The Final Bet

by Abdelilah Hamdouchi

  The commissioner put the phone down and leaned back in his big leather chair. He sat opposite Alwaar, looking at him without saying a word. With his typical slowness, the detective gave the commissioner a detailed report on the case. Between one sentence and another, the commissioner nodded his head in approval of the steps the detective had taken.

  The commissioner didn’t offer any commentary at first and simply stared at Alwaar.

  “There’s no doubt her country’s embassy will stick their nose in our affairs,” said the commissioner finally, warning the detective. “You’ve got to do clean work. You said the prime suspect at this point is the husband?”

  “I left him under surveillance while we complete the investigation.”

  Someone suddenly knocked on the door and came in. It was Inspector Asila. He was in a pathetic state. His hair was mussed and his eyes bloodshot. His face was pale as if he had just been slapped. Asila didn’t know if he should apologize for barging into the commissioner’s office in such a disrespectful way or just start talking.

  “You didn’t tell me the villa has a back door, sir,” he told the detective, trying hard to clear his throat.

  Alwaar knew immediately the inspector was in a jam.

  “What happened?” he asked sharply.

  Asila’s voice rattled as sweat dripped from his forehead. It was obvious he didn’t have the courage to tell the truth.

  “Start talking!” the commissioner yelled out in a rough voice.

  “I was keeping the front gate under surveillance while the target fled from the back,” said the inspector all at once after collecting his breath.

  A moment passed and all Asila could hear was the detective grinding his dentures in suppressed rage. Alwaar grabbed the inspector by his arm and squeezed it forcefully.

  “Admit you fell asleep and didn’t notice when he snuck out!” he screamed.

  The commissioner’s face went pale.

  “How many men do you have on surveillance?” he asked the detective.

  Alwaar was startled and squinted his eyes.

  “I only found Asila for the job. It was after three in the morning.”

  The commissioner banged his fist on the desk and shook in his chair. The detective hesitated before replying and looked at the commissioner as if apologizing.

  “How do you know he fled?” he asked the inspector.

  “The maid came to the villa as she usually does every morning and rang the bell several times,” he explained, looking past the detective at the commissioner. “No one opened the door. I was then forced to approach and when we gave up on someone answering, I asked her if there was another door and she said yes.”

  “Get out of my face!” yelled the commissioner, losing his self-control.

  Alwaar turned red. He felt he was responsible one way or another for what happened.

  “We just don’t have enough men,” he said, embarrassed. “This is always the problem.”

  The chief scowled and walked around his desk until he faced the detective.

  “From now on, I’ll give the order to approve everything you request. I know it’s too early to make judgments but I also know you’ll do your best. I trust and rely on you.”

  Alwaar bowed his head respectfully and went back to his office at the end of the hallway. He looked over at Boukrisha’s empty chair and checked his watch. The detective only felt at ease at the station when Boukrisha was there. It was nine o’clock and there wasn’t any trace of his partner yet.

  The detective thought the first thing he had to do was look for Othman. If he’d really run away, that’d be definitive proof of his guilt. Alwaar lit his third cigarette of the morning and started flipping through his notebook slowly. He read his notes carefully and took down the names of the people he needed to question. This crime is progressing in the way that pleases every criminal detective, he thought to himself. Once you’ve got a prime suspect, you don’t need to look far.

  The sound of footsteps clacking on the hallway ground pulled him out of it.

  A middle-aged foreign man entered the detective’s office. He was wearing an expensive suit that made him look like a diplomat. The features of his face were restrained and he had an air of dignity.

  Alwaar stood up quickly, putting out his cigarette and hiding the ashtray in his drawer.

  “Bonjour. Are you Monsieur Alwaar?” the man asked in a very refined tone.

  The detective extended his hand and greeted the visitor while looking at him closely.

  “Yes. Please sit down.”

  “Thank you. I’m Monsieur Michel Bernard, from the French Cultural Center. I received a phone call yesterday from Othman Latlabi, the husband of our friend Madame Sofia Beaumarché. He told me she was murdered.”

  Alwaar scrutinized Bernard’s face. Despite all the smoke lingering in the office, he could smell the scent of his visitor’s fine cologne.

  “It regrets us to inform you this is indeed true,” said Alwaar, making use of everything in his dictionary of politesse. “We were with Othman when he called you. We were expecting your visit.”

  “I wanted to come sooner,” said Bernard, shaking his head in grief, “but the news came as a heavy blow to my wife. It was not possible to leave her alone.”

  “Does the victim have relatives here in Casablanca?” Alwaar ventured, moving his hand in a tired motion.

  “No. She had a single son who lives in Paris. He spent a short vacation here and left a week ago. I informed him about what happened. He might arrive in Morocco today.”

  “And Othman?” asked the detective flatly. “Did you see him this morning?”

  “I telephoned him at home but no one responded. I also called his cell phone but it was turned off. Do you have any idea who the killer is?”

  “Until now, no.”

  “If you please, I would like to hear from you details of what happened.”

