by R. N. Morris
“Your honor, allow me the privilege of introducing myself. I am Titular Councilor Ivan Filimonovich Lebedyev. Your honor,” he repeated, “allow me the honor-ah!” He broke off disconsolately. He bowed momentarily and clenched his face into a pained rictus. He recovered with a flashing smile, marred only by the lack of teeth. “Too many honors! Your honor, what can I do?”
“You may sit down if you wish, sir.”
“No sir, I do not wish.” This was said with quick, haughty defiance, as if he were rebutting a slur against his character.
“How may I help you, Ivan Filimonovich?” asked Porfiry gently.
“You will allow me to address my wife?”
“Of course.”
“Yekaterina Romanovna, come home with me.”
Without ceasing her lament, Yekaterina Romanovna rose obediently from her seat and crossed to her husband. He signaled his approval with a delayed nod and turned to Porfiry seeking release.
“There is just one thing, sir,” said Porfiry, with an air of reluctance. “Something your wife said. About your daughter.”
“My wife is ill, sir. You may have noticed. She is not”-he paused and bowed and grimaced, as he had done before-“herself.” He smiled again.
“But your daughter is quite well, I trust?”
“We have no daughter, your honor.” Lebedyev bowed with an air of finality, then began leading his wife out.
Porfiry rose and followed them. In the receiving hall, he caught Zamyotov’s eager eye as he passed him.
“It seems she has put on a similar performance in every police bureau in Petersburg,” the chief clerk informed him.
“And the story of the daughter?” asked Porfiry.
“It has been looked into. There is nothing in it. I talked to Rogozhin, who transferred here from the Central District. He knows all about it. It is all a fantasy of the woman’s disordered brain.”
Porfiry watched the couple cross the hall toward the exit. Lebedyev had his arm around his wife’s shoulder. It struck Porfiry that the gesture was not so much to protect her as to close her off from further interest and inquiry.
Lieutenant Salytov stood at the eastern end of Petrovsky Island, his back to the Tuchkov Bridge. It felt like the lowest point of the city; he had a sense of Petersburg rising up behind him as if it would bear down and crush him. A feeling of oppression was never far away from Salytov. Ptitsyn, the young polizyeisky who had been allocated to him, stood about twenty sazheni to his right, within sight, awaiting the signal. Salytov looked toward the frozen, snow-covered park and was overcome by a sudden blank hopelessness. His characteristic defense against such intolerable emotions was rage, and he gave in to it now.
They had sent him on a fool’s errand. They! There was no “they” about it. He well knew who was behind this. Porfiry Petrovich. And what a position he had been put in when he had announced himself and his mission at the Shestaya Street police station in the Petersburgsky District. With what contempt they had greeted him! No wonder. Wouldn’t he have reacted in a similar way if an officer from another district had turned up in his bureau, making similar demands, based on as little evidence?
The corporal on duty had raised his bushy gray eyebrows in an expression of mock alarm. Salytov recognized him as one of those officers of long-standing low rank, in whom a lack of ambition had instilled the habit of sarcasm and the vice of sloth. The man was not, however, devoid of envy, which he directed against all those who had the power to control his actions and curtail his ease. Superior officers, in other words, particularly those who came from other bureaus making demands. He vented his envy by being as obstructive as possible, without risking open insubordination. “A report of murder, you say?” He had narrowed his eyes, as if struggling to understand. Feigning stupidity was evidently one of his favorite techniques. “What kind of a report?”
“A tip-off,” Salytov had spat. He had realized what he was up against, yet still could not prevent himself from rising to the bait.
“From a reliable source, I take it?”
Salytov could have struck the fellow for that. How dare he question him, Salytov, and in that tone! Of course, what galled Salytov was the knowledge that the source was far from reliable. He regarded the corporal with hatred. “The top brass are taking it seriously. They want me to take some of your men and conduct a thorough search.” It was a great strain on Salytov’s patience to have to explain all this.
“We can’t spare men to go gallivanting off in the park.”
“You must have some men available.”
