The Chalk Circle Man

XIII

THEN NOTHING HAPPENED FOR SEVERAL DAYS. ADAMSBERG started inviting his downstairs neighbour into his bed again. Danglard lapsed into his usual procedures for lazy June afternoons. Only the press was agitating. A dozen or so journalists were working shifts to keep up a presence outside the station.

On the Wednesday, Danglard was the first to crack.

‘He’s got us where he wants us,’ he burst out angrily. ‘We can’t do anything, there’s nothing to find, no evidence. We’re hanging about like zombies, waiting for him to invent a new trick for us. Nothing to be done until there’s another circle. It’s enough to drive you mad. It’s enough to drive me mad, anyway,’ he corrected himself, after glancing over at Adamsberg.

‘Tomorrow,’ said Adamsberg.

‘Tomorrow what?’

‘Tomorrow morning, there’ll be another circle, Danglard.’

‘You’re a fortune-teller now, are you?’

‘We won’t go over this again, we’ve already talked about it. The chalk circle man has a programme. And, as Vercors-Laury says, he needs to exhibit his thoughts. He won’t let a whole week go by without showing up somewhere. Especially since the press is full of stories about him. But if he draws a circle tonight, Danglard, we’d better be afraid that there’ll be another murder in the night between Thursday and Friday. This time, we must have as many men out on patrol as possible, at least in the 5th, 6th and 14th arrondissements.’

‘But why? The killer’s under no pressure to hurry. And so far he hasn’t shown any sign of it.’

‘It’s different now. Trust me, Danglard. If the circle man is the murderer, and he starts drawing circles again, that’s because he means to kill again. But he knows he has to move more quickly now. Three witnesses have already described him, not counting Mathilde Forestier. We’ll soon be able to construct an identikit picture. He’s following what we’re doing by reading the newspapers. He knows he hasn’t got much longer. So he wants to finish what he’s started, and he can’t hang about any more.’

‘And what if the killer isn’t the chalk circle man?’

‘Doesn’t change anything. He can’t count on things lasting for ever, either. His circle man, panicking because of the two crimes, put an end to his games earlier than expected. So he has to hurry before the maniac stops drawing.’

‘Possible, I suppose,’ said Danglard.

‘Very possible, mon vieux.’

Danglard spent a restless night. How could Adamsberg be waiting so unhurriedly and where did he get his predictions of the future from? He never seemed to be tied down by tedious facts. He read all the files that Danglard had prepared for him on the victims and suspects, but made little comment on them. He was following some vague scent in the air. Why did he appear to think it so significant that the second victim was a man? Because it meant ruling out a sexual motive for the crimes?

That wouldn’t surprise Danglard. He had supposed for a long time that someone was using the chalk circle man for some precise purpose. But neither the Châtelain nor the Pontieux murder seemed to have been of particular benefit to anyone. They merely encouraged the idea of a psychopathic serial killer. Was that the reason they would have to wait for another death? But why did Adamsberg keep concentrating on the chalk circle man? And why had he called Danglard ‘mon vieux’? Worn out with tossing and turning in bed in the hot June night, Danglard considered the refreshing possibility of going to the kitchen to finish off the wine. In front of the children, he always took care to leave a little in the bottle. But Arlette would notice next morning that he had been at it in the night. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time. She would pull a face and say ‘Adrien,’ (she often called him Adrien) ‘you’re an old boozer.’ But he was hesitating above all because drinking late at night would give him a hellish headache when he woke up, as if he were being scalped and all his joints were being unscrewed, whereas he needed to be in good shape in the morning. In case there was another circle. And to help organise the patrols for the next evening, which would be the night of the crime. It was infuriating to allow himself to be ruled by Adamsberg’s vague hunches. But it was easier in the end than fighting against them.

Then the man drew another circle. At the far end of Paris, in a small street, the rue Marietta-Martin in the 16th arrondissement. The local police station took some time to let them know. Since their district had seen no blue chalk circles before, the authorities had not been particularly alert to them.

