The Final Bet

by Abdelilah Hamdouchi

  “But no one would think he has a relationship with her,” said Hulumi. “That way, he’d remain far from any suspicion.”

  “Didn’t he think when Naeema and Othman mentioned Selwa’s name to the police, she’d break down and confess her relationship with him?” asked Tharya.

  “It’s crazy that things are going in this direction since the police have only worked to convict Othman, without checking other leads. Even if we suppose Selwa confessed she told the contents of the will to Othman, what’s the worst she’d face? No doubt Jacques went over all the possibilities with her.”

  Their eyes clung to Selwa as she darted out of the hotel. She stood in the middle of the road waiting for a taxi.

  “What do we do?” asked Tharya, starting the ignition. Hulumi stared at her with a confused look.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do we follow her?”

  Before Hulumi could answer, Selwa got into a taxi and took off. Hulumi hit the dashboard despondently and kept silent.

  “Are you waiting for inspiration?” said Tharya with a smile.

  “I’m convinced Jacques killed his mother,” he said, coming out of it. “And I don’t think he hired anyone to carry out the crime. It’s impossible to share a secret like that with someone else. That could easily mean getting caught or facing constant blackmail. And if he was stupid and hired someone, he’d definitely try to get rid of them as soon as possible.”

  “And he’d get rid of Selwa if she knows what he did or suspects him,” Tharya said cautiously, letting out a soft whistle.

  After a moment of silence, Tharya started laughing.

  “I think we’re going a bit too far in all this guesswork!”

  Hulumi didn’t laugh along.

  “We’re facing a very complicated crime of murder,” he said gloomily, “and the police won’t ever doubt anyone besides the suspect they have. There may be evidence against Othman even though he’s innocent. And the real criminal’s free, counting his money without any worry. If we stop now, he’ll just keep going and Othman will get convicted.”

  “But,” said Tharya, “your client didn’t bring you anything to prove he’s innocent. From what you said about this case, he might’ve even left his fingerprints on the murder weapon.”

  “Yet the case is still open,” said Hulumi with the smile of someone who’s run out of patience.

  He was incapable of making any decision. He then pressed on Tharya’s hand gently.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve taken up a lot of your time,” he said.

  She turned on the engine again and looked over at the door of the hotel.

  “This Jacques, do you need him anymore?”

  “No. All I’ve wanted to do at this point is cast a shadow of doubt on him.”

  12

  Hulumi went into the court building, presented himself to the public prosecutor’s office as Othman’s lawyer, took the police report to the photocopier, and then sat down in a corner to read it. He only lifted his eyes off the report twice. The first time was when he saw the statements of the cook Abdelkader, who accused Othman of sneaking into the kitchen and taking the knife the victim was killed with. The second time, he looked up as all the muscles of his face twitched. The police report stated the fingerprints of the accused were the same as those found on the murder weapon. The lawyer thought this case was the most difficult he’d faced in his career and he began to feel it was hopeless. It didn’t help that he was only permitted to read the report just moments prior to defending Othman before the investigative judge. The only thing that encouraged him to continue was the fact that Othman hadn’t confessed to the crime.

  A half hour later, the lawyer met Othman in the hallway leading to the office of the investigative judge. He was handcuffed and a uniformed policeman held him by the arm. The lawyer smiled at him gently and noticed he was suffering from exhaustion and sleep deprivation. Othman lowered his head, clearly humiliated.

  Despite the simplicity of the office, it gave the impression of gravity. The judge was a short man, about fifty-five years old. He had a face with severe features and dark sunken eyes. He was entirely bald and his lips were tight, making him constantly flash his teeth. He was famous among lawyers for his severity. Some of them thought he was a stubborn opponent but no one would deny his boldness in taking initiatives that flew in the face of formalities for the sake of speeding up the settling of justice and getting to the heart of a case.

