Part 6 (1/2)

Charles called his office to tell them he would be late. First, he wanted to run the errand for Queen Mathilde and go to the police station; he wanted to help her out, to do something to please her. And this evening he would like to be friendly, to admit that he had placed his hopes in her, and tell her, perfectly courteously, that he had carried out the errand perfectly courteously. He didn't want to murder Mathilde, that was the last thing in the world he wanted. For now, he wanted to cling on to Mathilde, doing his best not to let go of her, not to spin round and slap her in the face. He wanted to go on listening to her talking, about anything and everything, with her husky voice and her tightrope-walking ways, always on the brink of missing her step. Perhaps he should bring her some jewellery this evening, a gold brooch? No, not a gold brooch, a cooked chicken with tarragon, she would surely prefer some chicken with tarragon. And then he could listen to the sound of her voice, and drop off to sleep with warm champagne in his pyjama pockets, if he had had pyjamas. Or pockets. Certainly not tear her eyes out, not ma.s.sacre her, absolutely not, no, he would buy her a cooked chicken. With tarragon.

He should have arrived at the police station by now, but he wasn't sure. It wasn't one of the buildings whose location he had managed to map in his head. He would have to ask. Hesitating, he sc.r.a.ped the pavement ahead of him with his stick, walking slowly. He was lost in this street, obviously. Why had Mathilde sent him here? He began to feel desperately tired. And when he felt that way, anger was sure to follow, welling up in lethal pulses from his stomach into his throat, until it invaded his whole head.

Danglard, feeling seedy and with a blinding headache himself, was just arriving for work. He saw the very tall blind man standing stock-still near the door of the station, an expression of arrogant despair on his face.

'Can I help you?' Danglard asked. 'Are you lost?'

' Are you?' Charles asked.

Danglard ran his hand through his hair.

What a mean question. Was he lost?

'No,' he said.

'Wrong,' said Charles.

'Is that any of your business?' said Danglard.

'Is my standing here any of your business?'

'Oh, for crying out loud,' said Danglard. 'Suit yourself. Stay lost if you're lost.'

'I'm looking for the police station.'

'Well, you're in luck, I work there. I'll take you in. What do you want the police station for?'

'It's about the chalk circle man,' Charles said. 'I've come to see Jean-Baptiste Adamsberg. He's your boss, isn't he?'

'That's right,' said Danglard. 'But I don't know if he's here yet. He could still be wandering around somewhere. Are you coming to tell him something, or to ask him for something? Because I have to tell you that the boss doesn't give out precise information, whether you ask him for it or not. So if you're a journalist, you'd do better to go and join your colleagues over there. There are plenty of them about.'

They were arriving at the entrance to the station. Charles stumbled against the step and Danglard had to catch him by the arm. Behind his gla.s.ses, in his dead eyes, Charles felt a brief spasm of rage.

He said quickly: 'No, I'm not a journalist.'

Danglard frowned and rubbed a finger over his forehead, although he knew perfectly well that you couldn't cure a hangover by rubbing your head.

Adamsberg was there. Danglard could not have said afterwards whether he was in the office or even sitting down. He had perched there, too light for the big armchair and too dense for the white and green furnis.h.i.+ngs.

'Monsieur Reyer wants a word with you,' said Danglard.

Adamsberg looked up. He was more struck than he had been the previous day by Charles's face. Mathilde was right: the blind man was spectacularly good-looking. And Adamsberg admired beauty in others, although he had given up wis.h.i.+ng for it himself. In any case, he couldn't remember ever having wanted to be anyone else.

'You stay too, Danglard,' he said. 'Haven't seen you for some time.'

Charles felt around for a chair and sat down.

'Mathilde Forestier can't come to the Saint-Georges metro station with you tonight as she had promised. That's the message. I'm just dropping in to deliver it to you.'

'How am I supposed to find him without her, this circle man, since she's the only one who knows who he is?' asked Adamsberg.

'She thought of that,' said Charles, with a smile. 'She said I could do it, because she thinks the man leaves a vague smell of apples behind him. She says all I have to do is wait with my nose in the air and breathe deeply, and I'd be pretty good at sniffing out the smell of rotten apples.'

Charles shrugged.

'It wouldn't work, of course. She can be very perverse.'

Adamsberg looked preoccupied. He had swivelled sideways, putting his feet on top of the plastic waste bin, and was resting a piece of paper on his thigh. He seemed to want to start drawing as if he was entirely unconcerned, but Danglard thought this was far from the case. He could see that Adamsberg's face was darker than usual: the nose seemed sharper and he was clenching and unclenching his jaw.

'Yes, Danglard,' he said rather quietly. 'We can't do anything if Madame Forestier isn't there to guide the way. Odd, don't you think?'

