by R. N. Morris
Porfiry allowed himself a moment after opening the drawer to take in the sense of the space that had been revealed. He imagined himself as Kozodavlev, looking down on the drawer’s interior. To the journalist, it would have appeared so familiar as to be hardly considered. And yet to Porfiry, it had all the strangeness and mystery of another man’s soul laid bare.
If so, Kozodavlev’s soul comprised: pencil parings and curls of tobacco, gathered in the corners with the darkness and dust; a copy of Chernyshevsky’s What Is to Be Done?; a number of issues of the conservative journal, Russian Soil; a collection of writing materials, a couple of pens, a bottle of ink, some pencils of varying lengths; an empty cigarette packet; a loose pile of papers, in truth, not as many as Porfiry had hoped for; and a photograph in a dog-eared cardboard frame.
Porfiry seized most greedily on this last item. He called over the young man who had first gone to fetch Blagosvetlov. ‘Which one is Kozodavlev?’ There were about twenty people in the photograph, arranged loosely around a central group of five seated on a sofa. Even as he asked the question, Porfiry knew which of the figures the young man would point out. He recognised a number of the people shown as the young radicals of the magazine’s staff. Blagosvetlov was there too, in the very centre of the composition. Of those he did not recognise, one man stood out. He was seated on the sofa, next to Blagosvetlov. This individual was not at all attractive, unlike almost everyone around him. But it was not for that reason alone that he drew Porfiry’s eye. His face had a haunted expression. He looked towards the camera as if he believed it capable of capturing the secret that he undoubtedly nurtured.
The young man confirmed Porfiry’s suspicion.
Porfiry handed the photograph to Virginsky. ‘We will take that with us, Pavel Pavlovich.’
The young man let out a small cry of protest, then hurried through the door at the back of the office.
Leafing through the papers, Porfiry discovered what appeared to be two drafts of the same article, a review of a novel recently serialised in Russian Soil, which was presumably why Kozodavlev had copies of that journal in his drawer. Porfiry remembered that the novel in question, entitled Swine, had caused something of a sensation because of the interesting circumstances surrounding its author. Known only as D., he had supposedly once belonged to a secret revolutionary cell but had now renounced his former beliefs. The book was presented as a novel, but it was evidently to be taken as a memoir. Porfiry also found a letter from the editor of Russian Soil, in which this basic information was provided and the novel was heartily commended to Kozodavlev.
The first draft of the review was extremely critical. In it, Kozodavlev condemned the writer’s portrayal of radical types as crude caricature. He denied, in fact, that the novel had any basis in reality and was rather the fantasy of a disordered and irredeemably reactionary mind. The novelist’s supposed radical credentials were called into question; and even if true, they merely served to render his turn to conservatism all the more lamentable. The final verdict on the book was that it was a cynical fraud, designed to cash in on public fears about phantom revolutionary groupings. At the head of this article, Kozodavlev had written ‘Affair piece’, which was underlined three times.
The second draft — under the heading ‘R. E. piece’, also triple underlined — took almost entirely the opposite stance. The novel under discussion was a warning to society, a work of visionary genius. The truth of the portrayal could not be doubted, given the novelist’s own former radical credentials. The anonymous novelist was to be praised not only for turning his back on the errors of his youth but also for harnessing his undoubtedly painful experiences in order to create a work of art of such high moral conscience and integrity. Both versions were drafted in the same hand, which bore a striking resemblance to the hand the anonymous letter had been written in.
The only other item in the drawer was a scrawled note, on a sheet torn from a notebook. ‘I don’t give a damn what you do. Do you think I have ever cared?’ This was the full extent of the missive, apart from the single initial serving as signature: ‘D.’
Was it possible that this was the same D. as the anonymous author? It was too tempting a question to be answered in the affirmative. Porfiry recognised it as one of those traps of coincidence that are often met with in the course of an investigation.
Blagosvetlov came back into the room with the same mixture of combativeness and shyness that Porfiry had noticed earlier. He was beginning to find it endearing, and felt himself wanting to ease the man’s suffering if he could.
‘What have you found?’ Blagosvetlov’s tone was aggressive. He seemed to blame Porfiry for his own acquiescence in the search.
‘I found this.’ Porfiry handed him the brief note. ‘Do you have any idea who this D. might be?’
Blagosvetlov shrugged. ‘It might be anyone.’
‘Might it be the author of the novel Swine? I believe Kozodavlev was working on a review for your magazine.’
‘It might, I suppose.’ Blagosvetlov drew himself up assertively. ‘Ivan Ilyich tells me you intend to confiscate a photograph.’
‘It’s not a question of confiscating. That implies that I do not have your consent. Whereas, I am sure that you would consent to our taking anything that might shed light on the disappearance of your friend.’ Porfiry did not wait for Blagosvetlov to respond. ‘Is it possible that Kozodavlev knew the author of Swine? Perhaps he was about to reveal his identity?’
‘You would do better to talk to Trudolyubov about that.’
‘Trudolyubov?’
‘The editor of Russian Soil, which serialised that trash.’
