by R. N. Morris
“I wore what I needed to wear.”
“Yes, of course. But tell me, where did all this come from?”
“Zoya found…some money. That’s all.”
Porfiry noticed the hesitation and frowned skeptically. “She was indeed lucky. But I wonder, did she not think it might belong to someone?”
“You’ve never been poor. You’ve never known what it’s like.”
“I am not here to investigate or judge Zoya Nikolaevna.”
“Why are you here?” It was the same question Raya had asked him at Fräulein Keller’s.
“You know the student Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky.” It was a statement, not a question.
Lilya stared at his strange, colorless lashes. “Yes.”
“We are currently holding him in connection with a possible crime.”
She gave an inarticulate sob of protest. Her eyes questioned and challenged him.
“Anything you can say in answer to my questions will help him.”
“You don’t believe he…”
“I don’t believe he what?”
“Is it to do with Goryanchikov?”
“You know about Goryanchikov?”
“Pavel Pavlovich told me. And…”
“And what?”
Lilya could not meet his flickering eyelashes. She looked away to answer: “Zoya found him. She found him and another man. Dead. In Petrovsky Park.”
“She has a habit of finding things, your Zoya.”
“The money, she found the money there too. It was on the other man. In his pocket.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know. I…” She tried to lie. Then saw his eyelashes. “Six thousand rubles,” came heavily.
Porfiry whistled. And began to laugh. “And she has spent it all on icons and candles, I see.”
“She has been g-generous to us.”
Porfiry smiled at the significant stammer. “It’s easy to be generous with someone else’s money.”
“But he’s dead. The man it belonged to is dead!”
“The man she found it on,” corrected Porfiry deliberately, “was a yardkeeper. How do you suppose a yardkeeper came by six thousand rubles?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you see, it has a bearing on the investigation. The police should have been told about this. When you wrote me your little note, you could have mentioned the six thousand rubles.” Lilya started in amazement. The investigator’s face chided her with gentle irony. “I see my shot has hit the mark. I’m grateful to you for the information you provided, incomplete as it was. Though if Zoya had come forward herself, it would have saved us a lot of trouble, I believe.”
“How did you know?”
“Murder in Petrovsky Park?” Porfiry repeated the words from the anonymous note in a melodramatic whisper. “I didn’t, until you told me that Zoya had discovered the bodies.” Porfiry’s expression became pained as he contemplated his next question. “Was Goryanchikov a client of yours?”
Her shocked expression demanded an explanation of him.
“When you mentioned Goryanchikov, there was something about the way you said his name. And he must have been known to you, otherwise why would Pavel Pavlovich tell you of his death, and how would you know that the body Zoya Nikolaevna had found was his? I’m afraid I asked the question in the way I did because, well, it seemed the most likely way in which any man might be known to you.”
“He came to Fräulein Keller’s. He always asked for me.”
“And what about Virginsky?”
Her brows came together. Her lips seemed to tremble. “It was never like that with Virginsky.”
“But did he know about Goryanchikov? Is it possible that he was jealous?”
“If he was jealous of Goryanchikov, why should he not be jealous of them all?”
“Perhaps he was. In some way.”
“Didn’t the other man do it? The big man hanging from the tree. Zoya said he did it. She found an axe on him. There was blood on it, she said.”
Porfiry sighed wearily.
At that moment, the door to the flat opened. Porfiry looked up to see a round ball of a woman waddle into the room. Her small wrinkled face appeared to have been pinched out of the headscarf that surrounded it. She was carrying a parcel wrapped in brown paper, tied with string.
“Babushka!” cried Vera. She abandoned her doll and jumped up, throwing herself at the old woman, whose solid form absorbed the force of her love. Vera made a great fuss of her Babushka, patting and stroking her and smiling up at her with a face that had its own, child’s, cunning. “Babushka, Babushka, my lovely Babushka! What have you brought for me today?”
