by R. N. Morris
‘We wish to enquire,’ Porfiry began, but his words were entirely swallowed up by the noise of the machine. He drew breath to shout: ‘You are the foreman here?’
‘I am the owner.’
Porfiry gave a mechanical smile.
‘And the foreman. I see to everything.’
There was a sudden reduction in the noise from the machines, as one of them appeared to have come to the end of its paper supply. It was enough to allow Porfiry to speak more comfortably: ‘You are the very man we need to speak to. We wish to know whether you can supply printed material to the Department of Justice.’
‘That depends,’ answered the printer, dubiously. ‘How quickly you need it. How complicated the job. What is it for?’
‘There is no specific job at the moment. We are simply looking into your. .’ Porfiry waved a hand around the workshop. ‘Facilities. Typically, however, we require items such as posters and leaflets, to be produced very quickly.’
‘We are not equipped for a fast turnaround. Right now, our presses are booked up for months to come. I have to plan jobs carefully, you see. There is a schedule of work. Perhaps if you came to us just as we were finishing a print run, we could fit your job in before we set up the presses for the next big one. But that would be a matter of luck. I couldn’t stop the presses to accommodate you.’
‘That seems rather inflexible. Does it not curtail your commercial potential?’
‘It is simply the kind of work we are set up for. We have stop cylinder platen machines which we use for book and periodical production. We used to have a treadle-powered letterpress, which was ideal for the sort of jobs you describe. But it was stolen.’
‘A printing press was stolen? Good Heavens.’
‘It’s not unheard of. It was a small machine, not like these beasts.’
‘Who would have stolen it?’
‘Well, you know. . There are those who find it rather useful to have an illegal printing press, if you know what I mean.’
‘It is a pity that you cannot help us. We had been led to believe that you could.’
‘Really? By whom, may I ask?’
‘Mr Pseldonimov.’
The foreman gave a snort of incredulity. ‘Pseldonimov? I sincerely doubt it. Pseldonimov is not the type to have friendly dealings with the Department of Justice!’
‘What do you mean by that, if I may ask?’
‘Why, he is the one I suspect of stealing my press!’
‘I see. And why is that?’
‘For one thing, he disappeared soon after the press was stolen. I was dropping hints about it and things got too hot for him, so he scarpered. Good riddance, I say.’
‘When was this?’
‘Oh, it must have been six months ago. More. Last autumn, I believe it was.’
‘How interesting. Did you report the theft of your press to the authorities?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘And your suspicions regarding Pseldonimov?’
The foreman gave a shrug. ‘I couldn’t prove anything. What was the point?’ But his head was angled down, his eyes averted away from his interlocutor, evasively, or so it seemed to Virginsky.
‘Perhaps you knew that he would meet his comeuppance anyhow,’ said Virginsky.
The foreman gave him a startled look, as if he were astonished to discover that he could speak.
‘Pseldonimov is dead, you know,’ continued Virginsky. ‘It might be said that you had a motive to kill him — or to organise his death.’
‘I don’t know anything about that. Look here, what is all this about? I thought you wanted to purchase some print work.’
Porfiry gave Virginsky a disparaging look. ‘We do. That is to say, we did. But now we know that you are not able to help us. Unless, of course, you are intending to replace the stolen printing press?’
‘I would love to, of course, but at the moment I don’t have the capital. Our profit margins are very tight.’
‘But with the promise of ongoing work from the Department of Justice, perhaps you could persuade the bank to supply a loan.’
‘That’s possible, I suppose.’
‘Perhaps then, you would allow us to have a look around? Just to reassure ourselves that your facilities are up to the task. There are certain minimum standards that every government department requires.’
‘Be my guest, though there isn’t much for you to see. I don’t have the press that I would use to do your work, as that depends on me getting the contract.’
‘Understood,’ said Porfiry, blinking suavely.
Virginsky frowned, as much to himself as for Porfiry’s benefit. He was not entirely sure what they were looking for. It was so long since Pseldonimov had been at the workshop that he doubted they would find any meaningful evidence relating to him. And as for assessing the print shop’s suitability as a supplier for the Ministry of Justice, he was hardly qualified to make a judgement on that.
