by R. N. Morris
“And if I lose?”
“If you lose, you will swap your fur shuba for my frock coat.” There were murmurs of amused dissent. The feeling seemed to be that the man had gone too far.
“That is hardly fair,” said Porfiry. “This is fairer. If I win, you tell me where I can find Virginsky. If I lose, I send out for a second bottle of vodka to be shared among you all.” Porfiry’s view was that even if he lost the bet, he would win over the company. One of the others, looking favorably on his generosity, would be sure to tell him what he needed to know. The proposal was met with such a cheer that Porfiry’s opponent was forced to bow his agreement.
“Very well. We will play. Pick any card you like from your pack, and place it facedown on the table without letting me see it. Very good. Now then, this is my pack. Here, I want you to cut my pack for me. You know what it means to cut the cards, I take it?”
Porfiry nodded and obeyed.
“Thank you.” The other man put the two halves of the pack together. “In this game, the game of Schtoss, I turn over the first two cards from my pack. The first card goes on the right, the second on the left. Like so.” He dealt up the nine of hearts followed by the three of spades. “If the number of your card matches the first of my cards—that is to say, if it is a nine of any suit—then you lose. If it matches the second—the card on the left—then you win. If neither matches, we deal again, a third and fourth card, and so on until we encounter a match. Are you willing to play?”
“Yes.”
“Then, please, be so good as to turn over your card.”
Porfiry turned over the queen of spades.
“No match,” said his opponent. “No matter. We keep going.”
He dealt two more cards, the six of diamonds followed by the ten of diamonds. Again Porfiry’s card, the jack of clubs, failed to produce a match.
The man in the frock coat nodded grimly and dealt two more cards, neither of which was matched by Porfiry’s.
The two players stared unflinchingly into each other’s eyes, as if this would have a bearing on the cards they dealt. Porfiry’s hands shook. His palms began to sweat. And yet he did not want the game to end. In each turning of a card, he felt the heavy hammering of his heart, reminding him with renewed insistence that he was alive. Whatever the outcome of the game, he knew he would miss this feeling.
It was about ten deals later when Porfiry turned over a seven of clubs, matching the seven of hearts on top of the left-hand pile of cards.
“I win, I believe,” said Porfiry. It was as he had expected. His delight at winning was tempered by regret that the game was over. He wanted to play again.
The other man nodded, admitting defeat. “To the left, over there, past that woman with the cough. There is a door. It leads to the annex. Virginsky lodges in there, on the ground floor, with the cabinetmaker Kezel.”
After the tension of the confrontation, the mood returned to the earlier one of brash amusement. The laughter now, however, was at the expense of the man in the frock coat, who took in good humor their jibes at his failure to secure them a fresh bottle of vodka.
Porfiry left the table reluctantly, almost disappointed; depressed, despite his success. He had the sense that they had finished with him. And all that he had to turn to was his duty.
THE NAME KEZEL was chalked on the door.
Kezel himself was not in, but his wife—a silent, cowed woman whose face bore the marks of her last beating—showed Porfiry to the door of the tiny cell occupied by the student Virginsky. He was as the pawnbroker had described him, pale and shabbily dressed. He was also, Porfiry noted, underfed to the point of stupor. His glazed eyes were sunk in dark circles of exhaustion. He was shivering. It struck Porfiry that Virginsky showed no sign of surprise at his arrival. It was almost as if he had been expecting him. But perhaps he was simply incapable of registering any emotion. As soon as Virginsky admitted Porfiry to his room, he fell back on the bed. As there was nowhere for Porfiry to sit other than on the bed, he remained standing. He sniffed the air, which was—unexpectedly—scented.
Porfiry looked down at the pitiful figure of the young man and felt the stirrings of a deep anxiety. He couldn’t help being reminded of the student double-murderer whose case had so engaged him the year before.
“You are Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky?” His voice sounded harsher than he had meant it to.
“Yes.”
“Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Porfiry Petrovich. I’m an investigating magistrate. I’ve come here from the Department of the Investigation of Criminal Causes.”
Virginsky made no comment.
“Do you recognize these books?”
