by R. N. Morris
‘We are investigating a murder. My role in society is to keep on asking questions until we have discovered the person or persons responsible. It is as simple as that. I urge you to adopt a similarly narrow focus of concentration.’ Porfiry ground out his half-smoked cigarette with premature finality, as if he had suddenly sickened of it. ‘In my conversation with Lieutenant Salytov on our return from the cells I was able to glean a number of significant facts. Our man from the canal, the man with the pockmarked face, now has a name: Pseldonimov. I have asked Alexander Grigorevich to submit an enquiry at the Address Office. We should have Pseldonimov’s last known address later today. We also have an occupation for him. He was a printer. There is more to it than that. He is rumoured to have turned his hand to certain illicit activities, such as the printing of manifestos, and counterfeiting.’
‘Counterfeiting?’
‘Yes. I am afraid so. Perhaps — after all — his death has more to do with common criminality than revolutionary politics.’
Virginsky hesitated a moment before asking, ‘W-why do you say that?’
The slight falter in Virginsky’s question provoked Porfiry’s attention. Under his superior’s calm and interested scrutiny, Virginsky felt himself blush.
‘What is going on, Pavel Pavlovich? Do you know something about all this?’
‘What do you mean? Why do you ask that?’
‘You’re blushing. And there was a decidedly guilty tone to your voice just now. And now you have adopted a bullishly aggressive one.’
‘What nonsense!’
‘What have you got yourself mixed up in, Pavel Pavlovich? Whatever it is, I urge you to confide in me.’
‘I have been. . pursuing a line of enquiry of my own.’
‘And when did you intend to share this with me?’
‘When I had something more concrete to go on.’
‘What if, in the meantime, this line of enquiry of yours leads you into the company of dangerous men? And they find out who you really are — Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky, magistrate. The next thing we know, we are fishing you out of a canal.’
‘They already know I’m a magistrate. So. .’ Virginsky shrugged. And then grinned, rather sheepishly.
‘You fool! These men do not play games, Pavel Pavlovich.’ Porfiry’s hands were shaking as he reached for his cigarettes. ‘Now, you will tell me everything. For God’s sake, sit down. I cannot have you standing over me like this. My nerves will not tolerate it.’ He threw his enamelled cigarette case back onto his desk without taking a cigarette out.
‘I–I-I met a man.’ Virginsky lowered himself hesitantly onto the artificial-leather sofa. ‘On Easter Sunday. The night of the first fires, you will remember. I suspected him of being a petroleur. It was something he said. Something along the lines of, I would always find him at such events. Anyhow, he gave me a copy of a manifesto. “God the Nihilist”. You know the one. You had it in your collection. It was the one we linked to Kozodavlev. Through the scrap of paper we found in his apartment.’
‘We found?’
‘Very well, you found it. At any rate, I had been thinking about it, and last night I decided to seek him out again. I found him in a tavern in Haymarket Square, as he had said that I would. I offered my services to the cause. We talked about methods. He mentioned counterfeiting.’
‘I see.’
‘It is a method of destabilising the government. He said that they had employed it with some success. So, you see, it is not simply an activity of common criminals. Revolutionists engage in it too.’
‘Do you have any idea of the risk you were exposing yourself to in talking to this man? There is not simply the danger from him and his associates to consider. Suppose he is being watched. That would bring you under suspicion — if you are not already.’
‘I know what I am doing.’
‘What? Does this mean you intend to continue in this course of action?’
‘I can hardly back out now.’
‘I cannot allow it.’
‘Come now, Porfiry Petrovich. You and I both know that if there ever comes a time when you consider it necessary to the progress of the case, you will certainly allow it.’
Porfiry gave Virginsky a reproachful look, quickly averted.
The two men sat in silence for some time. Eventually, Porfiry picked up his cigarette case again and opened it, but only to count the cigarettes remaining. ‘Seven,’ he murmured, as if he were communing with his cigarettes.
