The Chalk Circle Man

Socratic method of suicide is not the only model?’ – without waiting for Adamsberg’s reply, since the intention was simply to show off. Vercors-Laury expended an inordinate amount of time and words showing off. The portly doctor would first lean back in his armchair, fingers clutching his belt, seeming to think deeply, and would then hurl himself forward to begin a sentence: ‘Commissaire, this is no ordinary case.’

If one set all that aside, the man wasn’t lacking in intelligence; that much at least was clear. After the first quarter of an hour, things went better; still not impressive, perhaps, but better.

‘Our subject,’ said Vercors-Laury, launching into a peroration, ‘does not fit the normal pattern of subjects with a compulsive disorder, if you are asking for my clinical opinion. Compulsives are by definition compulsive, and one should never forget that – do you follow me?’

He was clearly highly satisfied with this formula. He went on:

‘And because they are compulsive, obsessive, they’re precise, careful, and ritualistic. You follow me? But what do we find with this subject? No ritual governing the choice of object, no ritual governing the choice of district, or the time of night, or even the number of circles to draw on any given night. So! You see the immense discrepancy? All the parameters of his actions vary unpredictably: object, place, time, quantity, as if they were entirely determined by chance circumstance. But, Commissaire Adamsberg, in the case of a compulsive personality nothing is determined by chance circumstance. Are you with me? And that is, in point of fact, the defining feature of the compulsive subject: he will make the chance circumstance bend to his will, rather than allow it to drive him. No contingency is strong enough to halt the relentless progress of his obsession. You see what I’m driving at?’

‘So what we have here is no common-or-garden crank? Not a compulsive personality at all?’

‘That’s right, commissaire, we could almost swear to it. And that opens up a whole field of inquiry. If we’re not dealing with an obsessive-compulsive personality in the clinical sense of the term, then the circles must be in pursuit of some aim which has been thoroughly thought through by their perpetrator, and our subject must have a genuine interest in the objects that he’s bringing to our attention, as if he meant to show us something. You follow me? Or to tell us something. For instance, that people don’t think enough about the objects they throw away. Once these objects have ceased to be useful, once they have served their purpose, our eyes don’t even see them as material any more. I could show you a pavement and say: “What do you see on the ground?” and you could reply: “Nothing.” Whereas in reality‘ (heavy emphasis) ‘there are dozens of objects there. You follow? This man appears to be grappling with a painful investigation of some kind: metaphysical, philosophical, or perhaps – why not? – poetic, about the way human beings choose to make the reality of the material world start and stop, something for which he has elected himself the arbiter. Whereas in his eyes, it may be that material objects continue their existence outside our perception of them. My sole aim, when I took an interest in this man, was to say: Take care, don’t joke about this obsessive behaviour pattern, the chalk circle man may be someone of perfectly lucid mind, who cannot express himself except through these manifestations, which are, indeed, evidence of a mind in some sense deranged, yet at the same time highly organised, you follow? But someone of above average intelligence, believe me.’

‘But there are mistakes in the series. The mouse and then the cat, they weren’t objects.’

‘As I said, there’s much less logic to the series than might appear at first, the kind of logic we would find if this were a case of authentic obsession. That’s what’s so unsettling about it. But from the point of view of our subject, he is demonstrating that death transforms a living creature into an object the moment the lifeless body ceases to feel anything – which is true enough. From the instant the top comes off the bottle, the top becomes a non-thing. And when the body of a friend stops breathing – what does it become? Our man is preoccupied with questions of this order. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it: he’s obsessed with death.’

Vercors-Laury paused, leaning back once more in his chair. He looked Adamsberg straight in the eye, as if to say: Listen carefully, I’m about to tell you something sensational. Adamsberg did not believe he would do anything of the sort.

‘From your point of view as a policeman, you are wondering whether he poses any danger to human life, aren’t you, commissaire? I’ll tell you this much: the phenomenon could remain stable at this stage and burn itself out, but on the other hand I see no reason why, theoretically, a man of this kind, in other words a deranged person who is nevertheless perfectly in control of himself (if you have followed me so far), a man burning with the need to exhibit his thoughts, should halt in his trajectory. Note that I’m saying theoretically.’

Adamsberg walked back to the office with vague thoughts running through his head. He was not in the habit of reflecting deeply. He had never been able to understand what was happening when he saw people put their hands to their foreheads and say, ‘Right, let’s give this some thought.’ What was going on in their brains, the way they managed to organise precise ideas, inferring, deducting, concluding, all that was a complete mystery to him. He had to admit that it produced undeniable results, and that after this kind of brainstorming, people took decisions, something he admired while being convinced that he was himself lacking in some way. But when he tried it, when he sat down and said ‘Right, I’ll give it some thought,’ nothing happened in his head. It was even at moments like that that he was aware of a complete blank. Adamsberg never realised when he was thinking and the instant he became conscious of it, it stopped. As a result he was never sure where all his ideas, his intentions and his decisions came from.

At any rate, he felt that nothing that Vercors-Laury had said had come as a surprise, and that he had always known that the man drawing the blue chalk circles was no ordinary crackpot. That some cruel motive lay underneath this apparent lunacy. That the sequence of objects could only lead to one conclusion, one blinding apotheosis: a death. Mathilde Forestier would have said that it was normal not to learn anything serious, since it was the second section of the week, but Adamsberg thought it was simply that Vercors-Laury was someone who knew his stuff all right, but wasn’t in the end all that impressive.

The following morning, a large blue circle had appeared in the rue Cunin-Gridaine in the 3rd arrondissement. The only thing in the centre was a hairpin.

Conti photographed the hairpin.

The next night brought a circle in the rue Lacretelle and another in the rue de la Condamine, in the 17th arrondissement, one containing an old handbag, the other a cotton bud.

Conti photographed the bag and then the cotton bud, without passing comment, but the look on his face betrayed his irritation. Danglard remained silent.

The next three nights produced a one-franc coin, a torch battery, a screwdriver, and something which cheered Danglard up somewhat, if that was the right expression, a dead pigeon with one wing torn off, in the rue Geoffroy-Saint-Hilaire.

Disconcertingly, Adamsberg showed no reaction except a vague smile. He was still cutting out any newspaper articles that mentioned the chalk circle man and stuffing them into his desk drawer, alongside the photographs supplied by Conti. By now, everyone in the station knew about it, and Danglard was becoming rather anxious on his behalf. But the full confession obtained from Patrice Vernoux had made Adamsberg untouchable, at least for a little while.

‘How long is this business going to go on, commissaire?’ asked Danglard.

‘What business?’

‘The chalk circles, for Christ’s sake! We’re not going to stand in front of these damned hairpins every morning for the rest of our lives, are we?’

‘Ah, the chalk circles. Yes, it could go on a long time, Danglard. A very long time, even. But so what? Whether we follow this or do something else, does it matter? Hairpins provide a bit of distraction.’

‘So we drop the whole thing?’

Adamsberg looked up abruptly.

‘Absolutely not, Danglard, out of the question.’

‘You can’t be serious.’

‘As serious as I can be. It’s going to get bigger, Danglard, as I’ve already told you.’

Danglard shrugged.

‘We’ll need all this documentation,’ Adamsberg went on, opening the drawer. ‘It could be indispensable afterwards.’

‘After what, for God’s sake?’