The Chalk Circle Man Part 16

'You didn't listen,' Adamsberg said. 'I said Clemence Valmont, domiciled in Neuilly-sur-Seine. Not domiciled in the rue des Patriarches.'

'So what do you mean?' asked Castreau. 'Are there two of them? Two people with the same name? Or twins?'

Adamsberg shook his head, swirling the cognac round the bottom of the cup.

'There was only ever one,' he said. 'Clemence Valmont who lived in Neuilly and who was murdered five or six months ago. That's her,' he said, jerking his chin at the grave. 'And then there was someone else who had been living for two months at Mathilde Forestier's house in the rue des Patriarches, under the name of Clemence Valmont. Someone who had killed Clemence Valmont.'

'But who?' asked Delille.

Adamsberg glanced at Danglard before replying, as if to apologise.

'A man,' he said. 'The chalk circle man.'

They had moved away from the open grave, so as to breathe more freely. Two men took it in turns to do the work. They were now waiting for the technical team to arrive, and the local commissaire from Nevers. Adamsberg had sat down with Castreau beside the van, and Danglard had gone for a walk.

He walked around for half an hour, letting the sun warm his back and restore his lost strength. So the shrew-mouse had been the chalk circle man. The same man who had cut the throats in turn of Clemence Valmont, Madeleine Chtelain, Gerard Pontieux and finally his own wife. Inside his rat-like brain, he had worked out his infernal plan. First of all the circles. Plenty of circles. Everyone thought they were the work of a lunatic. A pathetic maniac who was exploited by a killer. Everything had happened the way he had planned. He had been arrested, and ended up confessing to his mania for doing circles. Just as he had planned. Then he had been released, and everyone had gone chasing after Clemence. The guilty party he had been grooming. Clemence, who had been dead for months, and whom they would have gone on searching for indefinitely, until they had to abandon the case as unsolved. Danglard frowned. Too many things seemed inexplicable.

He rejoined the commissaire who was silently munching some bread with Castreau, both of them seated at the edge of the track. Castreau was trying to attract a hen blackbird with a few breadcrumbs.

'Why is it,' Castreau was saying, 'that the females are always duller-looking than the males? Hen birds are all brown or beige, or some other boring colour. As if they couldn't care less. But the males are red and green and gold. Why on earth should that be? It looks the wrong way round.'

'What they say is,' said Adamsberg, 'that the males need to make all that fuss to attract a mate. They have to keep on inventing stuff. I don't know if you've noticed that, Castreau. All the time, inventing new stuff. Exhausting.'

The hen blackbird flew off.

'Well, the female's got enough to do, inventing eggs and bringing them up, hasn't she?' said Delille.

'Like me,' said Danglard. 'I must be a hen blackbird. My eggs give me plenty of headaches, especially the youngest one, who was dumped on me, like a cuckoo in the nest.'

'Ah, but hold on,' said Castreau. 'You don't wear brown and beige.'

'Anyway, for G.o.d's sake,' said Danglard, 'ornithology is beside the point. You won't understand people by observing birds. Birds are b.l.o.o.d.y birds, that's all there is to it. So why are we talking about them when we've got a corpse here and we don't understand the first thing about what's going on? At least I don't. But perhaps you all know everything about everything?'

Danglard was aware that he was going too far, and in other circ.u.mstances would have defended a more moderate point of view. But he wasn't feeling strong enough for that this morning.

'You'll have to forgive me for not keeping you filled in on everything,' Adamsberg said to Danglard. 'But until this morning I really wasn't sure of myself. I didn't want to take you off on a wild-goose chase just because I had a sort of hunch, which you would have torn to pieces by applying reason to it. Your cast-iron reasoning influences me, Danglard, and I didn't want to take the risk of being influenced until this morning. Or I might have lost the scent.'

'The scent of rotten apples?'

'Well, in particular the scent of the circles. Those circles that I really hated. I hated them even more when Vercors-Laury confirmed that we weren't dealing with some authentic compulsion. Worse, there was no sign of obsession at all. Nothing about the circles indicated a genuine obsession. The whole thing just looked like an obsession, like the conventional idea someone might have about it. For instance, Danglard, it was you who pointed out that the man varied his technique: sometimes he drew the circle in a single line, but other times in two pieces, or even an oval. Would a real maniac have tolerated such sloppiness, do you think? A real obsessive sets out his little world very precisely, to the millimetre. Otherwise there's no point having an obsession at all. An obsession is a way of organising the world, to bring it under control, to possess the impossible, so as to protect yourself from it. So a lot of circles like that, on any old date, with any old object in them, without any pattern to the place or the technique, could only be a fake obsession. And the oval circle in the rue Bertholet, around Delphine Le Nermord, was a big mistake.'

'How do you mean?' asked Castreau. 'Oh look, here's the male now, yellow beak!'

