The Cleansing Flames pp-4

by R. N. Morris

  ‘There has been a slight mishap. An administrative error, one might say.’

  ‘It was his fault,’ put in Zamyotov, quickly.

  ‘That’s not entirely true, Alexander Grigorevich, and you know it!’ countered Virginsky.

  ‘An easy enough mistake to make,’ smoothed Nikodim Fomich, ever the genial uncle.

  ‘What has happened?’ enquired Porfiry.

  ‘It is to do with the poster,’ began Virginsky. ‘Technically, Imperial State has done an excellent job, considering the time in which they managed to produce the posters. The reproduction of the photograph is excellent.’

  Porfiry took a step forward. The men shielding his desk bristled and closed ranks.

  ‘Please, stand aside.’

  No one moved, although one man felt compelled to cough.

  ‘If I may first explain,’ offered Virginsky. ‘There has been a misunderstanding. The system, if you like, caught us out.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Very well, it caught me out, if you prefer. It appears I may have filled in the wrong chit. However, I must say in my defence that I filled in the chit with which Alexander Grigorevich supplied me.’

  ‘It was up to you to check it,’ insisted Zamyotov.

  ‘Yes, I was remiss in not looking more closely at the wording.’

  ‘The colour. The colour should have told you.’ Zamyotov shook his head mercilessly.

  ‘And so, which chit did you fill in?’ wondered Porfiry.

  ‘I. . well. .’ Virginsky reached behind him and held up a copy of the poster.

  It was printed on flimsy newsprint, tangy with the smell of fresh ink. Porfiry recognised the strange doll-like face staring out as that of the victim. The pockmarks were somewhat less defined in the photograph, but noticeably there, especially on the forehead. The most conclusive distinguishing feature, for Porfiry at least, was the blank-eyed presence of death. And it was that that rendered the poster’s solitary word, printed in large block type, so absurd.

  ‘Wanted?’ read Porfiry.

  ‘Yes, I apparently filled out the chit for a Wanted poster. .’

  ‘Pink,’ interjected Zamyotov, with condemnatory terseness.

  ‘Instead of for an Information Concerning poster.’

  ‘Lilac.’

  ‘Did you not specify any other wording?’ asked Porfiry.

  ‘Well, yes, actually, I did. I detailed the circumstances surrounding the finding of the body, the possible time of his disappearance — we believe, do we not, that he must have been deposited in the canal last year, just before or at the onset of winter? It must have been already cold, although not quite freezing, judging by the preservation of the body. I explained too about the changes to his appearance that had been wrought by the process of adipoceration. I drew particular attention to the pockmarks, and the unusually small size of the eyes. And I asked for anyone who might have any information regarding such an individual to make their presence known at their nearest police bureau.’

  ‘Why did this wording not find its way onto the poster?’

  ‘It seems that Imperial State ignored it, as it was not relevant to a Wanted poster, it being a Wanted poster chit that I had filled in.’

  ‘You must take more care in future, Pavel Pavlovich. You know how important it is to pay attention to details when dealing with the bureaucracy.’ Porfiry took the poster from Virginsky. ‘Nevertheless, this will do. At least it will serve to publicise his face.’

  ‘Are you not concerned that it will make us look rather. . foolish?’

  ‘I am more concerned that we find this man’s killer, as soon as possible. Reprinting the poster will only occasion delay.’

  Virginsky gave a quick consultative glance to some of the other magistrates, who nodded back encouragingly. ‘But is there not the possibility that it may deter some individuals from coming forward? Friends of this man may not be willing to offer information if they think it is in connection with his arrest, whereas they might be very happy to help in tracking down his murderer.’

  ‘But surely everyone will realise that he is dead? And that we cannot want to arrest a dead man?’

  ‘We were talking about this before you came in, Porfiry Petrovich,’ said Nikodim Fomich. ‘I am afraid the prevailing view was that the poster will only confuse the public.’

  A chorus of assenting murmurs reinforced the Chief Superintendent’s words.

  Porfiry gave the poster back to Virginsky with a defeated air. ‘Hold on to this copy, but return the rest to Imperial State. Perhaps they can print up a patch to be pasted over the offending word. And this time, Pavel Pavlovich, please take care to fill out the correct chit.’