The old woman, who had by now noticed Porfiry, chuckled but threw a self-conscious glance toward the kitchen table. “Now, now, child, that’s no way to greet your granny.” But she was looking at Porfiry as she said this.
Vera pawed at the brown paper parcel the old woman was holding. “Is it for me?”
“No, darling, this one’s for Granny.”
“Leave Mamma Zoya be, Vera.”
But the child clung to the old woman, pushing a cheek into the soft padding of her body. Zoya too seemed reluctant to release the child. There was defiance in the way she placed one arm around Vera’s head. With the other, she lifted the brown paper parcel to her bosom.
Porfiry rose to his feet and bowed to Zoya. She picked up the nervousness of Lilya’s movements. She saw that there was something guilty and yet obstinate in the girl’s expression. Things had been said, she knew. She pulled Vera into her for protection.
“Ah, this must be the lady about whom I have heard so much. Zoya Nikolaevna, I presume?”
Zoya was not taken in by his “lady.” She tilted her head slyly in answer.
“I am Porfiry Petrovich.”
“This gentleman is a policeman, Mamma Zoya.”
“No. I am an investigating magistrate.” Porfiry smiled. “But no matter. You could say I am a policeman.”
“What is this about?” Zoya clasped her parcel tightly, as if she were afraid he was going to snatch it off her.
“I am investigating the disappearance of a man called Alexei Spiridonovich Ratazyayev.”
Lilya seemed thrown by the announcement; Zoya, relieved. Porfiry noted that she even allowed herself a small grin.
“I don’t know anyone by that name.”
He noticed Lilya frowning at him doubtfully, as if she had suddenly lost faith in him. She seemed almost angry. He met her frown with a smile. “I believe him to be an associate of someone known to you, Lilya Ivanovna.” Alarm showed in her eyes. “Konstantin Kirillovich. Whose family name, I have discovered, is Govorov. Wasn’t it a certain Konstantin Kirillovich who accused you of stealing one hundred rubles?”
“Yes.”
“Konstantin Kirillovich Govorov. The mysterious man who accused you of theft and then ran away before charges could be brought. Why did he do that, do you suppose?”
Lilya shook her head without looking at him.
“Perhaps he believed,” continued Porfiry, “as many do, that it would be enough for a gentleman to accuse a prostitute. That the authorities would naturally take his side. That there would be no need for the formalities to be completed. If so, he is unaware of the changes wrought by our legal reforms. We have juries now, and courts. And defense advocates. It takes more than an accusation to have someone sent to Siberia, even a street girl. But then Konstantin Kirillovich is no gentleman, is he?”
“I don’t know what it means, to be a gentleman,” said Lilya, finally challenging Porfiry with her gaze.
“There are only men!” agreed Zoya Nikolaevna with a high, harsh cry. “There are no gentlemen.”
“Konstantin Kirillovich took photographs of you, didn’t he?”
“I allowed him to.” Her voice came from somewhere dead.
“But a photograph is not so terrible. At least it does not involve-”
“Oh, it involved the worst tha
t you could imagine!” cried Lilya despairingly.
“And you were young, you were very young?” His question offered mitigation.
Lilya nodded rapidly. She dabbed tears out of her eyes and looked toward her daughter. “It was…in the beginning.”
“But you did it,” said Porfiry. His tone was flat, not accusing. It was as if he were speaking her thoughts for her.
“Yes.” The word came heavily. “I did it.” She searched his eyelashes for some sign of understanding; or more: redemption.
“This time, however,” pressed Porfiry, “was different. What was it that he asked of you this time?”
Lilya shook her head. Her eyes were red-rimmed now. She would not look at any of them. Like the faces in the icons that surrounded them, her gaze was fixed on another world. But it was not heaven that she was contemplating.
“Leave her alone!” barked Zoya Nikolaevna threateningly.
“I need to find Konstantin Kirillovich Govorov,” insisted Porfiry calmly, without apology. “Lilya, can you tell me, when he took the photographs of you, where was it?”
But Lilya was lost to him.
