The Chalk Circle Man

XVII

ADAMSBERG LOOKED UP TO SEE DANGLARD ARRIVING IN HIS OFFICE at nine in the morning, a finger pressed to his brow but in a state of high excitement. He flopped down heavily into an armchair and took a few deep breaths.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve been running. I took the first train back from Marcilly this morning. Couldn’t reach you by phone, you weren’t home.’

Adamsberg spread his hands in a gesture signifying: ‘Can’t be helped, you don’t always choose which bed you end up in.’

‘The lovely old lady I lodged with,’ said Danglard in between breaths, ‘knew your famous doctor very well. So well, in fact, that he confided in her. I’m not surprised – she’s a special kind of woman. Gérard Pontieux had been engaged, she told me, to the daughter of the local pharmacist, a girl who was plain, but rich. He needed money to set up in practice. And then, at the last minute, he felt disgusted with himself. He told himself that if he started out like that, based on a lie, he wouldn’t make an honest doctor. So he pulled out and jilted the girl, the day after the engagement had been announced, sending her a cowardly letter telling her that he couldn’t go through with it. Well, none of that’s so serious, is it? Not serious at all. Except for the girl’s name.’

‘Clémence Valmont,’ said Adamsberg.

‘Spot on,’ said Danglard.

‘We’re going over there,’ said Adamsberg, stubbing out the cigarette he had just lit.

Twenty minutes later, they were standing at the door of 44 rue des Patriarches. It was Saturday morning and everything seemed quiet. Nobody answered the interphone to Clémence’s flat.

‘Try Mathilde Forestier,’ said Adamsberg, for once almost tense with impatience. ‘Jean-Baptiste Adamsberg here,’ he said into the interphone. ‘Open the street door, Madame Forestier. Be quick, please.’

He ran up the stairs to the Flying Gurnard on the second floor, where Mathilde opened her door.

‘I need the key for upstairs, Madame Forestier. Clémence’s key. You’ve got a spare?’

Mathilde went, without asking questions, to fetch a bunch of keys labelled ‘Stickleback’.

‘I’ll come up with you,’ she said, her voice even huskier first thing in the morning than in the evening. ‘I’ve been worrying myself silly, Adamsberg.’

They all trooped into Clémence’s apartment. Nothing. No sign of life, no clothes in the wardrobe, no papers on the tables.

‘Oh, sod it! Bird’s flown,’ said Danglard.

Adamsberg paced round the room, more slowly than ever, looking at his feet, opening an empty cupboard here, pulling out a drawer there, then pacing round some more. ‘He’s not thinking about anything,’ thought Danglard, feeling exasperated, and especially exasperated at their failure. He would have liked Adamsberg to explode with anger, then to react quickly and dash about giving orders, to try and retrieve this mess one way or the other, but it was no use hoping he would do anything like that. On the contrary, he gave a charming smile as he accepted the coffee offered them by Mathilde, who was distraught.

Adamsberg called the office from her flat, and described Clémence Valmont as precisely as possible.

‘Issue this description to all stations, airports, gendarmeries and so on. The usual thing. And send a man over here. The apartment will have to be watched.’

He replaced the phone quietly and drank his coffee calmly as if nothing had happened.

‘You need to take it easy – you don’t look well,’ he said to Mathilde. ‘Danglard, try and explain to Madame Forestier what’s been happening, as gently as you can. I won’t do it myself, you’ll have to excuse me. I don’t explain things well.’

‘You saw in the papers that Le Nermord had been released without charge over the murders, but that he was the blue circle man?’ Danglard began.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Mathilde. ‘I saw his photo. And yes, that was the man I followed, and it was the same man who used to eat in the little restaurant in Pigalle, a few years ago! Harmless! I got tired of telling Adamsberg that. Humiliated, frustrated, anything you like, but harmless. I did tell you, commissaire!’

‘Yes, you did. But I didn’t agree,’ said Adamsberg.

‘Quite,’ said Mathilde with emphasis. ‘But where’s the poor old shrew-mouse gone now? Why are you looking for her? She came back from the countryside last night, looking much better, full of beans, so I don’t understand why she’s gone off again today.’

‘Has she ever told you about the fiancé who jilted her long ago without warning?’