‘Why in a new area?’ Danglard wondered.

‘ To show us that after hanging around the Pantheon district, he isn’t the kind of man to be enclosed in routine and that, murder or no murder, he’s still got his freedom and his power to cover the entire territory of the capital. Or something like that,’ Adamsberg murmured.

‘Buggering us up,’ said Danglard, pressing a finger to his brow.

He hadn’t been able to resist after all, the night before: he’d finished the bottle and had even started another. The iron bar that now seemed to be hammering the inside of his head had almost deprived him of his eyesight. And the most worrying thing of all was that Arlette had said nothing at breakfast. But Arlette knew that he had worries at present, what with his almost empty bank account, the impossible investigation he was engaged in, and the unsettling character of his new boss. Perhaps she didn’t want to upset him any further. But that meant that she hadn’t realised that Danglard actually liked to hear her say ‘Adrien, you’re an old boozer.’ Because at that moment, he was certain of being loved. A simple but genuine sensation.

In the middle of the circle, this time drawn in a single movement, there lay a red plastic object: the rose of a watering can.

‘It must have fallen from the balcony up there,’ said Danglard, looking up. ‘Goes back to the ark, this kind of rose. And why choose it anyway, and not that cigarette packet, for instance?’

‘You’ve seen the list, Danglard. He takes care to pick objects that won’t blow away. No metro tickets, paper handkerchiefs, or cellophane wrappers, anything the wind could carry off in the night. He wants to be sure that the thing in the circle will still be there next morning. Which makes me think he’s more concerned with the image of himself he’s projecting than with “revitalising inanimate objects,” as Vercors-Laury would have it. Otherwise he wouldn’t rule out flimsy items that are just as significant as any he’s used if he’s really concerned with the “metaphorical renaissance of the pavement”. But the way the chalk circle man looks at it, a circle found empty in the morning would be an insult to his creativity.’

‘This time,’ Danglard said, ‘there’ll be no witnesses. It’s a quiet spot with no cinema or café that might be open late. People go to bed early round here. He’s becoming more discreet now, the circle man.’

For the rest of the morning, Danglard tried to stay quietly applying pressure to his head. After lunch, he felt a little better. He was able to spend all afternoon with Adamsberg organising the extra officers who were being asked to patrol Paris that night. Danglard shook his head, wondering what the point of all this was. But he recognised that Adamsberg had been right about that morning’s circle.

By about eight o’clock, everything was in position. The area of the city was so immense, of course, that the network of surveillance was stretched very wide.

‘If he’s cunning,’ Adamsberg said, ‘he’ll slip through the mesh, obviously. And we know he’s cunning.’

‘Given where we are now, perhaps we should keep an eye on Mathilde Forestier’s house?’ Danglard suggested.

‘Yes,’Adamsberg replied, ‘but for heaven’s sake have the surveillance people stay out of sight.’

He waited for Danglard to leave the room before he called Mathilde. He simply asked her to stay in that evening and on no account to try any escapades or to follow anyone.

‘Just do me a favour,’ he said. ‘Don’t try to understand. Is Reyer home?’

‘Probably,’ said Mathilde. ‘I’m not his keeper, I don’t watch his comings and goings.’

‘And Clémence?’

‘No, as usual Clémence went trotting off to meet one of her lonely hearts. It never comes to anything. Either she sits waiting in a café for someone who doesn’t turn up, or else the minute the guy sees her he pushes off fast. Either way, she gets back in tears. It’s completely ridiculous. She shouldn’t do this sort of thing in the evening, it just depresses her.’

‘OK. Just stay at home till tomorrow, Madame Forestier.’

‘Are you afraid that something’s going to happen?’

‘I don’t know,’ Adamsberg replied.

‘As per usual,’ said Mathilde.

