Or a man, capable of … no, come inside. We’d do best to get it over with.’
He drew Maigret inside the courtyard and towards the left-hand side of the building, where at ground level there was a series of doors.
‘They call these “bachelor flats”,’ the young man muttered.
He took a key from his pocket.
‘You’re going to make me go in first. Well, I’ll do it, whatever it costs. But if I pass out …’
He pushed open a varnished wooden door. It gave on to a tiny entrance hall. Through an open door on the right could be seen a bathroom with a half-size bath. The room was in some disorder: towels were scattered on the tiled floor.
‘Will you open it?’
The young man gestured to Maigret to open the firmly shut door ahead of them, and Maigret did as he was asked.
His companion did not run away. And yet the smell was terrible, despite the open window.
Alongside a sofa-bed, a young woman was lying on the multicoloured Moroccan carpet: over her body buzzed a cloud of bluebottle flies …
THE BEGINNING
Let the conversation begin …
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First published in French as Maigret et l’affaire Nahour by Presses de la Cité 1966
This translation first published 2019
Copyright © Georges Simenon Limited, 1966
Translation copyright © William Hobson, 2019
GEORGES SIMENON ® Simenon.tm
MAIGRET ® Georges Simenon Limited
All rights reserved
The moral rights of the author and translator have been asserted
Cover photograph (detail) © Harry Gruyaert /Magnum Photos
Front cover design by Alceu Chiesorin Nunes
ISBN: 978-0-241-30416-7
br /> Georges Simenon, Maigret and the Nahour Case
Maigret and the Nahour Case Page 15