  As for the judge’s secretary, she was a heavy-set woman about the same age wearing an elegant jalbab that matched the scarves covering half her head. She was a master of her work and knew what she had to write down and what she could leave out to the point that the judge never gave her any directions. Sometimes he’d forget she was even there.

  The judge ordered the police to uncuff Othman and then pointed at a seat and told him to sit down. He waited until the policeman closed the door and then took out his reading glasses, which looked like those financial accountants wear. He put them on the bridge of his nose and flipped through the police report.

  “Why have you not confessed your crime to the judicial police?” he said to Othman in a commanding tone.

  Othman cast a glance at the lawyer appealing for help. Hulumi was sitting in front of him watching and waiting.

  “I’m innocent, your honor,” Othman stammered.

  “All the evidence’s against you,” said the judge, turning the pages of the police report.

  He turned away from Othman and looked at the lawyer, prompting him to speak.

  “So, Ustaz, what do you have to say?”

  Hulumi smiled and leaned forward so the judge could hear him.

  “Yes, your honor,” he said, “the evidence is indeed against my client but he hasn’t confessed to this crime. If you please, my client has a degree in the law and was a colleague of mine at law school. Before going to the police, he visited my office and told me the details of what happened. I convinced him to face the counsel of the court. I then undertook some investigations and, if you please, I request that you summon the following people.”

  The lawyer opened his briefcase and took out a sheet of paper, which he presented to the judge. He read the contents of the paper in a loud voice.

  “Jacques Beaumarché, the Shore Hotel, Ain Diab.”

  The judge turned his lips slowly without raising his head from the sheet.

  “Who’s this Jacques Beaumarché?”

  “The victim’s son.”

  The judge rested his chin on the palm of his hand and leaned forward.

  “This request of yours will produce something new for the case?”

  “Yes, your honor.”

  The judge turned his lips another time and continued reading.

  “Selwa Laghyathi, 16 Abd al-Mumin Boulevard, Maarif.”

  “Who’s this Selwa?” asked the judge, blinking his eyes.

  “The secretary of the accountant with whom the victim deposited her will.”

  The judge suddenly seemed interested. Without raising his head, he read the final name.

  “Jilali Bouchra, the Shore Hotel, Ain Diab.”

  “Who’s this person?”

  “An employee at the hotel who’s in charge of the reception.”

  Othman bit his lips and looked at the lawyer and the judge. He felt himself forgotten in the session, despite the fact that he was the most important person in it. The judge took his time reading the sheet.

  “I don’t want to subject these people to useless trouble,” he said without looking up from the paper. “Are you sure their presence could change something in the course of the case?”

  “Yes, your honor,” said the lawyer, sure of himself. “If you please, I ask your honor to summon them as soon as possible.”

  “Tomorrow at two o’clock,” said the judge in a severe voice as he pressed his foot on the bell under the desk, suddenly ending the session.

  The next day, after a delay of half an hour, the lawyer sat do
wn in front of the judge. The latter was busy looking for something in his drawers and after five minutes of searching, he gave up. The lawyer was afraid this frustration might influence the judge’s mood.

  “Maybe what you’re looking for is hiding because I’m here,” he said, trying to lighten things up.

  The judge cracked a smile, but his frown did not entirely disappear.

  “Working in government offices grates on my nerves,” he said, sitting upright in his chair. “Never mind. All the people I summoned are waiting. Should I call them in together or one at a time?”

  “If you please, your honor, I ask you to call Jacques Beaumarché.”

  The judge pressed on the bell with his foot. There were knocks on the door and then the doorman appeared.

  “Jacques Beaumarché,” the secretary instructed him.

  A minute later, a voice came from behind the door and the knob turned. Jacques came in. He stared at the lawyer, unable to hide his surprise. The judge shuffled forward on his seat and shook Jacques’s hand.

  “This is Ahmed Hulumi, the lawyer of the accused,” he said, pointing over at him. “Please, sit down.”

  “We’ve already met,” mumbled the lawyer.