“But if we are to commit resources, we must know on what basis. You must share your information with us. Besides, I will have to talk to my chief. And there is the usual paperwork.”
It was ridiculous, the whole thing was ridiculous. To be put in such a position! To be made to wait! And after all that waiting to be given Ptitsyn, a mere boy!
Salytov scowled at the youth, who looked back with an expression of good-natured expectancy that was too much to bear.
“What are you waiting for, you fool?” shouted Salytov. Ptitsyn placidly waved one gloved hand, and both men began walking.
SIR, LOOK! Lieutenant Salytov, sir!”
“Yes, I see it.”
The two of them broke into a high-stepping run through the deep snow, converging toward the body that was hanging from the giant bow of the bent tree.
“Is this what we are looking for, sir?” gasped Ptitsyn, breathless and rosy-cheeked, as excited as a schoolboy.
Salytov did not answer. The note he had been shown had spoken of murder, not suicide.
“Is he dead, sir?”
“Of course he’s dead, idiot.” There was ice in the man’s beard, snow on his cap and shoulders.
“Shall we get him down?”
“No! Leave him there, do you hear? Don’t touch him! Don’t touch a thing.”
“Who is he, sir?”
Again Salytov ignored the question.
“I’ve never seen a dead one before, sir.” Ptitsyn looked wonderingly up into the staring eyes.
Noticing a bulge in the corpse’s greatcoat, Salytov stepped up and teased it open. “So. It seems there is murder here after all,” he commented on seeing the bloody axe tucked in the man’s belt.
“Sir,” said Ptitsyn, a frown of confusion giving his voice a querulous note. “How did he do it?”
“What are you talking about, boy?”
“I mean, how did he hang himself? You see the rope is tied around the trunk of the tree, sir. I can see how he could have thrown the rope around the tree, tied a loop, and pulled it tight. But how did he string himself up?”
There was something in what the boy said. Salytov looked up into the tree, at the point where the rope was tethered to the trunk, just below a small vertical nick in the bark. He then examined the flimsy birch branches. His eye was caught by a slip of grayish paper snagged on a twig. He beckoned Ptitsyn over.
“What is it, sir?”
“I want you to lift me onto your shoulders.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Get down and lift me on your shoulders.”
Ptitsyn looked momentarily bewildered, then lowered himself to a crouch so that Salytov could straddle his shoulders.
“Up!”
Ptitsyn rose shakily, crying out under the strain. As Salytov reached up to grab the slip of paper, Ptitsyn’s center of gravity was thrown. It seemed for a moment as though they would fall. But by a heroic readjustment of his stance, Ptitsyn was able to right himself. Making no allowances, Salytov cursed and kicked the man beneath him with his heels as if he were spurring a horse. “Get closer to the tree, damn you!”
Ptitsyn bellowed his response and lurched a step higher up the incline. Salytov was able to grasp his prize.
“Down!”
Ptitsyn sank groaning to his knees, losing his cap and receiving in return a face full of snow as Salytov dismounted over his head. “What have you found, sir?” he asked
, when he had retrieved his cap and staggered back to his feet.
Salytov examined the paper with an expression of angry triumph. “Ha! This will show him!”
“Is it a clue, sir?”
Salytov folded his wallet over the slip of paper and scanned the ground eagerly. He noticed a mound of snow of suspiciously regular shape some way from the tree.
“There,” Salytov pointed.
“Could he have jumped from that, sir? Is that what you’re thinking?” asked Ptitsyn.
“What?” snapped Salytov.
“I only mean, sir-”
“I don’t give a damn what you mean, you imbecile. I commanded you to investigate that mound in the snow. Are you refusing to obey my order?”
“No, sir. Of course not, sir,” said Ptitsyn, stung by Salytov’s severity. But he was determined to prove himself worthy of the stern officer’s approval. He did not waste time wondering how the word there could be interpreted as a formal command. He lunged in the direction Salytov was still pointing.
