‘It’s a pure formality, but I would still like to visit your house, if I may,’ said Adamsberg.
Danglard, who had never seen Adamsberg bother to carry out pure formalities, looked at him uncomprehendingly.
‘As you wish,’ said Le Nermord. ‘But what are you looking for? As I said, I’ll bring you all the proof you need.’
‘Yes, I know. And I’ll trust you to do that. I’m not looking for anything concrete. Meanwhile, can you go over all that with Danglard, and make a statement.’
‘Can you be frank with me, commissaire? As the “chalk circle man,” what kind of sentence will I get?’
‘I can’t think the charge will be serious,’ said Adamsberg. ‘There was no disturbance, no offence against public order in the strict sense. If you inspired someone with the idea of committing a murder, that’s not your fault. You can’t be held responsible for giving other people ideas. Your peculiar habit has caused three deaths, but we can hardly blame you for them.’
‘I would never have imagined this. I’m truly sorry,’ murmured Le Nermord.
Adamsberg went out without another word, and Danglard felt annoyed at him for not having shown a little more humanity. He had previously seen the commissaire go to great lengths to be kind, to win over various strangers and even imbeciles. But today he hadn’t offered the tiniest crumb of humanity to the old man in front of them.
Next day, Adamsberg asked to see Le Nermord again. Danglard was sulking. He didn’t want them to harass the old man any further. And here was Adamsberg choosing the last minute to call him in, when he’d hardly said a word to him the previous days.
So Le Nermord was convoked once more. He came into the police station timidly, still looking shaken and pale. Danglard considered him.
‘He’s changed,’ he whispered to Adamsberg.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Adamsberg replied.
Le Nermord sat on the edge of a chair and asked if he could smoke his pipe.
‘I was thinking, last night,’ he said, feeling in his pocket for matches. ‘All night, in fact. And now I’ve decided that I don’t care if everyone finds out the truth about me. I’ll just have to accept that I’m the pathetic chalk circle man, as the press calls me. At first when I started doing it, I had the feeling that it was making me incredibly powerful. In fact, I suppose, I was being arrogant and grotesque. And then it all went so wrong. Those two murders. And my Delphie. How could I possibly hope to hide all that from myself? What would be the point of trying to hide it from other people, and trying to salvage my career, which I’ve completely destroyed, however you look at it? No. I was the circle man. If I have to live with that, so be it. Because of all this, because of my “frustration” as that man Vercors-Laury would call it, three people have died. Including my Delphie.’
He plunged his head in his hands and Danglard and Adamsberg waited in silence, without looking at each other. The elderly Le Nermord wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his raincoat, like an old tramp, as if he were abandoning the prestige he had spent years acquiring.
‘So it’s pointless of me to beg you not to let the press know,’ he continued with an effort. ‘I get the impression that it would be better if I just accept what I am and what I’ve done, instead of trying to hide behind my wretched professorial identity. But since I’m a coward, I’d prefer to get away from Paris, now that everything will come out. I meet too many people in the street, you see. If you give me permission, I’d like to retreat to the countryside. Not that I like the countryside. We bought a little house there for Delphie to use. It could be my refuge from the world for now.’
Le Nermord waited for their reply, rubbing the bowl of his pipe against his cheek, an anxious and miserable expression on his face.
‘You’re quite free to do that,’ said Adamsberg, ‘so long as you keep us informed of your whereabouts. That’s all we will ask.’
‘Thank you. I think I could move down there in a couple of weeks. I’m going to clear everything out. Byzantium’s finished for me now.’
Adamsberg let another pause go past before he asked:
‘You aren’t by any chance diabetic, are you?’
‘What a strange question, commissaire. No, I’m not diabetic. Is that… er… important?’
‘Well, it is quite. I’m going to trouble you again one last time, although it’s about something trivial. But this trivial thing is hard to explain, and I hoped you might be able to help me. All the witnesses who saw you have spoken of a smell you left behind. A smell of rotten apples, one said, vinegar or a liqueur of some sort, others said. So I thought at first that you might be suffering from diabetes, since as you may know diabetes is associated with a slight aroma of fermentation. However, I don’t detect anything like that about you – just your pipe tobacco. So I thought possibly the smell they spoke of might have come from your clothes, or from a clothes cupboard. And yesterday I looked in your wardrobes and cupboards, and sniffed at the clothes. Nothing. Just a smell of wooden furniture, dry cleaning, pipe tobacco, books, even chalk, but nothing acid or alcoholic. I was disappointed.’
‘I don’t really know what to say,’ said Le Nermord, looking rather disorientated. ‘What exactly are you asking me?’
‘Well, how do you explain it?’
‘I don’t know! I never realised I left any smell behind me. It’s rather humiliating, in fact, to learn this.’
‘I have a suggestion. Perhaps it comes from outside your house, from some other cupboard where you used to leave the clothes you wore when you were being the circle man.’
‘My clothes when I was “being the circle man”? But I didn’t wear anything special! I wasn’t demented enough to dress up for my outings! No, commissaire. Your witnesses will surely have said that I was dressed in ordinary clothes, like I am today. I wear practically the same things every day: flannel trousers, white shirt, tweed jacket, raincoat. I hardly ever dress any differently. Why on earth would I go out wearing a tweed jacket and go “somewhere else” to put on another tweed jacket, especially one that smelled odd?’
‘That’s exactly what I was wondering.’
Le Nermord was looking miserable again and Danglard felt vexed with Adamsberg once more. In the end the commissaire wasn’t so bad at torturing his suspects.
‘I do want to help you,’ said Le Nermord, his voice on the point of breaking, ‘but that’s asking too much. I don’t understand this business of a smell and why it’s so interesting.’
‘It may not be as interesting as all that.’
‘Perhaps, you know, it might have something to do with nervousness, because these circles were a very emotional thing for me. Maybe I was giving off a sort of “smell of fear”? I suppose it’s possible. When I was in the metro afterwards, I’d be dripping with sweat.’
‘It really doesn’t matter,’ said Adamsberg, scribbling on the table. ‘Forget it. I get these ideas fixed in my head and they don’t mean anything. I’ll let you go, Monsieur Le Nermord. I hope you find some peace in the countryside. People say it’s possible.’
Peace in the countryside indeed! Danglard, infuriated, gave a snort of exasperation. Everything about the commissaire was getting on his nerves this morning, his aimless meanderings, his pointless questions and his banal remarks. Oh, for a glass of white wine. Too early, much too early, control yourself for heaven’s sake.
Le Nermord gave a tragic smile and Danglard tried to cheer him up a bit by shaking his hand warmly. But Le Nermord’s hand remained limp. A lost soul, Danglard thought.
Adamsberg stood up and watched Le Nermord go down the corridor, stooping slightly and looking thinner than ever.
‘Poor sod,’ said Danglard. ‘He’s finished now.’