  ‘I am not sure what the correct chit is for a patch,’ admitted Virginsky forlornly.

  ‘Alexander Grigorevich will be able to advise you.’

  ‘There is no chit for a patch,’ said Zamyotov, with a sharp shake of negation. ‘Therefore it cannot be done.’

  ‘Can you not go to the Imperial State Printing Works yourself and talk to the manager?’

  The clerks who were present were evidently scandalised by this suggestion.

  Porfiry waved them away. ‘Take these out of my sight.’ He handed the ream of posters, still wrapped in brown paper, to Virginsky.

  The room emptied of all except Porfiry and Nikodim Fomich. Porfiry sat down at his desk and lit a cigarette without looking at the police chief.

  ‘You alright, dear friend?’ ventured Nikodim Fomich.

  ‘It’s damned frustrating.’

  ‘Of course. But perhaps we won’t need the posters, after all. Pavel Pavlovich tells me you went to meet a possible witness.’

  ‘He did not keep the appointment.’

  ‘Ah.’ Nikodim Fomich sank into the sofa with a groan. ‘How aggravating for you.’

  ‘It’s more than aggravating, Nikodim Fomich.’ Porfiry took the anonymous letter from his pocket. He waved it vaguely at Nikodim Fomich, who was forced to heave himself out of the loosely upholstered sofa to receive it.

  ‘I wouldn’t place too much store by these ominous hints,’ pronounced Nikodim Fomich. ‘This letter may well be a fraud, written by some self-dramatising egoist.’

  ‘He knew the number of sailors.’

  ‘Very well, let us grant that it is what it seems to be. Even so, anything may have prevented him from meeting you. He may have been detained by a woman, or fallen into a ditch, or been waylaid in a tavern. He may simply have thought better of his original intention. If he is mixed up in this affair in some way, we may imagine that his state of mind is far from stable. You’re the psychologist, Porfiry Petrovich.’ Nikodim Fomich handed the letter back to Porfiry conclusively. ‘It may simply be someone playing a trick on you. A great prankster like you ought to be constantly on the alert for hoaxes.’

  Porfiry gave an offended flutter of eyelids. ‘I don’t think it is a prank. For some reason I have an ominous feeling.’

  ‘Have you any idea who the writer might be? He obviously knows of you.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to recollect. I did not read any of the newspaper accounts of the Raskolnikov trial at the time.’

  ‘They will be archived.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true. I will look into it.’

  ‘And so, what do you make of these fires?’ asked Nikodim Fomich, settling again on the sofa.

  ‘I know only what I have read in the papers. I have not been called to investigate in an official capacity.’

  ‘A nasty business,’ pronounced Nikodim Fomich. ‘The Tsar must crack down heavily on the intellectuals. Suspend the universities. Tighten up censorship. It is the circulation of dangerous ideas that is responsible for these outbreaks, do you not agree, Porfiry Petrovich? The young people are too much in the thrall of these nihilists.’

  ‘Certainly I agree with your last statement, though I cannot concur with the measures you propose. All that has been tried, without success. In fact, it is counterproductive, as it only results in
greater resistance. It invests the dangerous ideas you speak of with a glamorous appeal they would not otherwise possess. It is that which draws the youth, like moths to a candle flame. Far better to expose these ideas to the fresh, cleansing air of careful scrutiny and rational dispute. Then the young people would see them for what they are and reject them. We must learn to trust our own children.’

  ‘Good grief, Porfiry Petrovich. I never thought I would hear such views from you.’

  ‘That is because you do not really know me, Nikodim Fomich.’

  ‘But you are one of my oldest friends!’

  Porfiry declined to comment; in fact, he scrupulously avoided looking at Nikodim Fomich. At last he muttered, ‘Because we have known one another for a long time, it does not mean. .’ But he trailed off without completing the sentiment.

  Nikodim Fomich watched his old friend closely, uneasily. ‘What do they hope to achieve, Porfiry Petrovich? Can you tell me that?’

  ‘They wish to build a new world, a fairer, better world. But first, they have decided that they must destroy the old one.’

  ‘Even if that means killing women and children?’