None of this seemed to concern Porfiry, who gave every impression of being in his element. He wandered over to the nearest printing press and looked down at the growing pile of printed sheets, each bearing four pages of type, ready for folding and cutting into quartos. He gave a startled blink as each sheet jumped out from the jaws of the press. He soon appeared to be mesmerised by the action of the machine.
He turned to the foreman with a look of wonder. ‘What is this?’
‘We are printing a lubok.’
‘A lubok! How fascinating. Perhaps you know a gentleman called Rakitin. He is an author of lubki. Perhaps you have printed some of his work?’
‘We do not generally have dealings with authors.’
‘But he was a friend of Mr Pseldonimov’s, I believe.’
The foreman shrugged, as if this information was not of the least interest to him.
Porfiry gave a small bow to indicate that he had seen enough.
*
‘What now, Porfiry Petrovich?’ A small, blindingly white rupture in the clouds above Voznesensky Prospect drew Virginsky’s gaze. The rain had dried up. The air was clearing.
Porfiry took out a folded piece of paper and handed it over. ‘Pseldonimov’s last known address,’ he explained. ‘It came in after the file had gone off to the Third Section.’
‘Obvodni Canal Embankment, 157. You think we should go there?’
‘It’s not far. Just across the Fontanka and down Izmailovsky Prospect.’
‘Yes, but we are not supposed to be investigating this case any longer. What possible reason could we have for going to Pseldonimov’s lodgings?’
‘A citizen has only just now reported the theft of a valuable piece of equipment. Do you not think he would be grateful if we were able to recover it?’
Virginsky shook his head in begrudging admiration, his mouth cranked into an involuntary grin.
*
Number 157 was only one door away from a dosshouse, on the northern embankment of the Obvodni Canal. Facing the building, on the other side of the canal, was the Varshavsky Railway Station, and next to that the Cattle Yards. This was at the southern threshold of the city. There was a bleak, fragmented feel to the area, as if it barely cohered as a neighbourhood. It seemed an appropriate location for a night shelter for transients; equally fitting that the former lodgings of a murder victim should be next door.
They discovered that Pseldonimov had shared an apartment with six other men. That was nothing unusual for the Narvskaya District, of course, one of the poorest in the city. The yardkeeper who admitted them was a wily individual with cheeks so ruddy they seemed to be painted on and eyes that were little more than chisel slits in the hardened fabric of his face. The impression was superficially cheery, but if you looked into those permanently narrowed eyes, you saw reflected back at you an empty, instinctual cunning and a dark-hearted contempt. Pseldonimov’s vacated bunk had long ago been filled, of course, and the yardkeeper pretended to know nothing of any possessions that had been left.
A man with a liverish
complexion lay on a plank bed, covered by a coarse blanket. He was either drunk or dying, and at that time of the day, the latter was more probable. He raised himself with difficulty onto one elbow and pointed a trembling finger at the yardkeeper. In a voice that was astonishingly clear and robust, he said, ‘He stole it all.’ He fell back on his plank and closed his eyes. He lay very still now, and it almost seemed as though this surge of effort had hastened his end.
‘He’s delirious,’ said the yardkeeper.
‘Of course,’ agreed Porfiry. ‘But still, it is a serious charge. For a yardkeeper, who holds a position of trust and responsibility, to be accused of such a crime. . it must be investigated. You will have to come with us back to the police bureau. Unless, of course, it is all a misunderstanding? Perhaps you were simply looking after Mr Pseldonimov’s possessions until his relatives came to claim them? If that were the case, there would be no need for any investigation. It would be enough for you simply to show us the items and we could arrange for them to be collected and passed on to the parties concerned. I am sure there might even be a reward, if everything is found to be intact.’
‘Yes, that’s it. That’s what I was doing. Looking after them. I have them downstairs.’