“You will look after her.” Porfiry’s command drew an eager nod from Zoya Nikolaevna. “Is there anything you can tell me about this man?” This time she shook her head, with equal resolution. “About the money you took…”
“I found it, fair and square.”
“On a dead man. It is a punishable offense to disturb police evidence. More important, there is the issue of to whom it belongs. There is every chance the money was stolen.”
“Yes! That’s it!” cried Zoya, startling Lilya out of her trance. “He stole it off the dwarf. That’s why he killed the dwarf, to get his money. So it doesn’t matter! The dwarf is dead. What can the dwarf want with the money now?”
“Please don’t call him that,” sobbed Lilya, suddenly. “He was a man. His name was Stepan Sergeyevich.”
“I hope to God you haven’t spent it all on these?” Porfiry threw a dismissive hand toward the edges of the room. He glared at Zoya. “What they need, what you all need, is provision in this world. If you’re worried about the next world, you can pray. Prayer is free, after all.” There was an edge of exasperation in his voice.
Zoya Nikolaevna hung her head. “But they are so beautiful.”
“If she ever has to go back to Fräulein Keller’s, I will pack you off to Siberia so fast-”
“We’ll give the money back!” cried Lilya. Zoya shook her head warningly.
“I would dearly love to know,” said Porfiry, ignoring Lilya’s interjection, “what else you found in Petrovsky Park. Was there anything, anything at all, other than the money you took?”
“There was a pack of smutty playing cards I found on the dw-” Zoya broke off and bit her bottom lip contritely. “On the little fellow.”
“Stepan Sergeyevich,” supplied Lilya.
“But I sold them,” continued Zoya. She gave a little penitent shrug and smiled at Porfiry in a way that was almost schoolgirlish.
“Anything else?”
“Just this.” She took her arm away from the child’s head and delved into her layers with one hand. A moment later she pulled out a small key.
“Where did you find it?” asked Porfiry, taking and examining it.
“On the big brute.”
Porfiry pocketed the key and took out his cigarette case. With an unlit cigarette in his mouth he regarded Zoya for some time, as if deciding what was to be done with her. He looked down at the little girl who was still clinging to her Babushka. The child’s face was taut with fear.
“Who is the child’s father?” he asked at last.
There was an anguished cry from Lilya.
“She’s never told me,” said Zoya, meeting Porfiry’s gaze steadily. “And she won’t ever tell you.”
Porfiry nodded. He bent over one of the candle flames and lit the cigarette. “Why not? Doesn’t she know?”
“She will not speak of it,” said Zoya through tightly clamped teeth, as if she were uttering a curse. “She will not speak of it.” The repeated words had the passionately felt but unthinking intonation of a liturgical chant, rising in intensity until a third, final: “She will not speak of it.”
The Perfumed Letter
The Peter and Paul Fortress cannon signaled midday with an irrefutable boom. As though to escape the impact of the distant shot, Porfiry hurried his step as he pushed open the door to the building in Stolyarny Lane, shivering in from the cold. The Haymarket District Police Bureau was on the fourth floor. Cooking smells came from the open doors of the flats he passed on the way up. The stairs were steep. He paused at the landing of the second floor to light a cigarette. The smoke thickened the gloom of the stairwell. It was narrow here, and he had to stand to one side to let porters and police officers go by in both directions. These purposeful men regarded him with suspicion. But he took his time. He needed to feel the tobacco smoke’s stimulating influence spread throughout his body before he could go on. When he did finally move, it was as if he were borne up on the swirling wisps.
As he entered the bureau, he caught the look of avid expectancy in Prince Bykov’s eyes, and his heart sank. The young nobleman ran toward him with quick, clipping steps. “Porfiry Petrovich!”
“Prince Bykov. How delightful to see you again.”
“Porfiry Petrovich, I have something that I believe will be useful to you in your investigation. Alexander Grigorevich said it would be all right for me to wait.”
