‘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.’