The Chalk Circle Man Read Online Free PDF

door.’
    ‘Danglard, I like you,’ said Adamsberg, still doodling.
    ‘I think I’d gathered that,’ said Danglard, picking up the plastic cup.
    ‘Ask the photographer to make sure he’s free tomorrow morning and go along with him. I want a description and some clear pictures of the blue chalk circle that may be drawn somewhere in Paris tonight.’
    ‘A circle? You mean this nutter who draws rings round bottle tops? “Victor, woe’s in store, what are you out here for?”‘
    ‘That’s exactly what I mean, Danglard.’
    ‘But it’s stupid. What …’
    Adamsberg shook his head impatiently.
    ‘I know, Danglard, I know. Just do it. Please. And don’t tell anyone for the time being.’
    After that, Adamsberg finished the sketch that he had been resting on his knee. He could hear raised voices from the next room. Vernoux’s girlfriend was cracking. It was obvious that she had had nothing to do with the murder of the elderly businessman. Her only error of judgement, but it had been a serious one, was to have been sufficiently in love with Vernoux, or sufficiently obedient to him, to back up his false alibi. The worst thing for her wouldn’t be the court appearance: it was what was happening right now, as she discovered her lover’s cruelty.
    What on earth had he eaten at midday to give him such a stomach-ache? He couldn’t remember. He picked up the telephone to arrange an interview with the psychiatrist, René Vercors-Laury. Tomorrow at eleven, the receptionist suggested. He had given her his name, Jean-Baptiste Adamsberg, and it had opened doors. He was not yet accustomed to this kind of celebrity, although it had been attached to him for some time. But Adamsberg had the feeling that he had no contact with his public image: it was as if there were two of him. Still, since childhood he had always felt there were two people inside him: Jean-Baptiste on the one hand and Adamsberg on the other – both watching what Jean-Baptiste got up to, following his movements with amusement. And now there were three: Jean-Baptiste, Adamsberg, and the public figure with the same name. A holy but shattered trinity. He got up to fetch a coffee from the machine next door, where he would often find Margellon helping himself. But it so happened that just then everyone was there, with a woman who seemed to be causing a loud disturbance. Castreau kept repeating patiently, ‘Madame, I think you should leave.’
    Adamsberg served himself a coffee and looked round. The woman was speaking in a husky voice; she was both angry and sad. Clearly she was exasperated with the cops. She was dressed in black. Adamsberg decided that she had an Egyptian profile, or perhaps she had other origins that had produced one of those dark aquiline faces you never forget but carry round in your head ever after – not unlike his petite chérie , in fact.
    Castreau was now saying:
    ‘This isn’t a lost-property department, madame. Please be reasonable, and leave now.’
    The woman was no longer young. Adamsberg put her somewhere between forty-five and sixty. Her hands were tanned and energetic, with short nails, the hands of a woman who had spent her life somewhere else, using them to search for something.
    ‘So what’s the point of the police, then?’ the woman was saying, shaking back her dark shoulder-length hair. ‘You could make a bit of an effort. It wouldn’t kill you, would it, to give me some idea where to look? It might take me ten years to find him, but you could do it in a day!’
    This time Castreau lost his cool.
    ‘Look, I don’t give a damn about your private life!’ he shouted. ‘He’s not listed as a missing person, is he? So please just go away and leave me in peace – we don’t do lonely hearts here. If you go on making a fuss I’ll call the boss.’
    Adamsberg was leaning against the wall at the back of the room.
    ‘I am the boss,’ he said, without moving.
    Mathilde turned round. She saw a man with hooded eyes looking