The Chalk Circle Man Part 6

Charles called his office to tell them he would be late. First, he wanted to run the errand for Queen Mathilde and go to the police station; he wanted to help her out, to do something to please her. And this evening he would like to be friendly, to admit that he had placed his hopes in her, and tell her, perfectly courteously, that he had carried out the errand perfectly courteously. He didn't want to murder Mathilde, that was the last thing in the world he wanted. For now, he wanted to cling on to Mathilde, doing his best not to let go of her, not to spin round and slap her in the face. He wanted to go on listening to her talking, about anything and everything, with her husky voice and her tightrope-walking ways, always on the brink of missing her step. Perhaps he should bring her some jewellery this evening, a gold brooch? No, not a gold brooch, a cooked chicken with tarragon, she would surely prefer some chicken with tarragon. And then he could listen to the sound of her voice, and drop off to sleep with warm champagne in his pyjama pockets, if he had had pyjamas. Or pockets. Certainly not tear her eyes out, not ma.s.sacre her, absolutely not, no, he would buy her a cooked chicken. With tarragon.

He should have arrived at the police station by now, but he wasn't sure. It wasn't one of the buildings whose location he had managed to map in his head. He would have to ask. Hesitating, he sc.r.a.ped the pavement ahead of him with his stick, walking slowly. He was lost in this street, obviously. Why had Mathilde sent him here? He began to feel desperately tired. And when he felt that way, anger was sure to follow, welling up in lethal pulses from his stomach into his throat, until it invaded his whole head.

Danglard, feeling seedy and with a blinding headache himself, was just arriving for work. He saw the very tall blind man standing stock-still near the door of the station, an expression of arrogant despair on his face.

'Can I help you?' Danglard asked. 'Are you lost?'

' Are you?' Charles asked.

Danglard ran his hand through his hair.

What a mean question. Was he lost?

'No,' he said.

'Wrong,' said Charles.

'Is that any of your business?' said Danglard.

'Is my standing here any of your business?'

'Oh, for crying out loud,' said Danglard. 'Suit yourself. Stay lost if you're lost.'

'I'm looking for the police station.'

'Well, you're in luck, I work there. I'll take you in. What do you want the police station for?'

'It's about the chalk circle man,' Charles said. 'I've come to see Jean-Baptiste Adamsberg. He's your boss, isn't he?'

'That's right,' said Danglard. 'But I don't know if he's here yet. He could still be wandering around somewhere. Are you coming to tell him something, or to ask him for something? Because I have to tell you that the boss doesn't give out precise information, whether you ask him for it or not. So if you're a journalist, you'd do better to go and join your colleagues over there. There are plenty of them about.'

They were arriving at the entrance to the station. Charles stumbled against the step and Danglard had to catch him by the arm. Behind his gla.s.ses, in his dead eyes, Charles felt a brief spasm of rage.

He said quickly: 'No, I'm not a journalist.'

Danglard frowned and rubbed a finger over his forehead, although he knew perfectly well that you couldn't cure a hangover by rubbing your head.

Adamsberg was there. Danglard could not have said afterwards whether he was in the office or even sitting down. He had perched there, too light for the big armchair and too dense for the white and green furnis.h.i.+ngs.

'Monsieur Reyer wants a word with you,' said Danglard.

Adamsberg looked up. He was more struck than he had been the previous day by Charles's face. Mathilde was right: the blind man was spectacularly good-looking. And Adamsberg admired beauty in others, although he had given up wis.h.i.+ng for it himself. In any case, he couldn't remember ever having wanted to be anyone else.

'You stay too, Danglard,' he said. 'Haven't seen you for some time.'

Charles felt around for a chair and sat down.

'Mathilde Forestier can't come to the Saint-Georges metro station with you tonight as she had promised. That's the message. I'm just dropping in to deliver it to you.'

'How am I supposed to find him without her, this circle man, since she's the only one who knows who he is?' asked Adamsberg.

'She thought of that,' said Charles, with a smile. 'She said I could do it, because she thinks the man leaves a vague smell of apples behind him. She says all I have to do is wait with my nose in the air and breathe deeply, and I'd be pretty good at sniffing out the smell of rotten apples.'

Charles shrugged.

'It wouldn't work, of course. She can be very perverse.'

Adamsberg looked preoccupied. He had swivelled sideways, putting his feet on top of the plastic waste bin, and was resting a piece of paper on his thigh. He seemed to want to start drawing as if he was entirely unconcerned, but Danglard thought this was far from the case. He could see that Adamsberg's face was darker than usual: the nose seemed sharper and he was clenching and unclenching his jaw.

