by R. N. Morris
‘May I not at least speak to him?’
‘No, you may not!’
Porfiry bowed his head meekly in the force of the Tsar’s reaction.
The Tsar softened his tone to say: ‘But I will talk to the Tsarevich. If anything arises from our conversation that I feel concerns you, you may rest assured that I will bring it to your attention.’
‘You will have my sincere gratitude, Your Majesty.’
‘And now, I really must not keep my Foreign Minister waiting a moment longer.’
33 Justice is delivered
That night was not a restful one for Porfiry. His note to Verkhotsev, which he had completed and dispatched upon his return from the Winter Palace, had prompted a laconic and not particularly reassuring response: You are safe for now. He will not strike yet.
Perhaps Verkhotsev was right, although Porfiry struggled to understand on what evidence he based the assertion. Perhaps it was simply the fact that Slava had not acted so far and, being as yet oblivious of the latest body, had no fresh pretext for an attack. It was reasonable to assume that he would continue to bide his time.
Even so, it was hard to relax.
Porfiry had considered confiding his fears to Nikodim Fomich, who as chief of the Haymarket District Police Bureau would have been in a position to make arrangements for his safety. However, since Salytov’s disclosures, Porfiry had sensed a distance grow in his heart between himself and his friend. He could dismiss Salytov’s allegations as malicious slander, prompted by a desire to bring others down with him. But still, suspicion lingered.
At the same time, Porfiry was inclined to see Verkhotsev’s eagerness to provoke an attack as foolhardy in the extreme. It was now clear that the Third Section officer was acting according to his own agenda, and could therefore be added to the growing list of people Porfiry could not trust.
He slept fitfully, sitting bolt upright at the slightest noise. He had never realised how voluble his apartment could be. Like unseen nocturnal creatures, the cooling pipes and contracting boards stirred into querulous life with a chorus of cracks and clicks. From the adjoining apartments, both those above and those around his, came answering sounds, even more obscure and disturbing, the susurrations, shuffles and thumps of one part of the darkness calling out to another. As he drifted in and out of sleep, these sounds looped into the anxious thoughts that his mind turned over endlessly, providing a dark, sub-musical overture to his dreams, which that night were of hidden figures moving about in impenetrable blackness.
Was it in a dream or in a wakeful moment that he first heard the footsteps? As soon as he heard them he was alert, his whole body strained to listen. There was a curious duality to the tension that wracked him. Release would only come when he heard the footsteps again; their erratic suspension became unbearable. At the same time, their recurrence would signal the fulfilment of his fears. Someone — Slava? — was moving against him.
There it was again, distinctly, unmistakably, the clip of a shoe heel followed by the prolonged groan of a floorboard. But if Slava meant to creep up on him, why was he wearing shoes? Another footfall followed the last, and then another. Porfiry was able to place them as coming from Slava’s room, the room from which for so many years Zakhar’s snores had emanated. It seemed Slava was pacing his room. Perhaps he was simply an insomniac, who needed to wear himself out with exercise before he could think of lying down. If so, it was strange that Porfiry had failed to notice his servant’s night-time habits before now.
Porfiry eased himself up slowly, careful not to set the bedsprings quaking. But even the creaking of his bones sounded deafening. He cocked his head, staring into a particulate swirl of darkness, as if he expected something of it. And then it came. The click of Slava’s bedroom door opening.
Porfiry felt his heart make a bolt for it, only to crash into the restraining cage of his ribs.
He heard Slava’s door grumble and yowl. The footsteps now were on the landing.
Porfiry was suddenly a child again, lying in the dark listening to the relentless thud of Baba Yaga climbing the stairs. He could not say what age he was when he had finally realised that Baba Yaga’s footsteps were nothing more than the pulse of blood beating in his ear.
But the footsteps he heard now were not a trick of anatomy. There was a real man, a man he believed was intent on harming him, stalking his apartment. The footsteps approached his door. Porfiry counted them. One, two, three, four. A pause. Then came steps five and six.
Slava was standing right outside his door now. Porfiry held his breath. He heard the twisting grind of shoe leather on wood. The footsteps receded, one, two, three, four, five, six — stronger, quicker, without hesitation. They carried on the length of the hall, to the front door, the public entrance of Porfiry’s apartment that gave onto the communal stairs. He heard that door open and close. Slava’s footsteps on the stairs resonated through the slumbering building as he bounded down, then burst out into the night.
Porfiry breathed out noisily and lay back down. Who was this man he had admitted into his life?
Somehow, against his will, he fell asleep.