  Jacques sat down. He was elegantly dressed, as usual, but traces of insomnia were clear in his bloodshot eyes. The lawyer thought it was obvious that being summoned to the court scared him.

  “Go ahead,” said the judge, pointing at the lawyer.

  “As you know, Monsieur Beaumarché,” said the lawyer, addressing Jacques, “Othman, the husband of your mother— and we are very sorry for what happened to her—is the primary defendant in her murder. The presumed motive for committing the crime is the will your mother wrote that excludes you from the inheritance, while Othman, according to the will, is the sole beneficiary of her entire estate.”

  Jacques face became tight.

  “Monsieur Beaumarché, did you have knowledge of this will before your mother’s death?” asked the lawyer.

  A stunned look appeared in Jacques’s eyes.

  “No, I didn’t,” said Jacques, hesitating. “But it doesn’t bother me that my mother left everything to her husband. She was very kind to me and after she got Papa’s life insurance years ago, even though she was the sole beneficiary, she gave me half the payout. My mother wasn’t being unfair to me in any way when she willed her estate to her husband.”

  “Fine,” said Hulumi. “Then you didn’t know about the will?”

  “I told you, no,” replied Jacques, clearly annoyed.

  The lawyer turned toward the judge.

  “I have another opinion. You knew about the will your mother set with the accountant Shafiq Sahili. His secretary, Selwa Laghyathi, leaked its contents to you,” he said, pointing at Jacques.

  Jacques’s face went pale. He seemed to be in a state of shock. The lawyer exchanged a glance with the judge.

  “Monsieur Beaumarché,” said the judge, trying to hurry a reply.

  “I don’t know what this man’s getting at,” said Jacques, addressing the judge bluntly.

  “Do you know this secretary?” the judge asked Jacques in a commanding voice, looking over at the lawyer. “Answer yes or no.”

  “No,” said Jacques in a decisive voice.

  “Please, your honor, I’d like to call Selwa Laghyathi,” said the lawyer, addressing the judge.

  A minute later, the doorman brought her in and closed the door. Selwa was wearing a jalbab and had a scarf on her head. Her clothes made her seem older than she was and hid her usual attractiveness. She stood frozen in her place, looking at the men in surprise. The judge asked her to sit down.

  “You’re Selwa Laghyathi, the secretary of the accountant, Shafiq Sahili?” asked the lawyer as she threw herself down on the chair nervously.

  She nodded, rubbing her fingers together.

  “Do you know this man?” the lawyer added, pointing at Jacques.

  She barely gave him a sideways glance and then shook her head.

  “Look closely at him,” said the lawyer insistently.

  “I looked at him and I don’t know him,” uttered Selwa, the words leaving her throat with an uneven hoarseness.

  “Fine,” said the lawyer, folding his hands. “Two days ago, you left the accountant’s office at four o’clock in the afternoon anxious and hurried. You took a taxi with license plate number 2230 and went to Ain Diab—to the Shore Hotel, to be exact. You asked the permission of the man at the reception desk and then went up to room number ninety-six to see this man,” he said, pointing at Jacques.

  Selwa’s face immediately turned the same pale yellow of her dyed hair. The investigative judge noticed that Jacques gave her quick affectionate looks. The judge told the lawyer to move on and ask for the third person.

  The young man who was in charge of the reception at the Shore Hotel came in and stood confused in the middle of the office, looking around at those who were there. He was wearing his work clothes, which looked like the suits worn by admirals. He was clearly nervous. All he wanted, when he was asked to talk, was to say he was innocent of anything that might be tied to him.

  The judge told him to sit down on a chair in the far corner of the office.

  “We won’t take more than five minutes of your time,” said the lawyer, smiling to lighten the deskman’s nervousness as he sat down. “When I visited you at the hotel, what did I ask you?”

  The chair shook under the weight of the young man. Immediately, the lawyer knew he was afraid the hundred dirhams he gave him would come out. The lawyer signaled furtively for him to hurry up and answer.

