by R. N. Morris
“Because you had a hold over him. Your knowledge of his homosexuality. The crime of sodomy carries a sentence of exile, hard labor, and complete loss of civic rights. Of course, between consenting adults and behind closed doors, the legal prohibition of this act is difficult to enforce. The only successful prosecutions come as a result of denunciation. You threatened him with this.”
“Where is he now? Has he confirmed this? If so, he is a liar.”
“As yet we haven’t found Ratazyayev.”
“That is both convenient and inconvenient for you. Convenient, because it allows you to fit him into this jigsaw puzzle of accusations, in whatever way suits your purposes. Inconvenient, because you can’t prove anything.”
“Allow me to continue. Disembarking from the train at Tosno, where incidentally you were seen by Ratazyayev’s-by his dear friend, Prince Bykov, you were able to return incognito to St. Petersburg on the first available train heading back. You took a room at the Hotel Adrianopole, under the name of Govorov. This Govorov was an agent of yours, known to Goryanchikov. You then sent a note via the bellboy to Goryanchikov, tricking him into coming to the hotel to see Govorov. You charged the bellboy with a second delivery, a forged billet-doux to Borya, supposedly from Anna Alexandrovna, enticing him to Petrovsky Park that same night. In your room at the Hotel Adrianopole you overpowered Goryanchikov and suffocated him with a pillow. You put his body in Ratazyayev’s case, having had the foresight to tell him to leave it empty. You couldn’t close the case with Goryanchikov wearing his fur shuba, so you removed that garment and concealed it in the mattress. You simply told the hotel that Goryanchikov was taking over your room, paying them in advance, to buy a little time before they went snooping. Something they would not be overly inclined to do anyway, although you had piqued the curiosity of the bellboy. You took the case to Petrovsky Park for your midnight rendezvous with Borya. Of course, Borya was expecting to meet Anna Alexandrovna. Instead, you were there. He must have been surprised, to say the least. How did the conversation go? Something like this, I imagine. ‘Where is Anna Alexandrovna?’ To which you reply: ‘She couldn’t come herself. She sent me in her stead.’ ‘She sent you? To this place?’”
“Please!” cut in Osip Maximovich.
“Was it not like that?”
“This is a farce.”
“At some point, you looked Borya straight in the eye and said, ‘Anna Alexandrovna has need of your help.’ To which he replied something along the lines of, ‘I will do anything for Anna Alexandrovna.’”
Osip Maximovich looked away sharply.
“Perhaps I am on the right lines after all,” said Porfiry.
Now Osip Maximovich faced him and shook his head.
“At that point, perhaps,” continued Porfiry, “or at some point soon after, you showed him the contents of the suitcase. That is to say, the dead body of Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov. You told him about the filthy advances the dwarf had made toward his beloved Anna Alexandrovna, a lustful attention that was now being transferred to Sofiya Sergeyevna. And now you revealed the terrible act you claimed Anna Alexandrovna had been driven to commit in order to prevent an even worse crime. In absolute terror, Borya swears that he will do whatever you ask of him. ‘We must make it look like suicide,’ you say. ‘Help me tie this rope around this tree. Lift me up. That’s right. Put me on your shoulders. That’s right. That’s good. I just have to tie this. Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. You can put me down now. My goodness, you’re shaking, Borya. Here, have some vodka, I’ve brought some vodka.’ And when he offered your flask back to you, you naturally declined. ‘One of us must keep a clear head,’ you say. Was it something like that, Osip Maximovich?”
“What? All because I am supposed to have published a few smutty novels?”
“No. Not all because of that. I’m getting to the real reason. Would you like me to continue?”
“You can’t prove any of this.” Osip Maximovich seemed almost saddened to have to point this out to Porfiry.
“After Borya was strung up and dead, you used his axe to smash in Goryanchikov’s head. You then slipped the axe into the yardkeeper’s belt. While all this was going on, you had the real Konstantin Kirillovich Govorov incriminate Lilya. Why? In order to get her out of the way. Deportation to Siberia with her daughter. Isn’t that what you wanted? Unhappily for Lilya and Vera, unhappily for Zoya too, Govorov failed.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Who is this Lilya?”
