The Chalk Circle Man (13 page)

‘It’s Friday today. It’s a safe bet there won’t be anything over the weekend. I get the impression that the circle man doesn’t venture out on Saturdays or Sundays. He keeps to regular habits. And if the murderer is someone different, he’ll have to wait as well, until there’s another circle. Just out of interest, does Reyer have an alibi for last night?’

‘Same as ever. He was in bed asleep. No witness. Everyone in that house was asleep. And there’s no concierge to spot them coming and going. There are fewer and fewer concierges every day in Paris – bad news for us.’

‘Mathilde Forestier called me just now. She’d heard about the murder on the radio and sounded shocked.’

‘So she says,’ muttered Danglard.

XIII

T
HEN NOTHING HAPPENED FOR SEVERAL DAYS
. A
DAMSBERG
started inviting his downstairs neighbour into his bed again. Danglard lapsed into his usual procedures for lazy June afternoons. Only the press was agitating. A dozen or so journalists were working shifts to keep up a presence outside the station.

On the Wednesday, Danglard was the first to crack.

‘He’s got us where he wants us,’ he burst out angrily. ‘We can’t do anything, there’s nothing to find, no evidence. We’re hanging about like zombies, waiting for him to invent a new trick for us. Nothing to be done until there’s another circle. It’s enough to drive you mad. It’s enough to drive
me
mad, anyway,’ he corrected himself, after glancing over at Adamsberg.

‘Tomorrow,’ said Adamsberg.

‘Tomorrow what?’

‘Tomorrow morning, there’ll be another circle, Danglard.’

‘You’re a fortune-teller now, are you?’

‘We won’t go over this again, we’ve already talked about it. The chalk circle man has a programme. And, as Vercors-Laury says, he needs to exhibit his thoughts. He won’t let a whole week go by without showing up somewhere. Especially since the press is full of stories about him. But if he draws a circle tonight, Danglard, we’d better be afraid that there’ll be another murder in the night between Thursday and Friday. This time, we must have as many men out on patrol as possible, at least in the 5th, 6th and 14th
arrondissements
.’

‘But why? The killer’s under no pressure to hurry. And so far he hasn’t shown any sign of it.’

‘It’s different now. Trust me, Danglard. If the circle man
is
the murderer, and he starts drawing circles again, that’s because he means to kill again. But he knows he has to move more quickly now. Three witnesses have already described him, not counting Mathilde Forestier. We’ll soon be able to construct an identikit picture. He’s following what we’re doing by reading the newspapers. He knows he hasn’t got much longer. So he wants to finish what he’s started, and he can’t hang about any more.’

‘And what if the killer isn’t the chalk circle man?’

‘Doesn’t change anything. He can’t count on things lasting for ever, either. His circle man, panicking because of the two crimes, put an end to his games earlier than expected. So he has to hurry before the maniac stops drawing.’

‘Possible, I suppose,’ said Danglard.

‘Very possible,
mon vieux
.’

Danglard spent a restless night. How could Adamsberg be waiting so unhurriedly and where did he get his predictions of the future from? He never seemed to be tied down by tedious facts. He read all the files that Danglard had prepared for him on the victims and suspects, but made little comment on them. He was following some vague scent in the air. Why did he appear to think it so significant that the second victim was a man? Because it meant ruling out a sexual motive for the crimes?

That wouldn’t surprise Danglard. He had supposed for a long time that someone was using the chalk circle man for some precise purpose. But neither the Châtelain nor the Pontieux murder seemed to have been of particular benefit to anyone. They merely encouraged the idea of a psychopathic serial killer. Was that the reason they would have to wait for another death? But why did Adamsberg keep concentrating on the chalk circle man? And why had he called Danglard ‘mon vieux’? Worn out with tossing and turning in bed in the hot June night, Danglard considered the refreshing possibility of going to the kitchen to finish off the wine. In front of the children, he always took care to leave a little in the bottle. But Arlette would notice next morning that he had been at it in the night. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time. She would pull a face and say ‘Adrien,’ (she often called him Adrien) ‘you’re an old boozer.’ But he was hesitating above all because drinking late at night would give him a hellish headache when he woke up, as if he were being scalped and all his joints were being unscrewed, whereas he needed to be in good shape in the morning. In case there was another circle. And to help organise the patrols for the next evening, which would be the night of the crime. It was infuriating to allow himself to be ruled by Adamsberg’s vague hunches. But it was easier in the end than fighting against them.

