‘Why the hell did you have to do that? Do you think it makes my life any easier?’
‘That wasn’t what I had in mind at all, inspecteur. You’ve been buggering me about since the start of this business. I thought it was my turn to have a go.’
‘Right. So in fact you went out just to bugger us up?’
‘Pretty much, yes, because I didn’t manage to pick up any girls. But I’m glad to learn you’re buggered up. Very glad – got that?’
‘But why?’ Danglard asked once more.
‘Because it’s being so cheerful that keeps me going.’
Danglard hung up, feeling furious. Apart from Mathilde Forestier, nobody had stayed put in the house in the rue des Patriarches the previous night. He sent Margellon home and tackled Delphine Le Nermord’s will. He wanted to check what she had left her sister. Two hours later, he had learned that there didn’t seem to be a will, at least not in writing. There are days like that when you can’t pin anything down.
Danglard paced up and down in his office and thought once more about how the fucking sun was going to explode in four or five billion years, and he didn’t know why but that always depressed him. He would have given his life to be sure that the sun would still be shining in five billion years.
Adamsberg returned at about midday and suggested going out for lunch. This didn’t happen often.
‘Well, it’s not looking at all good for our Byzantine expert,’ Danglard said. ‘He was wrong about the inheritance, or else he was lying. There’s no written will. So it all goes to the husband. There are some shares, some forest land, and four houses in Paris, besides the one he lives in. He doesn’t have any capital, just his professor’s salary and royalties from his books. So if the wife was thinking of divorcing him, all that property would go to someone else.’
‘Yes, that’s right, she was, Danglard. I met the lover. He’s the guy in the photo, all right. It’s true that he’s built like Tarzan, but he doesn’t have an awful lot upstairs. He’s a herbivore, what’s more, and proud of it.’
‘Vegetarian, I suppose you mean,’ suggested Danglard.
‘All right, yes, vegetarian. He runs an advertising agency with his brother, he’s a vegetarian too. They were working together last night until two in the morning, round at the brother’s. The brother confirms it. So the lover’s in the clear – unless of course the brother’s lying. But the lover does seem very upset at Delphine’s death. He was pressing her to divorce, not that Le Nermord bothered him, but to rescue Delphine from what he called her husband’s tyranny. Apparently Augustin-Louis was still getting her to work for him, typing and proof-reading his manuscripts, and filing his notes, and she didn’t dare say no. She claimed that she didn’t mind, because “it gave her brain a bit of exercise,” but the lover thinks it wasn’t really what she wanted, and that she was scared stiff of her husband. But Delphine had practically decided to ask for a divorce. At least, she wanted to discuss it with Augustin-Louis. We don’t know whether she did or not. Well, it’s clear enough that the two men hate each other. The lover would like to see Le Nermord come a cropper.’
‘It could all be true, though,’ said Danglard.
‘Yes, I agree.’
‘Le Nermord hasn’t got an alibi for any of the nights of the murders. If he wanted to get rid of his wife before she tried to break free, he might have seized the opportunity given him by the chalk circle man. He’s not brave, he told us that. Not the type to take a risk. So in order to incriminate the madman, he murders two people at random to make it look like a serial killer, then he kills his wife. All sorted. The cops go after the circle man, and he gets his wife’s money.’
‘It looks a bit obvious, though, doesn’t it? Does he take the police for idiots?’
‘For one thing, there are as many idiots in the police as anywhere else. And for another, someone of limited intelligence might come up with an idea like that. I agree, he doesn’t look like someone of limited intelligence. But clever people can sometimes act stupid. It happens. Especially when the passions are involved. What about Delphine Le Nermord, though? What was she doing out at night?’
‘The lover says she was supposed to be home all evening. When he got in, late, he was surprised not to find her there. He thought perhaps she had gone for cigarettes to a late-night tobacconist in the rue Bertholet, because she often nipped out like that. Then, later, he thought perhaps her husband had called her over to do something for him, yet again. But he didn’t dare phone Le Nermord, so he went to bed. I woke him up when I went round there this morning.’
‘Le Nermord could have found the circle at about midnight. He could have telephoned his wife, and then cut her throat there. I think Le Nermord’s looking very bad. What do you think?’
Adamsberg was scattering breadcrumbs round his plate. Danglard, who was a careful eater, found this irritating.
‘What do I think?’ said Adamsberg, raising his head. ‘I’m thinking about the chalk circle man. You should be starting to guess that by now, Danglard.’
XV
AUGUSTIN-LOUIS LE NERMORD WAS BEING HELD FOR QUESTIONING, starting on the Monday morning. Danglard had made it very plain to him that he was regarded as a prime suspect.
Adamsberg let Danglard handle the questions: Danglard pursued his course mercilessly. The old man seemed incapable of defending himself. Anything he said was immediately pounced on by Danglard’s incisive objections. But it was also clear to Adamsberg that Danglard had some sympathy for his victim.
Adamsberg felt nothing of the kind. He had taken an instant dislike to Le Nermord, and he certainly didn’t want Danglard to ask him why. So he said nothing.
Danglard kept the questions going for several days.
From time to time, Adamsberg would go into Danglard’s office and watch. Driven into a corner, frightened to death by the accusations against him, the old man was visibly falling to pieces. He couldn’t even reply to the simplest questions. No, he didn’t know that Delphie had never made a written will. He had always thought everything would go to her sister Claire. He was fond of Claire, she was on her own with three children and had a hard life. No, he didn’t know what he had been doing on the nights of the murders. He supposed he had been working, then had gone to bed, as he did every night. Danglard contradicted him icily. On the night Madeleine Châtelain had been killed, the local pharmacist had been open late, since it was her turn on the rota. She had seen him going out. Le Nermord explained that yes, that was possible, because he sometimes went out for cigarettes from the machine: ‘I take the paper off and use the tobacco in my pipe. Delphie and I both smoked a lot. She was trying to give it up, but I wasn’t. I was too lonely in that big house.’
And he would gesture helplessly, and collapse in a heap, while trying all the same to maintain some presence. Not much was left of the eminent professor at the Collège de France, just an old man who seemed at his wits’ end, who was desperately trying to fight off an apparently inevitable condemnation. A thousand times or more he repeated: ‘But how could it have been me? I loved Delphie.’
Danglard, increasingly shaken himself, kept up his barrage, sparing Le Nermord none of the small details which incriminated him. He had even allowed some information to leak out to the press, which had headlined it. The old man had hardly touched any of the food he was brought, in spite of encouragement from Margellon, who could be kind-hearted when he wanted to be. Le Nermord had not shaved either, even when he was allowed home overnight. What astonished Adamsberg was the sudden capitulation of this old man, who must after all have had a good enough brain with which to defend himself. He had never seen such a rapid destabilisation.