'Yes, Danglard,' he said rather quietly. 'We can't do anything if Madame Forestier isn't there to guide the way. Odd, don't you think?'

Charles made as if to leave.

'No, Monsieur Reyer, don't go,' said Adamsberg, still in a quiet voice. 'An annoying thing happened I had an anonymous phone call this morning. A voice that said: "Did you see an article two months ago in the local newsletter, The Fifth Arrondiss.e.m.e.nt in Five Pages? Why don't you question the people who actually know something, commissaire?" Then they hung up. Here's the paper, I had someone find it for me. Just the local rag, but a lot of people get to see it. Here, Danglard, can you read this bit out, top of page two. You know I'm no good at reading out loud.'

A well-informed lady?

If certain gentlemen of the press can't resist recording the antics of some poor devil who gets his kicks drawing chalk circles round bottle tops, like a five-year-old, that is, alas, a sign of the weird idea our colleagues have of their calling. But when serious scientists poke their noses in, it hardly bodes well for French research. First we had the eminent psychiatrist, Vercors-Laury, writing a column about this sad individual. But he's not alone. Gossip in the quartier suggests that Mathilde Forestier, the world-famous underwater specialist, has also decided to start a.n.a.lysing this pathetic exhibitionist. She has apparently made it her business to get to know him, and even to accompany him on his grotesque nocturnal perambulations. That would make her the only person who has penetrated the 'mystery of the chalk circles'. A brilliant achievement, wouldn't you say? She apparently revealed as much, one evening in the Dodin Bouffant, at the launch of her latest book, when serious quant.i.ties of alcohol were consumed. Naturally, our arrondiss.e.m.e.nt has prided itself on having the celebrated Madame Forestier as one of our long-standing residents, but would she not do better to spend her government grant on chasing her beloved fish instead of running after an imbecile who may be a criminal, or a deranged lunatic, a man whom her childish imprudence might even attract to our district, which has so far been spared any circles? Some fish are deadly poisonous, even on the slightest contact. Madame Forestier knows this perfectly well: far be it from us to teach her to suck eggs. But what does she know about the poisonous fish that might roam at large in the city streets? By encouraging this kind of behaviour, is she not stirring up trouble in the depths of society? Why is she trying to hook this creature and drag him into our arrondiss.e.m.e.nt, something that must distress all law-abiding inhabitants?

'So,' said Danglard, putting the newspaper down on the desk, 'the person who called you must have heard about the murder yesterday, or this morning, and contacted you right away. Someone with prompt reactions who doesn't like Madame Forestier, it would seem.'

'What do you conclude, then?' asked Adamsberg, still sitting sideways and grinding his jaw.

'I conclude that, thanks to this article, quite a few people have known for some time that Madame Forestier was in possession of certain little secrets. They might want to get their hands on that knowledge themselves.'

'Why would they want to do that?'

'Optimistic hypothesis: to provide copy for the newspapers. Pessimistic hypothesis: to b.u.mp off their mother-in-law, stick her inside a chalk circle and make everyone think it was the work of the latest maniac in Paris. The idea could have crossed the minds of a few benighted individuals too cowardly to risk an attack in the open. It offered them a golden opportunity, and all they had to do was find out the habits of the chalk circle man. After a few drinks, Mathilde Forestier would be an ideal source of information.'

'And then what?'

'Then one might tend to ask, for instance, how it happened that Monsieur Charles Reyer went to live in Mathilde's house a few days before the murder.'

Danglard was like that. He didn't mind coming out with remarks of this kind, in front of the people he was accusing. Adamsberg couldn't bring himself to be so direct, and he found it useful that Danglard had no qualms about hurting people's feelings. Qualms that made Adamsberg say anything except what he was really thinking. Which in police matters produced unexpected, and not always immediately helpful, results.

After Danglard's words there was a long silence. Danglard was still pressing his finger to his forehead.

Charles had suspected that there might be a trap, but all the same he couldn't help giving a start. In the dark inside his head, he imagined Adamsberg and Danglard both looking at him.

'Very well,' said Charles, after a pause. 'I did start renting from Mathilde Forestier last week. Now you know as much as I do. I have no wish to answer your questions or to defend myself. I don't understand anything about this beastly business of yours.'

'Nor do I,' said Adamsberg.

Danglard was annoyed. He would have preferred Adamsberg not to admit his ignorance in front of Reyer. The commissaire had started scribbling on the paper resting on his knee. It was provoking to see Adamsberg taking that casual, vague and pa.s.sive att.i.tude, not asking any questions to move the situation on.