Adamsberg decided to stay in the station overnight. Danglard chose to stay with him. The commissaire was silently scribbling away, with a pad on his knee, his legs outstretched and resting on the waste-paper basket. Danglard was chewing at some ancient toffees he’d found in Florence’s desk, to try to stop himself drinking.

A uniformed policeman was walking up and down the boulevard du Port-Royal beween the little station building at the top of the boulevard Saint-Michel, and the corner of the rue Bertholet. His colleague was doing the same thing from the Gobelins end.

Since ten that evening, he had paced up and down his beat eleven times and couldn’t stop himself counting, although it annoyed him. But what else was there to do? For an hour now, there had been few passers-by on the boulevard. It was early July and Paris was starting to empty for the holidays.

Just then a young woman in a leather jacket went past, walking a little uncertainly. She had a pretty face and was probably on her way home. It was about quarter past one, and the policeman wanted to tell her to hurry up. She looked vulnerable, and he felt concerned for her. He ran after her.

‘Mademoiselle, are you going far?’

‘No, just to the Raspail metro station.’

‘Raspail, oh that’s a bit far,’ the policeman said. ‘Perhaps I’ll just see you down the street. There isn’t another man on duty before Vavin.’

The girl had short bobbed hair. Her jawline was clear and attractive. No, he certainly didn’t want anyone to touch that throat. But this girl looked quite untroubled. She seemed perfectly at home in the city by night.

The girl lit a cigarette. She didn’t seem too comfortable in his company.

‘What is it? Is something happening?’ she asked.

‘Apparently it’s not safe tonight. I’ll just walk you some of the way.’

‘If you like,’ she replied. But it was clear that she would have preferred to be alone and they walked along in silence.

A few minutes later, the policeman left her at the corner and came back towards the little Port-Royal station. He started off back along the boulevard towards the rue Bertholet. Twelfth time. By talking to the young woman and walking along with her, he’d lost about ten minutes. But it seemed to him that was part of his job.

Ten minutes. But it had been enough. As he glanced down the length of the rue Bertholet, he saw a long shape on the pavement.

Oh no, he thought despairingly. My bad luck.

He broke into a run. Perhaps it was just a roll of carpet. But no, a stream of blood was trickling towards him. He touched the arm outstretched on the ground. Still warm. It must have just happened. A woman.

His radio crackled. He contacted his colleagues at the Gobelins, Vavin, Saint-Jacques, Cochin, Raspail and Denfert, asking them to pass the news on, not to leave their post and to stop anyone they saw. But if the murderer had been in a car, for instance, he would have got away. The policeman didn’t feel guilty for having left his beat to accompany the young woman. Possibly he had saved the life of the girl with the beautiful jawline.

But he hadn’t been able to save this woman. Sometimes a life could hang by a thread. There was nothing of the victim’s jawline to see. Standing there alone, and feeling revolted, the policeman directed his torch away from the corpse, alerted his superiors and waited, his hand on his pistol. It had been a long time since he had been so distressed by the night.

When the phone rang, Adamsberg looked up at Danglard but didn’t give a start.

‘Here we go,’ he said.

Picking up the telephone, he bit his lip.

‘Where? Say that again,’ he said after a minute. ‘Rue Bertholet? But the 5th should be crawling with men. There should have been four along the boulevard Port-Royal alone. What the devil’s happened?’

Adamsberg’s voice had risen in pitch. He plugged in the earpiece so that Danglard could hear what the young policeman was saying.

‘There were just the two of us on Port-Royal, sir. There was an accident at the Bonne-Nouvelle metro, two trains collided at about eleven-fifteen. No serious casualties, but we had to send some men over.’

‘But they should have taken men from the outer districts and sent more to the 5th! I gave explicit instructions that the 5th was to be closely patrolled! I ordered it!’

‘Sorry, sir, I can’t do anything about that. I didn’t get any instructions.’