Then the man drew another circle. At the far end of Paris, in a small street, the rue Marietta-Martin in the 16th
arrondissement
. The local police station took some time to let them know. Since their district had seen no blue chalk circles before, the authorities had not been particularly alert to them.

‘Why in a new area?’ Danglard wondered.

‘ To show us that after hanging around the Pantheon district, he isn’t the kind of man to be enclosed in routine and that, murder or no murder, he’s still got his freedom and his power to cover the entire territory of the capital. Or something like that,’ Adamsberg murmured.

‘Buggering us up,’ said Danglard, pressing a finger to his brow.

He hadn’t been able to resist after all, the night before: he’d finished the bottle and had even started another. The iron bar that now seemed to be hammering the inside of his head had almost deprived him of his eyesight. And the most worrying thing of all was that Arlette had said nothing at breakfast. But Arlette knew that he had worries at present, what with his almost empty bank account, the impossible investigation he was engaged in, and the unsettling character of his new boss. Perhaps she didn’t want to upset him any further. But that meant that she hadn’t realised that Danglard actually liked to hear her say ‘Adrien, you’re an old boozer.’ Because at that moment, he was certain of being loved. A simple but genuine sensation.

In the middle of the circle, this time drawn in a single movement, there lay a red plastic object: the rose of a watering can.

‘It must have fallen from the balcony up there,’ said Danglard, looking up. ‘Goes back to the ark, this kind of rose. And why choose it anyway, and not that cigarette packet, for instance?’

‘You’ve seen the list, Danglard. He takes care to pick objects that won’t blow away. No metro tickets, paper handkerchiefs, or cellophane wrappers, anything the wind could carry off in the night. He wants to be sure that the thing in the circle will still be there next morning. Which makes me think he’s more concerned with the image of himself he’s projecting than with “revitalising inanimate objects,” as Vercors-Laury would have it. Otherwise he wouldn’t rule out flimsy items that are just as significant as any he’s used if he’s really concerned with the “metaphorical renaissance of the pavement”. But the way the chalk circle man looks at it, a circle found empty in the morning would be an insult to his creativity.’

‘This time,’ Danglard said, ‘there’ll be no witnesses. It’s a quiet spot with no cinema or café that might be open late. People go to bed early round here. He’s becoming more discreet now, the circle man.’

For the rest of the morning, Danglard tried to stay quietly applying pressure to his head. After lunch, he felt a little better. He was able to spend all afternoon with Adamsberg organising the extra officers who were being asked to patrol Paris that night. Danglard shook his head, wondering what the point of all this was. But he recognised that Adamsberg had been right about that morning’s circle.

By about eight o’clock, everything was in position. The area of the city was so immense, of course, that the network of surveillance was stretched very wide.

‘If he’s cunning,’ Adamsberg said, ‘he’ll slip through the mesh, obviously. And we know he’s cunning.’

‘Given where we are now, perhaps we should keep an eye on Mathilde Forestier’s house?’ Danglard suggested.

‘Yes,’Adamsberg replied, ‘but for heaven’s sake have the surveillance people stay out of sight.’

He waited for Danglard to leave the room before he called Mathilde. He simply asked her to stay in that evening and on no account to try any escapades or to follow anyone.

‘Just do me a favour,’ he said. ‘Don’t try to understand. Is Reyer home?’

‘Probably,’ said Mathilde. ‘I’m not his keeper, I don’t watch his comings and goings.’

‘And Clémence?’

‘No, as usual Clémence went trotting off to meet one of her lonely hearts. It never comes to anything. Either she sits waiting in a café for someone who doesn’t turn up, or else the minute the guy sees her he pushes off fast. Either way, she gets back in tears. It’s completely ridiculous. She shouldn’t do this sort of thing in the evening, it just depresses her.’

‘OK. Just stay at home till tomorrow, Madame Forestier.’

‘Are you afraid that something’s going to happen?’

‘I don’t know,’ Adamsberg replied.

‘As per usual,’ said Mathilde.

Adamsberg decided to stay in the station overnight. Danglard chose to stay with him. The
commissaire
was silently scribbling away, with a pad on his knee, his legs outstretched and resting on the waste-paper basket. Danglard was chewing at some ancient toffees he’d found in Florence’s desk, to try to stop himself drinking.

A uniformed policeman was walking up and down the boulevard du Port-Royal beween the little station building at the top of the boulevard Saint-Michel, and the corner of the rue Bertholet. His colleague was doing the same thing from the Gobelins end.