Charles made as if to leave.

'No, Monsieur Reyer, don't go,' said Adamsberg, still in a quiet voice. 'An annoying thing happened I had an anonymous phone call this morning. A voice that said: ”Did you see an article two months ago in the local newsletter, The Fifth Arrondiss.e.m.e.nt in Five Pages? Why don't you question the people who actually know something, commissaire?” Then they hung up. Here's the paper, I had someone find it for me. Just the local rag, but a lot of people get to see it. Here, Danglard, can you read this bit out, top of page two. You know I'm no good at reading out loud.'

A well-informed lady?

If certain gentlemen of the press can't resist recording the antics of some poor devil who gets his kicks drawing chalk circles round bottle tops, like a five-year-old, that is, alas, a sign of the weird idea our colleagues have of their calling. But when serious scientists poke their noses in, it hardly bodes well for French research. First we had the eminent psychiatrist, Vercors-Laury, writing a column about this sad individual. But he's not alone. Gossip in the quartier suggests that Mathilde Forestier, the world-famous underwater specialist, has also decided to start a.n.a.lysing this pathetic exhibitionist. She has apparently made it her business to get to know him, and even to accompany him on his grotesque nocturnal perambulations. That would make her the only person who has penetrated the 'mystery of the chalk circles'. A brilliant achievement, wouldn't you say? She apparently revealed as much, one evening in the Dodin Bouffant, at the launch of her latest book, when serious quant.i.ties of alcohol were consumed. Naturally, our arrondiss.e.m.e.nt has prided itself on having the celebrated Madame Forestier as one of our long-standing residents, but would she not do better to spend her government grant on chasing her beloved fish instead of running after an imbecile who may be a criminal, or a deranged lunatic, a man whom her childish imprudence might even attract to our district, which has so far been spared any circles? Some fish are deadly poisonous, even on the slightest contact. Madame Forestier knows this perfectly well: far be it from us to teach her to suck eggs. But what does she know about the poisonous fish that might roam at large in the city streets? By encouraging this kind of behaviour, is she not stirring up trouble in the depths of society? Why is she trying to hook this creature and drag him into our arrondiss.e.m.e.nt, something that must distress all law-abiding inhabitants?

'So,' said Danglard, putting the newspaper down on the desk, 'the person who called you must have heard about the murder yesterday, or this morning, and contacted you right away. Someone with prompt reactions who doesn't like Madame Forestier, it would seem.'

'What do you conclude, then?' asked Adamsberg, still sitting sideways and grinding his jaw.

'I conclude that, thanks to this article, quite a few people have known for some time that Madame Forestier was in possession of certain little secrets. They might want to get their hands on that knowledge themselves.'

'Why would they want to do that?'

'Optimistic hypothesis: to provide copy for the newspapers. Pessimistic hypothesis: to b.u.mp off their mother-in-law, stick her inside a chalk circle and make everyone think it was the work of the latest maniac in Paris. The idea could have crossed the minds of a few benighted individuals too cowardly to risk an attack in the open. It offered them a golden opportunity, and all they had to do was find out the habits of the chalk circle man. After a few drinks, Mathilde Forestier would be an ideal source of information.'

'And then what?'

'Then one might tend to ask, for instance, how it happened that Monsieur Charles Reyer went to live in Mathilde's house a few days before the murder.'

Danglard was like that. He didn't mind coming out with remarks of this kind, in front of the people he was accusing. Adamsberg couldn't bring himself to be so direct, and he found it useful that Danglard had no qualms about hurting people's feelings. Qualms that made Adamsberg say anything except what he was really thinking. Which in police matters produced unexpected, and not always immediately helpful, results.

After Danglard's words there was a long silence. Danglard was still pressing his finger to his forehead.

Charles had suspected that there might be a trap, but all the same he couldn't help giving a start. In the dark inside his head, he imagined Adamsberg and Danglard both looking at him.

'Very well,' said Charles, after a pause. 'I did start renting from Mathilde Forestier last week. Now you know as much as I do. I have no wish to answer your questions or to defend myself. I don't understand anything about this beastly business of yours.'

'Nor do I,' said Adamsberg.

Danglard was annoyed. He would have preferred Adamsberg not to admit his ignorance in front of Reyer. The commissaire had started scribbling on the paper resting on his knee. It was provoking to see Adamsberg taking that casual, vague and pa.s.sive att.i.tude, not asking any questions to move the situation on.

'All the same,' Danglard insisted, 'why did you want to rent her apartment?'

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l!' said Charles, exploding with anger. 'It was Mathilde who came to find me in my hotel to offer me the flat, not the other way round.'

'But you chose to go and sit by her in the cafe, before that, didn't you? And you told her, for some reason, that you were looking for a place to rent.'