It was the first time that Danglard had seen Adamsberg almost beside himself with rage. It was true that they had heard about the accident at Bonne-Nouvelle, but both of them had assumed that nobody would be called away from the 5th or the 14th. Some counter-order must have gone out, or perhaps the network Adamsberg had asked for had not been thought so indispensable by someone higher up.

‘Well, anyway,’ said Adamsberg, with a shake of his head, ‘he would have struck, sooner or later. In this street or that, he’d have managed to do it in the end. This man’s a monster. We couldn’t have prevented it – no use getting worked up. Come on, Danglard, we’d better get over there.’

Over there they found flashing lights, arc lamps, a stretcher, and the police doctor, all for the third time surrounding a body whose throat had been cut, lying inside a blue chalk circle.

‘Victor, woe’s in store…’ muttered Adamsberg.

He looked at the latest victim.

‘Slashed as viciously as the other one,’ the doctor said. ‘The killer really went for the cervical vertebrae. The weapon wasn’t sharp enough to cut through them, but that was the intention.’

‘OK, doc, put it all in writing for us,’ said Adamsberg, who could see sweat breaking out on Danglard’s face. ‘And it wasn’t long ago, you reckon?’

‘That’s right, between about five past one and one thirty-five, if the officer is correct about his beat.’

‘And your beat,’ said Adamsberg, turning to the constable, ‘was from here to the Place du Port-Royal?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What happened? You can’t have taken more than twenty minutes to go there and back.’

‘No, sir, that’s right. But this girl came past, all on her own, just as I was getting up to the station building for the eleventh time. I don’t know, call it a foreboding, I thought I’d better see her along to the next corner. It wasn’t far. I was in sight of Port-Royal all the way. I’m not trying to excuse myself, commissaire, I’m prepared to take responsibility for not sticking to the orders.’

‘Forget it,’ said Adamsberg. ‘He’d have struck anyway. Did you see anyone corresponding to the description we’ve put out?’

‘No, nobody.’

‘What about the other officers in the sector?’

‘They haven’t reported anything.’

Adamsberg sighed.

‘See this circle, commissaire,’ said Danglard. ‘It isn’t round. That’s extraordinary, it isn’t circular. The pavement was too narrow here, so he’s drawn an oval.’

‘Yes, and that must have vexed him.’

‘So why didn’t he do it on the boulevard where he had plenty of room?’

‘Too many policemen hanging about there, Danglard, all the same. So who is this lady?’

Once more, they had to read identity papers by the light of the arc lamps, having found them in her handbag.

‘Delphine Le Nermord, née Vitruel, age fifty-four. And here’s her photo, I think,’ said Danglard, who was carefully transferring the contents of the handbag into a plastic evidence bag. ‘She looks quite pretty, bit too much make-up. The man holding her shoulder must be her husband.’

‘No,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Can’t be. He’s not wearing a wedding ring, but she is. Perhaps a lover – he looks younger, too. That might explain why she had the photo on her.’

‘Yes, I should have noticed that.’

‘It’s dark here. Come on, Danglard, we’ll get in the van.’

Adamsberg knew that Danglard couldn’t face the sight of a cut throat any longer.

They sat down opposite each other on the seats of the police van. Adamsberg started leafing through a fashion magazine from Madame Le Nermord’s bag.

‘I know that name from somewhere,’ he said, ‘Le Nermord. But I’ve got a terrible memory. Have a look in the address book to see if it’s got her husband’s first name and address.’

Danglard pulled out a dog-eared business card.

‘Augustin-Louis Le Nermord. Two addresses. One’s the Collège de France, and the other’s rue d’Aumale in the 9th.’

‘I should recognise the name, but I can’t think why.’

‘I know who he is,’ said Danglard. ‘Some time back there was talk of him for a seat in the Academy of Inscriptions and Belles-Lettres. He’s a specialist on Byzantium,’ he went on, after thinking for a moment. ‘An expert on the emperor Justinian.’

‘How the hell do you know all that?’ asked Adamsberg, lifting his gaze from the magazine in genuine astonishment.

