The Gentle Axe pp-1

by R. N. Morris

  “I don’t know. I suppose so. I can’t remember.” Virginsky gave a sudden angry scowl and came back fiercely: “No, actually. I don’t remember. I don’t remember you asking me that. What you asked me, I seem to remember, was if I had ever heard Lilya mention him.”

  “Ah! You would make a fine defense counsel. A nice distinction. It does not, however, persuade me of your innocence. First you say you can’t remember, and then you seem to remember only too well.”

  “It just came back to me. I’m tired. I was dragged from my bed. You can’t expect me to be in full control of my faculties. But of course, that’s exactly the way you want it, isn’t it? That’s why you do this, to catch me napping.”

  “I don’t pretend to understand what you thought you were doing when you entered into this contract.”

  “I was drunk. We had been gambling. I owed Goryanchikov a lot of money that I didn’t have. I didn’t want to renege on the bet. There is such a thing as honor. He suggested this way out. I thought, why not? It was either this or writing to my father. This seemed the lesser of two evils.”

  “Where was the contract drawn up?”

  “Some filthy drinking den near the Haymarket. Where did you find it?”

  “It was tucked away in the pages of one of those books you hocked.”

  Virginsky quaked with wheezing laughter.

  “I take it you didn’t put it there?” said Porfiry, a note of incredulity in his voice.

  Virginsky shook his head.

  “So how did it get there? Do you have any idea?”

  “I imagine Goryanchikov put it there.”

  “Why would he do that? Why would he put it in one of your books?”

  “They weren’t my books. They were his.”

  “But you pawned them?”

  “All right, I confess. I will admit to a crime. I stole them from him. I stole the books from him and pawned them for the money. I would have redeemed them and given them back to him, I swear. Once I’d got the money together.”

  “How did you intend to get the money? Your father?”

  “No, I–I don’t know. There are ways. Goryanchikov always seemed to manage. I had thought of journalism.”

  “I think perhaps Goryanchikov took the contract rather more seriously than you. That is why he stole the pawn ticket from you. Because he was determined to get the contract back.”

  “Perhaps he simply wanted the books back because they were his. I mean, because he had translated them.”

  “He translated all the books?” Porfiry raised an eyebrow.

  “I know that he translated the philosophy books. He was hired by that fellow.”

  “What fellow would this be?”

  “The one who lodged in Anna Alexandrovna’s house.”

  Porfiry nodded. “Osip Maximovich. So he is responsible for publishing the Athene books?”

  Virginsky gave a half shrug in answer.

  “Your father must be a terrible monster,” said Porfiry abruptly.

  “Yes. You’re right. The worst kind of monster.” Virginsky was not inclined to elaborate.

  “And you have got yourself into an awful mess because of your unwillingness to accept help from him.”

  “I will never accept anything from that man.”

  “Some would say your feelings for him are unnatural.”

  “Shall I tell you what is unnatural!” cried Virginsky hotly. “A father who steals from his son all hope, all possibility of happiness.”

  Porfiry raised his eyebrows to ask the question how.

  “There-was-a girl,” said Virginsky heavily.

  “Ah.”

  “I loved her. There! What do you say to that? He knew. He knew it all. But he-he wanted her. He wanted to consume her in the same way he consumes everything. And the fact that I, his own son, was in love with her, only added spice to his appetite.”

  “But what of the girl? What did she want?”

  “She…I could not compete with his lies. Or his wealth. They married. My mother has been dead for many years.”

  “It seems to me this girl is not worthy of you. And perhaps it’s because you realize this that you are so angry with your father. You blame him for her imperfection.”

  “And is that why I murdered Goryanchikov, according to your…psychology?” Virginsky sneered sarcastically.

  “It was why you were able to enter into this bizarre agreement. You had reached a point of such despair, of such nihilism, that this seemed preferable to asking your father for money.”

  “But this is nothing. It’s a worthless scrap of paper.”

  “And yet you returned to the house in Bolshaya Morskaya Street two nights ago to try to retrieve it from Goryanchikov’s room.”

