The Chalk Circle Man

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 Chatelain 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 cafe 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 Clemence?’

‘No, as usual Clemence went trotting off to meet one of her lonely hearts. It never comes to anything. Either she sits waiting in a cafe 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.