This time Castreau lost his cool.

'Look, I don't give a d.a.m.n about your private life!' he shouted. 'He's not listed as a missing person, is he? So please just go away and leave me in peace we don't do lonely hearts here. If you go on making a fuss I'll call the boss.'

Adamsberg was leaning against the wall at the back of the room.

'I am the boss,' he said, without moving.

Mathilde turned round. She saw a man with hooded eyes looking at her with uncommon gentleness, she registered his shirt, stuffed into one side of his trousers, loose on the other, she saw that his thin face didn't match his hands which seemed to have come from a Rodin statue, and she immediately understood that things would now improve.

Detaching himself from the wall, Adamsberg pushed the door of his office and beckoned her in.

'It's true, of course,' Mathilde said, seating herself, 'this isn't the lost-property office. It's been a bad day. And not much better yesterday, or the day before either ... A whole section of the week gone to pot. I hope you've had a better section than I have.'

'A section?'

'Well, the way I see it, Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday, that's section number one of the week. What happens in section number one is different from what happens in section number two.'

'And that's Thursday-Friday-Sat.u.r.day?'

'Of course. If you pay attention, you'll see there are more serious surprises in section one as a rule note that I'm saying as a rule and more fun and distractions in section two. It's a question of rhythm. It never switches over like the parking in the street, where you have to park one side one week and the other the next. Why do they do that, anyway? To give the street a rest? Let it lie fallow? No idea. Anyway, sections of the week don't change. First section: you're alert, you believe all sorts of stuff, you get things done. It's a miracle of human activity. Second section: you don't find anything you're looking for, you learn nothing new, it's pretty much a waste of time. In the second section there's a lot of this and that, and you drink quite a bit, whereas the first section is more important, obviously. In practice, a section number two can't go far wrong, because it doesn't really matter, so to speak. But when a section number one goes haywire, like this week, it's really horrible. And another thing: the special today in the cafe was beef and lentils. Beef and lentils is a dish that really depresses me to the point of despair. Right at the end of a section one. Just no luck at all, a wretched plate of lentils.'

'What about Sundays?'

'Oh, Sundays, that's section three. Just that one day takes up a whole section see how important that is? And section three is the pits. If you get beef and lentils combined with a section three, you might as well go hang yourself.'

'Where were we?' asked Adamsberg, having the sudden, not unpleasant impression that his thoughts could wander even further talking to this woman than when talking to himself.

'We hadn't got anywhere.'

'Right, OK, we've got nowhere.'

'It's coming back to me,' said Mathilde. 'Since my section one was practically a write-off, as I was pa.s.sing your police station I thought I might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, so I'd give it a go. But you see, it doesn't work trying to rescue a section one might be tempting, but it gets you nowhere. What about you, anyway?'

'Oh, it's not been a bad week so far,' Adamsberg admitted.

'Now if you'd seen my section one last week, that was terrific.'

'What happened?'

'I can't just tell you like that, I'd have to look it up in my notebook. Still, tomorrow we start a section two, so we can relax a bit.'

'Tomorrow I'm going to see a psychiatrist. Is that a good start for a section two?'

'Good Lord! On your own account?' asked Mathilde in surprise. 'No, of course not, stupid of me. I get the feeling that even if the spirit moved you to p.i.s.s against all the lamp-posts down one side of the road, you'd say to yourself, "That's the way it is, and G.o.d help the lamp-posts," but you wouldn't go and consult a psychiatrist. Sorry, I know I'm talking too much, I'm fed up. I'm getting on my own nerves.'

Mathilde took a cigarette from Adamsberg, saying 'May I?' and pulled off the filter.

'Perhaps you're going to see the psychiatrist about the chalk circle man,' she went on. 'Don't look at me like that I haven't been snooping. It's just that you've got those newspaper cuttings about him tucked under the base of your lamp, so naturally I wondered.'

'Yes, you're right,' Adamsberg admitted, 'it is about him. Why did you come into the station?'

'I'm looking for this man I don't know.'

'Why are you looking for him, then?'

'Because I don't know him! What a question!'

'Touche,' said Adamsberg.

'I was following this woman in the street, and I lost her. So I ended up in a cafe, and that's how I met my beautiful blind man. There are an amazing number of people walking round on the pavements. You just can't imagine it, you would have to follow everyone to do any good. So we chatted for a few minutes, the blind man and I, about something or other which I've now forgotten I'd have to check in my notebook but I liked him. Generally, if I like someone, I don't worry, I'm sure to b.u.mp into them again. But in this case, no, nothing. Last month, I followed twenty-eight people and got close to nine of them. I filled two and a half notebooks. So I've covered a lot of ground, OK? But not a whisker of my beautiful blind man. That was disappointing. He's called Charles Reyer, and that's all I know about him. Tell me something: do you keep doodling all the time like that?'

'Yes, all the time.'

'I suppose you won't let me see.'

'No, that's right. You don't get to see.'

'It's funny when you turn round on your chair. Your left profile is tough and your right profile is tender. So if you want to intimidate a suspect, you turn one way, and when you want to soften him up, you turn the other way.'

Adamsberg smiled.