‘Porfiry Petrovich.’ Virginsky’s tone was sharp, almost hostile.
Porfiry looked up, startled, it seemed, to discover Virginsky still there.
‘The man I met. . he said I was to take him something, information, to prove my commitment to the cause. Do you have any suggestions? Something we can feed to them?’
Porfiry’s expression was somewhere between bewilderment and anger. That is to say, he turned a flurry of blinking on Virginsky. ‘But I forbid it. It is too dangerous. It will not happen.’ He gave a decisive nod to underline the force of his intent. ‘Now, I suggest that we interview our witness as soon as possible, so that he may be released without inconveniencing him any more than we have done already. It would be regrettable if he were forced to spend the night in the cell.’ With that he began to heave himself up from his chair.
A visit from an old friend
‘Are you quite comfortable?’
Rakitin looked up from the plank bench affixed to the damp wall of his cell. The grubby patches of exhaustion around his eyes seemed to intensify, shrinking in extent, but growing darker, as if the skin there was a touchpaper to his emotional state. The dark patches expanded now, closing in over his eyes. He looked around the cell and gasped in disbelief.
Porfiry blinked in astonishment at the mute bitterness of the response to his question. ‘You do not want for anything?’
‘Are you. . mad?’ Rakitin looked from Porfiry to Virginsky, his mouth lolling open in disbelief.
Porfiry held out his enamelled cigarette case. ‘Would you like a cigarette, for example?’
Rakitin winced. ‘It hurts. . when I breathe.’
‘We regret that it was necessary to use force to apprehend you. However, if you had co-operated with Lieutenant Salytov. .’
‘I’ve done nothing wrong!’ The violence of his protestation caused Rakitin to double over in pain.
‘I am glad to hear it. In which case, you will soon be out of here. I would also like to assure you that there will not be any charges brought against you for resisting arrest or obstructing the course of justice, provided you co-operate from now on. As soon as you have answered our questions, you will be released. It need not take long.’
‘I have nothing to say to you.’
‘Oh, I think you have. When you were told that Pseldonimov was dead, your reaction — according to Lieutenant Salytov — was not one of surprise, or shock. It seemed that you already knew about his death. “How do you know?” was what you said to Tolya. Is that not the case?’
‘I didn’t say that. Or if I did, I didn’t know what I was saying. I was in shock. I must have been. Don’t you see? Pseldonimov was my friend. So, yes. It was a terrible shock to me. I hadn’t seen his ugly mug all winter. I had begun to fear the worst. I knew that he was mixed up in — well, things he shouldn’t have been mixed up in. And so, when Tolya came to me with this news, it seemed that my worst fears were being confirmed. I wanted to be sure. I wanted to know from whom he had heard it. I didn’t want to believe it.’
‘Do you know who killed Pseldonimov?’
Rakitin hesitated a moment. He did not look at Porfiry when at last he gave his reply. ‘No.’
‘What was he mixed up in?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You just said he was mixed up in things he shouldn’t have been. To what were you referring?’
‘I don’t know. It was just something to say. I meant nothing by it.’
‘What are you frightened of? That the men who
killed him will come for you?’
‘I have told you all I know. You must let me go now. You have no reason to keep me.’ Rakitin turned to Virginsky. ‘Is that not so?’
Porfiry blinked quizzically at his assistant, while continuing to address Rakitin. ‘I don’t think you’ve told us all you know yet. Pseldonimov was a printer, was he not?’
Rakitin shrugged. ‘It was no secret. He was a printer. What of it?’
‘Where was his workshop?’
The smudges around Rakitin’s eyes seemed to pulsate, as a tremor of panic vibrated under the skin. ‘His workshop?’ The intonation was designed to convey the evident absurdity of Porfiry’s question, as if to say, Why on earth would you want to know where his workshop is?
‘Yes, his workshop,’ insisted Porfiry calmly. He at last turned to Rakitin with a beaming smile, above which his eyelids fluttered. It was so excessively and deliberately coquettish that, in the circumstances, it could only be interpreted as a threat.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did you never visit his workshop?’