Since ten that evening, he had paced up and down his beat eleven times and couldn’t stop himself counting, although it annoyed him. But what else was there to do? For an hour now, there had been few passers-by on the boulevard. It was early July and Paris was starting to empty for the holidays.

Just then a young woman in a leather jacket went past, walking a little uncertainly. She had a pretty face and was probably on her way home. It was about quarter past one, and the policeman wanted to tell her to hurry up. She looked vulnerable, and he felt concerned for her. He ran after her.

‘Mademoiselle, are you going far?’

‘No, just to the Raspail metro station.’

‘Raspail, oh that’s a bit far,’ the policeman said. ‘Perhaps I’ll just see you down the street. There isn’t another man on duty before Vavin.’

The girl had short bobbed hair. Her jawline was clear and attractive. No, he certainly didn’t want anyone to touch that throat. But this girl looked quite untroubled. She seemed perfectly at home in the city by night.

The girl lit a cigarette. She didn’t seem too comfortable in his company.

‘What is it? Is something happening?’ she asked.

‘Apparently it’s not safe tonight. I’ll just walk you some of the way.’

‘If you like,’ she replied. But it was clear that she would have preferred to be alone and they walked along in silence.

A few minutes later, the policeman left her at the corner and came back towards the little Port-Royal station. He started off back along the boulevard towards the rue Bertholet. Twelfth time. By talking to the young woman and walking along with her, he’d lost about ten minutes. But it seemed to him that was part of his job.

Ten minutes. But it had been enough. As he glanced down the length of the rue Bertholet, he saw a long shape on the pavement.

Oh no, he thought despairingly. My bad luck.

He broke into a run. Perhaps it was just a roll of carpet. But no, a stream of blood was trickling towards him. He touched the arm outstretched on the ground. Still warm. It must have just happened. A woman.

His radio crackled. He contacted his colleagues at the Gobelins, Vavin, Saint-Jacques, Cochin, Raspail and Denfert, asking them to pass the news on, not to leave their post and to stop anyone they saw. But if the murderer had been in a car, for instance, he would have got away. The policeman didn’t feel guilty for having left his beat to accompany the young woman. Possibly he had saved the life of the girl with the beautiful jawline.

But he hadn’t been able to save this woman. Sometimes a life could hang by a thread. There was nothing of the victim’s jawline to see. Standing there alone, and feeling revolted, the policeman directed his torch away from the corpse, alerted his superiors and waited, his hand on his pistol. It had been a long time since he had been so distressed by the night.

When the phone rang, Adamsberg looked up at Danglard but didn’t give a start.

‘Here we go,’ he said.

Picking up the telephone, he bit his lip.

‘Where? Say that again,’ he said after a minute. ‘Rue Bertholet? But the 5th should be crawling with men. There should have been four along the boulevard Port-Royal alone. What the devil’s happened?’

Adamsberg’s voice had risen in pitch. He plugged in the earpiece so that Danglard could hear what the young policeman was saying.

‘There were just the two of us on Port-Royal, sir. There was an accident at the Bonne-Nouvelle metro, two trains collided at about eleven-fifteen. No serious casualties, but we had to send some men over.’

‘But they should have taken men from the outer districts and sent more to the 5th! I gave explicit instructions that the 5th was to be closely patrolled! I ordered it!’

‘Sorry, sir, I can’t do anything about that. I didn’t get any instructions.’

It was the first time that Danglard had seen Adamsberg almost beside himself with rage. It was true that they had heard about the accident at Bonne-Nouvelle, but both of them had assumed that nobody would be called away from the 5th or the 14th. Some counter-order must have gone out, or perhaps the network Adamsberg had asked for had not been thought so indispensable by someone higher up.

‘Well, anyway,’ said Adamsberg, with a shake of his head, ‘he would have struck, sooner or later. In this street or that, he’d have managed to do it in the end. This man’s a monster. We couldn’t have prevented it – no use getting worked up. Come on, Danglard, we’d better get over there.’

Over there they found flashing lights, arc lamps, a stretcher, and the police doctor, all for the third time surrounding a body whose throat had been cut, lying inside a blue chalk circle.

‘Victor, woe’s in store …’ muttered Adamsberg.

He looked at the latest victim.

‘Slashed as viciously as the other one,’ the doctor said. ‘The killer really went for the cervical vertebrae. The weapon wasn’t sharp enough to cut through them, but that was the intention.’