‘Of course. That is a very good suggestion.’ Porfiry studied Blagosvetlov in silence for a moment. ‘Thank you.’
‘Have you finished?’
‘Yes, for the time being. If there is anything else that we need to know, I trust we may call upon you again.’
Blagosvetlov made no answer.
‘In addition to the photograph, I am taking several other articles back to my chambers for further examination.’ Turning to Virginsky, Porfiry added, ‘Pavel Pavlovich, you will ensure that an official receipt of evidence is sent to Mr Blagosvetlov.’
Virginsky gave an automatic nod, assenting, and then shook his head like a horse that had just been stung.
Porfiry led the way out of the office and had in fact taken two steps onto the landing before he turned back, walking straight into Virginsky. The collision was observed with suppressed hilarity by the staff of Affair. Their laughter was made up of equal parts contempt and relief. This investigating magistrate was evidently something of a buffoon.
Begging Virginsky’s pardon, Porfiry bowed past him to present himself once again in the office. He grinned sheepishly. ‘I just remembered something as we were leaving. Pavel Pavlovich was right behind me. We had a little accident. But then, you all saw that, I imagine. It was my fault, my fault entirely.’
‘Was there something else?’ prompted Blagosvetlov impatiently.
‘Oh, yes, thank you for reminding me. I nearly forgot again! What a dunderhead I am this morning. Were you aware that Kozodavlev wrote for other journals?’
‘Other journals?’
‘Yes.’
‘He may have placed the occasional piece in The Contemporary. Its politics did not exactly coincide with his, but he could see the virtue of extending his readership. A liberal might be stung into radicalism.’
‘But is there a journal, do you know, whose name begins with the letters R and E?’
‘R. E.?’
‘Yes. A name comprising two words, such as Russian Word. But in this case the letters are R and E. I imagine the first word must be “Russian.” It seems to be a very popular epithet in journalistic circles.’
‘There is only Russian Era,’ said Blagosvetlov dismissively.
‘Ah yes, Russian Era. Of course. Thank you. That must be it. Were you aware that Kozodavlev contributed also to Russian Era?’
&n
bsp; ‘Never!’
‘Never? Why not? Surely a journalist must place his pieces where he can?’
‘But it’s impossible to conceive of anything written by Kozodavlev appearing in that Slavophile rag. Not only would he refuse to submit to them, but they would not consider publishing anything by a radical journalist. They are unremittingly hostile to our goals.’
‘But if he submitted under a false name?’
‘Impossible!’
Porfiry fumbled for the two articles he had tucked away in an inner pocket. ‘Let me see. Now where is it? This is the article he was writing for you. And. . don’t tell me I’ve lost it.’ More fumbling in another pocket finally produced what he was looking for. ‘This, here it is. Yes. “R. E. piece”. That is what he wrote. At the top. Underlined three times.’ Porfiry handed the sheets to Blagosvetlov. ‘You helped me out by reminding me that the only title those two letters could possibly refer to is Russian Era.’
After a moment, the editor thrust the papers back at Porfiry. ‘If Kozodavlev was not dead already, he is dead to me now.’
Men of the shadows
Back in Stolyarny Lane, Porfiry Petrovich called in on Nikodim Fomich. The chief superintendent seemed surprised to see him.
‘I will not keep you long,’ said Porfiry.
‘Please, stay as long as you like.’
Porfiry seated himself on the government-issue sofa, identical to the one in his chambers. ‘The other day we were talking about the fires, do you remember?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘It seems that the individual I was to have met at the Summer Garden may have perished in the fire at the apartment building on Monday night. The fire which claimed six dead in all.’
‘I see.’
‘Do you know who is conducting the investigation into that? Is it a police matter, or has it been handed over to other authorities?’
‘The Third Section, you mean?’
‘That is what I am wondering.’
‘I can find out for you.’
‘Thank you. Either way, I wish to see the file.’
‘If it is still under the jurisdiction of the police and an investigating magistrate, that won’t be a problem. If it has gone to the Third Section, then I am not sure I will be able to help you.’
Porfiry nodded tersely in acknowledgement.
‘Do you not have your own contacts there?’ wondered Nikodim Fomich. ‘I seem to remember you were on amicable terms with one of the officers?’
Porfiry gave a startled look. ‘You are referring to Major Verkhotsev?’
‘That’s the fellow.’
‘He is hardly to be trusted.’
‘My dear Porfiry, none of them is to be trusted.’
Porfiry’s smile as he took his leave was guarded.
*
Porfiry sorted through an array of magazines and newspapers on his desk.
‘It is hard to distinguish all these various publications, is it not, Pavel Pavlovich? We’ve had The Russian Voice, The Russian Word — there is a Russian World too, I believe. Not to mention a Russian Messenger, Russian Soil, Russian Era. . They all lay claim to speak for Russia, and yet they have such contrary things to say on her behalf! Pity the poor readers, who must find it awfully confusing.’
‘I don’t find it confusing.’ Virginsky had pulled up a chair to the opposite side of Porfiry’s desk, so that he could more easily browse the newspapers spread out there.
