‘It’s Friday today. It’s a safe bet there won’t be anything over the weekend. I get the impression that the circle man doesn’t venture out on Saturdays or Sundays. He keeps to regular habits. And if the murderer is someone different, he’ll have to wait as well, until there’s another circle. Just out of interest, does Reyer have an alibi for last night?’
‘Same as ever. He was in bed asleep. No witness. Everyone in that house was asleep. And there’s no concierge to spot them coming and going. There are fewer and fewer concierges every day in Paris – bad news for us.’
‘Mathilde Forestier called me just now. She’d heard about the murder on the radio and sounded shocked.’
‘So she says,’ muttered Danglard.
XIII
THEN NOTHING HAPPENED FOR SEVERAL DAYS. ADAMSBERG started inviting his downstairs neighbour into his bed again. Danglard lapsed into his usual procedures for lazy June afternoons. Only the press was agitating. A dozen or so journalists were working shifts to keep up a presence outside the station.
On the Wednesday, Danglard was the first to crack.
‘He’s got us where he wants us,’ he burst out angrily. ‘We can’t do anything, there’s nothing to find, no evidence. We’re hanging about like zombies, waiting for him to invent a new trick for us. Nothing to be done until there’s another circle. It’s enough to drive you mad. It’s enough to drive me mad, anyway,’ he corrected himself, after glancing over at Adamsberg.
‘Tomorrow,’ said Adamsberg.
‘Tomorrow what?’
‘Tomorrow morning, there’ll be another circle, Danglard.’
‘You’re a fortune-teller now, are you?’
‘We won’t go over this again, we’ve already talked about it. The chalk circle man has a programme. And, as Vercors-Laury says, he needs to exhibit his thoughts. He won’t let a whole week go by without showing up somewhere. Especially since the press is full of stories about him. But if he draws a circle tonight, Danglard, we’d better be afraid that there’ll be another murder in the night between Thursday and Friday. This time, we must have as many men out on patrol as possible, at least in the 5th, 6th and 14th arrondissements.’
‘But why? The killer’s under no pressure to hurry. And so far he hasn’t shown any sign of it.’
‘It’s different now. Trust me, Danglard. If the circle man is the murderer, and he starts drawing circles again, that’s because he means to kill again. But he knows he has to move more quickly now. Three witnesses have already described him, not counting Mathilde Forestier. We’ll soon be able to construct an identikit picture. He’s following what we’re doing by reading the newspapers. He knows he hasn’t got much longer. So he wants to finish what he’s started, and he can’t hang about any more.’
‘And what if the killer isn’t the chalk circle man?’
‘Doesn’t change anything. He can’t count on things lasting for ever, either. His circle man, panicking because of the two crimes, put an end to his games earlier than expected. So he has to hurry before the maniac stops drawing.’
‘Possible, I suppose,’ said Danglard.
‘Very possible, mon vieux.’
Danglard spent a restless night. How could Adamsberg be waiting so unhurriedly and where did he get his predictions of the future from? He never seemed to be tied down by tedious facts. He read all the files that Danglard had prepared for him on the victims and suspects, but made little comment on them. He was following some vague scent in the air. Why did he appear to think it so significant that the second victim was a man? Because it meant ruling out a sexual motive for the crimes?
That wouldn’t surprise Danglard. He had supposed for a long time that someone was using the chalk circle man for some precise purpose. But neither the Châtelain nor the Pontieux murder seemed to have been of particular benefit to anyone. They merely encouraged the idea of a psychopathic serial killer. Was that the reason they would have to wait for another death? But why did Adamsberg keep concentrating on the chalk circle man? And why had he called Danglard ‘mon vieux’? Worn out with tossing and turning in bed in the hot June night, Danglard considered the refreshing possibility of going to the kitchen to finish off the wine. In front of the children, he always took care to leave a little in the bottle. But Arlette would notice next morning that he had been at it in the night. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time. She would pull a face and say ‘Adrien,’ (she often called him Adrien) ‘you’re an old boozer.’ But he was hesitating above all because drinking late at night would give him a hellish headache when he woke up, as if he were being scalped and all his joints were being unscrewed, whereas he needed to be in good shape in the morning. In case there was another circle. And to help organise the patrols for the next evening, which would be the night of the crime. It was infuriating to allow himself to be ruled by Adamsberg’s vague hunches. But it was easier in the end than fighting against them.
Then the man drew another circle. At the far end of Paris, in a small street, the rue Marietta-Martin in the 16th arrondissement. The local police station took some time to let them know. Since their district had seen no blue chalk circles before, the authorities had not been particularly alert to them.
‘Why in a new area?’ Danglard wondered.
‘ To show us that after hanging around the Pantheon district, he isn’t the kind of man to be enclosed in routine and that, murder or no murder, he’s still got his freedom and his power to cover the entire territory of the capital. Or something like that,’ Adamsberg murmured.
‘Buggering us up,’ said Danglard, pressing a finger to his brow.
He hadn’t been able to resist after all, the night before: he’d finished the bottle and had even started another. The iron bar that now seemed to be hammering the inside of his head had almost deprived him of his eyesight. And the most worrying thing of all was that Arlette had said nothing at breakfast. But Arlette knew that he had worries at present, what with his almost empty bank account, the impossible investigation he was engaged in, and the unsettling character of his new boss. Perhaps she didn’t want to upset him any further. But that meant that she hadn’t realised that Danglard actually liked to hear her say ‘Adrien, you’re an old boozer.’ Because at that moment, he was certain of being loved. A simple but genuine sensation.
In the middle of the circle, this time drawn in a single movement, there lay a red plastic object: the rose of a watering can.
‘It must have fallen from the balcony up there,’ said Danglard, looking up. ‘Goes back to the ark, this kind of rose. And why choose it anyway, and not that cigarette packet, for instance?’
‘You’ve seen the list, Danglard. He takes care to pick objects that won’t blow away. No metro tickets, paper handkerchiefs, or cellophane wrappers, anything the wind could carry off in the night. He wants to be sure that the thing in the circle will still be there next morning. Which makes me think he’s more concerned with the image of himself he’s projecting than with “revitalising inanimate objects,” as Vercors-Laury would have it. Otherwise he wouldn’t rule out flimsy items that are just as significant as any he’s used if he’s really concerned with the “metaphorical renaissance of the pavement”. But the way the chalk circle man looks at it, a circle found empty in the morning would be an insult to his creativity.’