'What if I keep turning from side to side?'

'Then they won't know where they are. Heaven and h.e.l.l.'

Mathilde burst out laughing. Then she controlled herself.

'No, stop,' she said again. 'I'm talking too much. I'm ashamed of myself. I've got a friend who's a philosopher, who says to me, "Mathilde, you play fast and loose with language." I said, well, in that case, tell me how to play slow and tight.'

'Look, let's see what we can do,' said Adamsberg. 'Do you have a work address?'

'You're not going to believe me. My name is Mathilde Forestier.'

Adamsberg put his pencil back in his pocket.

'Ah,' he said. 'Mathilde Forestier. Famous oceanographer. Am I right?'

'Yes, but don't let that stop you doing your doodling. I know who you are too, your name's on the door, and everyone's heard of you. But it doesn't stop me rabbiting on about one thing and another, at the end of a section one, what's more.'

'If I find your beautiful blind man, I'll tell you.'

'Why? Who would you be doing the favour for?' asked Mathilde, suspiciously. 'For me, or for the famous underwater specialist whose name is in the papers?'

'Neither one nor the other. I'm doing a favour for a woman I asked into my office.'

'OK, that suits me,' said Mathilde. She remained for a moment without speaking, as if hesitating to take a decision. Adamsberg had brought out his cigarettes and a piece of paper. No, he wouldn't forget this woman, a fragment of the earth's beauty on the point of fading. And he was unable to guess in advance what she was going to say.

'Know something?' Mathilde asked suddenly. 'It's at nightfall that things start happening, under the ocean the same as in the city. They all start stirring, the creatures who are hungry or in pain. And the searchers, like you, Jean-Baptiste Adamsberg, they start stirring then too.'

'You think I'm searching for something?'

'Absolutely, and quite a lot of things at the same time. So, anyway, the chalk circle man comes out when he's hungry. He prowls, he watches, and suddenly he draws his circle. But I know him, I started looking for him right at the beginning, and I found him, the night there was a cigarette lighter in the circle, and the night of the doll's head. And then again, last night, in the rue Caulaincourt.'

'How did you manage that?'

'I'll tell you some other time. It's not important, it's my little secret. And it's a funny thing but you'd think he was allowing me to watch him, the chalk circle man, as if he was letting himself be tamed from a distance. If you want to see him some night, come and find me. But you must only watch him from a distance. No going up to him and bothering him. I'm not telling the famous policeman about my secret, I'm just telling the man who asked me into his office.'

'That suits me,' said Adamsberg.

'But why are you looking for the chalk circle man? He hasn't done anything wrong. Why are you so interested in him?'

Adamsberg looked at her.

'Because one day it'll get bigger. The thing in the middle of the circle, it'll get bigger. Please don't ask me how I know, I beg you, because I can't tell you. But it's inevitable.'

He shook his head, pushing back his hair from his eyes. 'Yes, it will get bigger.'

Adamsberg uncrossed his legs and began aimlessly reorganising the papers on his desk.

'I can't forbid you to follow him,' he added. 'But I really don't advise it. Be cautious, take very good care. Don't forget.'

He was uneasy, as if his own conviction made him feel unwell. Mathilde smiled and left.

Coming out of his office a little later, Adamsberg took Danglard by the shoulder and spoke quietly to him.

'Tomorrow morning, try to find out if there's been a new circle in the night. And if so, give it a thorough examination. I'm counting on you. I told that woman to watch out. This thing is going to get bigger, Danglard. There have been more circles over the last month. The rhythm's picking up. There's something horrible underneath all this, can't you feel it?'

Danglard thought for a moment, then answered with some hesitation.

'A bit unhealthy that's all. But perhaps it's just some long-drawn-out practical joke ...'

'No, Danglard. There's cruelty oozing out of those circles.'

III.

CHARLES REYER WAS ALSO JUST LEAVING HIS OFFICE. HE WAS FED up with working for the blind, checking the printing and perforations of all those wretched books in Braille, the billions of tiny holes that communicated their meaning to the skin of his fingertips. Above all, he was fed up with the desperate attempts he made to be original, on the pretext that he ought to become exceptional in some way, to distract people from his loss of sight. That was how he had behaved towards that woman the other day, now he thought of it, the warm-hearted one who had accosted him in the Cafe Saint-Jacques. An intelligent woman she had been, a bit eccentric perhaps, though he didn't really think so, but a kind-hearted and lively person, obviously. And what had he done? As usual, he'd begun showing off, trying to be original. To impress her by his conversation, to say out-of-the-way things, just so that a stranger would think, hey, this man may be blind, but he's certainly not ordinary.

And she'd gone along with it, the woman. She'd tried to play the game, to respond as quickly as she could to his mixture of false confidences and stupid remarks. But she had been sincere. She'd told him about the shark, just like that, she'd been generous, sensitive, helpful, willing to look at his eyes and tell him what they really looked like. But he had been entirely taken up with the sensational effect he wanted to produce; he regularly stopped any heartfelt conversation by pretending to be a lucid and cynical thinker. No, Charles, he thought, you're going the wrong way about things. All this palaver ends up with your being unable to say whether your brain's still working or not.