‘Yes, more or less,’ said Mathilde. ‘But it didn’t affect her that much. You’re not going in for crackpot psychology now, are you?’

‘We have to,’ said Danglard. ‘Gérard Pontieux, the second murder victim, that was him. Clémence’s long-lost fiancé, from fifty years ago.’

‘You can’t be serious,’ said Mathilde.

‘I’m deadly serious, I’ve just got back from Marcilly,’ said Danglard. ‘The town they both came from. She wasn’t originally from Neuilly, Mathilde.’

Adamsberg noted that Danglard was calling Madame Forestier ‘Mathilde’.

‘The rage and madness he’d caused her had been festering for fifty years,’ Danglard went on. ‘So as she was nearing the end of a life that she considered blighted, her thoughts turned to murder. And the chalk circle man offered a unique opportunity. It was now or never. She’d always kept track of Gérard Pontieux, the target of her obsession. She knew where he lived. She left Neuilly to try and find the man who was drawing the circles, and she came to you, Mathilde. You were the only person who could lead her to him. And to his circles. First of all, she killed that poor fat middle-aged woman, who was just someone at random, to start some sort of “series”. Then she killed Pontieux. She took such pleasure in the attack that it was really vicious. And then, because she was afraid the investigation wouldn’t find the chalk circle man fast enough, and would be looking all the more closely at the murder of the doctor, she decided to attack the circle man’s own estranged wife, Delphine Le Nermord. She had to make it look similar to the attack on Pontieux, so that the police doctor wouldn’t be able to point out any differences. Except that he was a man.’

Danglard glanced over at Adamsberg, who said nothing, but motioned to him to carry on.

‘The last murder led us straight to the circle man, just as she’d foreseen. But Clémence Valmont thinks in peculiar ways – very twisted but naive at the same time. Because for the circle man to be the murderer of his own wife was going too far. Unless he was completely mad, Le Nermord would hardly have chosen to bring the police straight to his door. So eventually, yesterday, we let him go. Clémence hears that on the radio. With Le Nermord off the hook, everything looks different. Her plan bites the dust. She still has time to get away. So that’s what she does.’

Mathilde looked from one to the other in consternation. Adamsberg waited for it to sink in. He knew it would take time, and that she would not want to believe it.

‘No, that can’t be it,’ said Mathilde. ‘She’d never have had the physical strength. Remember what a skinny little thing she is?’

‘There are plenty of ways to get round that,’ said Danglard. ‘You could pretend to be ill, sitting on the pavement and wait for someone to bend down, then hit them on the head. All the victims had been knocked unconscious first, remember, Mathilde.’

‘Yes, I remember,’ said Mathilde, distractedly running her fingers through strands of her dark hair as it fell over her forehead. ‘But what about the doctor? How did she catch him?’

‘Very simple. She must have arranged to meet him in a certain place.’

‘Why would he come?’

‘Oh, he would. Someone from your past suddenly calls on your help. You forget, you drop everything and you come running.’

‘Yes, of course, you must be right,’ said Mathilde.

‘The nights of the murders. Was she home? Can you remember?’

‘Well, she used to go out just about every night, for these so-called rendezvous, like the other night. Oh damn it all, that was some act she was putting on for me. Why don’t you say anything, commissaire?’

‘I’m trying to think.’

‘ To any purpose?’

‘No. I’m getting nowhere. But I’m used to that.’

Mathilde and Danglard exchanged glances, both looking disappointed. But Danglard was no longer in a mood to criticise Adamsberg. Yes, Clémence had vanished. But all the same, it was Adamsberg who had understood that something wasn’t right and had sent Danglard off to Marcilly.

Adamsberg got up without warning, made a nonchalant pointless gesture, thanked Mathilde for the coffee and asked Danglard to have the technical team come and check Clémence Valmont’s apartment.

‘I’m going for a walk,’ he said, so as not to leave without saying anything. Any excuse so as not to hurt their feelings.

Danglard stayed for a while with Mathilde. They couldn’t stop talking about Clémence, trying to understand. The fiancé who abandons you, the cruel procession of lonely-hearts advertisements, neurotic feelings, little pointed teeth, bad impressions, ambiguities. From time to time, Danglard would get up and see how the technicians were getting on upstairs, and come back saying: ‘They’re in the bathroom now.’ Mathilde poured out some more coffee after adding hot water to the pot. Danglard felt comfortable. He would gladly have stayed there for ever with his elbows on the table with its fish swimming under the glass, lit up by Queen Mathilde’s dark-skinned face. She asked him about Adamsberg. How had he guessed all this?

