‘It’s as I said,’ Mathilde continued. ‘You’re amoral – you should have been a prostitute.’
‘Just what I am being, in order to get information.’
‘About what?’
‘About him. The chalk circle man.’
‘Well, you’re going to be disappointed. I made it all up about the identity of the circle man, based on a few vague memories. I’ve got no proof of any of it. Pure invention.’
‘Little by little,’ murmured Adamsberg, ‘I’m managing to extract a few fragments of the truth. But it takes a long time. Would you be able to tell me who he is? Even if you’re making it up, it still interests me.’
‘It’s not based on anything serious. Only the circle man reminds me of someone I used to follow some years ago, over by Pigalle too, as it happens. I used to follow this particular man to a dark little restaurant where he lunched alone. He worked while he was eating, and never took his raincoat off. He covered his table with piles of books and papers. And when he dropped something, which happened all the time, he would lift up the hem of his raincoat as if it was a bridal train, whenever he bent down to pick it up. Sometimes his wife would come along, with her lover, to have coffee with him. Then he looked pathetic, desperate to accept any humiliation in order to hang on to whatever was left. But when the wife and her lover had gone, he would be seized with rage, he’d stab at the paper tablecloth with his knife and obviously he was pretty upset. In his place I would have had a drink, but he seemed not to touch alcohol. I noted in my book at the time “Little man greedy for power but doesn’t have it. How will he get out of this?” See, I tend to make snap judgements. Réal tells me that too: “Mathilde, you make too many snap judgements.” Then I stopped bothering with this man, he made me feel sad and edgy. I follow people to do myself good, not to go poking about in their misery. But when I saw the circle man, and his habit of holding the hem of his coat when he bent down, it reminded me of someone. I looked through my notebooks and remembered the little man who was greedy for power but had none at all, and I thought “Well, why not? Is this perhaps the way he’s found to exercise some kind of power?” Another snap judgement, and that’s where I left it. You see, Adamsberg, you’re disappointed, aren’t you? It wasn’t worth making all those underhand visits to my place and Réal’s to get this kind of pointless information.’
But Mathilde’s anger had subsided.
‘Why didn’t you tell me all this in the first place?’ Adamsberg asked her.
‘I wasn’t sure about it, I had no evidence. And anyway, you must have noticed that I feel rather protective towards the circle man. Perhaps he has nobody but me on his side. That makes it a duty I can’t escape. And anyway, hell’s bells, I would hate to think that my personal notes could get into police files as reports on someone.’
‘Quite understandable,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Why did you use the word “greedy” about him? Funny thing, Louvenel used the same word. At any rate, when you were holding forth at the Dodin Bouffant you attracted a lot of attention. Anyone would only have had to come to you to find out more.’
‘But why?’
‘Like I said before. The manic ways of the circle man are an encouragement to murder.’
As he spoke, using the term ‘manic’ for convenience, Adamsberg remembered that Vercors-Laury had explained to him that the man did not in fact present any of the characteristics of a compulsive mania. And that rather pleased him.
‘You didn’t get any unusual visits after the night at the Dodin Bouffant and the newspaper article?’ he went on.
‘No,’ said Mathilde. ‘Unless perhaps all the visits I get are unusual.’
‘After that night, did you follow the circle man any more?’
‘Yes, of course, several times.’
‘And nobody else was around?’
‘I didn’t notice anything. But I wasn’t particularly bothered anyway.’
‘What about you?’ said Adamsberg, turning towards Charles Reyer. ‘What have you come along for?’
‘I’m accompanying madame, monsieur le commissaire.’
‘Why?’
‘For something to do.’
‘Or to find out more. They tell me that when Mathilde Forestier goes diving, she goes alone, contrary to the rules of the profession. She’s not in the habit of taking someone along to accompany or protect her.’
The blind man smiled.
‘Madame Forestier was furious. She asked me if I wanted to come and witness the meeting. I said yes. It gives me something to do at the end of the day. But I’m disappointed too. You managed to calm her down rather too quickly.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Adamsberg, with a smile. ‘She’s got plenty more lies up her sleeve. But did you, for instance, know about the article in the 5th arrondissement magazine?’
‘It’s not published in Braille,’ said Charles crossly. ‘But yes, I heard about it. Happy now? And Mathilde, does that bother you? Does it scare you?’
‘Couldn’t give a damn either way,’ said Mathilde. Charles shrugged and ran his fingers under his dark glasses.
‘Someone mentioned it at the hotel,’ he went on. ‘One of the guests standing in the lobby.’
‘See?’ said Adamsberg, turning to Mathilde. ‘News travels fast, it even reaches people who can’t read. And what did he say, this guest in the lobby?’
‘Something like “That deep-sea diving lady is at it again. Now she’s pally with the madman who does the circles.” That’s all I heard. Not very informative.’
‘Why did you tell me so willingly that you knew about it? It puts you in an awkward position. You know that you’re already regarded with some suspicion. You arrived at Mathilde’s by some sort of miracle, and you’ve got no alibi for the night of the murder.’
‘You know that, do you?’
‘Naturally – Danglard’s been doing his job.’
‘If I hadn’t told you myself, you would have tried to find out and you would have found out. Better to avoid being detected in a lie, isn’t it?’
Reyer gave one of those wicked smiles with which he would have liked to carve up the universe.
‘But I didn’t know,’ he added, ‘that the person I spoke to in the café in the rue Saint-Jacques was Madame Forestier. I only made the connection later.’
‘Yes,’ said Adamsberg, ‘you already told me that.’
‘Well, you repeat yourself too.’
‘It’s always like that at certain moments in an investigation. People repeat themselves. Then the press reports that “the police are baffled”.’
‘Sections two and three,’ sighed Mathilde.
‘And then, suddenly, things move on,’ said Adamsberg, ‘and you don’t have time to say anything.’
‘Section one,’ added Mathilde.
‘You’re right, Mathilde,’ said Adamsberg, looking at her. ‘Same as in everything else. It all goes either too slowly or too fast.’
‘Not very original as an idea,’ muttered Charles.
‘I often say unoriginal things,’ said Adamsberg. ‘I repeat myself, I make obvious remarks – in short, I disappoint people. Does that never happen to you, Monsieur Reyer?’
‘I try not to let it happen,’ said the blind man. ‘I detest banal conversations.’
‘They don’t bother me at all,’ said Adamsberg.
‘That’ll do,’ said Mathilde. ‘I don’t like it when the commissaire starts talking like this. We’ll get nowhere. I prefer to wait for your investigation to make a leap forward, commissaire, and then your eyes will light up again.’
‘Not a very original idea, either,’ said Adamsberg with a smile.
‘It’s true that in her poetico-sentimental metaphors, Mathilde does not flinch from the grossest banalities,’ remarked Reyer. ‘Though they’re different from yours.’