And then there's your habit of walking alongside people in the street just to frighten them, to exert some kind of silly power over them, or going up to someone at a traffic light with your white stick, and saying 'Can I help you cross the road?' What's all that about? Just to embarra.s.s other people, of course, and then to take full advantage of your untouchable status. Poor souls, they don't dare say any thing, they just stand on the pavement, feeling bad. What you're doing is you're taking revenge on the rest of the world. You may be over six feet tall, but you're just a mean little b.a.s.t.a.r.d really. And that woman, Queen Mathilde, she's there, she's real, and she even told me I was good-looking. And that made me feel pretty good, but of course I couldn't bring myself to show it, or even say thank you for her kind word.

Feeling his way, Charles stopped at the edge of the pavement. Anyone standing alongside him would have been able to see those rolls of sacking that they put in the Paris gutters to channel the water, without realising how lucky they were to witness this sublime sight. d.a.m.n that b.l.o.o.d.y lioness. He felt like unfolding his white stick and asking 'Shall I help you across the road?' with a mean smile. Then he remembered Mathilde saying to him without any malice at all: 'You're very trying', and he turned his back on whoever might be there.

IV.

DANGLARD HAD TRIED TO RESIST. BUT THE NEXT DAY HE FELL eagerly on the newspapers, leaving aside the political, economic and social news, all the stuff that usually interested him.

No, nothing. Nothing about the chalk circle man. Not that there was anything about these incidents to merit the daily attentions of a journalist.

But now he was hooked.

The night before, his daughter, the elder of the second set of twins, the one who was most interested in what her father told her about his work although she also said to him, 'Dad, stop drinking, you're already fat enough as it is' had remarked: 'Your new boss has a funny name, doesn't he? Jean-Baptiste Adamsberg, Saint John the Baptist from Adam's Mountain, if you work it out. Looks funny when you put it together. But if you like him, I expect I'll like him. Will you take me to see him one day?' And Danglard loved his four twins so much that he would have wished above all to show them to Adamsberg, so that his boss could say 'They're angelic.' But he wasn't sure whether Adamsberg would be interested in his kids. 'My kids, my kids, my kids,' Danglard said to himself. 'My angels.'

From his office, he called all the district police stations to find out whether any officer on the beat had noticed a circle. 'Just asking, since everyone's got interested in it.' His questions provoked astonishment. He explained that it was on behalf of a psychiatrist friend, a little favour he was doing him on the side. And yes, of course, his fellow cops knew all about the little favours one did for people on the side.

And last night, it turned out, Paris had acquired two new circles. The first was in the rue du Moulin-Vert, where a policeman from the 14th arrondiss.e.m.e.nt had come across it on his rounds, to his great delight. The other was in the same district, on the corner of the rue Froidevaux, and it had been reported by a woman who had complained to the police that she thought this was getting a bit much.

Danglard, feeling on edge and impatient, went upstairs to see Conti, the police photographer. Conti was all set to go, laden with straps and containers, as if on campaign. Since the photographer suffered from various health problems, Danglard imagined that all this complicated and impressive technical stuff must provide him with some kind of rea.s.surance, although he knew perfectly well that Conti wasn't stupid. They went first to the rue du Moulin-Vert, and there was the large circle, drawn in blue chalk, with the same elegant writing round the edge. Lying slightly off-centre was part of a watch strap. Why draw such big circles for such small objects, Danglard wondered. Until now he hadn't thought about this discrepancy.

'Don't touch!' he shouted to Conti, who had stepped into the circle to take a closer look.

'What are you fussing about?' said Conti. 'This strap hasn't been murdered. Call the pathologist while you're at it!'

The photographer shrugged and stepped back out of the circle.

'Don't ask questions,' said Danglard. 'He said to take pictures of it exactly as it is, so please just do that.'

While Conti was snapping away, Danglard reflected all the same that Adamsberg had put him in a slightly ridiculous situation. If any local policeman should come past, he'd be right to say that the 5th arrondiss.e.m.e.nt station was going round the bend if it had taken to photographing watch straps. And Danglard did feel that the 5th was indeed heading round the bend, himself along with the rest. What was more, he still hadn't tied up everything on the Patrice Vernoux case, which he ought to have done first thing. His colleague Castreau was probably wondering by now where he'd got to.

In the rue Froidevaux, at the junction with the rue Emile-Richard, the lugubrious and narrow pa.s.sage running through the middle of the Montparna.s.se cemetery, Danglard understood why the woman had complained, and was almost relieved to discover the reason.

Yes, it had got bigger.

'See that?' he said to Conti.

In front of them, the blue circle surrounded the remains of a cat that had been run over. There was no blood: the cat had obviously been picked out of the gutter where it had been dead for hours. Now it just looked morbid, a bundle of dirty fur in this sinister street, with the circle and the inscription 'Victor, woe's in store, what are you out here for?' It made him think of some kind of weird witches' spell.

'All finished,' said Conti.

Stupid, perhaps, but Danglard sensed that Conti was a bit impressed.

'I've finished too,' said Danglard. 'Come on, back to base before the locals find us on their patch.'