  ‘The end justifies the means.’ After a moment, Porfiry added, ‘They would say.’ Porfiry considered the smouldering tip of his cigarette. ‘However, it is not our concern, Nikodim Fomich. Another department investigates such crimes, as you know.’

  Nikodim Fomich nodded morosely. ‘The Third Section. Of course. I know you disapprove of their means, but I wonder, at times like this, perhaps their way is the only way?’

  ‘You cannot fight criminality with criminality.’

  ‘That’s rather strong, isn’t it?’

  ‘I speak only from experience.’ Porfiry Petrovich took a long draw on his cigarette.

  Nikodim Fomich slapped his hands down on his thighs conclusively. ‘No one can deny that you have your fair share of that!’

  Porfiry fixed Nikodim Fomich with a critical glare. ‘What do you mean to suggest by that?’

  ‘Merely that you are one of our most experienced investigators.’

  ‘In other words, that I am over the hill.’

  ‘Now now, Porfiry Petrovich! It’s not like you to take offence so easily! Experience is an exceedingly valuable quality in an investigator, as you know. When coupled with the energy of youth, which for you is provided by Pavel Pavlovich, the result is a formidable combination.’

  ‘Now you are saying that I have no energy of my own!’

  ‘Really, you are determined to twist my words. I wonder why you are so out of sorts.’

  ‘Perhaps I have simply had enough for the day.’ Porfiry stubbed out his cigarette. The vitality that he had absorbed at the fair seemed now to have deserted him. He closed his eyes for a moment, and saw once again Dr Pervoyedov’s long metal probe sink into the waxy mass where the unknown man’s heart had been.

  When he opened his eyes, he could not say how much later, the room was in darkness and Nikodim Fomich had gone.

  *

  The following day, a Wednesday, and the third day since the body had come to light, Porfiry Petrovich left Virginsky to sort out the confusion over the posters and set out for a stroll along Sadovaya Street. He chose to walk as much to prove Nikodim Fomich wrong — He did not need anyone else’s energy! — as to take advantage of the continuing fine weather.

  At Nevsky Prospect, Sadovaya Street kinked north and became Malaya — or little — Sadovaya Street. This took him to Bolshaya — or great — Italyanskaya Street, which ran parallel to Nevsky Prospect for a third of the latter’s length, one block to the north. Until the previous year, it had simply been Italyanskaya Street, without the aggrandising adjective. The Ministry of Justice, at number 25, was on the corner with Malaya Sadovaya Street, at the congruence of the great and the small, or so the respective street names suggested.

  A former residence of the Shuvalov family, the ministry building was a pale-blue baroque palace, three storeys high, extending itself over an entire block of Bolshaya Italyanskaya Street. It was ironic to think that a scion of the Shuvalov family, Count Pyotr Andreevich, was the current head of the Tsar’s secret police, the notorious Third Section of His Imperial Majesty’s Own Chancellery. It was a department that, to Porfiry’s mind, had little to do with justice. Some dark exchange seemed to lie behind the coincidence. It was almost as if the Shuvalovs had vacated their home to justice, only to settle themselves into the seat of true power. It seemed to indicate a clarity of vision that was both blithe and ruthless, and therefore typically aristocratic.

  The entrance was set in an imposing porch, banded with bone-white columns. It put Porfiry in mind of a general puffing out his chest to draw himself up to his full height: the usual baroque embellishments — festooned aprons, rusticated columns, three varieties of window styles — were the general’s decorations.

  The great lobby, a full two storeys high and therefore with a double set of windows to illuminate it, was flooded with a hovering silvery light. Something about it made him want to hold his breath. It seemed to have the same effect on others too: the atmosphere was hushed, despite the confluence of lawyers and civil servants. A representation of the double-headed eagle of the Romanov family crest, carved out of black marble, was set into a niche, high in the facing wall, looking down on all who entered with its strange bidirectional gaze. The floor was given over to a monochrome mosaic of that same allegorical figure that Porfiry had seen unveiled in the Summer Garden: Nemesis. The axe head projecting from the bundle of rods of the fasces was more clearly discernible here. In her other hand, she held the flame of truth.

  His gaze must have fallen on that image countless times in his life. Small wonder that when he had seen the statue in the park he had the sense that he had contemplated the figure before. And yet he was not aware of ever consciously considering it. It was simply the ground he walked on whenever he came to the Ministry.

