‘As I said, there’s much less logic to the series than might appear at first, the kind of logic we would find if this were a case of authentic obsession. That’s what’s so unsettling about it. But from the point of view of our subject, he is demonstrating that death transforms a living creature into an object the moment the lifeless body ceases to feel anything – which is true enough. From the instant the top comes off the bottle, the top becomes a non-thing. And when the body of a friend stops breathing – what does it become? Our man is preoccupied with questions of this order. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it: he’s obsessed with death.’
Vercors-Laury paused, leaning back once more in his chair. He looked Adamsberg straight in the eye, as if to say: Listen carefully, I’m about to tell you something sensational. Adamsberg did not believe he would do anything of the sort.
‘From your point of view as a policeman, you are wondering whether he poses any danger to human life, aren’t you, commissaire? I’ll tell you this much: the phenomenon could remain stable at this stage and burn itself out, but on the other hand I see no reason why, theoretically, a man of this kind, in other words a deranged person who is nevertheless perfectly in control of himself (if you have followed me so far), a man burning with the need to exhibit his thoughts, should halt in his trajectory. Note that I’m saying theoretically.’
Adamsberg walked back to the office with vague thoughts running through his head. He was not in the habit of reflecting deeply. He had never been able to understand what was happening when he saw people put their hands to their foreheads and say, ‘Right, let’s give this some thought.’ What was going on in their brains, the way they managed to organise precise ideas, inferring, deducting, concluding, all that was a complete mystery to him. He had to admit that it produced undeniable results, and that after this kind of brainstorming, people took decisions, something he admired while being convinced that he was himself lacking in some way. But when he tried it, when he sat down and said ‘Right, I’ll give it some thought,’ nothing happened in his head. It was even at moments like that that he was aware of a complete blank. Adamsberg never realised when he was thinking and the instant he became conscious of it, it stopped. As a result he was never sure where all his ideas, his intentions and his decisions came from.
At any rate, he felt that nothing that Vercors-Laury had said had come as a surprise, and that he had always known that the man drawing the blue chalk circles was no ordinary crackpot. That some cruel motive lay underneath this apparent lunacy. That the sequence of objects could only lead to one conclusion, one blinding apotheosis: a death. Mathilde Forestier would have said that it was normal not to learn anything serious, since it was the second section of the week, but Adamsberg thought it was simply that Vercors-Laury was someone who knew his stuff all right, but wasn’t in the end all that impressive.
The following morning, a large blue circle had appeared in the rue Cunin-Gridaine in the 3rd arrondissement. The only thing in the centre was a hairpin.
Conti photographed the hairpin.
The next night brought a circle in the rue Lacretelle and another in the rue de la Condamine, in the 17th arrondissement, one containing an old handbag, the other a cotton bud.
Conti photographed the bag and then the cotton bud, without passing comment, but the look on his face betrayed his irritation. Danglard remained silent.
The next three nights produced a one-franc coin, a torch battery, a screwdriver, and something which cheered Danglard up somewhat, if that was the right expression, a dead pigeon with one wing torn off, in the rue Geoffroy-Saint-Hilaire.
Disconcertingly, Adamsberg showed no reaction except a vague smile. He was still cutting out any newspaper articles that mentioned the chalk circle man and stuffing them into his desk drawer, alongside the photographs supplied by Conti. By now, everyone in the station knew about it, and Danglard was becoming rather anxious on his behalf. But the full confession obtained from Patrice Vernoux had made Adamsberg untouchable, at least for a little while.
‘How long is this business going to go on, commissaire?’ asked Danglard.
‘What business?’
‘The chalk circles, for Christ’s sake! We’re not going to stand in front of these damned hairpins every morning for the rest of our lives, are we?’
‘Ah, the chalk circles. Yes, it could go on a long time, Danglard. A very long time, even. But so what? Whether we follow this or do something else, does it matter? Hairpins provide a bit of distraction.’
‘So we drop the whole thing?’
Adamsberg looked up abruptly.
‘Absolutely not, Danglard, out of the question.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘As serious as I can be. It’s going to get bigger, Danglard, as I’ve already told you.’
Danglard shrugged.
‘We’ll need all this documentation,’ Adamsberg went on, opening the drawer. ‘It could be indispensable afterwards.’
‘After what, for God’s sake?’
‘Don’t get impatient, Danglard – you wouldn’t wish someone dead, would you?’
Next morning there was an ice-cream cone in the avenue du Docteur-Brouardel in the 7th arrondissement.
V
MATHILDE HAD PRESENTED HERSELF AT THE HŌTEL DES GRANDS Hommes, to look for the beautiful blind man – a very small hotel for such a grand name, she thought. Or perhaps it meant that one didn’t need many rooms to accommodate all the great men in the world.
The receptionist, after telephoning to announce her arrival, told her that Monsieur Reyer couldn’t come down, he was detained. Mathilde went up to his room.
‘What’s the matter?’ Mathilde cried through the locked door. ‘Are you naked in bed with someone?’
‘No,’ said Charles.
‘Something more serious?’
‘I’m not looking my best. I can’t find my razor.’
Mathilde thought for a moment. ‘It’s out of sight, you mean?’
‘Yes, right,’ said Charles. ‘I’ve felt everywhere. I don’t understand.’
He opened the door.
‘You have to appreciate, Queen Mathilde, that things take advantage of my weakness. I hate things. They disguise themselves, they slip between the mattress and the bed, they knock over the waste-paper basket, they get stuck between the floorboards. I’ve had enough. I think I’m going to abolish things.’
‘You’re not as smart as a fish,’ Mathilde observed. ‘Because the fish that live right down on the seabed, in complete darkness, like you, they manage to find what they want to eat, in spite of everything.’
‘Fish don’t have to shave. And anyway, what the eye doesn’t see the heart doesn’t grieve after. Couldn’t give a damn about your fish.’
‘Eyes, eyes. You’re doing it on purpose aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am doing it on purpose, I’ve got a whole repertoire of expressions: I’ll cast my eye over it, I’ll make eyes at her, I’ve got my eye on you, I’ll keep my eyes peeled, it’s an eye-opener, I’ve got eyes in the back of my head. There are plenty of them. I like using them. Like other people like to chew over their memories. But anyway, I really couldn’t care less about fish.’
‘Plenty of people feel like that. Yes, it’s true, there’s a general tendency not to give a damn about fish. Can I sit on this chair?’
‘Please go ahead. Anyway, what’s so marvellous about fish?’
‘We understand each other, me and the fish. We’ve spent thirty years in each other’s company now, so we don’t dare leave each other. If I was dumped by a fish, I’d be lost. The fish are my work, they produce my income, they keep me if you like.’
‘And because I’m like one of your damned fish swimming about in the dark, that’s why you’ve come to see me.’