The Final Bet

by Abdelilah Hamdouchi

  A feeling of weakness overwhelmed him and he started weeping out loud. The detective observed him in a cold, professional way. Othman got up, grabbed a box of tissues, took one out, and wiped his eyes. As he moved to sit down, he almost fell over.

  “Calm down,” said Inspector Boukrisha impatiently. “We know this is hard for you but we’ve got our job to do.”

  Othman stared at the inspector.

  “You said you found her like that,” Alwaar pressed him.

  Othman was having a hard time talking. He gave the two men a miserable look.

  “She was barely alive,” he said, doing what he could to continue. “She was on her last breath and tried to speak. She opened her mouth but no sound came out. I was terrified. I didn’t know what to do. I knew she was going to die. She motioned to a photo of her son she had in her hands, almost like she wanted to say goodbye to him. She tried to hold onto it but it fell. I was shocked and confused. I screamed out and my entire body started shaking. I’ve never seen a murdered person before and I hate seeing blood. When I got hold of myself, I saw she was still moving and I immediately called for an ambulance and the police.”

  The detective looked up and exchanged a glance with the inspector, who was standing with his elbow on the edge of the large fireplace. Alwaar took something down in his notebook.

  “Listen, Othman,” he said in an official tone. “I’ll be straight with you. You’re the only one who knows what happened. You’ve got to remember all the details.”

  Othman grimaced as his eyes widened.

  “That’s it. I told you everything.”

  The detective felt Othman’s story didn’t check out. There was clearly something wrong with the knife. It wasn’t normal for killers to leave the murder weapon behind at the crime scene, unless something forced them to. Also, the knife wasn’t still in the victim’s stomach; someone pulled it out and left it next to her on the bed.

  The detective swallowed with difficulty. For him, the murder weapon was always the fundamental clue in discovering the killer. And this point was shrouded in obscurity.

  The technicians finished their work. Alwaar ordered them to leave and had the ambulance men take the body to the morgue.

  “I want to call one of her close friends,” said Othman, stammering.

  After thinking for a moment, the detective nodded in agreement. Othman went to the phone on top of the small bar in the corner of the living room, picked up the receiver, and dialed the number. The other end rang for a while. He almost put the receiver down when someone finally picked up.

  “Hello? Michel? I’m sorry to wake you,” he said in a rattled voice. “I have terrible news. Sofia was just murdered. I was outside walking the dog and when I came home, I found her in the bedroom . . . stabbed to death. . . . Yes, the police are here with me now. Will you tell Jacques?”

  Othman hung up. He then opened a nearby glass cupboard and took out a big copper lighter. He lit a cigarette and sat down again.

  “Who’s Michel?” snapped Boukrisha.

  “A close friend of Sofia’s who’s an advisor at the French Cultural Center.”

  Alwaar took the information down in his notebook.

  “And Jacques?” he asked without raising his head.

  “Her son. He was here last week and went back to France.”

  His eyes filled up with tears again. He put his hand on the back of his head and then stroked his mustache nervously. He gave the impression he was living a nightmare. The detective looked at him closely, trying to figure out what Othman was really feeling. Was his grief genuine or was he struggling to hide the truth?

  “What time did you take the dog out?” Alwaar asked, starting up a second line of questioning.

  “Around eleven-thirty.”

  “When’d you get back?”

  “About half an hour later.”

  “Did you meet anyone while you were out? One of the neighbors or anyone else see you?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Othman, hesitating. “I stayed in the square with the dog. I played with him for a bit and then came back. The street was completely empty.”

  “Do you usually take the dog out?”

  “Every day, except Saturday and Sunday.”

  “When you came back, how’d you find the door of the house?”

  “Just as I left it. Locked.”

  “You forgot to close it when you went out?”

  “No. I’m sure I locked it.”

  “Fine,” said Alwaar, looking at his notebook. “The motive for the crime wasn’t theft. The proof is that your wife’s jewelry is still here.”

  Instead of putting out his cigarette in the ashtray, Othman crushed it with his foot on the ground, clearly irritated. Alwaar watched him closely.

  “There aren’t any signs of a break-in on the windows or doors. How’d the killer get in?” asked Boukrisha roughly.

  Detective Alwaar didn’t like this question. He gave Boukrisha an annoyed look.

  “Do you have other valuables here besides jewelry?”

  Othman didn’t seem to get the question.

  “Do you keep any money here?” he added to be clear.

  “No. We leave the daily take from the restaurant there.”

  “Where’s the restaurant?”

  “Ain Diab.”

  The detective asked for more information about the location. He soon figured out where it was.

  He needed a cigarette, but he never let himself smoke during an interrogation. He stared at Othman and then went through a number of ideas in his head. He came to and resumed his routine questions.

  “Who lives with you here?”

  “No one. It’s just me and my wife.”

  “What about a maid?” asked Boukrisha, trying to keep Othman talking.

  “There’s Rahma but officially, she works in the restaurant. She comes here every morning to do some housework.”

  Boukrisha sat down on the edge of the couch, putting all his weight on his knees. He wanted to ask Othman if he had kids, but then remembered Sofia’s age and felt the question would be insulting. They have a dog, Boukrisha thought disdainfully.

