The Chalk Circle Man

‘Yes, Danglard.’

But the last two words were almost inaudible.

Once the inspector had left, Adamsberg pulled across his desk the pile of newspapers that had been prepared for him. He found what he was after in three of them. The phenomenon hadn’t reached the headlines yet, but it was surely only a matter of time. Clumsily, he tore out one short article and put it on the desk in front of him. He always needed to concentrate hard in order to read, and if he had to do it out loud it was even worse. Adamsberg had never shone at school, since he couldn’t really understand why they were making him turn up there at all, but he had tried to give the impression of being conscientious so as not to upset his parents, and in particular so that they would never find out that he didn’t really care for book learning.

Is this a practical joke, or the work of some half-baked philosopher? Whatever it is, the blue chalk circles are still sprouting like night-time weeds on the capital’s pavements, and they’re starting to attract the attention of Parisian intellectuals. The circles are turning up at an increasing rate. Sixty-three have been spotted since the first ones were found four months ago in the 12th arrondissement. This new distraction, the equivalent of an urban parlour game, has provided plenty of material for the chattering classes, of whom there is no shortage. So the circles are the talk of every cafe in town…

Adamsberg stopped reading and jumped to the end to read the byline. ‘That pretentious prat,’ he muttered. ‘What can you expect?’

… People will soon be jostling for the honour of finding a circle outside their door, on the way to work in the morning. Whether the circles are the work of a cynical con artist or a genuine madman, if it’s fame he’s after the creator of the circles has certainly got what he wanted. Galling, isn’t it, for people who’ve spent a lifetime trying to become famous? All you have to do to be Parisian celebrity of the year is go out at night with some blue chalk! If he’s ever tracked down, they’ll have him on a TV chat show in no time (I can see it now: ‘The cultural sensation of the fin-de-millennium’). But he’s an elusive character. Nobody’s yet caught him in the act of chalking his circles on the tarmac. He doesn’t venture out every night, and he seems to strike at random in one district of Paris after another. What’s the betting there are some night-owls out there trying to catch him, just for kicks? Well, good hunting!

A more thoughtful article had appeared in a provincial paper:

Paris haunted by harmless maniac

Everyone thinks this is good for a laugh, but perhaps ‘weird’ is a better description. For the last four months, somebody – a man, probably – has been going out at night and drawing large circles in blue chalk around whatever rubbish is lying on the pavements of Paris. The only ‘victims’ of this curious obsession are the items that this character encloses within the circles, never more than one at a time. There are about sixty examples so far, which makes it possible to draw up a very peculiar list: twelve bottle tops, an orange-box, four paper clips, two shoes, a magazine, a leather handbag, four cigarette lighters, a handkerchief, a pigeon’s claw, a spectacle lens, five notebooks, a lamb-chop bone, a ballpoint pen, an earring, a dog turd, part of a car’s headlight, a battery, a Coca-Cola can, a piece of wire, a ball of wool, a keyring, an orange, a tube of stomach pills, a pool of vomit, a hat, the contents of a car’s ashtray, two books ( The Metaphysics of the Real and The Fun-to-Cook Book ), a metal label, a broken egg, an ‘I love Elvis’ badge, a pair of tweezers, a doll’s head, a twig, a vest, a roll of film, a vanilla yoghurt, a candle, and a swimming cap. This may seem a tedious kind of list, but it certainly reveals the unexpected treasures lying on the city’s pavements if one goes looking for them. Since the well-known psychiatrist Rene Vercors-Laury has taken an interest in this case from the start, and has been keen to find out what lies behind it, people are now talking about the ‘revisited object’. The ‘chalk circle man’ has become a subject of cocktail-party gossip, putting the poor graffiti artists in the shade – their noses must be really out of joint! Everyone is asking what kind of compulsion drives the chalk circle man. One of the most intriguing aspects of the case is that around the edge of every circle, written in beautiful copperplate, indicating therefore an educated hand, is the following inscription, which has the psychiatrists scratching their heads: ‘Victor, woe’s in store, what are you out here for?’