‘No idea,’ said Danglard. ‘And yet I’ve watched him working, or rather not working. He sometimes seems so casual and offhand that you’d think he’d never been a policeman, then at other times his face is all tense and screwed up, so preoccupied that he doesn’t hear a thing you say. But preoccupied by what? That’s the question.’

‘He doesn’t look as if he’s satisfied,’ Mathilde remarked.

‘No, that’s true. Because Clémence has done a runner.’

‘No, Danglard. I think he’s worried about something else.’

One of the technicians, Leclerc, came into the room.

‘About the prints, inspecteur. None at all. She must have wiped everything, unless she was wearing gloves the whole time. Never seen anything like it. But in the bathroom, I found a drop of dried blood on the wall, down behind the washbasin.’

Danglard ran upstairs behind him.

‘She must have washed something. Maybe the rubber gloves, before throwing them away. We didn’t find any near Delphine’s body. Get it analysed, fast as you can, Leclerc. If it’s blood from Madame Le Nermord, that pins it on Clémence once and for all.’

A few hours later, analysis had confirmed that the blood was that of Delphine Le Nermord. A wanted notice went out for Clémence.

On hearing the news, Adamsberg remained depressed. Danglard thought about the three things that had been on Adamsberg’s mind. Number one was Dr Pontieux. Well, that was resolved now. That left the fashion magazine. And the smell of rotten apples. He was certainly fretting about the rotten apples. But what point was there in that now? Danglard reflected that Adamsberg had found a different method from his own for making himself unhappy. In spite of his casual manner, Adamsberg had discovered an effective way of stopping himself finding any rest.

Most of the time, the door between the commissaire‘s office and Danglard’s remained open. Adamsberg didn’t need to isolate himself to be alone. So Danglard came and went, put down files, read him a report, went off again or sat down for a brief chat. And now, more often since Clémence’s disappearance, Adamsberg didn’t seem receptive to anything, but carried on reading without looking up. Not that this hurt Danglard’s feelings, since it was obviously unintentional. It was more a kind of absence than a lack of attention, Danglard thought. Because Adamsberg did pay attention. But to what? He had an odd way of reading too, usually standing up, gripping his arms by the elbows and peering down at notes on the table. He could stay like that for hours on end. Danglard, who was aware all day of his body feeling weary and of his legs being unwilling to carry him, wondered how he managed it.

Just then, Adamsberg was standing up, looking at a little notebook with blank pages, open on his desk.

‘Sixteen days now,’ said Danglard, sitting down.

‘Yes,’ said Adamsberg.

This time he looked up at Danglard. It was true that there was nothing to read in the notebook.

‘It’s not normal,’ Danglard went on. ‘We should have found her by now. She’s got to go out, to eat and drink, she must sleep somewhere. And her description’s all over the papers. She can’t possibly escape. Especially looking the way she does. But there we are. She’s managed it somehow.’

‘Yes,’ said Adamsberg, ‘she’s managed it. There’s something wrong somewhere.’

‘I wouldn’t put it like that,’ said Danglard. ‘I’d say we’ve taken too long to find her, but we will in the end. She’s good at keeping a low profile, the old trout. In Neuilly, nobody seems to have known much about her. What do the neighbours say? That she didn’t bother anyone, that she was independent, funny-looking, always with her little beret on, and addicted to the lonely-hearts ads. Nothing else. She lived there for twenty years, for heaven’s sake, and nobody knows whether she had any friends, nobody knows whether she had another hideaway, and nobody remembers just when she left there. Apparently she never went on holiday. There are people like that who go through life without anyone else taking any notice of them. It’s not so strange that she ended up murdering someone. But it’s only a matter of time. We’ll find her.’

‘No, there’s something wrong here somewhere.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That’s just what I’m trying to puzzle out.’

Discouraged, Danglard pulled himself heavily to his feet in three stages – trunk, buttocks, legs – and paced round the room.

‘I’d like to try to know what you‘re trying to know,’ he said.

