The Chalk Circle Man (14 page)

‘OK, doc, put it all in writing for us,’ said Adamsberg, who could see sweat breaking out on Danglard’s face. ‘And it wasn’t long ago, you reckon?’

‘That’s right, between about five past one and one thirty-five, if the officer is correct about his beat.’

‘And your beat,’ said Adamsberg, turning to the constable, ‘was from here to the Place du Port-Royal?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What happened? You can’t have taken more than twenty minutes to go there and back.’

‘No, sir, that’s right. But this girl came past, all on her own, just as I was getting up to the station building for the eleventh time. I don’t know, call it a foreboding, I thought I’d better see her along to the next corner. It wasn’t far. I was in sight of Port-Royal all the way. I’m not trying to excuse myself,
commissaire
, I’m prepared to take responsibility for not sticking to the orders.’

‘Forget it,’ said Adamsberg. ‘He’d have struck anyway. Did you see anyone corresponding to the description we’ve put out?’

‘No, nobody.’

‘What about the other officers in the sector?’

‘They haven’t reported anything.’

Adamsberg sighed.

‘See this circle,
commissaire
,’ said Danglard. ‘It isn’t round. That’s extraordinary, it isn’t circular. The pavement was too narrow here, so he’s drawn an oval.’

‘Yes, and that must have vexed him.’

‘So why didn’t he do it on the boulevard where he had plenty of room?’

‘Too many policemen hanging about there, Danglard, all the same. So who is this lady?’

Once more, they had to read identity papers by the light of the arc lamps, having found them in her handbag.

‘Delphine Le Nermord,
née
Vitruel, age fifty-four. And here’s her photo, I think,’ said Danglard, who was carefully transferring the contents of the handbag into a plastic evidence bag. ‘She looks quite pretty, bit too much make-up. The man holding her shoulder must be her husband.’

‘No,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Can’t be. He’s not wearing a wedding ring, but she is. Perhaps a lover – he looks younger, too. That might explain why she had the photo on her.’

‘Yes, I should have noticed that.’

‘It’s dark here. Come on, Danglard, we’ll get in the van.’

Adamsberg knew that Danglard couldn’t face the sight of a cut throat any longer.

They sat down opposite each other on the seats of the police van. Adamsberg started leafing through a fashion magazine from Madame Le Nermord’s bag.

‘I know that name from somewhere,’ he said, ‘Le Nermord. But I’ve got a terrible memory. Have a look in the address book to see if it’s got her husband’s first name and address.’

Danglard pulled out a dog-eared business card.

‘Augustin-Louis Le Nermord. Two addresses. One’s the Collège de France, and the other’s rue d’Aumale in the 9th.’

‘I should recognise the name, but I can’t think why.’

‘I know who he is,’ said Danglard. ‘Some time back there was talk of him for a seat in the Academy of Inscriptions and Belles-Lettres. He’s a specialist on Byzantium,’ he went on, after thinking for a moment. ‘An expert on the emperor Justinian.’

‘How the hell do you know all that?’ asked Adamsberg, lifting his gaze from the magazine in genuine astonishment.

‘Well, let’s just say I know a bit about Byzantium.’

‘But why?’

‘I just like knowing stuff, that’s all.’

‘And the emperor Justinian’s empire, you know about that too?’

‘’Fraid so,’ sighed Danglard.

‘So when was Justinian?’

Adamsberg was never embarrassed about asking when he didn’t know something, even when it was something he should have known.

‘Sixth century.’

‘
BC
or
AD
?’

‘
AD
.’

‘This man interests me. Come on, Danglard, we’re going to tell him his wife’s been killed. Now that one of our victims has a near relative in Paris, we can at least see how he reacts.’

Louis-Augustin Le Nermord’s reaction was very simple. Still bleary-eyed from sleep, on hearing what they had to say the diminutive scholar shut his eyes, put his hands on his stomach and went very white about the lips. He dashed from the room, and Danglard and Adamsberg heard him retching somewhere else in the house.

‘Well, at least that’s clear enough,’ said Danglard. ‘He’s in shock.’

‘Unless he took something to make him throw up when he heard the entryphone.’

The man returned, walking gingerly. He had put on a grey dressing-gown over his pyjamas and had evidently doused his head under a tap.

‘We’re extremely sorry to bring you this news,’ said Adamsberg. ‘If you would prefer us to ask our questions tomorrow …’

‘No … no. Please go ahead, messieurs. I’m listening.’

The little man was trying to maintain his dignity, Danglard noted, and he was succeeding. His posture was upright, his brow large, and his cloudy blue eyes were steadfastly fixed on Adamsberg’s face. He asked them whether they would mind if he lit his pipe and did so, saying that he needed it.

The light was dim and the pipe smoke heavy in the book-lined room.

‘You study Byzantium?’ said Adamsberg, with a glance at Danglard.

‘Er, yes, I do,’ said Le Nermord, looking slightly surprised. ‘How did you know?’

‘I didn’t. But my colleague here recognised your name.’

‘That is kind of you to say so. But please, tell me about
her
. What happened, how did it happen?’

‘We’ll give you more details when you’re feeling a bit stronger and better able to hear them. It’s already bad enough to find out that she’s been murdered. We found her lying inside a blue chalk circle in the rue Bertholet, in the 5th
arrondissement
. Quite a long way from here.’

Le Nermord nodded. His features semed to lose definition. He was looking older already. It was painful to see.

‘“Victor, woe’s in store, what are you waiting for?” Is that it?’ he said in an undertone.

‘Not exactly, but near enough,’ said Adamsberg. ‘So you know about the chalk circle man?’