“A prostitute, now. But she had not always been. Once she was the daughter of a respectable family. But I’ll come to that. You killed Govorov because he was your creature. Not just the distribution agent for your pornographic publications. It was he who found you Ratazyayev. It was he you had entrusted to get rid of Lilya. Like all servants, he knew too much about his master. He knew enough to ruin you. Perhaps he was beginning to blackmail you. Or perhaps you had simply lost patience with him because he’d failed you. It no doubt irked you that you were forced to take matters into your own hands concerning Lilya and the child. You were forced to destroy all the evidence of your earlier crime, the rape of Lilya. You killed Lilya. And you killed her daughter, little Vera-your daughter too.”
Osip Maximovich held his index finger vertically over his lips, as if to silence Porfiry. The side of his finger touched the tip of his nose and nestled momentarily in the indentation there.
“Yes. You are her father. You may deny it, but it’s written in your features, and it was written in hers too. Her nose, in particular, it has the distinctive cleft that is evident on your own. Or rather I should say, it had. There is nothing left of her nose now.”
Osip Maximovich dropped his hand hastily. “I wish I knew what you were talking about.”
“And it’s also written in Goryanchikov’s text. You are the founder of the Athene imprint. You could be said to be the father of Athene-or Minerva, to give her Roman name. According to Goryanchikov, in a reference to Jupiter’s bastards, the father of Minerva is also the father of Fides. A name we might translate in Russian as Vera.”
“Really, this is the worst kind of argument, made from piling speculation on top of speculation. You take one away, and the whole edifice tumbles.”
“It’s interesting coincidence though, isn’t it, that the name on Lilya’s prostitution license is Semenova. Very similar to your family name of Simonov. Perhaps she considered herself in some way to be almost your wife, a kind of bastard wife with a bastardized name. It was you who had taken her virginity.”
“Or perhaps it was simply her name, and as you say, it is a coincidence.”
“I have learned not to trust coincidences.”
“Instead you put your faith in wild guesswork! Even if all this is true, which I by no means admit, you can’t prove a word of it. What is supposed to be my motive in all this?”
“To maintain your respectability, which became acute once you had conceived the plan to marry Anna Alexandrovna.”
“What a strange way to put it! A plan indeed!”
“Yes, a plan. Because you had a hidden purpose in wanting to marry Anna Alexandrovna. You’re marrying her not because you love her but because she has something you covet.”
“I don’t need her money!”
“I’m not talking about her money. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Goryanchikov found out about your relationship to Lilya from Lilya herself. He was a client of hers. He came to you and confronted you with it. Perhaps he even demanded that you make amends to Lilya. That would be typical of a freethinking liberal, full of all the modern ideas, one perhaps with an especially heightened sense of society’s injustice, given his own personal circumstances. Perhaps Goryanchikov threatened to tell Anna Alexandrovna everything. That you had raped Lilya-or would you rather I used the word seduced? At any rate you abandoned her. She was pregnant. You denied that it was anything to do with you. Her family cast her off. Were you engaged to her? Did you break off the engagement when you lear
ned of her condition? No one could blame you. You had been promised a virgin. But look at the hussy. Of course no one listened to Lilya’s side of the story, if she had the courage to voice it. So you had to imagine Anna Alexandrovna hearing all this from Stepan Sergeyevich. It didn’t bear thinking about. It couldn’t be allowed to happen. Not to mention the fact that you are a pornographer, although I admit that rather pales into insignificance next to your other crimes. If Anna Alexandrovna knew the truth about you, if she were able to see your character in its true light, I wonder if she would be as willing to marry you? And if she called off the marriage, that would be an immense disappointment to you, wouldn’t it, Osip Maximovich?”
“What are you talking about? I mean, yes, of course I would be disappointed. But why do you say it in that obnoxious way?”
