Fred Vargas - The Chalk Circle Man

‘Aren’t you interested in what we’re talking about?’ asked Danglard.

‘Yes, but I don’t want to seem too interested because it makes me feel like an idiot. You didn’t take any notice of me, but I was thinking about this case too. The only thing I thought was that Le Nermord was a bit creepy. But I didn’t get any further than that. I looked for Clémence like the rest of us.’

‘Clémence!’ said Adamsberg. ‘He must have taken some time to find her. He had to find someone of roughly his own age and build, someone inconspicuous, and sufficiently isolated from other people that her disappearance would go unnoticed. This elderly Mademoiselle Valmont in Neuilly was just the job, a lonely old lady, obsessively answering small ads from the paper. He just had to answer one, charm her, promise her the moon, convince her to sell up and go off with him, with her two suitcases – it wasn’t too difficult. Clémence told no one but her neighbours. But since they weren’t close friends they weren’t too bothered about her adventure, they just had a good laugh about it. Nobody had ever seen the famous new fiancé. And the poor old soul turned up at the rendezvous.’

‘Ah,’ said Castreau. ‘Here comes another male now. What’s he want? The female’s looking at him, there’s going to be a fight. Oh-oh, here we go.’

‘So he killed her,’ said Danglard. ‘Then he brought her all this way to bury her. Why here? Where is this?’

Adamsberg stretched a weary arm out to his left.

‘If you’re going to bury someone, you have to know a quiet spot. The lodge in the forest is the Le Nermords’ country house.’

Danglard looked through the trees at the distant house. Yes, Le Nermord had certainly made a fool of him.

‘After that,’ Danglard went on, ‘he disguised himself as Clémence. Easy enough, he had her two suitcases.’

‘Carry on, Danglard, I leave it to you now.’

‘Now the hen blackbird’s flying away,’ said Castreau. ‘She’s dropped the tinfoil. Waste of time bringing her presents. No, she’s coming back.’

‘He went to lodge with Mathilde,’ said Danglard. ‘This woman had been following him. She worried him. He had to keep an eye on Mathilde, and then use her. The empty flat was a stroke of luck. If there was a problem, Mathilde would be a perfect witness: she knew the circle man and she knew Clémence. She believed they were two different people and he worked hard to convince her of that. How did he manage the teeth, though?’

‘Well, it was you who remarked on the noise he made with his pipe against his teeth.’

‘Yes. Ah, dentures, of course. He must have filed down an old set. What about the eyes, though? He’s got blue eyes. Clémence’s were brown. Oh, contact lenses! Yes, tinted contact lenses. Beret, gloves, she was always wearing gloves. But the transformation must have taken a bit of time and a lot of trouble, in fact quite a bit of artistry. And how could he leave his own house dressed as an old woman? One of his neighbours might have seen him. Where did he change?’

‘He changed somewhere on the way. He left his house as a man and arrived in the rue des Patriarches as a woman. And vice versa, of course.’

‘So where did he do it? Some abandoned house, a workman’s hut perhaps, where he could change and leave the clothes?’

‘Something like that. We’ll have to find it. He’ll have to tell us.’

‘A workman’s hut, that makes sense, with bits of rotten food left behind, old wine bottles, a mildewy sort of enclosed space. Was that it, the smell? The smell of rotten apples that hung about his clothes? But why didn’t Clémence’s clothes smell the same, then?’

‘Her clothes were very light. He could keep them on under his suit, and he put the beret and gloves in his briefcase. But he couldn’t keep his man’s clothes under Clémence’s, of course. So he had to leave them behind.’

‘My God, what a carry-on! Think of the organisation.’

‘For some people, organisation is delicious in itself. This was a sophisticated murder, one that meant months of preparatory work. He started doing his circles more than four months before we found the first victim. This kind of Byzantine scholar wouldn’t be put off by hours and hours of meticulous preparation, working it out. I’m sure he enjoyed it all immensely. For instance, the idea of using Gérard Pontieux to make us start running after Clémence. The kind of imbroglio he must have relished. And the drop of blood deposited in Clémence’s flat, the finishing touch before she disappeared.’

‘But, Christ Almighty, where is he now?’

‘He’s gone into town. He’ll be back at lunchtime. There’s no hurry, he’s completely sure of himself. A plan as complicated as this couldn’t go wrong. But he didn’t know about the fashion magazine. His Delphie was taking some liberties that she didn’t tell him about.’

‘The smaller male has won,’ said Castreau. ‘I’m going to give him some bread. He’s worked hard for it.’

Adamsberg looked up. The lab team was arriving. Conti got down from the truck with all his paraphernalia.

‘You’ll see,’ said Danglard, greeting Conti. ‘No hairpins this time. But the same guy did it.’

‘And we’re going after him now’, said Adamsberg, standing up.

AUGUSTIN-LOUIS LE NERMORD’S HOUSE WAS AN OLD AND RATHER ramshackle hunting lodge. Over the front door was nailed the skull of a stag.

‘Jolly place!’ said Danglard.

‘Ah, jolly’s not the word that comes to mind, is it?’ said Adamsberg. ‘He’s got a taste for death. Reyer told me that about Clémence. The most important thing he told me was that she talked like a man.’

‘See if I care,’ said Castreau. ‘Look at this.’

He proudly displayed the hen blackbird, who was now sitting on his shoulder.

‘Ever seen that before? A tame blackbird, and she’s chosen me.’

Castreau laughed.

‘I’m going to call her Breadcrumb,’ he said. ‘Daft, isn’t it? Do you think she’ll stay?’

Adamsberg rang the doorbell. They heard the sound of slippers approaching unhurriedly in the corridor. Le Nermord clearly suspected nothing. When he opened the door, Danglard had a different take on his washed-out blue eyes, and his pale skin marked with liver spots.

‘I was just about to eat,’ said Le Nermord. ‘What’s happened?’

‘It’s all over, monsieur,’ said Adamsberg. ‘These things happen.’

He put a hand on the professor’s shoulder.

‘You’re hurting me,’ said Le Nermord, recoiling.

‘Come with us, please,’ said Castreau. ‘You’re charged with four murders.’

The blackbird was still sitting on his shoulder as he took Le Nermord’s wrists and slipped the handcuffs over them. In the past, under his former boss, Castreau used to boast that he could cuff a suspect before they had time to notice. In this case, he said nothing.

Danglard had not taken his stare off the circle man. And he seemed now to understand what Adamsberg had meant with his story of the drooling dog. The identification of cruelty. It seemed to seep from every pore. The chalk circle man had become terrible to see in the space of a minute. Even more ghastly than the corpse in the grave.

BY EVENING, EVERYONE WAS BACK IN PARIS. THERE WAS AN atmosphere of overwork and excitement in the station. The chalk circle man, being held down on a chair by Declerc and Margellon, was spitting out a stream of foul language.

‘Hear him?’ Danglard asked Adamsberg as he went into the commissaire ‘s office.

For once, Adamsberg wasn’t doodling. He was finishing off his report to the examining magistrate, standing up.