  The detective turned over a new page in his notebook. After a moment of silence, Othman relaxed a bit. He seemed to think the questions were over. As Othman sat there, the detective looked up more than once to keep an eye on him.

  “When’d you marry her?” he asked finally.

  “About five years ago.”

  “How’d you meet her?”

  Othman sat up suddenly. Did the question shake him? He hesitated for a bit before answering.

  “Through her ex-husband.”

  The two men suddenly became interested. They waited for Othman to go on but he seemed reticent.

  “Was he Moroccan too?”

  “Yeah, from my neighborhood. Unemployed like me. He was an immigrant in France. He married Sofia there and convinced her to come to Morocco and open up a restaurant.”

  The detective looked around the huge entrance area thinking Othman wasn’t going into enough detail on his own. He had to be pushed.

  “Why’d they get divorced?”

  “They had a misunderstanding.”

  “About what?”

  “What happened—” Othman hesitated as he took out another cigarette, “was that she caught him here with another woman.”

  “The first husband was a lot younger than her?”

  Othman felt embarrassed and lowered his head. He had hoped the line of questioning wouldn’t go in this direction. Despite what Othman wanted, this point was too juicy for the detective to ignore.

  “Fine,” said Alwaar after Othman didn’t reply. “You met your wife through the ex-husband who was from your neighborhood. How’d it happen?”

  “He didn’t introduce me to her,” Othman said firmly, as if denying an accusation. “But he did tell me about their life together. And I knew she liked young men. Once they got divorced, I tried and it worked out.”


  Boukrisha smiled mockingly.

  “Her first husband’s still here in Casablanca?” he asked in his hoarse voice.

  “No. He has a business in Marrakech.”

  The detective flipped through his notebook quickly.

  “And the son, Jacques, the one you had your friend tell about the murder, how about him?”

  Othman lit another cigarette with the big copper lighter, which let out a high flame. He exhaled the smoke and looked anxiously at the detective.

  “When she was young, she had a French husband. He died in a car accident.”

  “Her son’s the one in the picture we found on the ground?”

  “Yes,” said Othman timidly.

  The detective stared at him with a look of disgust. He realized Sofia’s son had to be a lot older than this husband of hers who was sitting in front of him.

  “You said he visited recently . . . .”

  “Yes,” Othman said, cutting him off. “He went back to Paris a week ago.”

  The detective clearly looked tired. He yawned in an unseemly way and then ground his dentures. He closed his notebook, got up, and started circling the couch.

  “Who do you think had a reason to kill your wife?” he asked Othman directly.

  “I don’t know,” Othman replied in a wavering tone.

  “You took the dog out for a half-hour walk,” said the detective, going over the basics. “When you returned, you found your wife murdered. There wasn’t a break-in or any sign of forced entry. There isn’t anything stolen and you don’t suspect anyone.”

  He continued moving slowly around the couch.

  Othman remained frozen with the cigarette burning between his fingers.

  “That’s enough for now,” the detective said suddenly after thinking for a moment. “I’ll be waiting for you in my office tomorrow morning.”

  He took out his card, held it up before Othman, and put it down on the edge of the fireplace. Boukrisha got up, staring aggressively at Othman. It was hard for him to end the interrogation like this, without any resolution. If the detective left the matter to him, he would’ve openly accused Othman of the crime.

  “You didn’t see anything and you didn’t hear anything?” growled Boukrisha in Othman’s face. “You don’t have any idea what happened?”

  Othman ignored him and got up to walk the two out. Once they were in the garden, Alwaar looked over at the dog that was barking earlier.

  “A German Shepherd, right?”

  “Yes,” replied Othman tersely, hoping to end the ordeal.

  He said goodbye to the two cops in front of the villa gate. He then turned off the garden lights, went back into the house, and threw himself down on the couch in the living room. He sat up suddenly and his eyes widened. He then lowered his head and hit his fist against the wall, cursing over and over again.

  The Fiat Uno didn’t move from its spot in front of the villa gate. Detective Alwaar sat in the driver’s seat with Inspector Boukrisha next to him. The two of them were smoking in silence. It was almost three o’clock in the morning. Boukrisha was yawning repeatedly, hoping Alwaar would let him go home to bed. But Alwaar was taking his time thinking about the case. The idea of heading home to sleep didn’t even cross his mind.

  “You forgot to tell him when to come see us tomorrow,” Boukrisha said, just about out of patience.

  “I didn’t forget,” replied the detective in a sharp voice. “It was on purpose. We’ve got to give him space to see how he’ll act.”

  “You’re going to put him under surveillance?” asked Boukrisha, trying to keep his eyes open.

  “Of course. Who do you want to partner with?”

  Boukrisha tossed his cigarette butt out the window. His red eyes betrayed signs of irritation and anger. The last thing he wanted to do was spend the rest of the night slouched in his car seat keeping tabs on some villa. The detective picked up the radio receiver and called central for a couple of men to take over. He found only one inspector free. Alwaar told him to meet them at the scene immediately.