Ptitsyn crouched by the mound, which seemed to have a precisely rectangular outline beneath the soft, rounded surface of the snow. He scooped away a few handfuls of the freshest fall from one side, revealing patches of brown in a sheer, smooth surface. “I think it’s some kind of suitcase,” he said, as he continued to excavate. “It appears to be open. There’s-” Ptitsyn broke off. His gloved fingers groped into the snow and lifted what turned out to be an envelope, lilac in color. So delighted was he with this haul as he handed it to the lieutenant that he failed to notice what it had uncovered. But as Ptitsyn looked keenly into the lieutenant’s face, he noticed that it had suddenly become unusually pale, as if the heat of his temper had been siphoned from him. There was no ferocity there. Following Salytov’s eye line toward the spot he was staring at, Ptitsyn gasped to see the features of a man in the snow. “Did you ever see anything like this, sir?” he whispered, his eyes wide open in shocked wonder.
When Salytov answered, his voice was soft and awed. “Go back to Shestaya Street. Take a drozhki. Tell them what we have found.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I will stay here to secure the scene. You will return with more men. We will need a wagon.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Go then!” Salytov clapped his hands once to send the young policeman running. He watched Ptitsyn’s swaying back recede as he took out his wallet once more and placed the lilac envelope inside.
The Prokuror
Three trestle tables had been set up in the large shed that the Haymarket District Police Bureau used to store firefighting engines. The building was next to the department’s stables in Malaya Meshchanskaya Street, around the corner from the bureau in Stolyarny Lane. The wide double doors were fastened open, allowing the day’s brutal light to flood the tables and their contents. On the first table were spread the various items that Salytov had recovered from Petrovsky Park. The other two held the bodies.
The bulking shapes of the fire equipment-the pumping engines, coiled hoses, and water-carrying wagons-lurked in the shadows at the edge of the hangar. With less reticence, six men stood around the tables. In addition to Porfiry Petrovich and Nikodim Fomich, present was Yaroslav Nikolaevich Liputin, the prokuror. In any criminal prosecution, it was his responsibility to decide if a crime had been committed and to draw up the indictment once a suspect had been arrested, as well as to prosecute the case through the courts. According to procedure, he was Porfiry’s superior, a relationship that was emphasized by Liputin’s towering height. It was impossible to argue with his appearance, dressed and groomed as he was with such consideration. Every hair, every hem, every button knew its place in the ordainment of his presence. Also in attendance were the two official witnesses required by the new laws, in this case Major General Volkonsky and Actual State Councilor Yepanchin; retired gentlemen, dressed now, naturally, each in the uniform of his rank. A certain querulous confusion was evident on the face of the major general. Actual State Councilor Yepanchin hid his emotions behind a mask of dignity. Both were quick to defer to Liputin. Finally, Porfiry had invited Salytov, out of courtesy, given his role in discovering the bodies.
The heat from a brazier at the rear of the shed barely reached them.
“So we are waiting for?” demanded Liputin imperiously.
“The physician, your excellency,” explained Porfiry.
“Physician? I don’t think we need a physician to tell us what has happened here, Porfiry Petrovich.”
“With respect, your excellency.”
“One corpse with his head hacked in, the other hanging by the neck with a bloody axe about his person. Really. You are not required to call a physician, you know. Under the new laws, an autopsy is not demanded in every case. You may use your discretion. You are able to look at the bodies yourself and draw certain conclusions. There is no need to waste our time like this. What need do you have to involve the office of the prokuror?” Liputin spoke as if this were something separate from himself. “Yes, there has been a crime, two crimes, in fact. One murder, the other suicide. The man wanted for both lies dead on a trestle table. The case is closed.”
“Indeed, prokuror. But it is because I have examined the bodies-and the area in Petrovsky Park where they were found-that I feel it is necessary to call in a physician.”
Liputin’s eyes narrowed minutely, almost imperceptibly.
“This flask,” said Porfiry, lifting a pewter flask from the table of objects, “which Lieutenant Salytov recovered from one of the pockets of the hanging man.” Porfiry unstopped the flask and held it out to Liputin.
“Vodka,” confirmed the prokuror, inhaling.
