The Gentle Axe Paperback

by R. N. Morris

  There was nothing of the bawd or the courtesan about her appearance. Her dress was fashionable and tasteful, even demure. All that it revealed was that she had kept her figure. He sensed a certain affectation in the way she carried herself, but was almost reassured by that. It seemed only human and certainly was to be expected. If he slapped her once, very hard, she would perhaps be cured of it. But he knew that he would, on balance, regret its loss.

  Porfiry was admitted to a corridor decorated with more propriety than he had anticipated. He had expected crimson plush. The walls were in fact painted pale green, which struck an oddly prim note, as did the framed prints of racehorses. Only the narrowness of the corridor seemed indecent, due to the physical proximity it forced on those who passed in it.

  Fräulein Keller held out her arms for his shuba. Porfiry was shocked by the gesture. To take off one’s coat in such an establishment was not an innocent activity. It expressed a certain intention. Besides, the coat seemed to afford some protection, not least from that smile. It was strange too how he felt the need to escape from this place as soon as he had entered it. No, he would keep his coat on; he had a perfect right to, after all.

  He saw his tortured mental processes mirrored and mocked in her smile.

  “Fräulein Keller, I am an investigating magistrate.”

  “And so you cannot take off your coat. I understand.”

  “No, no. The point is I’m here on official business.”

  “A bird may be known by its flight. Is that not what you say?” Fräulein Keller laughed at her own cleverness, then, catching that Porfiry did not share her amusement, became serious: “But we are all legal. There is nothing to investigate here.” As if to prove her point, Fräulein Keller opened one of the doors from the corridor, seemingly at random. She showed Porfiry into a parlor paneled in highly varnished yellow wood. There was a hint of excess in the style of some of the furnishings. Porfiry was oppressed by the number of mirrors in elaborate frames. A fire was blazing, suggesting that someone other than the fleeting reflections on the walls had just occupied the room. “You will be too hot if you insist on keeping your furs on.”

  “I am looking for a girl.”

  “Of course.”

  “In connection with an investigation.”

  “Ja, ja, I understand.”

  “Her name is Lilya Ivanovna Semenova. I believe she works here.”

  “No longer. She has retired from the business.”

  “I see.”

  “It happens. The girls find themselves a rich patron. They settle for a while, but it never lasts. Soon they come back, knocking on my door. ‘Fräulein Keller! Fräulein Keller! He has thrown me over! He has taken up with a dancer! Fräulein Keller, please! Let me in!’ They cannot escape the life. It is in their blood. They are born whores.”

  “When was the last time you saw Lilya?”

  “Today. She came back for her galoshes, the little fool. Does she not realize her new friend will buy her all the galoshes she desires?”

  “She told you of this…patron?”

  “She didn’t need to. It’s obvious. How else could she afford to retire?”

  “Perhaps she has found other employment.”

  Fräulein Keller laughed cynically. “It is a wonder you catch any criminals, you are so innocent.”

  “The girls who work for you—they live here in the brothel?”

  “And now you say dirty words to prove how worldly you are.”

  “Where is Lilya now, do you know?”

  “It is not my concern.”

  “She had a child, didn’t she? Who looked after the child when she was working?”

  “I know nothing about these things. Perhaps it would profit you more to talk to one of the girls. I can arrange for you to be introduced. It would be my pleasure. You may pick one to examine more closely, in private. And that will be your pleasure, I am sure.”

  Fräulein Keller once again held out her arms for Porfiry’s shuba.

  “What if I wished to talk to them all?”

  “That would be very greedy of you, mein Herr.”

  As if this answer decided him, he finally began to take off his fur coat.

  EVEN THOUGH THE heat from the fire had dried his throat, Porfiry declined the champagne.

  “So the Widow Cliquot is not to your taste?” asked Fräulein Keller archly.

  Porfiry also refused the brocade-upholstered chair, with its ornately carved “Second Rococo” frame, ignoring the care with which Fräulein Keller had positioned it.

  “I will stand,” he said curtly.

  Four “girls” filed in through a second door in the parlor and stood in front of him. He did not step back or flinch under the force of their underdressed presence, but he wished he had accepted both the drink and the seat. His own breath seemed intoxicating to him. It accelerated and enlarged his pulse. A kind of heavy sickness seemed to have entered his being, as if his soul were solidifying. The cause of this strange excitement was the sudden knowledge of what he was capable of.

  He lit a cigarette without knowing he was doing so.

  Porfiry looked into the eyes of each of them in turn. And something about the way they returned his gaze suggested that he had broken the one taboo of the house. But in their eyes he saw no depravity, only detachment. This was all they had in common. In other respects, they presented different faces behind their makeup: boredom, fear, stupor, and desperation. They affected expressions of licentiousness, but mechanically.

  It was immediately apparent that Lilya Semenova would have been the youngest and prettiest of them.

  “This is all of them?” asked Porfiry, with an exhalation of smoke.

  “All that are available. Is none to your taste?”

  “You know it is not a question of that.”