*
Next morning, the Gazette carried the following account:
Fourth child murdered
St Petersburg, Thursday
The body of Innokenty Zimoveykin, 13, was discovered within the precincts of the Baird Shipbuilding and Machine Works, where he was employed as a labourer. This brings to four the number of child murders perpetrated in the city in recent weeks, death in each case being rendered by strangulation. All four children were pupils at the Rozhdestvenskaya Free School. A source within the Department for the Investigation of Criminal Causes has revealed that investigators have now discounted the theory that the crimes were carried out by Yelena Filippovna Polenova, herself the victim of a murderous attack, and confess themselves baffled by the presence of the same distinctive mark on the latest victim’s neck as found on the necks of all the previous victims.
‘A shabby piece of reporting,’ adjudged Porfiry, folding the newspaper down onto his desk. He had one eye on Slava who was clearing away his empty coffee pot. He had breakfasted in his chambers, ostensibly to get an early start on the day’s work, but more truthfully because his apartment was suddenly alien and inhospitable to him; overnight he had become the outsider in it. Perhaps unwisely, he had eaten the breakfast that Slava had put in front of him. But exhausted and hungry after his troubled night, his body’s needs had taken over and he had forgotten that he no longer trusted the food Slava brought him. Besides, if Slava really was a revolutionary assassin in waiting, it was unlikely that he would choose such a cowardly means of dispatch as poison. The point of a political murder, surely, was that it should be bloody, bold and spectacular. Cold comfort perhaps for Porfiry, but at least it meant that he could eat heartily until the blow was struck.
Porfiry’s suspicions must have shown on his face, for he noticed that Slava flushed under the magistrate’s steady gaze.
‘Why do you say that?’ said Slava antagonistically. ‘Is it not factually correct?’
‘It claims that we have confessed to being baffled. I have made no such confession. In fact, I strenuously refute it.’
‘So, you know who killed these children?’
‘Ah, to say that we do not yet know who killed them is not the same as to say we are baffled. We are pursuing a line of investigation that I am confident will result in the arrest of the murderer.’
‘May I ask on what you base your confidence?’
‘No you may not. May I ask you where you went last night, and in the middle of the night to boot? I heard you leave the apartment.’
‘I could not sleep. I thought a walk around the block would settle me.’
‘And did it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I am glad. However, I must tell you that your pacing kept me awake.’
‘I’m sorry. I thought you were already asleep. It was very quiet in your room. But that perha
ps should have alerted me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I should have known you were awake because I could not hear you snoring.’
‘I do not snore. Zakhar was the one that snored.’
‘I must inform you, Porfiry Petrovich, that you do.’ Slava’s smile was retaliative. ‘Furthermore, your logic is at fault. The presence of one snoring man within a household does not preclude another — or indeed, any number of others.’
Porfiry was denied the opportunity of replying by the eruption of shouts from the main hall of the police bureau. The commotion seemed to be rolling towards him like a thundercloud borne on fast-moving air currents. The door burst open and Nikodim Fomich rushed in, immediately followed by Virginsky.
‘Porfiry Petrovich, something extraordinary has turned up.’ Excitement raised Nikodim Fomich’s voice to a shout. ‘You must come!’
‘What? What is this?’
‘Outside. You must see for yourself.’
Behind Nikodim Fomich, Virginsky nodded his head energetically in affirmation. Porfiry cast an uncertain glance towards Slava, only to be met with a blank, uncomprehending stare. Slava seemed to be as much in the dark as he was.
Porfiry touched his desk with the pads of all his fingers, as though to push himself to his feet.
*
‘Daring! Most daring! To do it in broad daylight. And here, outside a police station.’
‘Do we know how it got here?’
‘A peasant’s cart was driven past. At a fair lick, by all accounts. According to witnesses.’
‘There were witnesses?’
‘Yes. A number, including some of our men. They saw two men in the back of the cart.’
‘Do we have descriptions?’
‘Their faces were covered with mufflers.’
‘I see. How were they dressed?’
‘They were dressed flashily.’
‘Flashily?’
‘One in a ginger suit, the other was in green. As criminals are wont to do.’
‘Our criminals wear only green or ginger suits? That is indeed considerate of them. It should certainly make our investigative work easier. I wonder that we have any unsolved crimes on our books when all we need do is round up all those in green or ginger suits.’
‘Don’t be obtuse, Porfiry Petrovich. You know very well, there is a class of criminal who takes pleasure in affecting a certain dandyism. They are the peacocks of the underworld. They may not always wear green or ginger suits, but they do favour sartorial ostentation.’
‘And the driver?’
‘The driver was in peasant’s garb. A kaftan over a belted smock.’
‘Was he masked too?’
‘We may presume so.’
‘Presume? My dear Nikodim Fomich, I do not wish to presume anything.’
‘His face is a blank to the witnesses. Whether that was because he was masked or because their attention was held by the extraordinary actions of the extraordinary men in the back of the cart, I cannot say.’
