produced a one-franc coin, a torch battery, a screwdriver, and something which cheered Danglard up somewhat, if that was the right expression, a dead pigeon with one wing torn off, in the rue Geoffroy-Saint-Hilaire.
Disconcertingly, Adamsberg showed no reaction except a vague smile. He was still cutting out any newspaper articles that mentioned the chalk circle man and stuffing them into his desk drawer, alongside the photographs supplied by Conti. By now, everyone in the station knew about it, and Danglard was becoming rather anxious on his behalf. But the full confession obtained from Patrice Vernoux had made Adamsberg untouchable, at least for a little while.
‘How long is this business going to go on, commissaire ?’ asked Danglard.
‘What business?’
‘The chalk circles, for Christ’s sake! We’re not going to stand in front of these damned hairpins every morning for the rest of our lives, are we?’
‘Ah, the chalk circles. Yes, it could go on a long time, Danglard. A very long time, even. But so what? Whether we follow this or do something else, does it matter? Hairpins provide a bit of distraction.’
‘So we drop the whole thing?’
Adamsberg looked up abruptly.
‘Absolutely not, Danglard, out of the question.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘As serious as I can be. It’s going to get bigger, Danglard, as I’ve already told you.’
Danglard shrugged.
‘We’ll need all this documentation,’ Adamsberg went on, opening the drawer. ‘It could be indispensable afterwards.’
‘After what, for God’s sake?’
‘Don’t get impatient, Danglard – you wouldn’t wish someone dead, would you?’
Next morning there was an ice-cream cone in the avenue du Docteur-Brouardel in the 7th arrondissement .
V
M ATHILDE HAD PRESENTED HERSELF AT THE H ŌTEL D ES G RANDS Hommes, to look for the beautiful blind man – a very small hotel for such a grand name, she thought. Or perhaps it meant that one didn’t need many rooms to accommodate all the great men in the world.
The receptionist, after telephoning to announce her arrival, told her that Monsieur Reyer couldn’t come down, he was detained. Mathilde went up to his room.
‘What’s the matter?’ Mathilde cried through the locked door. ‘Are you naked in bed with someone?’
‘No,’ said Charles.
‘Something more serious?’
‘I’m not looking my best. I can’t find my razor.’
Mathilde thought for a moment. ‘It’s out of sight, you mean?’
‘Yes, right,’ said Charles. ‘I’ve felt everywhere. I don’t understand.’
He opened the door.
‘You have to appreciate, Queen Mathilde, that things take advantage of my weakness. I hate things . They disguise themselves, they slip between the mattress and the bed, they knock over the waste-paper basket, they get stuck between the floorboards. I’ve had enough. I think I’m going to abolish things.’
‘You’re not as smart as a fish,’ Mathilde observed. ‘Because the fish that live right down on the seabed, in complete darkness, like you, they manage to find what they want to eat, in spite of everything.’
‘Fish don’t have to shave. And anyway, what the eye doesn’t see the heart doesn’t grieve after. Couldn’t give a damn about your fish.’
‘Eyes, eyes. You’re doing it on purpose aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am doing it on purpose, I’ve got a whole repertoire of expressions: I’ll cast my eye over it, I’ll make eyes at her, I’ve got my eye on you, I’ll keep my eyes peeled, it’s an eye-opener, I’ve got eyes in the back of my head. There are plenty of them. I like using them. Like other people like to chew over their memories. But anyway, I really couldn’t care less about fish.’
‘Plenty of people feel like that. Yes, it’s true, there’s a general tendency not to give a damn about fish. Can I sit on this chair?’
‘Please go ahead. Anyway, what’s so marvellous about fish?’
‘We understand each other, me and the fish.
Disconcertingly, Adamsberg showed no reaction except a vague smile. He was still cutting out any newspaper articles that mentioned the chalk circle man and stuffing them into his desk drawer, alongside the photographs supplied by Conti. By now, everyone in the station knew about it, and Danglard was becoming rather anxious on his behalf. But the full confession obtained from Patrice Vernoux had made Adamsberg untouchable, at least for a little while.
‘How long is this business going to go on, commissaire ?’ asked Danglard.
‘What business?’
‘The chalk circles, for Christ’s sake! We’re not going to stand in front of these damned hairpins every morning for the rest of our lives, are we?’
‘Ah, the chalk circles. Yes, it could go on a long time, Danglard. A very long time, even. But so what? Whether we follow this or do something else, does it matter? Hairpins provide a bit of distraction.’
‘So we drop the whole thing?’
Adamsberg looked up abruptly.
‘Absolutely not, Danglard, out of the question.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘As serious as I can be. It’s going to get bigger, Danglard, as I’ve already told you.’
Danglard shrugged.
‘We’ll need all this documentation,’ Adamsberg went on, opening the drawer. ‘It could be indispensable afterwards.’
‘After what, for God’s sake?’
‘Don’t get impatient, Danglard – you wouldn’t wish someone dead, would you?’
Next morning there was an ice-cream cone in the avenue du Docteur-Brouardel in the 7th arrondissement .
V
M ATHILDE HAD PRESENTED HERSELF AT THE H ŌTEL D ES G RANDS Hommes, to look for the beautiful blind man – a very small hotel for such a grand name, she thought. Or perhaps it meant that one didn’t need many rooms to accommodate all the great men in the world.
The receptionist, after telephoning to announce her arrival, told her that Monsieur Reyer couldn’t come down, he was detained. Mathilde went up to his room.
‘What’s the matter?’ Mathilde cried through the locked door. ‘Are you naked in bed with someone?’
‘No,’ said Charles.
‘Something more serious?’
‘I’m not looking my best. I can’t find my razor.’
Mathilde thought for a moment. ‘It’s out of sight, you mean?’
‘Yes, right,’ said Charles. ‘I’ve felt everywhere. I don’t understand.’
He opened the door.
‘You have to appreciate, Queen Mathilde, that things take advantage of my weakness. I hate things . They disguise themselves, they slip between the mattress and the bed, they knock over the waste-paper basket, they get stuck between the floorboards. I’ve had enough. I think I’m going to abolish things.’
‘You’re not as smart as a fish,’ Mathilde observed. ‘Because the fish that live right down on the seabed, in complete darkness, like you, they manage to find what they want to eat, in spite of everything.’
‘Fish don’t have to shave. And anyway, what the eye doesn’t see the heart doesn’t grieve after. Couldn’t give a damn about your fish.’
‘Eyes, eyes. You’re doing it on purpose aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am doing it on purpose, I’ve got a whole repertoire of expressions: I’ll cast my eye over it, I’ll make eyes at her, I’ve got my eye on you, I’ll keep my eyes peeled, it’s an eye-opener, I’ve got eyes in the back of my head. There are plenty of them. I like using them. Like other people like to chew over their memories. But anyway, I really couldn’t care less about fish.’
‘Plenty of people feel like that. Yes, it’s true, there’s a general tendency not to give a damn about fish. Can I sit on this chair?’
‘Please go ahead. Anyway, what’s so marvellous about fish?’
‘We understand each other, me and the fish.
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