‘No.’
‘And he never divulged its location to you?’
‘No.’
‘Not even in the most general terms? May we, for example, assume it is somewhere in St Petersburg?’
Rakitin shrugged. ‘You can assume what you like.’
‘My friend, this is not good. This does not help us. And if you do not help us, we cannot help you. Did they tell you where Pseldonimov was found?’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘That’s right, in the Winter Canal,’ said Porfiry, ignoring Rakitin’s actual answer. ‘Here, this is a photograph of what remained of him. Not a pretty sight, is it?’
‘That is Pseldonimov?’
‘The white patches are caused by the action of water on the flesh. You must disregard them. It is difficult at first — such is the transformation that has been effected. However, Lieutenant Salytov recognised him from the pockmarks on his face. The identification was confirmed by the pastry vendor. Can you not see it?’
‘It could be him. It could be anyone.’
‘I understand. You do not wish it to be your friend. How much more you must wish that it will not be you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We can protect you against the men who did this.’
Rakitin gave a derisive snort. ‘If you don’t mind, I would rather do without your protection.’ He put a hand tenderly to the side of his chest and grimaced.
‘Very well, you may go,’ said Porfiry abruptly. ‘You are right. We have no reason to hold you. It seems you do not know the dead man as well as we believed you did. Certainly, you cannot be counted among his friends. A true friend would not wish his murder to go unavenged. It is just as well you were not Pseldonimov’s friend. Otherwise, his soul might consider your reluctance to help a betrayal.’
‘You don’t understand. It’s not that simple.’ Rakitin’s eyes seemed to recede into the twin shadows of despair in which they were sunk. ‘I begged him. I pleaded with him. I told him. . not to get involved.’
‘With what, exactly?’
‘He was not. . political. Not really. So it was no business of his. He was a grumbler, yes, and always short of funds. That didn’t make him a revolutionist!’
‘So he was involved in a revolutionary cell?’
‘No!’ The first force of the denial quickly decayed. Rakitin hung his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he murmured. ‘He went to meetings.’
‘Did you go with him?’
‘You expect me to inform on myself?’
‘You are an intelligent man, I can see that. However, we are not the Third Section. We are magistrates, investigating a murder. The murder of your friend. That is all we are concerned with. We will not pass on any information you reveal to any other department.’
‘I may have talked to people. Attended name days, or birthdays — perfectly legal gatherings — where discussions were conducted.’
‘Discussions?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which touched upon. .?’
‘Which touched upon matters that you may deem. .’
‘Revolutionary?’
‘Free. .’ After a beat, Rakitin added, ‘ranging.’
Porfiry nodded thoughtfully. ‘May I ask, what is your occupation?’ The courtesy with which Porfiry framed the question was strange, given that he had asked far more probing questions far more bluntly.
Rakitin drew himself up with a self-conscious shiver. Somehow the gesture combined diffidence and assertiveness. ‘I. . am a writer.’ The answer was a challenge, but one issued almost apologetically.
‘My goodness, Pavel Pavlovich, what a troublesome breed these writers are! And who do you write for, Russian This or Russian That?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It is his little joke,’ explained Virginsky.
‘You are a journalist?’ asked Porfiry. ‘I don’t think I have come across your name in the thick journals, or the dailies for that matter.’
‘I write for the lubki. Novels, mostly. I am sure you do not condescend to read such material.’
‘Ah! I see! Literature for the masses! In my youth, I used to enjoy reading lubki. I do not have time now for such entertainments, I am afraid. My reading matter is largely professional. And woefully lacking in pictures, unlike lubok stories. But I would be interested in reading one of your. .’ Porfiry’s inability to produce the appropriate word could perhaps be seen as insulting. He overcompensated with ‘oeuvres.’
‘You can buy them at the usual places.’
‘And do you write under your own name?
