The Chalk Circle Man

XXI

AUGUSTIN-LOUIS LE NERMORD’S HOUSE WAS AN OLD AND RATHER ramshackle hunting lodge. Over the front door was nailed the skull of a stag.

‘Jolly place!’ said Danglard.

‘Ah, jolly’s not the word that comes to mind, is it?’ said Adamsberg. ‘He’s got a taste for death. Reyer told me that about Clémence. The most important thing he told me was that she talked like a man.’

‘See if I care,’ said Castreau. ‘Look at this.’

He proudly displayed the hen blackbird, who was now sitting on his shoulder.

‘Ever seen that before? A tame blackbird, and she’s chosen me.’

Castreau laughed.

‘I’m going to call her Breadcrumb,’ he said. ‘Daft, isn’t it? Do you think she’ll stay?’

Adamsberg rang the doorbell. They heard the sound of slippers approaching unhurriedly in the corridor. Le Nermord clearly suspected nothing. When he opened the door, Danglard had a different take on his washed-out blue eyes, and his pale skin marked with liver spots.

‘I was just about to eat,’ said Le Nermord. ‘What’s happened?’

‘It’s all over, monsieur,’ said Adamsberg. ‘These things happen.’

He put a hand on the professor’s shoulder.

‘You’re hurting me,’ said Le Nermord, recoiling.

‘Come with us, please,’ said Castreau. ‘You’re charged with four murders.’

The blackbird was still sitting on his shoulder as he took Le Nermord’s wrists and slipped the handcuffs over them. In the past, under his former boss, Castreau used to boast that he could cuff a suspect before they had time to notice. In this case, he said nothing.

Danglard had not taken his stare off the circle man. And he seemed now to understand what Adamsberg had meant with his story of the drooling dog. The identification of cruelty. It seemed to seep from every pore. The chalk circle man had become terrible to see in the space of a minute. Even more ghastly than the corpse in the grave.