  Virginsky winced and looked away in embarrassment. “I went there. I admit it. I went there to try and get it back. I don’t believe in it. I don’t believe in any of it. I’m a rationalist. You might call me a materialist, and I wouldn’t argue with you. But still, I felt easier having it in my possession.”

  “And that was why, on the following day, you wouldn’t go into the house with me. The maid would have said something. You would have been discovered.”

  “I had nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Except that you had pretended to Katya that Goryanchikov was still alive when you knew perfectly well that he was dead.” Porfiry pursed his lips when he put this to Virginsky, as if he disapproved of this lie most of all.

  “I wasn’t thinking straight. I panicked.”

  “Let us return to Konstantin Kirillovich. The man was known to you. You can’t deny that. And yet you did not say so when you had the opportunity.”

  “I tell you, I didn’t know him as Konstantin Kirillovich. I didn’t know him by any name. He was just some loathsome old lecher Goryanchikov bumped into.”

  “A girl at Fräulein Keller’s told me that he takes pornographic photographs.”

  “I can believe it.”

  “Of very young girls.”

  “Why are you asking me about this? I know nothing about any of this.”

  “This document is highly incriminating. There are some who would see in it a motive for murder.”

  Virginsky shook his head.

  “They would say you murdered Goryanchikov and framed Borya,” insisted Porfiry. “This fellow Ratazyayev is also missing. It is conceivable that you murdered him too. And Govorov, the other witness to your contract? Where is he? The motive is certainly here. A case could be made that it is in your interest to eradicate everyone connected with this strange piece of paper.”

  “But it’s not true,” said Virginsky wearily.

  Porfiry shrugged. “Ah, the truth! If ever you do become a lawyer, Pavel Pavlovich, you will quickly learn not to rely overmuch on the truth.”

  The snow-covered pavement of the Nevsky Prospect was mottled with black footprints. Porfiry kept his head bowed as he walked, looking at the footprints, following them, as if he expected the footprints to lead him to the solution of the mystery; to the murderer, in other words. But really he was looking at the pavement to avoid looking at the sky, for the sky above this great broad strip of openness was too much a reminder of the infinite. He felt the mediating presence of immense buildings. He was aware too, in a similar way, of the wooden cross that hung around his neck and touched his skin.

  It was late morning, but the gloom of a northern winter clung to the city. The shopwindows glowed. Carriage lights trailed in the damp air. The crowds, in places, stretched across the pavement. Sometimes he felt himself jostled along and had to match his pace to the tread of those around him. Sometimes the pedestrians coming toward him were like the ranks of an opposing army.

  Tiny sharp snowflakes began to swirl in the air and fell over them all.

  Number 22 was a three-story building on the north side of the street, identical twin to number 24, on the other side of the Lutheran church. In the summer this would have been the sunny side. But there was no sunny side toda
y. The ground floor was taken up with a number of shops, a delicatessen, a grocery store, its facade brightly painted, a furrier’s, a gentlemen’s outfitter’s, and a shop selling various mechanical devices. The floors above and behind were given over to business premises. It was here that the famous publishing house Smyrdin had its offices. It was also the address given as the home of the publisher Athene in the title pages of the philosophy books Porfiry had redeemed from Lyamshin’s.

  He left his galoshes in the marbled foyer, under the steady gaze of the senior commissionaire, an immovable mound of a man around whom, it seemed, a monumental desk had been built. He concentrated his vitality into his eyes and could convey enormous meaning in a single blink. His more energetic colleague, a wiry old soldier whose face showed the strain of enforced inaction, leaped up to escort Porfiry to the Athene offices. “You’ll never find it, your excellency,” he cried gleefully, as if this were something to celebrate. “Never in a thousand years.”

  Of course, there were stairs to be climbed and corridors to be tramped, corners to be turned. And rows of numbered doors, some of them also bearing the names of the businesses conducted within. “You see, it’s as well that I came with you, your excellency,” commented the energetic commissionaire. But it was soon apparent that he himself was lost, although he would not admit it. His pace, however, did begin to flag. At last he angrily accosted a young man hurrying toward them with a sheaf of papers under one arm: “Athene?”