  He took the stairs to the second floor. His step was slow and plodding today, and fell with a heavy reverberation. The exertions of the previous day had taken it out of him. Naturally, it had not been the first time in his career that he had attended the forensic examination of a corpse, but for some reason this one seemed harder than usual to get beyond. The trip to the fair had not wholly succeeded in dispelling his gloom — or in taking the whiff of death from his nostrils, as he had put it to Virginsky. The disappointments of the afternoon, the non-appearance of his mysterious correspondent and the mistake over the poster, had set him back disproportionately. He was aware of a winter tightness lingering in his chest. He acknowledged that it was getting harder each year to shake it off. And yet the exercise, surely, must do him some good? Why then did he feel like a swimmer who has been carried too far out to sea and is in fear of not being able to regain the shore?

  Porfiry looked down, as if he could no longer sustain the weight of his head. The black and white tiles of the corridor brought to mind Pulchinella, dressed in white, with his black half-mask. Porfiry smiled to himself at the memory of Virginsky’s bewilderment. It was simple really. Just the old antithesis: Death in life. Life from death. And why Petrushka as well as Pulchinella? Because life is abundant and excessive, and uncontrollably anarchic.

  Porfiry lifted his head and quickened his step. He was picturing himself in Pulchinella’s costume.

  It was not long before he reached the Ministry of Justice library. It took a moment for him to catch his breath, then he made his request of the librarian.

  The silver-whiskered clerk observed him with a critical and unpromising eye. ‘You must fill in a chit.’

  ‘Of course, yes. The inevitable chit.’

  The librarian handed him a small printed form and a pencil stub. ‘First, take a seat. Fill in your place number here. The date and title of the journal you require here.’

  ‘But I may require more than one issue, of more than one title.’

  ‘Then you will need more chits. Please help yourself to as many as you need.’


  ‘I would really like you to bring all of the newspapers that you have from that time.’

  ‘I will be happy to do so if you fill in the necessary chits.’

  Porfiry placed a finger to the bridge of his nose and pressed, hard. ‘Sometimes I cannot help thinking that there must be. .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. Never mind. I will fill in the chits. And if I do not find what I am looking for at first, I will fill in more chits.’

  ‘That’s the way,’ nodded the librarian.

  Porfiry took a seat at the end of a long table, subdivided by low screens into separate places. Next to him, a young magistrate was snoring over an open law book. Porfiry coughed sharply. His neighbour woke with a start and applied himself with renewed vigour to the case he had been studying.

  Although he would not have admitted it, Porfiry found the necessity of filling in the chits useful. It forced him to focus his mind. The letter writer had expressed the view that Porfiry would be ‘surprised’ to read a favourable account of himself in the journal in question. That suggested a radical publication, by instinct unlikely to acknowledge anything praiseworthy in the behaviour of a state prosecutor. Then again, what had impressed the writer was the humanity of Porfiry’s conduct, by which Porfiry took him to mean his compassion for the murderer. One would naturally be very surprised to find sentiments of that nature meeting with approval in any conservative paper. He had only to think of the fulminating leaders of The Russian Soil. On balance, he was inclined to start with the radical journals.

  The leading radical titles at the time of the trial were The Contemporary and The Russian Word. The latter, with the emergence of the brilliant publicist Pisarev, was the more extreme of the two. Its stance was anti-state by default, leading to its enforced closure in the following year, in the aftermath of Karakozov’s attempt on the Tsar’s life. It would truly be surprising to find an article expressing approval of a government-employed magistrate in its pages.

  The trial had lasted barely five days. Most of that time had been taken up in establishing the mental state of the perpetrator, and in arguments concerning sentence. His guilt had never been in question. Indeed, he had confessed to his crime. A disproportionate number of days had been consumed by the ultimately fruitless task of trying to understand why he had committed it. That was not to say that it was not a question worth asking. On the contrary, it was an essential question. It was just that Porfiry’s colleagues had not had the remotest idea of how to go about answering it. The defendant himself was little help. And so the debate had raged, an emotional whirlpool of ever-increasing exasperation and incomprehension. The more they discussed it, the less they understood it.