‘Well, let’s just say I know a bit about Byzantium.’

‘But why?’

‘I just like knowing stuff, that’s all.’

‘And the emperor Justinian’s empire, you know about that too?’

‘’Fraid so,’ sighed Danglard.

‘So when was Justinian?’

Adamsberg was never embarrassed about asking when he didn’t know something, even when it was something he should have known.

‘Sixth century.’

‘BC or AD?’

‘AD.’

‘This man interests me. Come on, Danglard, we’re going to tell him his wife’s been killed. Now that one of our victims has a near relative in Paris, we can at least see how he reacts.’

Louis-Augustin Le Nermord’s reaction was very simple. Still bleary-eyed from sleep, on hearing what they had to say the diminutive scholar shut his eyes, put his hands on his stomach and went very white about the lips. He dashed from the room, and Danglard and Adamsberg heard him retching somewhere else in the house.

‘Well, at least that’s clear enough,’ said Danglard. ‘He’s in shock.’

‘Unless he took something to make him throw up when he heard the entryphone.’

The man returned, walking gingerly. He had put on a grey dressing-gown over his pyjamas and had evidently doused his head under a tap.

‘We’re extremely sorry to bring you this news,’ said Adamsberg. ‘If you would prefer us to ask our questions tomorrow…’

‘No… no. Please go ahead, messieurs. I’m listening.’

The little man was trying to maintain his dignity, Danglard noted, and he was succeeding. His posture was upright, his brow large, and his cloudy blue eyes were steadfastly fixed on Adamsberg’s face. He asked them whether they would mind if he lit his pipe and did so, saying that he needed it.

The light was dim and the pipe smoke heavy in the book-lined room.

‘You study Byzantium?’ said Adamsberg, with a glance at Danglard.

‘Er, yes, I do,’ said Le Nermord, looking slightly surprised. ‘How did you know?’

‘I didn’t. But my colleague here recognised your name.’

‘That is kind of you to say so. But please, tell me about her. What happened, how did it happen?’

‘We’ll give you more details when you’re feeling a bit stronger and better able to hear them. It’s already bad enough to find out that she’s been murdered. We found her lying inside a blue chalk circle in the rue Bertholet, in the 5th arrondissement. Quite a long way from here.’

Le Nermord nodded. His features semed to lose definition. He was looking older already. It was painful to see.

‘“Victor, woe’s in store, what are you waiting for?” Is that it?’ he said in an undertone.

‘Not exactly, but near enough,’ said Adamsberg. ‘So you know about the chalk circle man?’

‘Who doesn’t? Doing remote historical research doesn’t shield you from contemporary life, monsieur, even if you’d like it to. But I can’t believe this – I was talking about this maniac with Delphie, that’s Delphine, my wife, only last week.’

‘Why did you talk about him?’

‘Delphie was inclined to defend him, but I felt nothing but disgust for him. Some ghastly joker. But women don’t see that.’

‘It’s a long way from here, the rue Bertholet. Was your wife visiting friends?’ Adamsberg continued.

The man thought for a long while, at least five or six minutes. Danglard wondered whether he had really heard the question or whether he was going to fall asleep again. But Adamsberg signalled to him to wait.

Le Nermord struck a match to relight his pipe.

‘Far from where?’ he asked in the end.

‘Well, far from home,’ said Adamsberg.

‘No, on the contrary, it’s quite near where she lives. Delphie lives… lived… on the boulevard du Montparnasse, near Port-Royal. Do I need to say more about that?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘She left me nearly two years ago to go and live with her lover. He’s a pathetic, stupid, insignificant character, but of course you won’t believe that, coming from me. You can judge for yourselves if you see him. It’s been upsetting, that’s all I can say. And now I live in this barn of a place on my own. Like a fool,’ he said waving his arm at the room.

Danglard seemed to hear a catch in his voice.

‘But you still used to see her?’