  “If you say so, mein Herr. Who then will you choose? We have Olga. Nadya. Sonya. Raya.” A succession of ragged curtsies broke out along the line, the satirical nature of which was confirmed by a further embellishment from the final girl. She pulled down her chemise to bare one conical breast for Porfiry’s benefit.

  “Please. There is no need for such exhibitions.”

  “Raya is very exuberant. Everything is natural to her.” And yet it was Raya in whose eyes Porfiry had detected fear.

  Porfiry sighed heavily. “Very well. I choose Raya.”

  HER HANDS WERE on his face. He removed them methodically.

  The bed filled the room, so much so that one was practically forced onto it as soon as one entered. There was a screen on the far side of the bed, embroidered with kingfishers in flight. A silk kimono was slung over the top of the screen.

  “Do I not please you?”

  He took in the fact of her naked skin. Her blond hair seemed distilled from its pallor. “You’re not Russian?”

  “I’m Finnish. I am sorry.”

  “There’s no need to be sorry. Do you know Lilya?”

  “Yes, of course. But she doesn’t work here anymore. Fräulein Keller says—”

  “How old are you?”

  “How old do you want me to be?”

  “I am a magistrate. You must answer honestly.”

  “I am twenty-seven.”

  “And how long have you been a prostitute?”

  “I can’t remember. I don’t count the years.”

  “Do you know Konstantin Kirillovich?”

  “What is this about?”

  “Have you heard the name Konstantin Kirillovich?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Think carefully.”

  “I think perhaps I have.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A photographer. He takes photographs of the girls sometimes. And prints them up.”

  “Has he ever taken your photograph?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “He likes them younger.”

  “Has he taken photographs of Lilya?”

  “Once, I think.”

  “
It’s not so bad, having your photograph taken. There are worse things, I should imagine.”

  Raya shrugged. She did not give any indication of resenting his eyes on her.

  “Konstantin Kirillovich. Konstantin Kirillovich. What is his family name? I have forgotten.”

  “Everyone knows him only as Konstantin Kirillovich.”

  “That must be why I can’t remember it.” Porfiry smiled and blinked. “You touched my face. Why did you touch my face?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Perhaps it is because you wish me to touch your face?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  Porfiry placed a hand flat against her cheek. Her skin was hot, and the makeup on it greasy and granular. He closed his eyes. Then felt her hand on his thigh.

  “No,” said Porfiry, pulling his hand away and standing up. He distanced himself from Raya’s lingering touch.

  “Why did you come?” asked Raya, looking up at him in wonder. Her eyes were very blue, he noticed.

  “Where will I find Lilya, do you know?”

  “It’s Lilya you want?”

  “I wish to ask her some questions. Do you know a student called Virginsky?”

  Raya shook her head. Her silk-fine hair opened and closed like a fan.

  “How about Goryanchikov? The dwarf?”

  “I know the dwarf. He’s a regular here. He always asks for Lilya. Perhaps he is her new boyfriend?” she wondered.

  “Impossible. He’s dead.”

  The alarm in her eyes intensified.

  “It’s likely that he was murdered.”

  “You think it was Lilya?”

  “Where will I find her?”

  “She’ll be with Zoya Nikolaevna, I should think.”

  “Who is Zoya Nikolaevna?”

  “The old prostitute who looks after Lilya’s child. They share a room and Lilya’s earnings.”

  “Did Lilya not board here?”

  “Not during the day. Fräulein Keller would not allow the child here.” Raya shivered. She was dressed only in underwear. However, it was not cold in the room.

  “Cover yourself up,” said Porfiry.

  Raya reached across the bed and pulled down the kimono from the screen. Slipping it on, her face was confused as well as fearful.

  “I will tell Fräulein Keller that you pleased me,” he reassured her.

  “I don’t understand. Do you want nothing more of me?”

  “An address? For Lilya.”

  “I don’t know it. How would I know it?”

  “No matter.”

  “Zoya lives somewhere near the Haymarket, I believe.”

  “Thank you. That is very helpful.”

  “Are you sure you want nothing more of me? Fräulein Keller says I am to do whatever you ask.”

  “Is it not a relief to you?”

  “It makes no difference to me. It’s why I am here, after all.”

  “Are you really so indifferent?”

  She reached out and lifted one of his hands to her face again. He pulled it away. Her reaction was as if he had struck her.

  “Please, there’s no need.”

  Her habitually cowed expression changed into one of cunning. “Why did you come here?” she asked again.

  “I’m looking for Lilya.”

  “Lilya is the only one who can please you.”

  “Not in the way you think. I merely wish to speak to her.”

  “I don’t believe you. You’re a man. And I know why you won’t sleep with me. It’s because you want my gratitude.”

  “It makes no difference to me.” There was something pointed in the way his intonation, as well as his words, matched hers. To soften this, he added, “I would prefer it if you’re not grateful. You have nothing to be grateful for, after all.”

  “Will you go now?” she asked, as if his presence made her uncomfortable.

  He came close to telling her that she hadn’t the right to dismiss him. Instead he said, “What are you frightened of, Raya?”

  The question took her aback. “The same as everyone,” she answered after a beat. “Getting old. Losing my looks. Not being able to work.”