'The circle was oval, because the pavement was so narrow. Any self-respecting maniac wouldn't have been able to cope with that. He'd have gone three streets up, simply to draw his circle. So if the circle was there, in this street, it was because it had to be, halfway between the two beats of the policemen, and in a dark street where the murder could take place. And the circle was oval, because there was no way of killing Delphine Le Nermord anywhere else on the boulevard, for instance. Too many cops wandering about, as I said, Danglard. He had to take cover, and kill in a safe place. So too bad about the circle, it would have to be an oval. That's a dramatic mistake for a so-called maniac.'

'Did you realise that night that the circle man was the killer?'

'Well, I did know at least that the circles had something wrong with them. Fake circles.'

'Well, he certainly put on a cla.s.s act, Le Nermord, didn't he? He had me round his little finger, with his tears, his panic, his collapse, and then his confession, finally getting me to think he was innocent. All complete bulls.h.i.t.'

'Yes, he did it very well. He shook you, Danglard. Even the examining magistrate, who isn't a soft touch at all, thought it was impossible that he could be guilty. Killing his wife in one of his own circles just made no sense. So we had no choice but to let him go, and after that we went wherever he wanted us to. He led us by the nose to the murderer he had invented, poor old Clemence. And I was no different. I just went along with it.'

'Now the male's brought a present for the hen,' said Castreau. 'A little strip of tinfoil.'

'Aren't you interested in what we're talking about?' asked Danglard.

'Yes, but I don't want to seem too interested because it makes me feel like an idiot. You didn't take any notice of me, but I was thinking about this case too. The only thing I thought was that Le Nermord was a bit creepy. But I didn't get any further than that. I looked for Clemence like the rest of us.'

'Clemence!' said Adamsberg. 'He must have taken some time to find her. He had to find someone of roughly his own age and build, someone inconspicuous, and sufficiently isolated from other people that her disappearance would go unnoticed. This elderly Mademoiselle Valmont in Neuilly was just the job, a lonely old lady, obsessively answering small ads from the paper. He just had to answer one, charm her, promise her the moon, convince her to sell up and go off with him, with her two suitcases it wasn't too difficult. Clemence told no one but her neighbours. But since they weren't close friends they weren't too bothered about her adventure, they just had a good laugh about it. n.o.body had ever seen the famous new fiance. And the poor old soul turned up at the rendezvous.'

'Ah,' said Castreau. 'Here comes another male now. What's he want? The female's looking at him, there's going to be a fight. Oh-oh, here we go.'

'So he killed her,' said Danglard. 'Then he brought her all this way to bury her. Why here? Where is this?'

Adamsberg stretched a weary arm out to his left.

'If you're going to bury someone, you have to know a quiet spot. The lodge in the forest is the Le Nermords' country house.'

Danglard looked through the trees at the distant house. Yes, Le Nermord had certainly made a fool of him.

'After that,' Danglard went on, 'he disguised himself as Clemence. Easy enough, he had her two suitcases.'

'Carry on, Danglard, I leave it to you now.'

'Now the hen blackbird's flying away,' said Castreau. 'She's dropped the tinfoil. Waste of time bringing her presents. No, she's coming back.'

'He went to lodge with Mathilde,' said Danglard. 'This woman had been following him. She worried him. He had to keep an eye on Mathilde, and then use her. The empty flat was a stroke of luck. If there was a problem, Mathilde would be a perfect witness: she knew the circle man and she knew Clemence. She believed they were two different people and he worked hard to convince her of that. How did he manage the teeth, though?'

'Well, it was you who remarked on the noise he made with his pipe against his teeth.'

'Yes. Ah, dentures, of course. He must have filed down an old set. What about the eyes, though? He's got blue eyes. Clemence's were brown. Oh, contact lenses! Yes, tinted contact lenses. Beret, gloves, she was always wearing gloves. But the transformation must have taken a bit of time and a lot of trouble, in fact quite a bit of artistry. And how could he leave his own house dressed as an old woman? One of his neighbours might have seen him. Where did he change?'

'He changed somewhere on the way. He left his house as a man and arrived in the rue des Patriarches as a woman. And vice versa, of course.'

'So where did he do it? Some abandoned house, a workman's hut perhaps, where he could change and leave the clothes?'

'Something like that. We'll have to find it. He'll have to tell us.'

'A workman's hut, that makes sense, with bits of rotten food left behind, old wine bottles, a mildewy sort of enclosed s.p.a.ce. Was that it, the smell? The smell of rotten apples that hung about his clothes? But why didn't Clemence's clothes smell the same, then?'

'Her clothes were very light. He could keep them on under his suit, and he put the beret and gloves in his briefcase. But he couldn't keep his man's clothes under Clemence's, of course. So he had to leave them behind.'

'My G.o.d, what a carry-on! Think of the organisation.'