  “You asked me about this girl,” he stammered, pointing at Selwa. “She got to the hotel just before you. This man here,” he said, pointing at Jacques, “told me if someone named Selwa asks for him, I should tell her to go up to his room.”

  “Do you still deny, monsieur,” said the lawyer, addressing Jacques, “that you don’t know this girl?”

  Agitation got the better of Jacques.

  “Great,” he said angrily. “If I knew I was going to be interrogated like this, I would’ve also brought a lawyer with me.”

  “You have the right to hire a lawyer to defend yourself,” said the judge with a firm tone.

  “Is there a charge against me?” yelled Jacques in the judge’s face, suddenly becoming excited.

  “Why did you deny knowing this girl?” asked the judge sharply, angered by Jacques’s rudeness. “And why did she go up to your hotel room?”

  “This is a personal matter. I don’t have to respond to that.”

  “This isn’t a personal matter,” said the lawyer. “It’s connected to the will since this girl is the secretary of your mother’s accountant.”

  “I object to all these questions!” yelled Jacques, stamping his foot on the ground. “I refuse to be interrogated until I have my lawyer.”

  “Don’t talk unless I tell you to,” said the judge with a calmness that increased with Jacques’s anger.

  “Do you still need this person?” he asked the lawyer, looking over at the deskman.

  The lawyer signaled to the young man and smiled at him graciously.

  “I’m finished with him, your honor,” he said.

  “Wait outside until I call you,” said the judge.

  The young man hurried out of the room and the doorman closed the door behind him.

  “When did you join Yasmina Club?” Hulumi asked Selwa, catching her off guard.

  She kept rubbing her fingers together and gave Jacques a quick look.

  “I don’t remember. Maybe a year ago or more.”

  The lawyer took his notebook out of his pocket and flipped through it quickly.

  “It was six months ago,” he said. “The club’s records prove this. And you quickly became friends with Naeema. You knew about her relationship with Othman and you knew Othman was the husband of Sofia, who also worked out at the same club. You told Naeema you were Shafiq Sahili’s secretary and revealed to
her the contents of the will, isn’t that right?”

  Selwa lowered her head, thinking Naeema had confessed to the police that she was the one who leaked the contents of the will. She looked up and then stared off into the empty space of the room.

  “I admit I did the wrong thing,” she said in a low voice. “But it was Naeema who kept insisting when she found out I was the secretary of Sofia’s accountant.”

  “Who told her that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Selwa, staring out at nothing.

  “Did you tell her the contents of the will?” asked the judge sharply.

  She nodded. The judge was surprised, since this information wasn’t in the police report.

  “Does your employer let you look over all the confidential documents in his office?” asked the judge severely.

  “I’ve never done anything like that before,” she said in a bewildered voice. “But Naeema seduced me. She showered me with gifts and kept pestering me until I finally gave in. I had no idea doing that would make Othman kill his wife. . . .”

  “Who told you Othman killed his wife?” interrupted the lawyer sharply.

  Her face went pale and she swallowed with difficulty. She gave Jacques a pleading look and saw he was even paler than her. Her head shook forcefully and signs of indignation and hesitation appeared on her face. The judge saw how much she was suffering and gave her a piercing look.

  “If you don’t want to ensnare yourself even deeper, you have to be frank and recount the events exactly as they happened,” he said. “Don’t forget we’re dealing with the crime of murder, which the law punishes with either life in prison or death.”

  Her teeth chattered as she remembered all the executions she’d seen in the movies. All of a sudden, she burst out crying.

  “I don’t have anything to do with Sofia’s murder!” she yelled out in a choked voice.

  “Who told you Othman killed her?” asked the lawyer.

  “Him,” she said suddenly in a clear voice, pointing right at Jacques.

  “Did you visit him at the hotel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Liar!” yelled out Jacques, hitting his knee.

  The judge told him to keep calm.