They descended to the yardkeeper’s cellar, which was like a peculiar reversal of Aladdin’s cave, in which it seemed items of the least possible value had been hoarded: empty pomade jars, chipped cups, broken figurines, cracked lanterns, handleless pans, shattered mirrors, as well as piles of old newspapers. The only explanation was that the yardkeeper’s instinct to purloin was greater than his ability to discriminate.
The yardkeeper led them to the back of his one-room apartment. An olive-green drape hid a shapeless mass of further objects. Virginsky naturally imagined that these must be the items of genuine value secreted amongst so much dross. He pictured the mountains of jewels and precious metals, heaped coins and polished lamps that would be revealed when the drab cloth was lifted. The reality was inevitably disappointing. It did seem to be the case that these objects were more valuable than those on open display, but in truth that was not saying much.
The yardkeeper bent down and pulled out a cardboard box from under a table. ‘These belonged to Pseldonimov.’
It was a box of handbills, printed on cheap paper. Porfiry pulled one out and handed it to Virginsky.
‘God the Nihilist,’ read Virginsky.
‘My dear friend,’ said Porfiry to the yardkeeper, his voice heavy with foreboding. ‘This puts a rather different complexion on the affair. Here you are in possession of illegal manifestos. How do we know you are not intending to distribute them?’
‘No, no! It’s not like that. It’s as you said. I have been keeping them. Looking after them. The reward! Don’t forget the reward!’
‘I’m afraid it is no longer a question of a reward. This is a very serious matter. As a yardkeeper, you are in a position of great position and influence. Why, it is almost the same as if I, or my colleague here, as if we magistrates, had such material in our possession. The courts come down very heavily on yardkeepers and magistrates who stray. An example must be set. Besides, the new juries do not like us, you see. They take great pleasure in punishing us.’
‘But it need not come to court, your Excellency. I am sure I can persuade you to overlook this. What would it take?’
‘Be careful, my friend. Do not add attempted corruption to the already serious charges you face.’
‘But in all honesty, I didn’t know anything about it. I hadn’t looked inside that infernal box until just now. These were Pseldonimov’s handbills, not mine.’
‘Was there anything else of Pseldonimov’s that you have been taking care of?’
‘Just this box. That was all. If he had any other possessions, I don’t know where he kept them.’ Fear made the yardkeeper’s words convincing.
‘Very well. We will let the matter go this time. I will send a police officer to collect this illegal material.’
‘And what about the reward?’
‘Don’t push your luck, my friend.’ Porfiry nodded tersely to Virginsky and the two magistrates left the yardkeeper to his grubby trove.
*
The following day, a Sunday, Porfiry attended mass at the Church of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary in Haymarket Square. Rumours passed through the congregation that Katya Mikhailovna Dolgorukaya had that day borne the Tsar a son, and that His Imperial Highness had given thanks to God. The news was indeed highly scandalous. Porfiry pretended to be affected by the general agitation, though in truth he was secretly pleased. After the ceremony, he was moved by the desire to visit old friends. In particular, he had long been troubled by a sense of estrangement that had entered his relations with Nikodim Fomich. He was greeted by the police chief and his wife like a prodigal son. That is to say, he was offered tea and honey-soaked pirozhky. The couple’s unmarried daughters entertained him with songs at the piano, performed with great exuberance and accomplishment. Fortunately, Porfiry was too old to feel obliged to choose between them. The afternoon was rounded off delightfully by a visit from the eldest daughter, accompanied by her husband and two small children. Porfiry was pressed to stay for dinner, but made his excuses in a private conversation with Nikodim Fomich in the latter’s study. There was one other call he wished to make that day, he explained.
Dr Pervoyedov was equally surprised, and delighted, to find the magistrate at the door of his Gorokhovaya Street apartment. He called excitedly to his wife, ‘Anya! Anya! Come and see! It’s Porfiry Petrovich!’