‘No? I suppose the trick is to ignore the Russian part of the title, which we may take for granted. So then it becomes a question of distinguishing between a Voice, a Word, a Messenger, the Soil and an Era.’
‘Russian Soil and Russian Era are essentially the same paper — they are published from one address and edited by the same Trudolyubov that Blagosvetlov mentioned. Era is a daily and Soil a monthly. Soil is little more than an omnibus, or digest, of Era. It often repeats editorials.’
‘And so Kozodavlev was reviewing Swine for the novel’s publisher? No wonder that version of his review was so favourable!’ Porfiry smiled and shook his head. ‘My, my, that’s the lowest kind of hackwork, is it not?’
‘One moment, Porfiry Petrovich. We cannot be certain that R. E. does in fact refer to Russian Era. And even if it does, we do not know that Kozodavlev truly intended to submit the article. He may have written it as an intellectual exercise. To amuse himself, or perhaps even as a piece of satire aimed against Russian Era.’
‘A curious waste of his time.’
‘But not impossible.’
‘The easiest way to resolve this would be to talk to this Mr Trudolyubov. He should know whether he was expecting a review of Swine from Kozodavlev. He may even be able to shed some light on the identity of the book’s mysterious author. I see that Russian Soil is not at all reticent about its whereabouts. It prints its address for everyone to see. Liteiny Prospect.’
‘Of course. It often serves as a mouthpiece for the Tsarevich. It is recognised as the means by which he airs his criticisms of his father’s regime.’
‘Ah.’ Porfiry placed a hand wearily over his eyes. ‘Please don’t drag me back into those troubled waters.’
‘I shall not drag you anywhere. But I cannot control where the case may take us.’
Porfiry nodded a distracted acknowledgement. He turned the pages of a copy of Russian Soil until he came to the first episode of the novel Swine. ‘Have you read it, Pavel Pavlovich?’
It was a moment before Virginsky replied. ‘Yes.’
‘There is no need to be reticent. I will not think any the less of you for reading it. Indeed, I intended to read it myself. I cannot remember now why I did not. Certainly it is a work that must be of interest to an investigating magistrate. So. . what did you think? That is to say, with which of Kozodavlev’s judgements did you concur?’
‘I judged it a poor piece of work.’
‘You think it fails, as a warning to society?’
‘I think it fails as a novel.’
‘And the author? Do you have any opinions regarding his identity?’
‘I do not see that it is at all material to the case we are investigating.’
‘The novel concerns the activities of a group of would-be revolutionaries, is that not so?’
‘Yes.’
‘It seems likely that Kozodavlev was involved in revolutionary politics. I mean actively, rather than just observing from the sidelines and occasionally cheering on in editorials. His letter to me hints at that. He was worried about spies in the department. It is not inconceivable that there may be individuals employed by the state whose true loyalties lie elsewhere, is it, Pavel Pavlovich?’
‘You are accusing me?’
‘Not at all. I know you are far too sensible to get involved with any of that.’ There was an undoubted hint of irony in Porfiry’s voice, that could only be infuriating to Virginsky. ‘To return to Kozodavlev. He went to the bridge over the Winter Canal on Monday, the day the thaw began, because he had a terrible presentiment that the body was going to come to light. He knew this because he had been present when it had been cast in the canal. We can speculate that our man from the canal was a member of a closed cell murdered by his fellows, one of whom may well have been Kozodavlev. The resurfacing of this old crime stings Kozodavlev’s conscience, which had never been easy about the murder, and he writes to me. A spy in the department sees his letter, notifies the Central Revolutionary Committee, and an assassin is sent round to torch his apartment building. In the process, killing five other innocent residents.’
‘Kozodavlev was not innocent. Not if he was an informer.’
‘You think he deserved to be killed?’
Virginsky dipped his gaze, abashed. ‘I had not meant to say that.’
‘And what of the body in the canal? If he too was an informer, he too deserved to die?’
‘We don’t know what he was, or who.’
‘These men. . these men of the shadows.’ Porfiry’s sudden rage re
ndered him inarticulate. He was forced to light a cigarette to calm himself. ‘Who gave them the right to take another’s life?’
‘No one. . gave it to them.’
The faltering emphasis of Virginsky’s answer implied a world of meaning that Porfiry was reluctant to explore. He looked at his junior colleague for a moment warily before inhaling deeply on his cigarette. ‘There are two things that I would like to know for certain. The first being whether Kozodavlev was the man on the bridge who watched the sailors bring up the body.’
‘The Peter the Great has sailed, has she not?’
‘Regrettably.’
‘And so we have missed our chance to present the photograph of Kozodavlev to Apprentice Seaman Ordynov?’
‘We shall have a photographic copy made and sent on to Helsingfors. The authorities there will question Ordynov when the ship docks, in a few days’ time.’
‘And the second thing?’
Porfiry’s expression clouded suddenly, and he looked away from Virginsky. He snatched up the copy of Russian Soil. ‘Whether this. . novel. . has any merit at all.’