  “Hundreds of disasters and all we’ve got are a handful of cops,” he said, annoyed, putting the receiver back down. “You’ve got to get some sleep. I’m going to need you tomorrow.”

  Boukrisha was relieved. Ten minutes later, a run-down Renault 4 without any sign it was a police car pulled up behind the Fiat Uno. The driver turned off his lights, got out, and hurried over to the Fiat. Alwaar told him to get in the backseat.

  Inspector Asila’s buddies called him ‘Anxiety.’ At fifty years old, he lived alone on the roof of a crummy building. Three years ago, he declared bankruptcy and divorced his wife. He left the house to her and their four children. Since he could no longer afford to support them, he began a new life. All his friends were afraid he’d wind up asking them for money.

  Alwaar filled him in on the crime. He told Asila to keep an eye on the house and make sure he stayed awake.

  “I slept great this afternoon,” said the inspector.

  “Good. You’ve got to keep this villa under surveillance. If the guy inside leaves, call central immediately. Follow him and let us know what he does. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good night.”

  Asila chuckled. He got out of the Fiat and went back to his Renault 4. After the detective and Boukrisha took off, Asila stayed awake inside his car, smoking at times and singing to himself at others. He kept thinking about his family tragedy, feeling terrible for his kids. He was full of resentment at his stubborn ex-wife. He was also furious about his job. He worked day and night for a crappy salary that never went up. After twenty years of service, being a cop didn’t even give him a respectable quality of life.

  Just before dawn, he started to get so tired he got out of the Renault. While he was pissing behind the car, he looked out on the high-class street with its lofty palm trees and magnificent villas. They looked like the houses of Hollywood stars.

  Asila felt like he was in another Morocco, one that needed different cops. He was thinking that the maids’ rooms in these castles around him were a hundred times better than the shitty place where he lived on the building roof. He became more and more frustrated so he decided to sit back down in his car. He closed his eyes, convinced he’d start feeling better if he just relaxed a bit. He didn’t notice that he was beginning to fall asleep.

  3

  The morning sun hadn’t yet come up on the rooftops when Othman left the villa. He happened to look over at an old Renault 4 parked nearby and, through the predawn light, could make out someone sleeping inside. It didn’t occur to him this person was supposed to be keeping him under surveillance.

  He walked slowly under the palm trees in the middle of the road breathing in the sweet air. He hadn’t slept much and hadn’t even bothered to change his clothes. He spent the rest of the night on the couch, going through different ideas in his head, smoking one cigarette after another. He knew this day wouldn’t be like anything he’d ever experienced before.

  Once he got to the main street, he waved down a taxi and slipped into the back seat. He told the driver to go to Derb al-Fouqaraa. His parents’ house was located in the Derb’s alleys, which were teeming with hundreds of families crammed together in old buildings. Their houses were so damp people had to take their things outside every day to dry them in the open sun.

  Othman became more and more anxious as the taxi neared his parents’ house. Once they arrived, he paid the driver and got out. As he walked down the narrow street, he lowered his head, looking down at the ground, hoping not to have to say hello to any of the neighbors. He knocked on his parents’ door quietly and after a minute, his mother answered. She was surprised to see Othman standing there so early in the morning. She stood frozen, unsure if his visit meant good or bad news.

  Othman was so eager to get inside he walked past his mother, closing the door behind him. It wasn’t even six o’clock in the morning. He could tell his knock on the door had woken her.

&
nbsp; His mother was a heavy-set woman. She had on several layers of clothes and a couple of scarves on her head. She had an exhausted face that bore an expression of concealed pain. She’d been suffering from rheumatism for years.

  “Where’s Papa?” asked Othman with a sigh, throwing himself down on a nearby chair.

  “He went for morning prayer. He’s not back yet.”

  She looked at him with the heart of a worried mother. She sat opposite him and folded her arms across her chest.

  “What happened? May it be good, God willing.”

  Othman tried to tell her the news calmly but he couldn’t hide the shock on his face. His voice quivered and he felt like he was free-falling into a deep abyss.

  “Sofia’s dead, Mama. She was murdered.”

  His mother looked at him as if she didn’t believe a word he said.

  “Murdered? Who murdered her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  His mother noticed him trembling. She could see the panic in his eyes.

  “And the police?” she asked, staring at him with a strange look. “You told the police?”

  “They interrogated me all night. I’m in trouble, Mama.”

  He put her hands between his and kissed them over and over, crying like a child. His mother pushed him away suddenly.

  “Why are you in trouble, my son?” she yelled, her voice shaking with terror. “What’d you do?”

  “I found her on the bed, Mama,” he said, hesitating and trying to get a hold of himself. “She was in a pool of blood with a knife in her stomach. She tried to speak. She opened her mouth but couldn’t say anything. She pleaded with her eyes, looking down at her stomach, begging me to pull out the knife. I couldn’t refuse her so I did it. I was totally confused. Sofia let out a moan and closed her eyes. I thought she was dead so I began to scream. I was in a state of complete shock. When she moved again, I realized she was still alive. I jumped up and called an ambulance and the police.”

  The panicked look in his mother’s eyes abated. Othman could tell she didn’t understand the problem.