'All the same,' Danglard insisted, 'why did you want to rent her apartment?'

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l!' said Charles, exploding with anger. 'It was Mathilde who came to find me in my hotel to offer me the flat, not the other way round.'

'But you chose to go and sit by her in the cafe, before that, didn't you? And you told her, for some reason, that you were looking for a place to rent.'

'If you were blind, you'd know it's beyond my powers to recognise someone sitting on a cafe terrace.'

'I think you're capable of doing plenty that's so-called beyond your powers.'

'That'll do,' said Adamsberg. 'Where is Mathilde Forestier now?'

'She's off tracking some guy with a bee in his bonnet about the rotation of sunflowers.'

'Since we can't do anything and we don't know anything,' Adamsberg said, 'let's drop it.'

This argument appalled Danglard. He suggested that they search for Mathilde, in order to find out more straight away. They could post a man outside her house to wait for her, or send someone to the Oceanographical Inst.i.tute.

'No, Danglard, we're not going to bother with that. She'll be back. What we will do, though, is post some men tonight at the metro stations of Saint-Georges, Pigalle and Notre-Dame-de Lorette, with a description of the chalk circle man. That will keep our consciences clear. And then we'll wait. The man who smells of rotten apples will start his night-time walks again it's inevitable. So we'll wait. But we haven't any hope of catching him. He's bound to alter his itinerary.'

'But what's the point of our worrying about the circles if he isn't the killer?' said Danglard, getting up and pacing awkwardly round the room. 'The chalk circle man! Again! But surely we don't give a d.a.m.n about the poor sod! It's whoever's using him that we're after!'

'Not me,' said Adamsberg. 'So we carry on looking for the circle man.'

Danglard stood up again, wearily. It would take time to get accustomed to Adamsberg.

Charles could sense all the confusion in the room. He perceived Danglard's vague discomfiture and Adamsberg's indecision.

'Which one of us is going into this blind, you or me, commissaire?' asked Charles.

Adamsberg smiled.

'I don't know,' he said.

'After the anonymous phone call, I suppose you'll be wanting me to "help you with your inquiries",' Charles went on.

'I don't know about that,' said Adamsberg. 'But anyway there's nothing to stop you going to work as usual. Don't worry.'

'It's not my work that worries me, commissaire.'

'I know. It was just an expression.'

Charles heard the sound of pencil on paper. He imagined that the commissaire must be drawing while he was talking.

'I don't know how a blind man could manage to kill someone. But I'm a suspect now, aren't I?'

Adamsberg made an evasive gesture.

'Let's say you picked the wrong moment to go and live at Mathilde Forestier's house. Let's say that, for whatever reason, we've recently become interested in her and what she knows, that is if she's told us everything, which may not be the case. Danglard can explain all that to you. Danglard's incredibly intelligent, you'll see. It's a great comfort to work with him. Let's also say that you seem to be a rather awkward customer, which doesn't help.'

'What makes you think that?' asked Charles, with a smile a nasty smile, Adamsberg thought.

'Madame Forestier says so.'

For the first time, Charles felt worried.

'Yes, that's what she says,' Adamsberg repeated. '"He's a bad-tempered so-and-so, but that doesn't bother me" is what she said. And you like her too. Because being in touch with Mathilde, Monsieur Reyer, would do you a power of good, it would bring back s.h.i.+ning black eyes, like patent leather. She'd do plenty of people good. Danglard doesn't like her, though no, Danglard, you don't. He's taken against her, for reasons that he'll tell you about. He's even tempted to cast doubts on her good faith. He's already finding it odd that our Mathilde turned up at the police station to talk to me about the chalk circle man with or without a smell of apples, long before the murder. And he's quite right. It is odd. But then, everything's odd about this case. Even the rotten apples. Anyway, the only thing we can do now is wait.'

Adamsberg started doodling again.

'All right,' said Danglard. 'We'll wait.'

He was not in a good mood. He saw Charles to the street.

Returning to the corridor, he was still pressing a finger to his forehead. Yes, it was true: because he had this long body in the shape of a skittle he resented Mathilde, who was the kind of woman who'd never go to bed with someone whose body was that shape. So, yes, he would have liked her to be guilty of something. And this business with the newspaper article certainly landed her in it. That would interest the kids, for sure. But he had sworn, since his mistake about the girl in the jeweller's shop, never to proceed unless he had evidence and hard facts, not some half-baked hunch that wormed its way into your head. So he would have to tread carefully with Mathilde.