An indistinct photo was attached.

The third article was less detailed and very short, but reported that the previous night another circle had been found in the rue Caulaincourt in northern Paris, this time around a dead mouse, with the same legend: ‘Victor, woe’s in store, what are you out here for?’

Adamsberg pulled a face. It was just as he had feared.

He slipped the articles under his desk lamp and decided he was hungry, although he had no idea of the time. He went out, took a long walk along the still-unfamiliar streets, absent-mindedly ordered a sandwich and drink, bought a packet of cigarettes, and made his way slowly back to the station. In his trouser pocket he could feel at every step the crumpled letter from Christiane which had arrived that morning. She wrote on thick expensive notepaper, which was awkward to stuff into your pocket. Adamsberg disliked the paper.

He would have to give her his new address. She wouldn’t find it difficult to come and see him often, since she worked in Orleans. But her letter suggested she was looking for a job in Paris. Because of him. He shook his head. He’d think about that later. Since he had met her, six months ago now, it was always the same, he’d think about it later. She wasn’t a stupid woman, quite bright in fact, though she did tend to have predictable opinions. A pity, but not too serious, since that was a minor failing and after all nobody’s perfect. Ah, but perfection, the impossible, the unpredictable, the softest skin, the perpetual movement between gravity and grace, had come to him only once, eight years earlier, with Camille and her ridiculous pet monkey, a marmoset called Richard III. She used to let the monkey relieve itself in the street, telling any passers-by who objected, ‘But you see, Richard III has to go outside to pee.’

The little monkey, who smelled of oranges for some reason, although it never ate them, would sometimes jump onto their arms and make a great show of looking for fleas on their wrists, with a concentrated expression and neat little movements. Camille and Jean-Baptiste joined in the game, scratching at the invisible prey on their forearms. But she had run away, his petite cherie. And he, the policeman, had never been able to trace her, despite all the time he had spent searching: a whole year, such a long year, and afterwards his youngest sister had said, ‘Come on, you don’t have any right to do this, leave her in peace!’ ‘Ma petite cherie,’ Adamsberg had said. ‘You want to see her again?’ his sister had asked. Only the youngest of his five sisters dared talk to him about his petite cherie. And he had smiled and said, ‘With all my heart, yes, even if it’s just for an hour before I die.’

Adrien Danglard was waiting for him in the office, a plastic cup of white wine in his hand and a combination of mixed emotions on his face.

‘The Vernoux boy’s boots were missing,’ he said. ‘Ankle boots with buckles.’

Adamsberg stood silently for a moment. He was trying to respect Danglard’s irritation.

‘I didn’t mean to give you a demonstration this morning,’ he said. ‘I can’t help it if the Vernoux boy’s the killer. Did you look for the boots?’

Danglard produced a plastic bag and put it on the table.

‘Here they are,’ he sighed. ‘The lab’s started doing tests, but you can see at a glance it’s the mud from that building site on the soles, so sticky that the water in the drain didn’t wash it off. Pity. Nice shoes.’

‘They were in the drain then?’

‘Yes, twenty-five metres down from the nearest grating to his house.’

‘You’re a fast worker, Danglard.’

Silence fell between the two men. Adamsberg was biting his lip. He had picked up a cigarette, taken a pencil stub out his pocket, and flattened a bit of paper over his knee. He was thinking: He’s going to give me a lecture now, he’s angry and shocked, I should never have told him the story of the dog that drooled, or told him that Patrice Vernoux oozed cruelty like the little kid in the mountains.

But no. Adamsberg looked at his colleague. Danglard’s long shambling body, which took the shape of a melted bottle when he sat on a chair, was looking relaxed. He had plunged his large hands deep in the pockets of his elegant suit, and put the wine on the floor. He was staring into space, but even like that Adamsberg could see that he was formidably intelligent. Danglard said:

‘Congratulations, commissaire.’

Then he got up, as he had done earlier, first bending the top half of his body forward, then lifting his backside off the chair and finally standing up straight.