‘That is understandable, I suppose.’
‘Of course it is! These men were standing in the back of a racing cart.’
‘How many horses pulled the cart?’
‘Porfiry, please! You want to know about the horses now!’
‘You describe the cart variously as “racing” and going “at a fair lick”. I merely wish to establish how quickly it could conceivably have been travelling. One horse or two will make a difference.’
‘But your questions are interrupting my narrative! Can you not allow me to get to the end of my account and then put your questions to me?’
‘Well, no. That is not how I like to proceed when I am conducting an interrogation.’
‘But you are not interrogating me! I am a policeman, not a criminal!’
Porfiry gave one slow blink. ‘I would be grateful if you would confirm the number of horses before continuing with your account.’
‘I don’t know! No one has remarked on the number of horses. How many horses usually pull a cart?’
‘Most usually, I would say one, although the number may be dependent on the weight of the load and the wealth of the peasant.’
‘Well then, one. That was why it was not commented on. It was not worthy of comment.’
‘I do not see how a heavy cart carrying three men and this load — effectively four men — could achieve the speeds suggested by your terminology when drawn only by one horse.’
‘Very well, it must have been two horses.’
‘But if there were two horses, would not the witnesses have remarked upon that circumstance?’
‘You may question them more carefully about the number of horses yourself. What has it to do with anything?’
‘Because if the cart was drawn by one horse, it cannot have reached such a great speed. Certainly it would not have gone so fast that your men could not have given chase.’
‘But why would they give chase? They were not in a position to interpret the meaning of the singular occurrence that took place before their eyes. They were, in a word, astonished.’
‘What was the nature of this singular occurrence?’
‘A sack was thrown from the back of a hurtling cart.’
‘The cart is hurtling now?’
‘At any rate, before they had time to comprehend what had taken place, the cart had disappeared around the corner. In the meantime, their natural instinct was to examine the sack. In which they found …’
‘The body of this man.’
‘Yes.’
‘The large wound on the right side of the head, surrounded by blackened, burnt skin and scorched hair, suggests death was caused by a gunshot to the temple, the barrel of the gun being placed against the head. This smaller wound, at the other temple, is where the bullet exited.’ Porfiry looked down at the violently disrupted flesh he had just described.
‘But you have not commented on the sign.’
The body lay on the pavement, still partially contained in the large hessian sack in which it had been deposited. Only the man’s head and shoulders had been exposed. His face was drawn, as if the fatal assault had caused him to suck his cheeks in. In truth, he appeared to be an emaciated and ravaged indvidual. His clothes were those of a workman, coarse, worn and grubby. Around his neck, a white cardboard rectangle was hung by rough twine. The following legend had been scrawled on the cardboard with a blunt pencil.
This is the child murderer what you are looking for. His name is MURIN. He confessed to a fellow. There is honour amongst thieves. This man is scum.
‘Well?’ said Nikodim Fomich.
‘He appears to have been executed.’
‘Yes.’
Porfiry, who was squatting on his haunches, worked the edge of the sack down. The man was big-framed, but undernourished so Porfiry was able to manoeuvre him without too much difficulty. Soon the man’s hands were exposed. They seemed disproportionately big, at odds with his scrawny physique, as if they had somehow been attached to the wrong arms. The fingers were chubby. The thought struck Porfiry that they had somehow been fattened on all the nourishment the rest of his body had been denied.
An inverted gold ring cinched the little finger of his left hand. Porfiry tried to rotate it on the finger but it refused to move. He turned the hand over, the touch of the cold dead skin sending a stab of revulsion to his heart.
On the face of the ring he saw the double-headed eagle of the House of Romanov.
34 The Tsar will be content
‘And so, Porfiry Petrovich, you have your murderer.’
Porfiry regarded his blue-clad visitor with astonishment. ‘I see that today you have chosen to appear before me in your gendarme’s uniform.’
Verkhotsev bowed.
‘And with reinforcements,’ added Porfiry, staring pointedly at the other two gendarmes accompanying the major. ‘Is there some significance to your choice of apparel?’
‘Murin. We have come for Murin.’
‘Ah, but he was my agitator first.’ Verkhotsev smiled winningly, and twirled his moustache. ‘Besides, you do not need him any more. You have enough to write your report. Do you not have an appointment with the Tsar this afternoon? Imagine how pleased he will be to discover that you have solved the case.’
‘I have not solved the case!’ protested Porfiry. ‘The body of an escaped political prisoner was dumped outside the headquarters of the Haymarket District Police Bureau. If Murin is indeed our child-murderer, and we have only the supposed allegation of anonymous criminals to suggest that he is — if he is, then his identification as such owes nothing to me. I had not begun to suspect him. Indeed my suspicions were directed in an entirely other direction.’