  “Next floor down. Suite seventy-two.”

  “Ah! They’ve moved, have they?”

  “Always been suite seventy-two,” shouted the young man over his shoulder, picking up his step.

  “Young fool doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” said Porfiry’s escort snappily. “They were on this floor the last time I came along here.”

  They retraced their steps, this time with Porfiry leading.

  The door to suite 72 was open. Before they drew level with it, Porfiry could hear the voices inside, two male voices, the first light and relaxed, the other a forced baritone. The debate was passionate but good-natured. Porfiry had a sense of the friendship, the mutual fondness even, between the two men.

  “…but I insist a philosopher’s thought is enwrapped in his language.”

  “What you are saying, more or less, is that the endeavor of translating philosophy is either futile or impossible.”

  “If it is the latter, it is also the former.”

  “But it is the endeavor to which you have devoted your life. It is what we do. It is our business.”

  “There is nothing nobler than to devote one’s life to a futile enterprise.” This was said after a slight pause, with a cheerful, almost mischievous lilt.

  Porfiry dismissed his guide with a deep bow and stepped into the doorway. He drummed his knuckles lightly on the open door, and the two men looked up.

  They were as he had imagined them from their voices, almost exactly. The younger man was tall and thin, his legs especially so. He had a high-domed forehead and thinning hair. Perched on the edge of a desk behind which his companion sat, he looked up at Porfiry over a book, the pages of which he turned distractedly with long fingers. His face was pale, his expression somewhat severe: a small pinched mouth was drawn together in readiness for denial. His eyes were gray and cold. The seated man was portly but neat. He kept his beard trimmed, and his hair, though thick and long, was tidily combed. His age was approaching fifty, and he wore silver-framed reading glasses. Behind their glinting lenses, his quick black eyes shone with intelligence and humor. Though his figure was spreading and his face filling, he was still a handsome man, or at least he was still able to carry himself like one. A long straight nose gave his face strength in profile. Viewed frontally, a small cleft at the tip arrested the gaze. His mouth, which was generous in comparison to his companion’s, curved into a ready smile, whereas Porfiry noticed the other man’s frown deepen.

  “Good day. This is the office of Athene publishing, is it not?” asked Porfiry.

  “It is” came simultaneously from them both.

  “And if I am not mistaken, I have the pleasure of addressing the two gentlemen who lodge at the house of Anna Alexandrovna Ivolgina, that is to say Osip Maximovich and Vadim Vasilyevich.”

  The two friends looked at each other uncertainly.

  “You do,” said the older man, who turned out to be the source of the lighter, higher voice. “I am Osip Maximovich Simonov. You have the advantage of us, sir.”

  “I am Porfiry Petrovich.” Their faces were blank. “I was the investigating magistrate on the case of Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov. I believe he occasionally did work for you?”

  “Ah! So that’s what this is about,” said Osip Maximovich. “Please sit down.” But every spare seat in the office was already taken with a jerrybuilt tower of books or papers, or sometimes both.

  “We’ve already given statements to the police,” said Vadim Vasilyevich, raising the book he was reading so that it covered his face. He also shifted the position of his gangling legs, swinging one knee across and turning his body away from Porfiry.

  “Yes, you spoke to Lieutenant Salytov, I believe. I have read your statements. But this is not about that case. That case is closed.”

