DANGLARD LEFT HOME NEXT MORNING WITH A BOOK BY Le Nermord under his arm: Ideology and Society under Justinian, published eleven years earlier. It was the only one he could find on his shelves. On the back cover there was a short and flattering biography of the author, accompanied by a photograph. A younger Le Nermord was smiling at the camera. He was no better-looking than at present, without any particularly remarkable features unless you counted regular teeth. The day before, Danglard had noticed that like most pipe-smokers Le Nermord had a tic of tapping the stem against his teeth. A ba.n.a.l remark, as Charles Reyer would have said.

Adamsberg wasn't there. He must already have gone to interview Delphie's lover. Danglard put the book on the commissaire's desk, conscious that he was hoping to impress his boss with the contents of his personal bookshelves. Pointlessly, since he now knew that very few things impressed Adamsberg. Too bad.

Danglard had one aim in his head this morning: to find out what had happened at Mathilde's house during the night. Margellon, who was good at surviving night watches, was waiting for him, ready with his report before going home to bed.

'There were a few comings and goings,' Margellon said. 'I stayed opposite the house until seven-thirty this morning as agreed. The Fish Lady didn't go out. She put the lights off in her sitting room at about half past midnight and her bedroom light about half an hour after that. But that old Valmont creature came staggering in at five past three. She reeked of drink, the works. When I asked what had happened, she started snivelling. Pathetic old bag, isn't she? Anyway, I gathered she'd been waiting all evening for her date well, she called him her fiance to turn up in some bar. He didn't come, so she drank to cheer herself up and pa.s.sed out at the table. The barman woke her up to chuck her out at closing time. I think she was ashamed, but she was too drunk to stop talking. I couldn't get the name of the bar. It was hard enough getting any sense out of her. And anyway, she gives me the creeps. I helped her as far as the door and left her to sort herself out. Then this morning, out she trots with her little suitcase. She recognised me right away, didn't seem surprised, and told me she was "fed up with trying newspaper ads" and was going off for a few days in the country with some pal of hers, a dressmaker in the Berry. Dressmaking, that's a safer bet, she said.'

'What about Reyer? Did he go out?'

'Yes, he did. He went out dressed up to the nines at about eleven, and came back looking just as spruce, tapping his stick, at one-thirty. I could talk to Clemence because she doesn't know me, but that's not on with Reyer, because he knows my voice. So I stayed undercover and just noted the times. In any case, no way he'd have spotted me, would he?'

Margellon laughed. Yes, he was silly, Danglard thought.

'Call him on the phone for me, Margellon.'

'Who, Reyer?'

'Yes, of course Reyer.'

Charles chuckled when he heard Danglard's voice, though Danglard failed to see why.

'Ha, well now,' said Charles, 'the radio says you've got another problem on your hands, Inspecteur Danglard. Brilliant! And you're still hara.s.sing me? No other leads in the case?'

'Where did you go last night, Reyer?'

'I went out to see if I could pick up a girl, inspecteur.'

'Where?'

'At the Nouveau Palais.'

'Can anyone back that up for you?'

'Nope! Too many people in these nightclubs for anyone to remember faces, you must know that.'

'What's so funny, Reyer?'

'You! Your phone call. Makes me laugh. My dear Mathilde, who can't keep her mouth shut, informed me that your commissaire told her to be sure and stay in last night. I guessed from that that you thought something might happen. So I decided it was an excellent moment to go out.'

'Why the h.e.l.l did you have to do that? Do you think it makes my life any easier?'

'That wasn't what I had in mind at all, inspecteur. You've been b.u.g.g.e.ring me about since the start of this business. I thought it was my turn to have a go.'

'Right. So in fact you went out just to b.u.g.g.e.r us up?'

'Pretty much, yes, because I didn't manage to pick up any girls. But I'm glad to learn you're b.u.g.g.e.red up. Very glad got that?'

'But why?' Danglard asked once more.

'Because it's being so cheerful that keeps me going.'

Danglard hung up, feeling furious. Apart from Mathilde Forestier, n.o.body had stayed put in the house in the rue des Patriarches the previous night. He sent Margellon home and tackled Delphine Le Nermord's will. He wanted to check what she had left her sister. Two hours later, he had learned that there didn't seem to be a will, at least not in writing. There are days like that when you can't pin anything down.

