The Chalk Circle Man

I’d like to find a universal uniform so that I wouldn’t have to think about it.

I’d like to find a universal leaf too, so that I wouldn’t have to bother about that.

When it comes down to it, I wish I hadn’t missed Camille the other night in the street. I’d have caught up with her, she’d have been astonished – touched, perhaps. I might have seen her face tremble, she might have blushed or turned pale, I don’t know which. I would have taken her face in my hands to stop her trembling, and it would have been fantastic. I’d have held her in my arms, we’d have stood there in the street for a long time. An hour, say. But perhaps she wouldn’t have felt anything at all. Perhaps she wouldn’t have wanted to stand there holding me. Perhaps she wouldn’t have wanted to have anything to do with me. I don’t know. I can’t imagine. Perhaps she’d have said, ‘Jean-Baptiste, my taxi’s waiting.’ I don’t know. And perhaps it wasn’t Camille at all. And perhaps I don’t care. I don’t know. I don’t think so.

And as for my intellectual colleague Danglard, I’m getting on his nerves. It’s obvious. I’m not doing it on purpose. Nothing’s happening, nothing’s being said, and that’s what gets on his nerves. And yet since Clemence has gone missing, some key thing has happened. But I couldn’t tell him.

Adamsberg raised his head as he heard the door open.

It was a warm afternoon. Danglard was returning from a northern suburb, perspiring freely. An interview about stolen goods. It had been quite satisfactory, but it hadn’t satisfied him. Danglard needed more important cases to keep him going, and the murderous shrew-mouse seemed to him to be a worthy challenge. But the fear of having to admit failure was getting sharper every day. He didn’t even dare talk about the case to the children. He was feeling very much like pouring himself a glass of white wine, when Adamsberg came into his office.

‘I’m looking for some scissors,’ Adamsberg said.

Danglard went to look in Florence’s desk and found a pair. He noticed that Florence had laid in a fresh stock of toffees. Adamsberg closed one eye as he threaded a needle.

‘What’s up now?’ asked Danglard. ‘Bit of mending?’

‘The hem of my trousers has come undone.’

Adamsberg sat on a chair, crossed his knee and began to mend his trousers. Danglard watched him, taken somewhat aback, but feeling soothed. It was soothing to watch someone sewing with little stitches, as if the rest of the world didn’t exist.

‘You’ll see how good I am at this, Danglard,’ Adamsberg remarked. ‘I do tiny little stitches. My youngest sister showed me how, one day when we didn’t know what to do with ourselves, as my father used to say.’

‘I don’t know what to do with myself,’ said Danglard. ‘For one thing, I’m no good at fixing the hems on the kids’ trousers. And for another, this killer is haunting me. Ghastly, horrible old woman. She’s going to get away, I know it. It’s driving me nuts. Honestly, it’s driving me nuts.’

He got up to take a beer can out of the cupboard.

‘No,’ said Adamsberg

‘No what?’

‘No beer.’

The commissaire was biting off the thread, having completely forgotten that he had Florence’s scissors.

‘The scissors are right there,’ said Danglard. ‘Damn it all, I fetched you the scissors for the thread, and look what you’re doing now. And what’s wrong with beer, all of a sudden?’

‘What’s wrong is that you might get launched and drink ten beers, and today that won’t do.’

‘I didn’t think that was any of your business. My body, my responsibility, my belly and my beer.’

‘Of course. But it’s your investigation and you’re my inspector. And tomorrow we’re going to the country. We have a rendezvous with someone we know, I hope. So I need you, and I need you with a clear head. And a strong stomach, too. Very important, the stomach. I don’t know if a settled stomach helps one to think clearly. But I do know that a poor stomach will stop you thinking at all.’

Danglard observed Adamsberg’s tense face. It was impossible to guess whether it was because his thread had just knotted, or because of the projected trip to the country.

‘Oh damn and blast!’ said Adamsberg. ‘My thread’s got a knot. I really hate that. Apparently the golden rule is that you should sew in the same direction as it comes off the reel, otherwise you get a knot. See what I mean? I must have been working the other way without thinking. And now there’s a knot.’

‘I think you had too long a thread in the first place,’ Danglard ventured.

Yes, sewing was a restful kind of occupation.

‘No, Danglard, I had the right length, from my hand to my elbow. Tomorrow, at eight o’clock, I’ll need eight men, a van and some dogs. And we’d better take the doctor along too.’

He poked the needle into the knot to undo it, broke off the thread, and smoothed down his trousers. Then he went out, without discovering whether Danglard would have a clear head and a strong stomach the next day. Danglard didn’t know, either.

XIX

CHARLES REYER WAS ON HIS WAY HOME. HE WAS FEELING RELAXED and enjoying it while it lasted. His conversations with Adamsberg had brought him some tranquillity, though he didn’t know why. All he knew was that for the last two days he had not tried to help anyone else to cross the road.

He had even managed, without having to make much of an effort, to speak sincerely to the commissaire about Clemence, about Mathilde, and about a multitude of other things, taking his time. Adamsberg had told him things too. Things about himself. Not always very clear. Some were trivial, some were serious, but he wasn’t sure that the trivial ones weren’t in fact the more serious ones. It was hard to tell with Adamsberg. The wisdom of a child, the philosophy of an old man. As he had said to Mathilde in the restaurant. He had not been wrong about what was conveyed by the commissaire‘s gentle voice. And then the commissaire had asked him what was going on behind his dark eyes. He had told him, and Adamsberg had listened. All the sounds a blind man hears, all his painful perceptions in the dark, all the visibility that the blackness brings him. When he stopped, Adamsberg would say: ‘Go on, Reyer, I’m listening.’ Charles imagined that if he had been a woman he could have fallen in love with Adamsberg, while feeling despair that he was so elusive. But he was the kind of man it was probably best not to get too close to. Or else you had to be prepared not to be in despair at his elusiveness. Or something like that.

But Charles was a man, and he liked being a man. What was more, Adamsberg had confirmed the view that he was good-looking. Being a man, therefore, Charles thought he would have liked to be in love with Mathilde.

Since he was after all a man.

But was Mathilde trying to lose herself, under the sea? Was she trying not to have to hear anything of earthly battles? What had happened to Mathilde? Nobody knew. Why was she so keen on the bloody water? Could anyone catch hold of Mathilde? Charles was afraid she would slip away like a mermaid.

He didn’t stop at his landing, but went straight up to the Flying Gurnard. He felt for the bell push and rang twice.

‘Something wrong?’ asked Mathilde, opening the door. ‘Or is there any news about the shrew-mouse?’

‘Would I know if there was?’

‘You’ve been to see Adamsberg a few times, haven’t you? I called him just now. Seems there’ll be some news about Clemence tomorrow.’

‘Why are you so interested in Clemence?’

‘Because I found her. She’s my shrew-mouse.’

‘No, she found you. Why’ve you been crying, Mathilde?’

‘Crying? Yes, I have a bit. How do you know?’

‘Your voice sounds a bit damp still. I can hear it perfectly.’

‘Don’t worry. It’s just that someone I love very much is leaving tomorrow. That makes me cry just now.’