“I will appeal to the government minister who’s a friend of mine,” said the shabbiest of them.
The two other men said nothing; they were outdone. They had nothing to top a minister. For a moment they thought of mentioning their relations with the king, but that seemed a little too strong. The best they could do was to speak vaguely of acquaintances in high places.
Undoubtedly the most spectacular member of this gathering was Set Amina, the madam. She sat sunken on one end of the couch, a hand on her cheek, the very image of martyred innocence. She moaned tearfully, heaving heartrending sighs, and calling on God to witness her misfortune.
“What a black day! What have I done to Thee, O my God!”
After glancing several times around the room — such a stupid routine! — Nour El Dine walked toward her with a determined step. He looked weary and ready to imprison everyone.
“Stop the act, woman!” he said firmly.
Set Amina shut up like a charm. She swallowed her complaints and became humble and submissive. She was no fooclass="underline" it was useless to antagonize the forces of authority. She realized the gravity of the situation; this time she risked having her house closed forever. A crime! It could mean the end of her career.
“Well,” resumed the inspector, “what do you have to tell me?”
“What can I tell you, Excellency! On my honor, I don’t know anything. I was out all afternoon with the girls doing errands. When we returned, I went into Arnaba’s bedroom to tell her to get ready. That’s when I saw her lying dead on her bed. I screamed and all the girls came to see what was wrong. May God preserve you from such a sight. I’m still all shook up.”
“That surprises me from you, woman! So, just like that, you desert the house and go for a stroll in town. How can that be? I thought you were more serious.”
“It was the girls’ day off. They’ve got to get out for a breath of air.”
“And why didn’t Arnaba go with you?”
“I don’t know, Excellency. She was capricious. Since she was new, I didn’t want to annoy her.”
“What time was it when you returned?”
“About six o’clock.”
“There was no one in the house besides Arnaba?”
“No, Excellency! There was no one!”
“Do you think it could have been a client?”
“What are you getting at? My clients are all good people. They couldn’t kill a fly.”
“But you could, you shameless woman! It wouldn’t surprise me if you were the murderer.”
At this direct accusation, Set Amina raised her arms to heaven in distress and looked like she was going to go back to her weeping, but the inspector stopped her in time.
“Tell me, do you know if she had money hidden in her room?”
“She didn’t have any money. I kept all her money.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Completely, Excellency!”
“Very well, woman. I’ll take care of you later. And I advise you to stay calm.”
The police inspector wrinkled his brow and seemed deeply perplexed. His first findings had brought him up against a bizarre fact: the murder was not motivated by robbery — nothing was stolen. Nor was it the crime of a sadist. The medical examiner was positive: the prostitute’s body showed no traces of cruelty or defilement. She had simply been strangled in a neat and classical manner. It was a strange business. This was the first time Nour El Dine had been faced with the arduous task of solving the mystery of a motiveless crime. But such a crime in this milieu seemed unthinkable. A motiveless crime implied very sophisticated reasoning, an artful, cunning intelligence, and only an educated individual — perhaps only someone with a European culture — could carry it out. It was the kind of crime found in Western books. Again the inspector’s worried gaze swept over those present, looking for someone sufficiently intelligent to be a suspect. But none of those present answered this ideal description; they were far from offering the slightest resemblance to the imaginary murderer described in books. Nour El Dine felt so alone with this crime on his hands that he was frightened for an instant. He walked over to an armchair near the table, sat down, crossed his legs, then proceeded to light a cigarette.
A slave to routine, he would have to interrogate all these people. A pure waste, he knew in advance. What could he get from this assembly of pitiful men, who already were trembling at the idea of losing their honor? To measure his powers against such adversaries was a boring task. Nour El Dine felt sick with disgust; a mournful lassitude ravaged his soul and crippled all of his initiative. Actually, he was preoccupied with a problem of a sentimental and private nature. He had been called to this case at a crucial moment in his existence, a moment he had planned to devote to the most exigent of passions. His missed rendezvous with young Samir was taking on catastrophic proportions in his mind. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Knowing the young man’s touchiness, Nour El Dine could not see how this disrespect would be forgiven. Samir would certainly be intractable at their next meeting. Would he even agree to another rendezvous? This agonizing question worked its way to the center of all his activities, giving him no respite. Even the sudden emergence of a motiveless crime in his drab universe could not relieve his uneasiness.
Despite appearances, Inspector Nour El Dine was a passionate admirer of beauty. The work he was obliged to do among the rabble had become odious, and to a certain extent exhausting. To be reduced to wallowing forever in the mud of the poor quarter in the company of petty delinquents and dumb criminals — savages all — offended his aesthetic sense and made him very unhappy. But he believed in his work; he had complete faith in the noble task of the police. He would have liked to handle only exceptional crimes, perpetrated by intelligent murderers with subtle minds. Instead, he was in constant contact with awful, uneducated beings.
What man would not have become embittered on seeing his ideal so ridiculed? The tyranny of destiny! Nour El Dine felt as if he were suffocating; he opened the top button of his jacket, freeing his neck which was bruised by the stiff collar. This gesture, so contrary to prescribed behavior, brought him a sense of calm. Reluctantly, his thoughts returned to the interrogation. The girls all had a perfect alibi. It was useless to question them; they were stupid, illiterate drudges who would only complicate his job. That left the three customers whose insignificance was more than obvious. As a matter of pure routine, he would check their identity then send them home. He was certain that none of them was the killer. Nour El Dine was more and more convinced — perhaps because he so heartily wished it — that the murderer had to be a man from another sphere, an intellectual with advanced ideas, something like an anarchist. The prospect of pitting himself against such a murderer gave him renewed vitality. He only hoped he wasn’t wrong.
The customer who prided himself on his friendship with the minister suddenly began to shout, “You can’t do this to me. You don’t know who I am.” Nour El Dine looked at him contemptuously; he knew the type. Besides, he’d had enough of this business, he wanted to finish as quickly as possible. The real inquiry would begin tomorrow. With a little luck he might be able to see young Samir before the night was over. But this ray of hope had no effect on his sadness; he remained somber, his features contracted in a severe, imposing expression.
The door to the bedroom where the dead girl’s body lay opened, admitting a fifty-year-old man with a grayish face and a long nose topped with spectacles. He was wearing a dirty, rumpled tarboosh. It was the police reporter.
“At your service, Excellency.”