“Yes. And it’s full. I can imagine a man intent on such deeds steeling himself with alcohol. Especially as he has gone to the trouble of preparing this flask. But to take the vodka along and not drink it?”
“You think the vodka is significant?” asked Nikodim Fomich.
“In cases like this, everything is significant.”
“Perhaps it was not a question of steeling himself,” objected Salytov, with some heat. “Perhaps he killed the dwarf in a fit of rage. And hanged himself in a fit of remorse. Perhaps too he was in the habit of carrying a flask of vodka about with him wherever he went. In the turmoil of the moment it was forgotten.”
“It is an interesting theory,” commented Porfiry. “And I am grateful to you for sharing it with us.”
“But you do not hold with it?” asked Liputin.
“Look at his coat.” Porfiry nodded toward the larger body. “What do you notice?”
No one risked an answer.
“Well, let me ask this of Lieutenant Salytov. Did you notice anything on the back of the coat when you cut him down?”
“Yes, there were some black marks,” said Salytov. “Oil, I think.”
“Yes. Oily marks on the back of his greatcoat. But on the front?”
“No oily marks,” ventured Nikodim Fomich.
“It is not the absence of oily marks that puzzles me. Rather-”
“No blood!” cried Salytov.
“Quite. The condition of the front of the coat leads me to believe that even if he is the murderer, he did not kill the dwarf immediately before killing himself. At least not with the axe. The absence of blood on the old soldier’s greatcoat is indeed puzzling, if we are to accept the interpretation of the evidence that the scene appears intent on forcing upon us.”
“Of course he did not kill the dwarf immediately before killing himself. He took the body there in that suitcase,” insisted Liputin. “The body of the dwarf was found in the suitcase, was it not?” He pointed to the moisture-stained suitcase. It lay closed on the table. Its lid bore a single large scratch across the middle.
“Yes, that’s correct. And what you are suggesting is quite possibly true. It is equally possible, you must admit, that someone else carried the suitcase there. And if that is possible, it is also possible that someone else killed the dwarf.”
&n
bsp; “But why should he have killed himself?” asked Liputin, with an irritated nod toward the big corpse.
“That is indeed the crucial question,” agreed Porfiry. He turned back to the table of objects, picking up the small grayish slip of paper that Salytov had retrieved from the branches of the birch tree. “Perhaps this pawnbroker’s ticket can lead us to the answer.”
“You are overlooking one important aspect of the case, however,” said Liputin abruptly.
Porfiry looked up with a questioning glance.
“The self-evident inferior rank of the individuals concerned. This one is a student of some kind, I would say. Leaving aside his deformity-”
“Which of course has no bearing on the thoroughness with which the case will be investigated,” completed Porfiry.
“You know, Porfiry Petrovich, that it is possible to be too zealous as an investigator. Police resources are not infinitely expendable. There are such things as hopeless cases. I mean to say, who are these people?”
“Yes. We must establish their identities. That is the first step to establishing the truth of what happened.”
“Ah yes, the truth,” said Liputin wearily, consulting his pocket watch. “Where is this physician of yours?”
“He will be here shortly, I am sure.”
“Who is it to be?”
“Dr. Pervoyedov, of the Obukhovsky Hospital. He has served us in this capacity before. His work has always been satisfactory.”
“But this is not good enough,” commented Liputin sharply, with a glance to the official witnesses. “These gentlemen have consented to give up their time for the express purpose of witnessing this…procedure.”
There were assenting echoes from the official witnesses.
“I am sure they are pleased to be fulfilling their civic duty.”
“What about the physician’s duty? You know that as investigating magistrate you have the authority to fine…”
At that moment, to Porfiry’s relief, a red-faced young man hurried into the shed pushing a two-wheeled trolley on which a large tin trunk was upended. The newcomer was hatless, his long hair sticking out in unruly clumps. He was dressed in an old overcoat with a grubby plaid pattern. In many ways his disheveled and almost shabby appearance was the exact opposite of Liputin’s. “Apologies, apologies, gentlemen,” cried Dr. Pervoyedov. “I was delayed by syphilis. Five new cases. Five!”