“Alexander Grigorevich?” repeated Porfiry, with a quick, arch glance to Zamyotov. “I did not realize you two…gentlemen were on such terms.” The clerk’s answering glare was characteristically insolent. Porfiry bowed and clicked his heels as he took the photograph that Prince Bykov was holding out to him. It was a studio portrait of a striking man of about forty years of age. His face possessed traces of the masculine beauty that had once defined it: the strong, flaring nose, the heroic chin and sculptural cheekbones. Somehow these were what came out to the viewer and not the slackened flesh around them. Yes, he was running to fat and, it could fairly be said, had his best years behind him. The hair was receding, but its blond glow and defiant length signaled a former glory, and the angle of the forehead that was increasingly exposed was finely determined. More than anything, there was a compelling intensity to his eyes. They glared out of the picture and fixed the observer with an unflinching openness that combined power and vulnerability. The man’s pose was artificial, theatrical even, but some quality of amused intelligence in his face seemed to acknowledge this. Beneath the superficial artifice, Porfiry detected the hint of a deeper honesty. He was not a man to be trusted, a man capable of lying, certainly. But neither was he a man who lied to himself. He must be lively company, was Porfiry’s thought.
“This is Ratazyayev,” said Porfiry.
“Yes,” confirmed Prince Bykov.
“He’s older than I imagined.” Porfiry lifted his head and watched the prince thoughtfully. He was thinking of the bond between the young prince and the aging actor.
“How is the investigation going?” demanded Prince Bykov abruptly.
“Makar Alexeyevich.” Porfiry Petrovich used the time it took to say the name and patronymic to consider the many responses available to him. Finally, he settled for: “It is making progress.”
“But you have not found Ratazyayev?”
“Does the name Konstantin Kirillovich Govorov mean anything to you?”
“Govorov? I have heard the name, I think.”
“He is a known associate of your friend Ratazyayev’s.”
The prince blushed. “Alexei Spiridonovich has many friends. I have not been introduced to them all.”
“Would you be able to tell us where we can find this Govorov? We are very interested in speaking to him. We think he may have information relating to the disappearance of your friend.”
“I can’t help you. Other than to provide you with this photograph.”
>
“What of Virginsky? The student Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky? Do you know him?”
Prince Bykov’s face remained blank.
“Ratazyayev’s name was found on a document pertaining to Virginsky.”
“I have never heard of a Virginsky.”
Porfiry shook the photograph distractedly. “Thank you for this. It will help, I’m sure.” But his shoulders sagged in disappointment, and he was already looking past Prince Bykov.
"Alexei Spiridonovich Ratazyayev, the missing actor,” said Porfiry as he laid the photograph on Nikodim Fomich’s desk.
The chief superintendent took up the photograph. “I believe I may have seen him in something. Many years ago.”
“I have the prokuror’s permission to investigate his disappearance.”
Nikodim Fomich nodded.
“I would like one of your officers to take the picture around the taverns in the Haymarket area. Ratazyayev signed a document that was drawn up in a drinking dive near the Haymarket, according to Virginsky. Whoever is assigned should start from the Haymarket and move out.”
“It sounds like a job for Salytov.”
Porfiry fluttered his eyelids and gave the slightest bow. “He could mention the name Govorov too, when he is making his inquiries.”
“Very well.” Nikodim Fomich nodded back, then pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Speaking of Virginsky,” he said at last, “he is demanding to be released, you know.”
“He is a strange, unpredictable youth,” said Porfiry, as he lit a cigarette.
“It’s not so strange to want your freedom.”
“But what is his freedom? The freedom to starve? He is fed here, isn’t he?”
“He is a law student. It seems he has attended enough lectures in his time to know that he has rights. You have not charged him. Indeed, there is nothing, technically, to charge him with. As far as the disappearance of Ratazyayev is concerned, you don’t need me to tell you, Porfiry Petrovich, that you have not established a crime. And if you are holding him in connection with the affair of the dwarf, it’s my understanding that that case is closed.”
“I want him close to me,” said Porfiry abruptly. He frowned at the cigarette burning down between his fingers.