The Chalk Circle Man

intelligence might come up with an idea like that. I agree, he doesn’t look like someone of limited intelligence. But clever people can sometimes act stupid. It happens. Especially when the passions are involved. What about Delphine Le Nermord, though? What was she doing out at night?’

‘The lover says she was supposed to be home all evening. When he got in, late, he was surprised not to find her there. He thought perhaps she had gone for cigarettes to a late-night tobacconist in the rue Bertholet, because she often nipped out like that. Then, later, he thought perhaps her husband had called her over to do something for him, yet again. But he didn’t dare phone Le Nermord, so he went to bed. I woke him up when I went round there this morning.’

‘Le Nermord could have found the circle at about midnight. He could have telephoned his wife, and then cut her throat there. I think Le Nermord’s looking very bad. What do you think?’

Adamsberg was scattering breadcrumbs round his plate. Danglard, who was a careful eater, found this irritating.

‘What do I think?’ said Adamsberg, raising his head. ‘I’m thinking about the chalk circle man. You should be starting to guess that by now, Danglard.’

XV

AUGUSTIN-LOUIS LE NERMORD WAS BEING HELD FOR QUESTIONING, starting on the Monday morning. Danglard had made it very plain to him that he was regarded as a prime suspect.

Adamsberg let Danglard handle the questions: Danglard pursued his course mercilessly. The old man seemed incapable of defending himself. Anything he said was immediately pounced on by Danglard’s incisive objections. But it was also clear to Adamsberg that Danglard had some sympathy for his victim.

Adamsberg felt nothing of the kind. He had taken an instant dislike to Le Nermord, and he certainly didn’t want Danglard to ask him why. So he said nothing.

Danglard kept the questions going for several days.

From time to time, Adamsberg would go into Danglard’s office and watch. Driven into a corner, frightened to death by the accusations against him, the old man was visibly falling to pieces. He couldn’t even reply to the simplest questions. No, he didn’t know that Delphie had never made a written will. He had always thought everything would go to her sister Claire. He was fond of Claire, she was on her own with three children and had a hard life. No, he didn’t know what he had been doing on the nights of the murders. He supposed he had been working, then had gone to bed, as he did every night. Danglard contradicted him icily. On the night Madeleine Chatelain had been killed, the local pharmacist had been open late, since it was her turn on the rota. She had seen him going out. Le Nermord explained that yes, that was possible, because he sometimes went out for cigarettes from the machine: ‘I take the paper off and use the tobacco in my pipe. Delphie and I both smoked a lot. She was trying to give it up, but I wasn’t. I was too lonely in that big house.’

And he would gesture helplessly, and collapse in a heap, while trying all the same to maintain some presence. Not much was left of the eminent professor at the College de France, just an old man who seemed at his wits’ end, who was desperately trying to fight off an apparently inevitable condemnation. A thousand times or more he repeated: ‘But how could it have been me? I loved Delphie.’

Danglard, increasingly shaken himself, kept up his barrage, sparing Le Nermord none of the small details which incriminated him. He had even allowed some information to leak out to the press, which had headlined it. The old man had hardly touched any of the food he was brought, in spite of encouragement from Margellon, who could be kind-hearted when he wanted to be. Le Nermord had not shaved either, even when he was allowed home overnight. What astonished Adamsberg was the sudden capitulation of this old man, who must after all have had a good enough brain with which to defend himself. He had never seen such a rapid destabilisation.

By the Thursday morning Le Nermord’s legs were genuinely shaking and he was in a pitiful state. The prosecuting magistrate had asked for him to be charged, and Danglard had just told him of the decision. At this point, Le Nermord said nothing for a long time, just as he had the other night in his house, seeming to weigh up arguments for and against. As before, Adamsberg signalled to Danglard above all not to intervene.

Then Le Nermord said:

‘Give me a piece of chalk. Blue chalk.’

Since nobody moved, he found a little authority from somewhere and added:

‘Come on. I asked for some chalk.’

Danglard went out and found some in Florence’s desk – a repository for everything.

Le Nermord got up with all the precautions of an invalid and took the chalk. Standing against the white wall, he took some time to think again. Then very quickly, he wrote in large letters: ‘Victor, woe’s in store, what are you out here for?’

Adamsberg did not move a muscle. He had been expecting this since the previous day.

‘Danglard,’ he said, ‘go and get Meunier. I think he’s around somewhere.’

While Danglard left the room, the chalk circle man turned to Adamsberg, determined to look him in the face.

‘Well met at last,’ said Adamsberg. ‘I’ve been looking for you for a long time.’

Le Nermord did not reply. Adamsberg looked at his unattractive face, which had regained a little firmness since this confession.

Meunier, the handwriting specialist, followed Danglard into the room. He considered the large writing which covered the entire length of the wall.

‘Nice souvenir for your office, Danglard,’ he murmured. ‘Yes, that’s the writing. It couldn’t be imitated.’

‘Thank you,’ said the chalk circle man, handing the chalk back to Danglard. ‘I can fetch more proof if you want it. My notebooks, the times when I went out, and my street map, which is covered with crosses, my list of objects. Anything you like. I know I’m asking too much, but would it be possible for this to be kept quiet? I would dearly like it if my students and colleagues didn’t find out. But I imagine that’s not possible. Still, it puts a different complexion on things, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Danglard admitted.

Le Nermord got up, finding more strength, and accepted a glass of beer. He paced from the window to the door, going to and fro in front of his line of graffiti.

‘I had no choice, I had to tell you. There was too much evidence piling up against me. But now I’ve told you, it alters things, doesn’t it? Do you think that if I’d really wanted to kill my wife, I’d have done it in one of my own circles? Without even bothering to disguise my handwriting? I hope we can please agree about that, at least.’

He shrugged his shoulders.

‘Of course, there’s no point now in hoping to be elected to the Academy. Or preparing my lectures for next year. The College won’t want to have anything to do with me after this. Perfectly understandable. But I didn’t have any choice. I had to go for the lesser of two evils, because the murder charge was so serious. It’s up to you to find out what’s really been happening. Who’s been using me? Ever since the first murder victim was found in one of my circles, I’ve been trying to understand – I felt I’d been caught in some sort of ghastly trap. I was very frightened when I heard about that first murder. As I told you, I’m not a brave man. In fact, frankly, I’m a coward. I racked my brain trying to understand. Who could have done it? Who’d been following me? Who’d put that woman’s body in my circle? And if I went on drawing circles after that, it wasn’t, as the press said, to tease the police. No, not at all. It was in the hope of finding out who was dogging my steps, who was the murderer, and to give myself some chance of proving my own innocence. I took a few days to reach that decision. You don’t easily decide to tempt a murderer to follow you at night, especially if you’re as cowardly as me. But I thought that once you found out who I was, I’d certainly be accused of murder. And that’s what the murderer must have been thinking: he was hoping that I‘d pay for his crimes. So it was a sort of struggle between him and me. The first real struggle I’d had in my life. And in that sense, I don’t regret it. But the only thing I didn’t for a moment imagine was that he would attack my own wife. All night, after you came to see me, I sat up asking myself why he had done that. I could think of only one explanation. The police had still not identified me with the circles, and that was spoiling the murderer’s plans. So he did this, he murdered my own Delphie, so that you’d come straight to me, and then he would be left in peace. Am I right?’