Charles remained on edge all morning. His fingers trembled a little as they ran over the Braille perforations.

Mathilde was on edge too. She had just lost sight of the sunflower man. Stupid, really he had jumped into a taxi. She had found herself standing on the Place de l'Opera, disappointed and disoriented. If it had been in the first half of the week, she would have sat down immediately and ordered a gla.s.s of beer. But since it was the second half, there was no point getting too upset. Should she pick someone at random to follow? Why not? On the other hand, it was almost midday and she wasn't far from Charles's office. She could call and take him out to lunch. She had been a bit brusque with him that morning, with the excuse that during a section two you could say what you liked, and she felt rather bad about that now.

She caught Charles by the shoulder just as he came out of the building in the rue Saint-Marc.

'I'm hungry,' said Mathilde.

'Good thing you found me,' said Charles. 'All the cops in the world are thinking about you now. You were the subject of a minor denunciation this morning.'

Mathilde had settled herself on a banquette at the back of the restaurant, and nothing in her voice indicated to Charles that this item of news disturbed her.

'All the same,' Charles insisted, 'it wouldn't take much for the police to start thinking you're the person best placed to help the murderer. You're probably the only one who could have told him the time and place to find a circle that would suit his plan to kill someone. Worse still, you could even become a murder suspect yourself. With your bad habits, Mathilde, you're going to be in deep trouble.'

Mathilde laughed. She ordered several dishes. She really was hungry.

'Well, that's just fine,' said Mathilde. 'Strange things happen to me all the time. It's my fate. So one more or less isn't going to make any difference. The night of the Dodin Bouffant was surely in a section two of the week, and I must have had too much to drink and talked a lot of nonsense. I don't remember a lot about that evening, to be honest. You'll see Adamsberg will understand, he won't go chasing the impossible all over the world.'

'I think you're underestimating him, Mathilde.'

'I don't think I am.'

'Yes, you are. Plenty of people underestimate him, though probably not Danglard, and certainly not me. I know, Mathilde, Adamsberg has this voice that lulls you to sleep, it charms you and makes you drop your guard, but he never relaxes at all. His voice has distant pictures and vague thoughts in it, but it's leading inexorably to some conclusion, although he may be the last to suspect that himself.'

'Have you finished? Is it all right if I eat my lunch?'

'Of course. But listen to what I'm saying: Adamsberg doesn't attack, but he transforms you, he weaves his way round you, he comes at you from behind, he leads you on, and in the end he disarms you. He can't be caught out and tracked down, not even by you, Queen Mathilde. He'll always get away, because of his gentleness and his sudden indifference. So to you or me or anyone else, he can be a good thing or a bad thing, like the sun in spring. It all depends how you expose yourself to it. And for a murderer he'd be a formidable enemy you ought to realise that. If I'd killed someone I'd prefer to have a cop chasing me whose reactions I could predict, not one who's as hard to grasp as water, then suddenly turns to stone. He flows like a stream, he resists like a rock, he's on his way to his destination, the estuary. And a murderer could easily drown in that.'

'A destination? An estuary? Don't be silly, that's ridiculous,' said Mathilde.

'Maybe his destination is the lever that lifts up the whole blasted world. Or the blasted eye of the blasted cyclone another eye for you, Mathilde. Or some outpost of the universe where knowledge exists, in the mists of eternity. Ever thought of that, Mathilde?'

Mathilde had stopped eating.

'You really impress me, Charles. You come out with all this stuff like a book, but you just listened to him for an hour this morning.'

'I've developed the sense instincts of a dog,' said Charles bitterly. 'A dog that hears what people don't hear, and smells what they can't smell. Some wretched hound that will travel a thousand kilometres as the crow flies, just to get back home. So I go about things a different way from Adamsberg, but I've got some knowledge too. That's all we have in common. I believe I'm the most intelligent person on the planet, and my voice is like a metal-cutter. It slices things up, it twists them and my brain operates like a machine, sorting out data. And for me there are no destinations or estuaries any more. I don't have the strength or purity now even to imagine that cyclones have eyes. I've given up all that, I'm too tempted by the nasty little tricks and ways I can find every day to compensate for what I can't do. But Adamsberg doesn't need any distractions in order to stay alive, do you understand what I'm saying? He just gets on with his life, letting it all swill about, big ideas and little details, impressions and realities, thoughts and words. He combines the belief of a child with the philosophy of an old man. But he's real and he's dangerous.'