‘I do. I’m not ashamed of my writings. On the contrary, I am proud of them. I know what my readers want. And I know how to give it to them.’
‘And so, you are a literary gentleman. Do you mix in literary circles then? Do you, for example, know a journalist by the name of Kozodavlev?’
‘They look down on us.’
‘Us?’
‘Lubok hacks like me.’
‘Ah, I see. There is a table of ranks within the literary world.’
Rakitin shrugged.
‘So you have never encountered Kozodavlev? Perhaps at one of the name days or birthday parties you mentioned? Such events bring together individuals from every level of society. They are very democratic in that way.’
‘I don’t know any Kozodavlev.’ The stress on the first-person pronoun was barely perceptible. But it was all that Porfiry needed.
‘Did Pseldonimov ever mention a man called Kozodavlev to you?’
Rakitin avoided Porfiry’s eyes, as if by so doing he could make the question go away.
‘Think very carefully. Your friend, your dead friend, urges you to answer honestly, for his sake.’
‘You speak for the dead now, do you?’
‘Of course. That is my job. You have described my job very succinctly. I can see you have a gift for the well-polished phrase. I speak for the dead. I ask my questions on their behalf — on his behalf, Pseldonimov’s. And I do not stop until I have the answers that will satisfy them. They have no one else to speak for them.’
‘Kozodavlev, yes. I heard him mention a fellow called Kozodavlev once or twice.’
‘Kozodavlev is dead too, you know.’
‘No!’
‘We believe so. His apartment was burnt out. A body was found. There is another name I wish to ask you about. Prince Dolgoruky. Do you know him? He operates on the fringes of the literary world, as some kind of go-between. He certainly worked in that capacity for Kozodavlev. Perhaps you have had dealings with him? Perhaps he even attended one of the gatherings you went to?’
‘You are determined to turn me into an informer!’
‘Not at all. We know that Prince Dolgoruky arranged to have something of a personal nature printed up. There is a chance he gave the commission to Pseldonimov.’
‘He wasn’t the only printer
in Petersburg.’
Porfiry smiled. ‘Ah, so the workshop is in St Petersburg. And did Prince Dolgoruky ever visit it, I wonder?’
‘Why don’t you ask this Prince Dolgoruky of yours?’
‘I am sure we will, when we next have an opportunity to speak to him. However, in the meantime, I am asking you. Did Pseldonimov ever mention Prince Dolgoruky?’
Rakitin opened his mouth as if to answer. But instead of words, the action seemed to produce a volley of urgent hammering. Porfiry bowed in apology to Rakitin, although it was clear he was relieved at the intrusion.
The cell door opened. The clerk Zamyotov peered in. His demeanour was unusually diffident. ‘Porfiry Petrovich. There is someone who insists on seeing you, right now. I am to say that he is your old friend, Major Verkhotsev.’
‘Verkhotsev? Here? Now?’
‘Yes.’
Porfiry looked down pityingly at Rakitin. ‘Please forgive me. I must talk to this person. I will be back to continue our conversation. Pavel Pavlovich, a word please.’ He drew Virginsky over to one corner of the cell. ‘Stay with him,’ he hissed into Virginsky’s ear. ‘Get him to tell you about the workshop.’ Porfiry gave a confirmatory nod and then looked once more, almost regretfully, at Rakitin, before stepping out.
Major Verkhotsev was waiting for him outside the cell, dressed in his sky-blue gendarme’s uniform and accompanied by two of his junior officers, similarly attired.
So, this was an official visit.
‘My dear, dear friend!’ Verkhotsev held open both arms. Porfiry allowed himself to be embraced, and kissed several times on each cheek.
When he was at last released, he wagged a finger at Verkhotsev. ‘This is not a friendly visit. One does not visit old friends with one’s henchmen in tow.’
‘Henchmen? What an awful word! But you’re right. This is not entirely a social call.’ Verkhotsev produced a sealed warrant and handed it to Porfiry. ‘I have come for the witness.’