Danglard paced up and down in his office and thought once more about how the f.u.c.king sun was going to explode in four or five billion years, and he didn't know why but that always depressed him. He would have given his life to be sure that the sun would still be shining in five billion years.

Adamsberg returned at about midday and suggested going out for lunch. This didn't happen often.

'Well, it's not looking at all good for our Byzantine expert,' Danglard said. 'He was wrong about the inheritance, or else he was lying. There's no written will. So it all goes to the husband. There are some shares, some forest land, and four houses in Paris, besides the one he lives in. He doesn't have any capital, just his professor's salary and royalties from his books. So if the wife was thinking of divorcing him, all that property would go to someone else.'

'Yes, that's right, she was, Danglard. I met the lover. He's the guy in the photo, all right. It's true that he's built like Tarzan, but he doesn't have an awful lot upstairs. He's a herbivore, what's more, and proud of it.'

'Vegetarian, I suppose you mean,' suggested Danglard.

'All right, yes, vegetarian. He runs an advertising agency with his brother, he's a vegetarian too. They were working together last night until two in the morning, round at the brother's. The brother confirms it. So the lover's in the clear unless of course the brother's lying. But the lover does seem very upset at Delphine's death. He was pressing her to divorce, not that Le Nermord bothered him, but to rescue Delphine from what he called her husband's tyranny. Apparently Augustin-Louis was still getting her to work for him, typing and proof-reading his ma.n.u.scripts, and filing his notes, and she didn't dare say no. She claimed that she didn't mind, because "it gave her brain a bit of exercise," but the lover thinks it wasn't really what she wanted, and that she was scared stiff of her husband. But Delphine had practically decided to ask for a divorce. At least, she wanted to discuss it with Augustin-Louis. We don't know whether she did or not. Well, it's clear enough that the two men hate each other. The lover would like to see Le Nermord come a cropper.'

'It could all be true, though,' said Danglard.

'Yes, I agree.'

'Le Nermord hasn't got an alibi for any of the nights of the murders. If he wanted to get rid of his wife before she tried to break free, he might have seized the opportunity given him by the chalk circle man. He's not brave, he told us that. Not the type to take a risk. So in order to incriminate the madman, he murders two people at random to make it look like a serial killer, then he kills his wife. All sorted. The cops go after the circle man, and he gets his wife's money.'

'It looks a bit obvious, though, doesn't it? Does he take the police for idiots?'

'For one thing, there are as many idiots in the police as anywhere else. And for another, someone of limited intelligence might come up with an idea like that. I agree, he doesn't look like someone of limited intelligence. But clever people can sometimes act stupid. It happens. Especially when the pa.s.sions are involved. What about Delphine Le Nermord, though? What was she doing out at night?'

'The lover says she was supposed to be home all evening. When he got in, late, he was surprised not to find her there. He thought perhaps she had gone for cigarettes to a late-night tobacconist in the rue Bertholet, because she often nipped out like that. Then, later, he thought perhaps her husband had called her over to do something for him, yet again. But he didn't dare phone Le Nermord, so he went to bed. I woke him up when I went round there this morning.'

'Le Nermord could have found the circle at about midnight. He could have telephoned his wife, and then cut her throat there. I think Le Nermord's looking very bad. What do you think?'

Adamsberg was scattering breadcrumbs round his plate. Danglard, who was a careful eater, found this irritating.

'What do I think?' said Adamsberg, raising his head. 'I'm thinking about the chalk circle man. You should be starting to guess that by now, Danglard.'

XV.

AUGUSTIN-LOUIS LE NERMORD WAS BEING HELD FOR QUESTIONING, starting on the Monday morning. Danglard had made it very plain to him that he was regarded as a prime suspect.

Adamsberg let Danglard handle the questions: Danglard pursued his course mercilessly. The old man seemed incapable of defending himself. Anything he said was immediately pounced on by Danglard's incisive objections. But it was also clear to Adamsberg that Danglard had some sympathy for his victim.

Adamsberg felt nothing of the kind. He had taken an instant dislike to Le Nermord, and he certainly didn't want Danglard to ask him why. So he said nothing.

Danglard kept the questions going for several days.