'For some people, organisation is delicious in itself. This was a sophisticated murder, one that meant months of preparatory work. He started doing his circles more than four months before we found the first victim. This kind of Byzantine scholar wouldn't be put off by hours and hours of meticulous preparation, working it out. I'm sure he enjoyed it all immensely. For instance, the idea of using Gerard Pontieux to make us start running after Clemence. The kind of imbroglio he must have relished. And the drop of blood deposited in Clemence's flat, the finishing touch before she disappeared.'

'But, Christ Almighty, where is he now?'

'He's gone into town. He'll be back at lunchtime. There's no hurry, he's completely sure of himself. A plan as complicated as this couldn't go wrong. But he didn't know about the fashion magazine. His Delphie was taking some liberties that she didn't tell him about.'

'The smaller male has won,' said Castreau. 'I'm going to give him some bread. He's worked hard for it.'

Adamsberg looked up. The lab team was arriving. Conti got down from the truck with all his paraphernalia.

'You'll see,' said Danglard, greeting Conti. 'No hairpins this time. But the same guy did it.'

'And we're going after him now', said Adamsberg, standing up.

XXI.

AUGUSTIN-LOUIS LE NERMORD'S HOUSE WAS AN OLD AND RATHER ramshackle hunting lodge. Over the front door was nailed the skull of a stag.

'Jolly place!' said Danglard.

'Ah, jolly's not the word that comes to mind, is it?' said Adamsberg. 'He's got a taste for death. Reyer told me that about Clemence. The most important thing he told me was that she talked like a man.'

'See if I care,' said Castreau. 'Look at this.'

He proudly displayed the hen blackbird, who was now sitting on his shoulder.

'Ever seen that before? A tame blackbird, and she's chosen me.'

Castreau laughed.

'I'm going to call her Breadcrumb,' he said. 'Daft, isn't it? Do you think she'll stay?'

Adamsberg rang the doorbell. They heard the sound of slippers approaching unhurriedly in the corridor. Le Nermord clearly suspected nothing. When he opened the door, Danglard had a different take on his washed-out blue eyes, and his pale skin marked with liver spots.

'I was just about to eat,' said Le Nermord. 'What's happened?'

'It's all over, monsieur,' said Adamsberg. 'These things happen.'

He put a hand on the professor's shoulder.

'You're hurting me,' said Le Nermord, recoiling.

'Come with us, please,' said Castreau. 'You're charged with four murders.'

The blackbird was still sitting on his shoulder as he took Le Nermord's wrists and slipped the handcuffs over them. In the past, under his former boss, Castreau used to boast that he could cuff a suspect before they had time to notice. In this case, he said nothing.

Danglard had not taken his stare off the circle man. And he seemed now to understand what Adamsberg had meant with his story of the drooling dog. The identification of cruelty. It seemed to seep from every pore. The chalk circle man had become terrible to see in the s.p.a.ce of a minute. Even more ghastly than the corpse in the grave.

XXII.

BY EVENING, EVERYONE WAS BACK IN PARIS. THERE WAS AN atmosphere of overwork and excitement in the station. The chalk circle man, being held down on a chair by Declerc and Margellon, was spitting out a stream of foul language.

'Hear him?' Danglard asked Adamsberg as he went into the commissaire's office.

For once, Adamsberg wasn't doodling. He was finishing off his report to the examining magistrate, standing up.

'Yes, I hear him,' said Adamsberg.

'He wants to cut your throat.'

'Yes, I know, mon vieux. You ought to call Mathilde Forestier. She'll want to know what happened to the shrew-mouse it's understandable.'

Delighted with his task, Danglard went out to phone.

'She's not there,' he reported on his return. 'I just got Reyer. He gets on my nerves, Reyer does, he's in her flat all the time. Mathilde has gone to see someone off on the nine o'clock train from the Gare du Nord. He thinks she'll be back right away. He said she wasn't feeling too good, there was a break in her voice, and perhaps we should go round later to have a drink and cheer her up. But how would we cheer her up?'

Adamsberg was staring hard at Danglard.

'What's the time?' he asked.

'Twenty past eight. Why?'

Adamsberg s.n.a.t.c.hed up his jacket and ran out of the room. Danglard had time to hear him call over his shoulder, telling him to check the report while he was away and that he'd be back.

Adamsberg ran down the street, trying to find a taxi.

He managed to reach the Gare du Nord by a quarter to nine. Still running, he went in through the main entrance, reaching for a cigarette at the same time. He b.u.mped into Mathilde coming out.

'Quick, Mathilde, quick! She's going away, isn't she? Don't lie to me, for G.o.d's sake! I know she's here! What platform? Tell me what platform!'

Mathilde looked at him in silence.

'What platform?' shouted Adamsberg.

'h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation, Adamsberg!' said Mathilde. 'Go away, get lost. If it wasn't for you, perhaps she wouldn't keep running off all the time.'

'You don't know her! She's just like that! The platform, for G.o.d's sake!'