His wife came out from the kitchen to greet the magistrate with a shy smile, which was nonetheless illuminated by an ironic intelligence. She had never met Porfiry Petrovich before this day, a fact which seemed to have escaped her husband. But, in truth, he had talked so much about Porfiry over the years that she might have felt that she knew the magistrate as well as her husband seemed to assume she did. She smiled indulgently at Pervoyedov as he gabbled on; in her look, Porfiry detected a depth of love that for a moment exalted them all. The good doctor then insisted that Porfiry should be introduced to his son and demanded from his wife the boy’s whereabouts. She confessed that she hadn’t the least idea.
A search of the apartment was made and young Gorya was at last found, much to the adults’ delight, under the table in the dining room, completely hidden by the long fringed cloth that trailed the floor. He was coaxed out with offers of bonbons, and introduced to the magistrate whose hand he shook with appropriate solemnity. The little boy seemed in awe of the strange plump man, even frightened of him.
Porfiry dropped down onto his haunches with a grunt. ‘Close your eyes, Gorya.’
The little boy obeyed. Porfiry ducked under the table, disappearing behind the hanging tablecloth, with a wink to Dr Pervoyedov’s wife.
His parents’ laughter prompted Gorya to open his eyes. The stranger was nowhere to be seen. Of course, the first place he looked was under the table. Porfiry held a finger to his mouth, urging the boy to silence. Quick-witted Gorya played along, pretending that he had not seen the magistrate behind the tablecloth. The adults’ look of patronising amusement changed to confusion. They were forced to look for themselves, and seeing Porfiry with his hands over his face were only more bemused, until Gorya’s piping laughter told them that they had been taken in. Porfiry dropped his hands and leered triumphantly. After that, he and Gorya were firm friends.
This time he accepted the invitation to stay for dinner; indeed, an invitation was barely offered and it was simply assumed that he would eat with them. And it was hard to refuse as the zakuski were laid out on the table, dish after dish, all manner of pickled vegetables and salads topped with sour cream or served with vinaigrette, together with little dishes of smoked sturgeon, tender chicken roulade and rollmops of herring. The colours of the different zakuski delighted his eye. The table became a palette of dining, the rich reds of the tomatoes, beetroot, cranberries and red caviar giving way to the pinker hues of
the boiled pork, and the gold of the carrots, smoked salmon and aspic, all contrasting with the white of the sour cream and potatoes. Porfiry could not help himself. But all this was just by way of an appetiser. The feast of zakuski merged into a second feast, of pelmeni, the little parcels of noodle dough stuffed with various fillings. Porfiry tasted meat pelmeni, fish and mushroom pelmeni, cabbage pelmeni and mashed potato pelmeni; all perfectly cooked, the soft mouthfuls melting away in explosions of salivation. But Porfiry discovered the most surprising filling of all when his teeth clamped down on something unexpectedly hard and resistant to biting. He pulled out a button and showed it to the company, to the amusement of everyone, especially little Gorya.
‘Ah, you’ve found the button!’ said Dr Pervoyedov, with an appreciative smile to his wife. He did not know how she had arranged it, but it was appropriate that the prize should have fallen to their guest. ‘That means good luck.’
‘I accept it. I am very much in need of some good luck,’ said Porfiry, pocketing the button, with a wink to Gorya.
Porfiry took his leave of Dr Pervoyedov at midnight, at the same time as he took his leave of the month. He held onto the doctor’s hand for an unusual length of time, as if he believed that in relinquishing it he would relinquish all hope of happiness. He pressed his friend, with a strange insistence, to call on him the following morning.
An act of singular daring
On the morning of Monday, 1 May, Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky entered his superior Porfiry Petrovich’s chambers at nine thirty. He closed the door behind him. There was nothing unusual in this. Afterwards the head clerk, Alexander Grigorevich Zamyotov, would say that he had noticed Virginsky’s expression to be unusually strained that morning, his complexion noticeably pale.
There were few people in main receiving room of the police bureau at the time, and so Zamyotov was able to steal a few moments to listen at the door. He had no great expectation of hearing anything of interest, and assumed the role of eavesdropper more out of habit than mischief. It was almost as if he believed it was expected of him.