Virginsky glanced apathetically at the books and nodded.
“Do you know to whom they belong?”
Again Virginsky nodded. “How did you get them?” he roused himself to ask, his voice hoarse and lethargic. But Virginsky showed no real curiosity about the answer. In fact, he closed his eyes.
“I redeemed them from Lyamshin’s,” said Porfiry.
“Impossible,” said Virginsky, without opening his eyes.
“Why do you say that, Pavel Pavlovich?”
“Because I have the ticket.”
“You have the ticket?”
Virginsky nodded.
“Please, this is very important. Could you show me the ticket?”
Virginsky finally opened his eyes. For a moment, Porfiry saw in them an engaged intelligence that eased his fears for the student. But this look did not last. The eyes swam. An instant of confusion gave way to simple blankness.
“Pavel Pavlovich,” said Porfiry sternly. “When did you last eat something?”
“Eat?”
“Yes, eat.”
“I…do you have food?”
“No. But I can get some.”
Virginsky managed four rasps of empty laughter. It was as if he were laughing at the folly of a man who promised him infinite riches.
“I have only to talk to your landlady.”
“She…I owe…rent.”
“Of course, but it is a question of common humanity. She will not let you starve.”
“Her husband.” Virginsky raised one hand hopelessly and let it fall.
“I understand,” said Porfiry, laying down the books on the edge of the bed. “I will arrange it.”
Porfiry found Madame Kezel in the kitchen stirring a large pot of broth. She flinched away from his gaze.
“That boy,” he began. “How can you let him starve when there is food in the house?”
“My husband forbids it.”
“But your husband is not here.”
“He will find out.”
“How will he find out?”
“He always finds out. Pavel Pavlovich tells him.”
“How much does Pavel Pavlovich owe you?”
“My husband knows.”
“If Pavel Pavlovich paid all the rent that is due, your husband would allow you to feed him?”
The woman nodded.
“I am a magistrate. I undertake to pay Pavel Pavlovich’s debts to you and your husband. Please, in God’s name, take him a bowl of broth.”
“My husband has forbidden me to go into his room.”
“Give me the broth, and I will take it to him.”
“You are a magistrate, you say?”
“Yes.”
“And you will leave money?”
“Yes.”
Madame Kezel fetched a bowl from a cupboard and ladled in the brown fatty broth. She handed it to Porfiry with a spoon and a crust of stale bread.
“If you could ask Pavel Pavlovich not to express his gratitude to my husband…”
“I understand.”
“Or to myself. There is no need for his gratitude.”
Porfiry carried the broth back to Virginsky’s room. The student lay with his eyes closed, his face torpid and drained. But gradually his expression changed as he became aware of the savory aroma. His nostrils twitched. He
licked his lips and swallowed. A smile showed. It seemed he was dreaming of a marvelous feast. Then the point came where he was able to disassociate the smell of food from his dream, and he understood that this tremendous, overwhelming sensation was real. A look of wonder, almost of fear, showed as he finally opened his eyes and looked around.
“Can you sit up?” asked Porfiry.
Virginsky lifted himself up on his elbows and allowed Porfiry, now perched next to him on the bed, to spoon-feed him. Every now and then he took a mouthful of the bread, which he was only able to chew by soaking it well in the broth. By the time he had eaten the last spoonful, he had regained his strength enough to wipe the last remaining piece of bread around the bowl.
Porfiry set the bowl aside on the floor. There was nowhere else to put it. Virginsky gave a small burp of satisfaction. “Who are you?” he asked Porfiry, evidently fortified by his meal.
“I have told you. I am Porfiry Petrovich. We were talking about the books.” Porfiry indicated the pile on the bed.
“My books!” exclaimed the student in delight.
“They are yours?”
“Yes. But how did you get them?”
“I have already told you. Don’t you remember?”
Virginsky frowned. “Now I do remember, I think. But it doesn’t make sense.” Virginsky rose from the bed and stood swaying before reaching out to the wall opposite. The room was so small that he could touch any side from this spot in the middle. He lifted a loose flap of wallpaper, revealing a large empty hole beneath. This discovery seemed to shock him. Then a wry downward smirk twisted his face, and he started laughing. There was a warmth and richness to his laughter now, unlike the frail spasm that had gripped him earlier. “That bastard Goryanchikov,” he said at last.