From time to time, Adamsberg would go into Danglard's office and watch. Driven into a corner, frightened to death by the accusations against him, the old man was visibly falling to pieces. He couldn't even reply to the simplest questions. No, he didn't know that Delphie had never made a written will. He had always thought everything would go to her sister Claire. He was fond of Claire, she was on her own with three children and had a hard life. No, he didn't know what he had been doing on the nights of the murders. He supposed he had been working, then had gone to bed, as he did every night. Danglard contradicted him icily. On the night Madeleine Chtelain had been killed, the local pharmacist had been open late, since it was her turn on the rota. She had seen him going out. Le Nermord explained that yes, that was possible, because he sometimes went out for cigarettes from the machine: 'I take the paper off and use the tobacco in my pipe. Delphie and I both smoked a lot. She was trying to give it up, but I wasn't. I was too lonely in that big house.'

And he would gesture helplessly, and collapse in a heap, while trying all the same to maintain some presence. Not much was left of the eminent professor at the College de France, just an old man who seemed at his wits' end, who was desperately trying to fight off an apparently inevitable condemnation. A thousand times or more he repeated: 'But how could it have been me? I loved Delphie.'

Danglard, increasingly shaken himself, kept up his barrage, sparing Le Nermord none of the small details which incriminated him. He had even allowed some information to leak out to the press, which had headlined it. The old man had hardly touched any of the food he was brought, in spite of encouragement from Margellon, who could be kind-hearted when he wanted to be. Le Nermord had not shaved either, even when he was allowed home overnight. What astonished Adamsberg was the sudden capitulation of this old man, who must after all have had a good enough brain with which to defend himself. He had never seen such a rapid destabilisation.

By the Thursday morning Le Nermord's legs were genuinely shaking and he was in a pitiful state. The prosecuting magistrate had asked for him to be charged, and Danglard had just told him of the decision. At this point, Le Nermord said nothing for a long time, just as he had the other night in his house, seeming to weigh up arguments for and against. As before, Adamsberg signalled to Danglard above all not to intervene.

Then Le Nermord said: 'Give me a piece of chalk. Blue chalk.'

Since n.o.body moved, he found a little authority from somewhere and added: 'Come on. I asked for some chalk.'

Danglard went out and found some in Florence's desk a repository for everything.

Le Nermord got up with all the precautions of an invalid and took the chalk. Standing against the white wall, he took some time to think again. Then very quickly, he wrote in large letters: 'Victor, woe's in store, what are you out here for?'

Adamsberg did not move a muscle. He had been expecting this since the previous day.

'Danglard,' he said, 'go and get Meunier. I think he's around somewhere.'

While Danglard left the room, the chalk circle man turned to Adamsberg, determined to look him in the face.

'Well met at last,' said Adamsberg. 'I've been looking for you for a long time.'

Le Nermord did not reply. Adamsberg looked at his unattractive face, which had regained a little firmness since this confession.

Meunier, the handwriting specialist, followed Danglard into the room. He considered the large writing which covered the entire length of the wall.

'Nice souvenir for your office, Danglard,' he murmured. 'Yes, that's the writing. It couldn't be imitated.'

'Thank you,' said the chalk circle man, handing the chalk back to Danglard. 'I can fetch more proof if you want it. My notebooks, the times when I went out, and my street map, which is covered with crosses, my list of objects. Anything you like. I know I'm asking too much, but would it be possible for this to be kept quiet? I would dearly like it if my students and colleagues didn't find out. But I imagine that's not possible. Still, it puts a different complexion on things, doesn't it?'

'Yes, I suppose so,' Danglard admitted.

Le Nermord got up, finding more strength, and accepted a gla.s.s of beer. He paced from the window to the door, going to and fro in front of his line of graffiti.

'I had no choice, I had to tell you. There was too much evidence piling up against me. But now I've told you, it alters things, doesn't it? Do you think that if I'd really wanted to kill my wife, I'd have done it in one of my own circles? Without even bothering to disguise my handwriting? I hope we can please agree about that, at least.'

He shrugged his shoulders.