  Patiently and deliberately, Alwaar recounted the basics, arranging the events in his particular way. He kept waiting for Bernard to comment on them, but the visitor remained calm and composed.

  “Strange,” said Bernard finally. “According to what you say, theft was not a motive.”

  “Do you know if she had any enemies?” asked the detective.

  “Sofia was dear to everyone,” Bernard replied decisively. “She was blessed with a charming personality. Wherever she was, she spread joy and happiness.”

  “Please, Monsieur Bernard, I’d like you to tell me more about her personality. Othman said you were a close friend.”

  Bernard crossed his legs and relaxed a bit in his chair. His eyes filled with gentleness, as if he were immersed in happy memories.

  “We were friends from the day she moved to Morocco. We were more like family.”

  “What was her profession before coming to Morocco?”

  “She was a teacher of French literature. Her first husband, Monsieur Robert Beaumarché, was a banker. He died in a car accident. . . .”

  “Othman told us that after the death of her French husband, she married a Moroccan,” said Alwaar, cutting him off.

  “Oh, Majid,” Bernard blurted out. “Their marriage lasted about ten years. She met him in France.”

  “What was the reason for their divorce?”

  “It’s no use recounting the details,” said Bernard, shaking his head disdainfully. “I was one of those who intervened to solve the problem. I can assure you it ended in complete understanding.”

  Alwaar remembered what Othman said the day before about this problem but kept going.

  “Her first Moroccan husband,” the detective asked with a hint of restraint, “was younger than her too?”

  “This was Sofia’s weak spot, her love for young men,” said Bernard, letting out a small comforting laugh. “Of course, she had opportunities. After her husband Robert died, she received a large payout from his life insurance policy, in addition to the portion from the crash itself.”

  “Why’d she decide t
o live here in Casablanca?”

  “She always had a taste for Morocco. It’s a country of sun and vacation, she used to say. But her husband Majid was the one who convinced her to open the restaurant and live here for good.”

  “And Othman?” asked Alwaar slowly.

  “I don’t know how he found her. But if you want my opinion, he’s a well-educated and very kind young man. He has a law degree from the French track.”

  This information had a heavy impact on Alwaar.

  “So he married Sofia for the money?” he asked, smiling.

  This question didn’t surprise Bernard.

  “It’s obvious. Othman was unemployed when he married her.”

  “Do you have any idea about how they ran their financial affairs?”

  “From what I know,” said Bernard with a smile, “there weren’t any disagreements between them.”

  “And the estate?”

  “On that point, you’ll have to check with Monsieur Shafiq Sahili, their accountant. He’s in charge of all of Sofia’s property and documents.”

  Alwaar opened his notebook.

  “Shafiq Sahili. His address, please?”

  “Abd al-Mumin Boulevard, number sixteen.”

  After this, Alwaar didn’t ask a single question. He sat frozen, surprised that the number was sixteen. It was the number of his favorite horse, the one he’d dreamed about stumbling out of the gate. Was it a bad sign? Alwaar decided not to bet on the horses this week. He’d buy some lotto tickets instead.

  6

  Boukrisha didn’t have any trouble finding the address. Because of all the time he’d had to spend in the poor neighborhoods of Casablanca, Derb al-Fouqaraa was like an open book between his hands. He’d been there more than a few times to deal with one problem or another.

  Boukrisha had four men with him. They left the police car far from the area, just to make sure no one saw them coming. One inspector took his position at the entrance of the neighborhood and another was pinned next to the main electricity posts. As for Boukrisha, he went straight for Othman’s parents’ house together with Asila. Despite how quickly they moved, the Derb’s residents knew perfectly well something was up.

  Boukrisha knocked on the door with several successive raps. He didn’t wait long before the door opened and Othman’s father appeared.

  “Police,” said Boukrisha with his repulsively hoarse voice.

  “Please come in,” said the father quickly, afraid of the neighbors crowding around.

  The two inspectors walked into the house without saying a word. Boukrisha looked around the rooms and the kitchen. He tried to push open the bathroom door and realized it was locked.

  “Who’s here?” he said rudely, turning abruptly to the father.

  “My wife.”

  “So you’re Othman’s father?” said Boukrisha roughly, giving the man a menacing look.

  He nodded.

  “Where is he?”

  “He was here but he left.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “To the police station.”

  Boukrisha exchanged a glance with Asila, who seemed distracted and worn out from lack of sleep. Alwaar had punished Asila for falling asleep on the job by giving him an extra shift.

  Othman’s mother came out of the bathroom.

  “My son’s innocent, sir,” she said immediately. “He’s innocent!”

  Boukrisha ignored her and turned to the father.

  “He told you what happened to his wife?” he asked sternly.

  “Yes,” replied Othman’s father. “We’re very sorry for her.”

  “When’d your son come here?”

  “Around six o’clock.”

  “If you’ve got any doubts about my son, you’re wrong,” said the mother, butting in. “He couldn’t kill a fly.”

  “Shut your mouth!” Boukrisha screamed at her, quickly becoming enraged. “Don’t open it unless I tell you.”