“You’re not marrying Anna Alexandrovna for herself. You’re marrying her for her daughter. That’s why Goryanchikov wrote, ‘The father of Faith will be the destroyer of Wisdom.’ Faith is a translation of Fides, which we have already identified as Vera, Lilya’s daughter, your daughter. And as for Wisdom-well, the meaning of the name Sofiya is of course ‘wisdom.’ Goryanchikov is clearly indicating that you are a threat to Sofiya. You have a taste for young girls, don’t you, Osip Maximovich? And that taste has dictated the photographs that Govorov produced for you. You even had him photograph Lilya, even after all that had happened. Though I expect that by then she had already lost her charms as far as you were concerned.”
Osip Maximovich said nothing.
“But you’re right,” said Porfiry. “I can’t prove any of this. This is just a conversation between two former seminarians. I’ve let myself get carried away. I’ve indulged in wild surmises. So I must leave you a free man. And besides, we already have a killer. A conveniently dead one, we are led to believe. So you are lucky-if indeed anything that I have said is true. Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky has written a suicide note, which, if genuine, appears to be a confession of guilt. A bottle of laudanum, similar to bottles found in his room, was found at the scene of the latest crime. He was even seen to have blood on his hands. It was clever of you to change your method, by the way, to switch to the axe for these final murders. Not the weapon of a gentleman. But the weapon of peasants-and deranged students, as you once hinted to me. The fact is, however, that anyone can buy an axe at a hardware store. The note spoke of his intention to kill himself by throwing himself under a troika. And someone more or less answering his description has been killed in that way. It seems to be a closed case. The possession of his soul by Goryanchikov also provides a motive there. Virginsky may say he doesn’t believe in the soul, but we shouldn’t forget he is a Russian.”
“So why did you come here?” asked Osip Maximovich in genuine bewilderment.
“Because I can’t accept that Virginsky is a murderer. I can’t allow it.”
“But why should he confess to the killing if he isn’t the killer?”
“That’s precisely the question I asked myself,” said Porfiry. “Perhaps he’s trying to protect someone.”
“Who?”
“You.”
Osip Maximovich looked at Porfiry for a moment, as if to confirm that he was serious. When he saw that he was, he began laughing. His laughter was loud and harsh and stopped as abruptly as it had started. “Why on earth would he be trying to protect me?”
“So that we won’t arrest you. So that you will remain free. So that he can track you down and kill you. He went to Lilya’s apartment. He found her as she was dying. He held her bloody head in his hands and tried to make her comfortable. She named her killer. According to this hypothesis, Virginsky isn’t dead. The body that has turned up belongs to someone else.”
“Ratazyayev perhaps?” suggested Osip Maximovich archly.
“I have no reason to believe that,” said Porfiry. He didn’t smile. “It could be anyone. There are a lot of emaciated students in St. Petersburg. Virginsky simply wants us to think he is dead.”
“What do you intend to do about it?” For the first time in the interview, Osip Maximovich seemed genuinely shaken.
“Nothing,” said Porfiry. “There is nothing I can do, even if I wanted to. It’s all speculation. I have no proof of anything. The only way we will find out for sure is if you are killed.” Porfiry got to his feet.
The emotion on Osip Maximovich’s face took a step up to fear. “You’re leaving me to my death,” he said, his voice rising in startled outrage.
Suddenly, to the surprise of both men, the door to the adjoining room slowly opened. Vadim Vasilyevich came in. His face was more than usually pale, almost glowing. A strange excitement showed in his eyes, which were fixed on Osip Maximovich. His lips were tightly clamped. Porfiry saw that he was holding the gold box he had carried out of Lyamshin’s.
“Hypocrite!” He whispered the word. But the force of his anger carried.
“Calm yourself, Vadim Vasilyevich.”
“Did you think this would save you?” The artificial baritone was gone. Vadim Vasilyevich’s natural voice was thin and reedy. He spoke quickly, breathlessly.
“What are you talking about?” Osip Maximovich attempted an amiable smile. But his eyes flashed hatred at Porfiry.
“Don’t lie. It’s too late for lying. I heard it all.”
“You heard nothing. Now please give me the box. It doesn’t belong to you. I thank you for retrieving it. But it’s mine.”
“I believed in you. You betrayed me. You betrayed yourself.”
“On the contrary. I found a way to be true to myself.”
Vadim Vasilyevich opened the lid of the little box and took out a folded piece of paper. He threw the box down. It fell apart as it hit the floor. “Did you really think this would save you?” He waved the paper in the air.
