The Chalk Circle Man

up. Here’s the paper, I had someone find it for me. Just the local rag, but a lot of people get to see it. Here, Danglard, can you read this bit out, top of page two. You know I’m no good at reading out loud.’

A well-informed lady?

If certain gentlemen of the press can’t resist recording the antics of some poor devil who gets his kicks drawing chalk circles round bottle tops, like a five-year-old, that is, alas, a sign of the weird idea our colleagues have of their calling. But when serious scientists poke their noses in, it hardly bodes well for French research. First we had the eminent psychiatrist, Vercors-Laury, writing a column about this sad individual. But he’s not alone. Gossip in the quartier suggests that Mathilde Forestier, the world-famous underwater specialist, has also decided to start analysing this pathetic exhibitionist. She has apparently made it her business to get to know him, and even to accompany him on his grotesque nocturnal perambulations. That would make her the only person who has penetrated the ‘mystery of the chalk circles’. A brilliant achievement, wouldn’t you say? She apparently revealed as much, one evening in the Dodin Bouffant, at the launch of her latest book, when serious quantities of alcohol were consumed. Naturally, our arrondissement has prided itself on having the celebrated Madame Forestier as one of our long-standing residents, but would she not do better to spend her government grant on chasing her beloved fish instead of running after an imbecile who may be a criminal, or a deranged lunatic, a man whom her childish imprudence might even attract to our district, which has so far been spared any circles? Some fish are deadly poisonous, even on the slightest contact. Madame Forestier knows this perfectly well: far be it from us to teach her to suck eggs. But what does she know about the poisonous fish that might roam at large in the city streets? By encouraging this kind of behaviour, is she not stirring up trouble in the depths of society? Why is she trying to hook this creature and drag him into our arrondissement, something that must distress all law-abiding inhabitants?

‘So,’ said Danglard, putting the newspaper down on the desk, ‘the person who called you must have heard about the murder yesterday, or this morning, and contacted you right away. Someone with prompt reactions who doesn’t like Madame Forestier, it would seem.’

‘What do you conclude, then?’ asked Adamsberg, still sitting sideways and grinding his jaw.

‘I conclude that, thanks to this article, quite a few people have known for some time that Madame Forestier was in possession of certain little secrets. They might want to get their hands on that knowledge themselves.’

‘Why would they want to do that?’

‘Optimistic hypothesis: to provide copy for the newspapers. Pessimistic hypothesis: to bump off their mother- in-law, stick her inside a chalk circle and make everyone think it was the work of the latest maniac in Paris. The idea could have crossed the minds of a few benighted individuals too cowardly to risk an attack in the open. It offered them a golden opportunity, and all they had to do was find out the habits of the chalk circle man. After a few drinks, Mathilde Forestier would be an ideal source of information.’

‘And then what?’

‘Then one might tend to ask, for instance, how it happened that Monsieur Charles Reyer went to live in Mathilde’s house a few days before the murder.’

Danglard was like that. He didn’t mind coming out with remarks of this kind, in front of the people he was accusing. Adamsberg couldn’t bring himself to be so direct, and he found it useful that Danglard had no qualms about hurting people’s feelings. Qualms that made Adamsberg say anything except what he was really thinking. Which in police matters produced unexpected, and not always immediately helpful, results.

After Danglard’s words there was a long silence. Danglard was still pressing his finger to his forehead.

Charles had suspected that there might be a trap, but all the same he couldn’t help giving a start. In the dark inside his head, he imagined Adamsberg and Danglard both looking at him.

‘Very well,’ said Charles, after a pause. ‘I did start renting from Mathilde Forestier last week. Now you know as much as I do. I have no wish to answer your questions or to defend myself. I don’t understand anything about this beastly business of yours.’

‘Nor do I,’ said Adamsberg.

Danglard was annoyed. He would have preferred Adamsberg not to admit his ignorance in front of Reyer. The commissaire had started scribbling on the paper resting on his knee. It was provoking to see Adamsberg taking that casual, vague and passive attitude, not asking any questions to move the situation on.

‘All the same,’ Danglard insisted, ‘why did you want to rent her apartment?’

‘Bloody hell!’ said Charles, exploding with anger. ‘It was Mathilde who came to find me in my hotel to offer me the flat, not the other way round.’

‘But you chose to go and sit by her in the cafe, before that, didn’t you? And you told her, for some reason, that you were looking for a place to rent.’

‘If you were blind, you’d know it’s beyond my powers to recognise someone sitting on a cafe terrace.’

‘I think you’re capable of doing plenty that’s so-called beyond your powers.’

‘That’ll do,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Where is Mathilde Forestier now?’

‘She’s off tracking some guy with a bee in his bonnet about the rotation of sunflowers.’

‘Since we can’t do anything and we don’t know anything,’ Adamsberg said, ‘let’s drop it.’

This argument appalled Danglard. He suggested that they search for Mathilde, in order to find out more straight away. They could post a man outside her house to wait for her, or send someone to the Oceanographical Institute.

‘No, Danglard, we’re not going to bother with that. She’ll be back. What we will do, though, is post some men tonight at the metro stations of Saint-Georges, Pigalle and Notre-Dame-de Lorette, with a description of the chalk circle man. That will keep our consciences clear. And then we’ll wait. The man who smells of rotten apples will start his night-time walks again – it’s inevitable. So we’ll wait. But we haven’t any hope of catching him. He’s bound to alter his itinerary.’

‘But what’s the point of our worrying about the circles if he isn’t the killer?’ said Danglard, getting up and pacing awkwardly round the room. ‘The chalk circle man! Again! But surely we don’t give a damn about the poor sod! It’s whoever’s using him that we’re after!’

‘Not me,’ said Adamsberg. ‘So we carry on looking for the circle man.’

Danglard stood up again, wearily. It would take time to get accustomed to Adamsberg.

Charles could sense all the confusion in the room. He perceived Danglard’s vague discomfiture and Adamsberg’s indecision.

‘Which one of us is going into this blind, you or me, commissaire?’ asked Charles.

Adamsberg smiled.

‘I don’t know,’ he said.

‘After the anonymous phone call, I suppose you’ll be wanting me to “help you with your inquiries”,’ Charles went on.

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Adamsberg. ‘But anyway there’s nothing to stop you going to work as usual. Don’t worry.’

‘It’s not my work that worries me, commissaire.’

‘I know. It was just an expression.’

Charles heard the sound of pencil on paper. He imagined that the commissaire must be drawing while he was talking.

‘I don’t know how a blind man could manage to kill someone. But I’m a suspect now, aren’t I?’

Adamsberg made an evasive gesture.

‘Let’s say you picked the wrong moment to go and live at Mathilde Forestier’s house. Let’s say that, for whatever reason, we’ve recently become interested in her and what she knows, that is if she’s told us everything, which may not be the case. Danglard can explain all that to you. Danglard’s incredibly intelligent, you’ll see. It’s a great comfort to work with him. Let’s also say that you seem to be a rather awkward customer, which doesn’t help.’

‘What makes you think that?’ asked Charles, with a smile – a nasty smile, Adamsberg thought.

‘Madame Forestier says so.’

For the first time, Charles felt worried.