  The father’s face went pale and the mother was so shocked that she scurried over to the nearest chair and sat down, putting her head between her hands.

  “Listen to me closely,” Boukrisha let out, threatening the father. “I’m going to call the station right now. If your son isn’t there, I’ll know you’re lying. And I’ll take you out of here in handcuffs.”

  He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Alwaar’s number. After a few quick words, Boukrisha’s eyes burned with anger. He put his cell back in his pocket, took out his handcuffs, and waved them in the father’s face.

  “Othman’s not at the station,” he said angrily. “Where’d he go?”

  The father backed up to protect himself from the inspector.

  “I didn’t lie to you. I swear to God!”

  “Maybe he hasn’t gotten there yet,” the mother chimed in. “You know there’s a lot of traffic.”

  “Shut your mouth, you!” shouted Asila, suddenly coming to life.

  She covered her eyes, feeling like she was on the verge of passing out. Boukrisha began pacing around the room and then headed toward the father, waving the handcuffs in front of him.

  “You’re hiding information from the police. That’s enough to arrest you.”

  He started to put the cuffs on him, but the father took a step backwards shaking. He suddenly tripped on the hem of his jalbab and fell to the ground.

  “A man at your age, lying!” Boukrisha yelled in his face, leaning over him. “If your son isn’t at the station by noon, I’ll come back here and arrest you.”

  He gave the mother a contemptuous look and pointed at Asila to head out.

  The neighbors had crowded around the door, trying to figure out what was going on. When Boukrisha walked out, he yelled at them to move, waving his handcuffs in front of him. They all darted off.

  As soon as he got back to his car, Boukrisha called Alwaar, who told him to go to the restaurant next and see what he could find there.

  They took off racing through the city streets at top speed, passing all the other cars. The three inspectors crowded together next to the driver. As for Asila, he was spread out on the back seat, dozing. When the car stopped in front of the restaurant, he opened his eyes but stayed still, pretending to be asleep. He smiled to himself as he heard Boukrisha talking to the others.

  “Leave him. He’s not worth a thing when he hasn’t slept.”

  The restaurant’s main door was shut. While Boukrisha banged on it with his fist, the other two went round to the back, where they found a small metal door that led directly to the kitchen. One of the inspectors rapped on it with his key ring and someone came quickly to open up. It was the chef, Abdelkader. He looked depressed and had traces of tears in his eyes. Behind him, the inspector saw other people craning their necks to see what was going on, as if the bang on the door had surprised them in the middle of a heated conversation.

  “Police,” said the inspector, walking into the kitchen with his partner right behind him. It didn’t take long before Boukrisha joined the two.

  The kitchen was clean and neat and smelled of ammonia. Boukrisha stared down Abdelkader with the severe look of a cop. He then turned to Suleiman and Nureddin, inspecting them with the same harsh stare. He finished, finally, with Rahma and then remembered she was the maid Asila told him about. Boukrisha noticed that her eyes, despite being bloodshot, were wide and beautiful.

  “You’re Rahma, right?” he asked, giving her a commanding look.

  She burst out crying.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Boukrisha looked over at the others presumptively.

  “She’s the one Asila told about Sofia’s murder?” he asked in a voice that was becoming increasingly hoarse because of all the yelling he was doing.

  They all nodded.

  “Who saw Othman this morning?” asked one of the inspectors.

  They stayed silent. Boukrisha went near Rahma and shoved his face in hers, as if he was about to kiss her.

  “You work at Sofia’s villa too, right?”


  She took a step back, scared and nauseated by the inspector’s breath, which reeked of cigarettes.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’re deeply affected by what happened to Madame Sofia,” said Abdelkader in a grief-filled tone. “She was a good person.”

  The inspector stared at him with a look that immediately reduced him to silence.

  “When’d you usually go to her villa?” asked Boukrisha as he turned back to Rahma, resuming his interrogation.

  “Every day at seven in the morning, except for Saturday and Sunday.”

  “What time would you stop?”

  “Around noon. I’d start working here in the evening.”

  “Notice anything recently?”

  It seemed she didn’t get his question. Boukrisha kept pressing.

  “A fight between Othman and Sofia? A squabble, something like that?”

  “No, sir. I never saw them fight. They got along well.”

  “And yesterday? Anything happen?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What’d you do yesterday when you were at the villa?”

  “The usual housework. I started by cleaning the kitchen and making breakfast for Madame. I then cleaned the floors, dusted the furniture, put the dirty laundry in the washing machine, and cleaned the bathrooms.”

  “And Othman? Where was he?” Boukrisha asked abruptly.

  “Sleeping. He usually gets up at about ten o’clock and goes out to the market.”

  “Did he go yesterday?”

  “No, he woke up late, around eleven. He sat in the kitchen and asked me to make a glass of orange juice for him.”

  “Where was Sofia?”

  “Outside doing some gardening. It’s her favorite thing to do.”

  “Did you hear them talk about anything?”

  Rahma drew in her breath, hesitating a bit to figure out what to say.

  “I don’t remember them talking much but Madame came into the kitchen and told him to hurry up because they were late for something.”