‘Who doesn’t? Doing remote historical research doesn’t shield you from contemporary life, monsieur, even if you’d like it to. But I can’t believe this – I was talking about this maniac with Delphie, that’s Delphine, my wife, only last week.’

‘Why did you talk about him?’

‘Delphie was inclined to defend him, but I felt nothing but disgust for him. Some ghastly joker. But women don’t see that.’

‘It’s a long way from here, the rue Bertholet. Was your wife visiting friends?’ Adamsberg continued.

The man thought for a long while, at least five or six minutes. Danglard wondered whether he had really heard the question or whether he was going to fall asleep again. But Adamsberg signalled to him to wait.

Le Nermord struck a match to relight his pipe.

‘Far from where?’ he asked in the end.

‘Well, far from home,’ said Adamsberg.

‘No, on the contrary, it’s quite near where she lives. Delphie lives … lived … on the boulevard du Montparnasse, near Port-Royal. Do I need to say more about that?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘She left me nearly two years ago to go and live with her lover. He’s a pathetic, stupid, insignificant character, but of course you won’t believe that, coming from me. You can judge for yourselves if you see him. It’s been upsetting, that’s all I can say. And now I live in this barn of a place on my own. Like a fool,’ he said waving his arm at the room.

Danglard seemed to hear a catch in his voice.

‘But you still used to see her?’

‘It was very hard to try and do without her,’ answered Le Nermord.

‘You were jealous?’ asked Danglard, without trying to be tactful.

Le Nermord shrugged.

‘Well, monsieur, you get used to anything in the end. I should say that Delphie had been unfaithful to me for twelve years on and off, with a series of lovers. I didn’t like it, of course, but I’d given up arguing. In the end you don’t know whether it’s self-esteem or love that makes you angry, but the anger dies down eventually, and you end up meeting for lunch now and again – we talk politely, and it’s sad. I’m sure you know this kind of situation by heart, messieurs, I won’t spell out the story of my life. Delphie was no better than she should have been, and I was no hero. I didn’t want to lose her for ever. So I had to accept her rules. I confess that I couldn’t stand her latest lover, the stupid one. As if she was doing it on purpose, it was the worst of the lot that she was keenest on, so that was when she decided to move out permanently.’

He raised his arms and let them fall on his thighs.

‘So,’ he said. ‘That’s it, really. And now it’s over.’

He closed his eyes tight, and stuffed his pipe with more tobacco.

‘You’ll have to provide us with a statement about your movements this evening. That is indispensable, I’m afraid,’ said Danglard, as usual not beating about the bush. Le Nermord looked at them in turn.

‘I don’t understand. You mean it wasn’t this lunatic killer who …’

‘We don’t know who it was,’ said Danglard.

‘Oh, no, messieurs, you’ve got it wrong. All that comes to me from my wife’s death is a hole in my life, desolation. As far as money goes, since I’m sure you’ll be interested in that, most of her money, and she had quite a bit, goes to her sister, and indeed so does this house. Delphie had decided that was what she wanted to do. Her sister’s always been hard up.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Danglard repeated, ‘we still need an account of your movements. Please.’

‘Well, as you saw, there’s an entryphone in this house and no concierge. So who could tell you whether I’m telling the truth or not? But … well, until about eleven, I was planning my lectures for next year. You can look, they’re in that stack of paper on the table. Then I went to bed, read for a while, and went to sleep until I heard the buzzer. But nobody can confirm any of that, can they?’

‘More’s the pity,’ said Danglard.

Adamsberg was letting him run the interview now. Danglard was better than him at putting routine but upsetting questions. Throughout their exchange, he kept his gaze on Le Nermord, who was sitting opposite him.

‘Yes, I see,’ said Le Nermord, rubbing the warm bowl of the pipe against his forehead, in visible distress. ‘I do see. A husband betrayed and humiliated, the new lover who stole away his wife. I understand there are these classic scenarios. Oh God! But do you always have to go for the most obvious solutions? Don’t you ever think there could be more complicated explanations?’

‘Yes,’ said Danglard, ‘we do sometimes. But I have to say that your situation appears to be delicate.’

‘I appreciate that,’ agreed Le Nermord. ‘I just hope for my own sake that I’m not going to pay the price for any errors of judgement by the police. I suppose this means you want to see me again?’

‘On Monday?’ suggested Adamsberg.

‘Yes, all right, Monday. I suppose, as well, that there’s nothing I can do for Delphie now? You’re holding her.’

‘I’m afraid so, monsieur. Sorry.’

‘Will there be a post-mortem?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

Danglard let a minute pass. He always let a minute pass after any reference to a post-mortem.

‘For Monday,’ he went on, ‘please think about what you were doing on Wednesday 19 and Thursday 27 June. Those were the nights of the two previous murders. You’ll be asked that. Unless you can tell us now.’

‘No need to think,’ said Le Nermord. ‘It’s quite simple and sad. I don’t go out at night. I spend every evening writing. Nobody lives with me to confirm that, and I don’t see much of my neighbours.’

They all sat nodding, without knowing why. There are moments when everyone just sits nodding.

There was no more to be done that night. Adamsberg, seeing the weariness in the eyes of the scholar of Byzantium, gave the sign that the interview was over, getting up quietly.

XIV

D
ANGLARD 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 banal 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 fiancé – to turn up in some bar. He didn’t come, so she drank to cheer herself up and passed 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 Clémence 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 harassing 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 hell 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 buggering
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 bugger us up?’

‘Pretty much, yes, because I didn’t manage to pick up any girls. But I’m glad to learn you’re buggered 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, nobody 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 fucking 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 manuscripts, 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 passions 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.’