‘It was very hard to try and do without her,’ answered Le Nermord.

‘You were jealous?’ asked Danglard, without trying to be tactful.

Le Nermord shrugged.

‘Well, monsieur, you get used to anything in the end. I should say that Delphie had been unfaithful to me for twelve years on and off, with a series of lovers. I didn’t like it, of course, but I’d given up arguing. In the end you don’t know whether it’s self-esteem or love that makes you angry, but the anger dies down eventually, and you end up meeting for lunch now and again – we talk politely, and it’s sad. I’m sure you know this kind of situation by heart, messieurs, I won’t spell out the story of my life. Delphie was no better than she should have been, and I was no hero. I didn’t want to lose her for ever. So I had to accept her rules. I confess that I couldn’t stand her latest lover, the stupid one. As if she was doing it on purpose, it was the worst of the lot that she was keenest on, so that was when she decided to move out permanently.’

He raised his arms and let them fall on his thighs.

‘So,’ he said. ‘That’s it, really. And now it’s over.’

He closed his eyes tight, and stuffed his pipe with more tobacco.

‘You’ll have to provide us with a statement about your movements this evening. That is indispensable, I’m afraid,’ said Danglard, as usual not beating about the bush. Le Nermord looked at them in turn.

‘I don’t understand. You mean it wasn’t this lunatic killer who…’

‘We don’t know who it was,’ said Danglard.

‘Oh, no, messieurs, you’ve got it wrong. All that comes to me from my wife’s death is a hole in my life, desolation. As far as money goes, since I’m sure you’ll be interested in that, most of her money, and she had quite a bit, goes to her sister, and indeed so does this house. Delphie had decided that was what she wanted to do. Her sister’s always been hard up.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Danglard repeated, ‘we still need an account of your movements. Please.’

‘Well, as you saw, there’s an entryphone in this house and no concierge. So who could tell you whether I’m telling the truth or not? But… well, until about eleven, I was planning my lectures for next year. You can look, they’re in that stack of paper on the table. Then I went to bed, read for a while, and went to sleep until I heard the buzzer. But nobody can confirm any of that, can they?’

‘More’s the pity,’ said Danglard.

Adamsberg was letting him run the interview now. Danglard was better than him at putting routine but upsetting questions. Throughout their exchange, he kept his gaze on Le Nermord, who was sitting opposite him.

‘Yes, I see,’ said Le Nermord, rubbing the warm bowl of the pipe against his forehead, in visible distress. ‘I do see. A husband betrayed and humiliated, the new lover who stole away his wife. I understand there are these classic scenarios. Oh God! But do you always have to go for the most obvious solutions? Don’t you ever think there could be more complicated explanations?’

‘Yes,’ said Danglard, ‘we do sometimes. But I have to say that your situation appears to be delicate.’

‘I appreciate that,’ agreed Le Nermord. ‘I just hope for my own sake that I’m not going to pay the price for any errors of judgement by the police. I suppose this means you want to see me again?’

‘On Monday?’ suggested Adamsberg.

‘Yes, all right, Monday. I suppose, as well, that there’s nothing I can do for Delphie now? You’re holding her.’

‘I’m afraid so, monsieur. Sorry.’

‘Will there be a post-mortem?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

Danglard let a minute pass. He always let a minute pass after any reference to a post-mortem.

‘For Monday,’ he went on, ‘please think about what you were doing on Wednesday 19 and Thursday 27 June. Those were the nights of the two previous murders. You’ll be asked that. Unless you can tell us now.’

‘No need to think,’ said Le Nermord. ‘It’s quite simple and sad. I don’t go out at night. I spend every evening writing. Nobody lives with me to confirm that, and I don’t see much of my neighbours.’

They all sat nodding, without knowing why. There are moments when everyone just sits nodding.

There was no more to be done that night. Adamsberg, seeing the weariness in the eyes of the scholar of Byzantium, gave the sign that the interview was over, getting up quietly.