  “I read about it in the gazettes,” said Osip Maximovich brightly. “Isn’t it your theory that Borya killed Goryanchikov and then took his own life? Poor Borya. Poor Goryanchikov. A tragic waste. He was one of our most inspired translators. You see, translating philosophy is not an exact science. As we were just discussing, the translator needs to engage his imagination. He must first understand what the philosopher means to say, before he attempts to render that meaning into another language. Take Hegel. He was not even understood by the Germans. He said himself, ‘One man has understood me, and even he hasn’t.’ But really, is it any wonder? Language, the only means we have available to us for expressing thought, is a far from perfect medium. We can say for certain that there are things that exist for which we have no words. Words simplify and reduce the universe. There is, moreover, a gradation of ideas that is not reflected in the divisive and categorical nature of language. Hegel showed, I think, that it is possible for an idea to contain within itself its opposite. A word cannot do the same. Yes, indeed.” Osip Maximovich broke off, suddenly morose. “An invaluable talent that boy had.”

  “You said in your statement that the two men quarreled?”

  “No,” said Osip Maximovich calmly. “I know nothing about it. I wasn’t here. I was eight hundred versts away. It was Vadim Vasilyevich who heard the argument.”

  Vadim Vasilyevich fidgeted at the mention of his name.

  “Ah yes, Osip Maximovich,” said Porfiry. “I remember. Anna Alexandrovna told me. You were on retreat in Optina Pustyn. You are a believer then?” Porfiry noticed the icon mounted high up in one corner of the room.

  “Should I not be?”

  “I would hazard a guess that some of the authors you have published are not.”

  “Why if the case is closed are you asking us all these questions about it?” asked Vadim Vasilyevich with sudden hostility. It seemed his voice sank even lower when he was agitated.

  “My dear Vadim Vasilyevich,” said Osip Maximovich smoothly. He smiled, but his eyes were stern.

  “I was not asking questions about that case,” said Porfiry, with a flutter of his eyelids. “I was merely asking questions out of interest. You are right, that case is closed. But I have come here to talk to you about another case. I am here investigating the disappearance of one Alexei Spiridonovich Ratazyayev.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Then Vadim Vasilyevich said, “We don’t know anyone by that name.”

  “How about you, Osip Maximovich? Perhaps you would care to answer for yourself.”

  “I think I may have heard the name Ratazyayev. Wasn’t he an actor? I may have seen him in something. Before your time, dear boy,” he added to Vadim Vasilyevich. “Ratazyayev, Ratazyayev. Yes, I think h
e was quite a celebrated actor at one time. And then something happened to him, I think. Drink, or some other scandal.”

  “Well, he has disappeared now.”

  “What has this to do with us?” asked Vadim Vasilyevich, finally standing away from the desk and exhibiting his full height.

  “His name was found on a document belonging to Goryanchikov. Along with the name of another gentleman, one Konstantin Kirillovich Govorov.” Porfiry studied the two men closely for their reactions. Vadim Vasilyevich slammed his book with a sigh. Osip Maximovich smiled blandly. “Goryanchikov is linked to you because of the work he did for Athene publishing. He was working on a translation for you at the time of his death, wasn’t he?”

  “Ah, yes. Proudhon. Philosophie de la misère,” sighed Osip Maximovich regretfully.

  “He also owned a number of philosophical volumes published by Athene. I believe they were copies of the books he had translated.”

  “Moleschott, Büchner, Vogt, and Dühring,” said Vadim Vasilyevich. “Those are the authors he has done for us.”

  “Yes, those are the ones I am referring to,” said Porfiry with an appreciative nod. “So you see, Ratazyayev is linked to Goryanchikov. And Goryanchikov leads me to you.”

  “You say that Ratazyayev has disappeared,” said Osip Maximovich thoughtfully. “But surely people disappear all the time? He may simply have tired of living in St. Petersburg and moved to Moscow. One does not even have to look so far. Perhaps he is living in the Vyborg District. Not wishing for his old acquaintances to spoil his new suburban life-perhaps even ashamed of it-he is simply lying low. Perhaps he is no longer living the disreputable life of an actor but has joined the service. He may even be teaching in a girls’ school. Alternatively, he may have drunk himself into a stupor, fallen over in the street, and died from exposure. It is the sort of thing that occurs daily in our great city.”

  “These are all interesting theories,” said Porfiry with a smile. “And indeed plausible. However, there are circumstances surrounding his disappearance that incline us to treat it as suspicious.”