'Of course, there's no point now in hoping to be elected to the Academy. Or preparing my lectures for next year. The College won't want to have anything to do with me after this. Perfectly understandable. But I didn't have any choice. I had to go for the lesser of two evils, because the murder charge was so serious. It's up to you to find out what's really been happening. Who's been using me? Ever since the first murder victim was found in one of my circles, I've been trying to understand I felt I'd been caught in some sort of ghastly trap. I was very frightened when I heard about that first murder. As I told you, I'm not a brave man. In fact, frankly, I'm a coward. I racked my brain trying to understand. Who could have done it? Who'd been following me? Who'd put that woman's body in my circle? And if I went on drawing circles after that, it wasn't, as the press said, to tease the police. No, not at all. It was in the hope of finding out who was d.o.g.g.i.ng my steps, who was the murderer, and to give myself some chance of proving my own innocence. I took a few days to reach that decision. You don't easily decide to tempt a murderer to follow you at night, especially if you're as cowardly as me. But I thought that once you found out who I was, I'd certainly be accused of murder. And that's what the murderer must have been thinking: he was hoping that I'd pay for his crimes. So it was a sort of struggle between him and me. The first real struggle I'd had in my life. And in that sense, I don't regret it. But the only thing I didn't for a moment imagine was that he would attack my own wife. All night, after you came to see me, I sat up asking myself why he had done that. I could think of only one explanation. The police had still not identified me with the circles, and that was spoiling the murderer's plans. So he did this, he murdered my own Delphie, so that you'd come straight to me, and then he would be left in peace. Am I right?'

'It's possible,' said Adamsberg.

'But he was mistaken in one thing: any of your shrinks will tell you that I'm perfectly sane, I haven't lost my mind. I suppose a lunatic might kill two strangers and then his own wife. But not me. I'm not insane. And I would never have killed Delphie and dragged her into one of my circles. Delphie. If it hadn't been for my d.a.m.ned circles, she'd still be alive.'

'Well, if you're as sane as you say,' asked Danglard, 'why on earth did you draw those d.a.m.ned circles?'

'So that lost things would belong to me, would be grateful to me. No, I'm not putting this very well.'

'No, you're not I don't get it at all,' said Danglard.

'I can't help it,' said Le Nermord. 'I'll try to write it down, that might work better.'

Adamsberg was thinking of Mathilde's description: 'A little man who's lost everything and is greedy for power, how will he get out of this?'

'Please find him,' Le Nermord begged, in distress. 'Find this killer. Do you think you can find him? Really?'

'If you help us,' said Danglard. 'For instance, did you ever see anyone following you when you went out?'

'Nothing clear enough to help you, unfortunately. At the beginning, two or three months ago, this woman sometimes followed me. It was long before any murder, and it didn't bother me. I found her odd, but somehow friendly. I had the feeling that she was encouraging me from a distance. At first I was a bit scared of her, then I got to like seeing her. But what can I say? I think she was fairly tall, dark hair, good-looking and perhaps not young. But I can't give you more detail than that. Still, I'm certain it was a woman.'

'Yes,' said Danglard, 'we know about her. How many times did you see her?'

'About a dozen times.'

'And after the first murder?'

Le Nermord hesitated, as if he didn't wish to remember something.

'Yes,' he said. 'After that I did see someone twice, but it wasn't the dark woman. Someone else. Because I was scared, I hardly turned to look and ran off once I'd done my circle. I didn't really have the guts to follow through on my plan, which was to try and see the face of the person. It was quite a small figure. Could have been a man or a woman, a peculiar outline. See, I can't help you much.'

'Why did you always have your bag with you?' Adamsberg interrupted.

'My briefcase?' said Nermord. 'With my papers? After I'd drawn my circle, I would go away quickly, usually by metro. I was so nervous that I needed to read, get back to my notes and return to being a professor. I'm sorry, I don't know if I can explain it better than that. What will happen to me now?'

'Well, we'll probably let you go for now,' said Adamsberg. 'The magistrate won't want to risk a false murder charge.'

'No, of course not,' said Danglard. 'This does somewhat change things.'

Le Nermord looked a little better. He asked for a cigarette and packed the tobacco into his pipe.

'It's a pure formality, but I would still like to visit your house, if I may,' said Adamsberg.

Danglard, who had never seen Adamsberg bother to carry out pure formalities, looked at him uncomprehendingly.

'As you wish,' said Le Nermord. 'But what are you looking for? As I said, I'll bring you all the proof you need.'

'Yes, I know. And I'll trust you to do that. I'm not looking for anything concrete. Meanwhile, can you go over all that with Danglard, and make a statement.'

'Can you be frank with me, commissaire? As the "chalk circle man," what kind of sentence will I get?'

'I can't think the charge will be serious,' said Adamsberg. 'There was no disturbance, no offence against public order in the strict sense. If you inspired someone with the idea of committing a murder, that's not your fault. You can't be held responsible for giving other people ideas. Your peculiar habit has caused three deaths, but we can hardly blame you for them.'

'I would never have imagined this. I'm truly sorry,' murmured Le Nermord.