“Give it to me.”
Vadim Vasilyevich began to laugh. “You really do believe in this, don’t you? But God isn’t a lawyer. It’s the devil who’s the lawyer, you fool!”
“No matter. I will negotiate with the devil then.” Osip Maximovich rose from his seat and stalked toward his secretary. Vadim Vasilyevich was far taller than Osip Maximovich. He held the paper tauntingly over his head, at arm’s length. The shorter man jumped comically but failed to reach it.
“I ought to-” Vadim Vasilyevich’s face suddenly lit up with malign pleasure. “I know what I ought to do.” He turned his back on Osip Maximovich and ran back into the adjoining room, slamming the door behind him. He evidently locked it, or blocked it in some way, as Osip Maximovich turned the handle uselessly.
A moment later the door opened, and Vadim Vasilyevich came back in. He was still holding the paper above his head, but it was alight. Jags of lambent orange leaped from his hand.
“You monster!” cried Osip Maximovich, desperately reaching for the flame-lapped document.
“What is that?” asked Porfiry Petrovich, who until now had been content to allow the scene to play out in front of him.
“It’s his soul,” cried Vadim Vasilyevich gleefully. “Or at least he thinks it is. It is a document conferring ownership of his soul to whoever is in possession of this paper. He placed his soul in the possession of the pawnbroker, the Jew Lyamshin. He believed that because he was no longer in possession of it, his soul would be untouched by his crimes.” Vadim Vasilyevich gave a cry of pain and dropped the burning paper. But he moved forward to prevent Osip Maximovich from getting close to it.
“My soul is innocent. My soul is spotless,” protested Osip Maximovich. “You saw the contract between Virginsky and Goryanchikov. We talked about it. You agreed-the logic is faultless. If a man is not in possession of his soul, his soul cannot be affected by anything he does. You yourself said it.”
“But I was-” Vadim Vasilyevich’s eyes rolled upward as he searched for the right word. “Amusing myself! I thought it was a joke. You couldn’t possibly take it seriously.” He broke into anguished sobbing laughter. “We talk about all sorts of things. That’s what we do! All
the day long. Idle talk! And we publish whole books full of other men’s idle talk.”
Osip Maximovich’s eyes stared indignantly. He turned to Porfiry. “He’s destroyed a legally binding document. Pure vandalism. Can’t you arrest him?”
Porfiry turned toward the door. “Lieutenant Salytov!” he called out.
Salytov stepped into the office.
“Arrest this man,” said Porfiry, indicating Osip Maximovich.
“What!” cried Osip Maximovich, in sudden rage. “That was not our deal! You were going to leave me to face Virginsky. You were going to let Virginsky kill me. That’s what we agreed. I was willing to accept that. I wanted that. You cheated me.”
“I don’t care a jot about your soul,” said Porfiry. “But I do care about Virginsky’s.”
The Cellar on Sadovaya Street
Porfiry Petrovich looked up from his desk as he heard the door to his chambers open. He stubbed out a half-smoked cigarette and rose slowly from his seat. “Pavel Pavlovich!” Porfiry said the name warmly. He invested it with a surprise that he did not entirely feel.
“Porfiry Petrovich.” Virginsky looked away, shamefaced.
“You gave us quite a scare.” Porfiry gave a quick moue of rebuke. “Until I saw the boots on the dead man, I was convinced it was you.”
“Ah, yes.” Virginsky flashed a tentative glance toward Porfiry. “I’m sorry about that. That note…it was stupid. Although at the time I fully intended to. I…saw the accident on the Kazansky Bridge. He looked just like me. It was like I was watching myself. That’s what I should do, I thought. That’s the answer. But I couldn’t go through with it. Perhaps I should have. I wish to God I had gone through with it. I may still.”
“Don’t talk like that!”
“I should have killed him. That was my other plan. That was the only reason to keep myself alive. But I couldn’t go through with that either.” Virginsky hung his head. “I’m a coward.”
“No.”
“Yes. I should have killed him. And when I realized I didn’t have it in me to do that, I should have killed myself. She-” Virginsky broke off and hid his face in his hands.