  “It frightens you that you will one day be free of this place?”

  “Hunger isn’t freedom.”

  Porfiry lit another cigarette and smoked it through completely in silence. “You’re an intelligent girl,” he said at last. Then he looked into the blue of her eyes and left.

  11

  A Well-Ordered Household

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, as he had promised, Porfiry

  Petrovich called for Virginsky. He brought with him a pair of laborer’s boots. They were not brand-new but they were in good condition.

  Virginsky sat on the edge of his bed and looked down at the boots between his feet. His toes poked out of threadbare stockings. The nails were overgrown and yellow. The skin in places burned an angry red.

  “Why have you brought me these?”

  “You are in need of a stout pair of boots.”

  “I am in need of many things. Do you consider it your duty to provide me with it all?”

  “I need your help. I want you to come with me to the house in Bolshaya Morskaya Street.”

  “I told you enough to find it, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, but I think it will be interesting for you to come.”

  “Is this part of your investigative technique?”

  “You’re very suspicious. Are you studying law, by any chance?”

  “I was. I hope one day to resume my studies. When my finances allow it.”

  “And have you considered what you will do when you’ve graduated?”

  “I imagine I will be a lawyer. An advocate in the new courts.”

  “So you believe in the rule of law?”

  “I believe I will be able to exonerate the guilty as well as the next fool.”

  “You’re not so cynical as all that.”

  “What else is one to do with a law degree?”

  “You could be a magistrate. An investigating magistrate.”

  “In that case I’ll be performing the opposite function. Incriminating the innocent.”

  Porfiry smiled indulgently. “I take it back. You are a cynic.”

  Virginsky put one foot tentatively into a boot. “It’s too loose.”

  “You could put extra stockings on.”

  “Do you have extra stockings with you too?”

  “Of course not. Surely you…?”

  “I am wearing all the clothes I own.”

  “It’s not necessary for you to live in this way.”

  Virginsky ignored the remark and tried the other foot. “Where did you get these boots from?”

  “Where do you think?”

  “I think they came from a dead man.”

  Porfiry pursed his lips with amusement.

  “They’re not too bad after all,” said Virginsky, standing.

  THEY WALKED NORTH along Gorokhovaya Street. The Admiralty spire glinted ahead of them, a fine gold blade piercing the bright sky, like the memory of an inescapable crime in the city’s heart. The great thoroughfare glistened and smoked. Huge apartment buildings squatted on either side, presenting rows and rows of windows diminishing into the distance. Porfiry had a sense of all the lives lived out behind those blank panes. For some, such vistas brought to mind a theater backdrop. But for Porfiry, the city’s uniform facades were more like an impenetrable stone curtain. The tragedies took place behind rather than in front of them.

  Virginsky smirked with private amusement as his boots pushed firmly through the recent layer of snow.

  “What is it?” asked Porfiry.

  “Oh, nothing. Except you have bought me for a pair of boots. That is how cheaply I have bartered my soul. Not that I have a soul.”

  “You don’t believe in the soul?”

  “I didn’t say that. I just said I didn’t have one. But no, seeing as you asked, I don’t believe in the soul. Or in God. Or the devil.
Or any of that superstitious rot. Just as well really. If Mephistopheles himself were to come before me with an offer, I don’t reckon much for my chances of holding out.”

  “So you compare me to Mephistopheles? But it’s not a question of selling your soul. You want to find out who killed your friends, don’t you? And you talk of becoming a lawyer. Really, you can’t be both a nihilist and a practitioner of law. Your position is fraught with contradictions.”

  “Yes. Which is another reason why I despise myself.”

  “Do you like your boots?” asked Porfiry after they had walked another few paces.

  “I like the fact that they don’t let in the snow.”

  “That is a perfectly reasonable position.”

  “Tell me,” began Virginsky with some diffidence.

  “Yes?”

  “Am I not a suspect?”

  Porfiry thought for a moment, then replied, “I don’t have a suspect yet.”

  “Let’s say I am a suspect. Does it not complicate the issue, involving me in the investigation like this?”

  “Let’s say you are a suspect. I will learn something from watching you react to the people in the house where Goryanchikov and Borya lived.”

  “So I am a suspect?”

  Porfiry gave his pursed smile again.

  “This is a game to you,” said Virginsky accusingly.

  “But let’s say you’re not a suspect. I much prefer to say you’re not a suspect. Even so, both victims were known to you. It is possible that the murderer is also someone known to you, perhaps someone who lives in the house, who may be there this morning. Your presence may provoke an interesting revelation. Oh, by the way, I may as well ask you this. It could save me a lot of trouble. Do you have any idea who could have killed them?”

  “Do you think I would have kept it to myself if I knew?”

  “Of course not. But you once said Goryanchikov had many enemies. How about Borya?”

  “The only enemy Borya had was Goryanchikov. Ironic, isn’t it?”

  “Not really. Whoever killed them wanted to make it look like Borya had killed Goryanchikov and then killed himself. I expect I shall hear much about how the two men hated each other.”