‘By the way, Danglard, the lab can have the fashion magazine back now. I’ve finished.’

‘You’ve finished what?’

Danglard was anxious to get back to his office, and anxious about this discussion which he knew would lead nowhere, but he couldn’t prevent himself thinking that Adamsberg had some idea, perhaps some hypothesis, and that alerted his curiosity, even though he suspected that whatever it was had not yet become clear to Adamsberg himself.

The commissaire looked back at the notebook.

‘This fashion magazine,’ he said, ‘contained an article signed Delphine Vitruel. That was Delphine Le Nermord’s maiden name. The editor told me that she was a regular contributor, writing an article almost every month about what was in fashion, skirt lengths or seams in stockings. And that interested me. I read the whole lot. It took some time. And then there’s the smell of rotten apples. I’m starting to understand some things.’

Danglard shook his head. ‘What about the rotten apples?’ he said. ‘We can’t arrest Le Nermord for smelling of fear. So why are you still worrying about him, for heaven’s sake?’

‘Anything small and cruel intrigues me. You’ve been listening too much to Mathilde. Now you’re defending the circle man.’

‘I’m doing nothing of the kind. I’m just concerned about Clémence, so I’m leaving him alone.’

‘I’m concerned about Clémence too, nothing but Clémence. Doesn’t alter the fact that Le Nermord is a creep.’

‘Commissaire, one should be sparing with one’s contempt, because of the large number of those in need of it. I didn’t make that up.’

‘Who did?’

‘Chateaubriand.’

‘Him again. Not good for you, is he?’

‘No, he isn’t. But anyway. Sincerely, commissaire, is this circle man such a contemptible person? He’s an eminent historian…’

‘Well, I wouldn’t know about that.’

‘I give up,’ said Danglard, sitting down. ‘ To each his obsession. Mine’s Clémence right now. I’ve got to find her. She’s out there somewhere, and I’m going to run her to ground. It’s got to happen. It’s logical.’

‘Ah,’ said Adamsberg, with a smile, ‘foolish logic is the demon of weak minds. I didn’t make that up either.’

‘Who did?’

‘The difference between you and me, Danglard, is that I don’t know who said it. But I like that quotation, it suits me. Because I’m not logical. I’m off for a walk now. I need it.’

Adamsberg went for a walk until evening. It was the only way he had found to sort out his thoughts. As if, thanks to the exercise, his thoughts were being stirred, like particles in a suspension. That way, the heavier ones fell to the bottom and the more delicate ones floated to the top. In the end, he came to no conclusion, but at least he now had a decanted version of his thoughts, organised by gravity. At the top, there bobbed up and down things like that pathetic character Le Nermord, his retreat from Byzantium, and his habit of tapping his pipe against his teeth, which were not even stained yellow by tobacco. Dentures, obviously. And the rotten-apple smell. And Clémence, the murderer, disappearing with her black beret, her nylon overalls and her red-rimmed eyes.

He froze. In the distance a young woman was hailing a taxi. It was getting late, he couldn’t see her very well, and he began to run. But it was too late, a waste of time, the taxi had pulled away. He stood on the pavement, panting. Why had he run? It would have been good just to see Camille get into a taxi, without running after her. Without even trying to catch her.

He clenched his fists in his jacket pockets, feeling a little emotional. Well, that was normal.

Quite normal. Not worth making a fuss about it. If he had seen Camille, been surprised, and run after her, it was perfectly normal to feel a little upset. It was the surprise. Or the speed. Anybody’s hands would be trembling the same way.

But was it even her? Probably not. She lived on the other side of the world. And it was absolutely indispensable that she should go on living on the other side of the world. But that profile, that body, the way of holding the car window with both hands to speak to the driver… So what? Plenty of people might look like that. Camille is on the other side of the world. No need to discuss it, or to get upset about seeing a girl getting into a taxi.

But what if it was Camille? Well, if it was, he’d missed her. That was all. She was catching a taxi to go back to the other side of the world. No point wondering about it, the situation remained exactly the same as before. Camille vanishing into the night. Appearing. Disappearing.

He went on his way, feeling calmer, and chanting those two words to himself. He wanted to get to sleep quickly, so as to forget Le Nermord’s pipe, Clémence’s beret and the tousled hair of his petite chérie.

So that was what he did.