“Who is Goryanchikov?” asked Porfiry.
“Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov,” answered Virginsky. “The son of a whore who stole my pawn ticket. I kept it in here.”
“But why would anyone want to steal a pawn ticket? It amounts to the same thing as stealing a debt.”
“Oh, Goryanchikov would do it. Goryanchikov is capable of doing anything.” Now Virginsky picked up the books and scanned the spines. “I see they are all here,” he said, blushing as he got to One Thousand and One Maidenheads. “Thank you for returning them to me. I am grateful. You have saved me the expense of redeeming them myself.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t let you keep the books. At least not yet. They are evidence in an ongoing police investigation.”
“What investigation?”
“Perhaps you would be good enough to give me a description of this Goryanchikov.”
“Goryanchikov? Has he got himself into trouble? He’s a good fellow really, you know. All this, the pawn ticket, the books—I didn’t mean to accuse him. I’m sure it’s just one of his jests. I’ve warned him, but that’s what he’s like. He will have his jokes.”
“Please, I must press you for a description of your friend.”
“Yes, he is my friend. I know I insulted him, but he is my friend. If it’s a question of debts, I can write to my father. I wouldn’t do it on my own account, you understand, but for Goryanchikov.”
“The best way you could help him is to tell me what he looks like.”
“Well, he has dark hair and a scrawny beard. His eyes, if I remember rightly, are dark and set slightly wide in his face. You might justifiably describe his nose as prominent. He has a large mole on one of his wrists—his left, I believe.”
“And that is all?”
“Oh, no!” cried Virginsky, as if suddenly remembering. “One other thing. He is a dwarf.” Virginsky smiled, pleased with himself for the joke.
“Pavel Pavlovich, I believe I have some bad news for you. The body of such a gentleman was found in Petrovsky Park.”
“Body? What do you mean, body?”
“Circumstantial evidence would lead me to conclude that it is the body of your friend. The pawnbroker’s ticket was found on him.”
Virginsky dropped back onto the bed and sat with his head in his hands. “How?” he groaned through his hands.
“We believe he was murdered.”
“Oh no, please God, no!”
“I’m sorry.”
“I have warned him. I warned him so many times.”
“Of what did you warn him?”
“He takes pleasure—took pleasure,” Virginsky corrected himself. Then he rubbed his eyes as if to rouse himself from a dream. “He took pleasure in provoking people. Goading them. I knew it would end badly.”
“I see. He made enemies?”
“Oh, but surely no one!” Virginsky looked imploringly into Porfiry’s eyes. “God knows he has provoked me enough times. Once or twice I could have happily throttled him myself.”
“We will need someone to confirm—” Porfiry broke off.
“You revived me for this!”
“I’m sorry.”
Virginsky looked down, catching sight of the books on the bed. He picked up Büchner’s Force and Matter and stroked the cover absently. Then he dropped it on top of the others, as if it had suddenly become hot. “But these books can have nothing to do with his death, surely? It is a mere accident that he had the pawn ticket on him when he was murdered.”
Porfiry said nothing to confirm or contest this. “I have agreed with your landlady to settle your debts here. Will this cover it?” Porfiry presented the student with fifty rubles.
“Why would you do that for me?”
“Because I believe you have the potential for great good. But I fear that poverty and hunger may lead you into acts you will regret.”
“How can you know so much about me? You have only just met me.”
“But I have met someone very like you before.”
“Do you believe I killed Goryanchikov?”
“I should warn you, we found another body near where that of your friend was discovered. It may be that you can help us in identifying that person too. If it was someone known to Goryanchikov, there is a chance you knew him too.”
“Must we go now?”
“If you feel strong enough. In my experience it is better to get these things behind one as soon as possible.”
Virginsky nodded tersely and raised himself to his feet. His first attempt at a step sent him lurching forward. Porfiry was quick to catch him. With his face close to Virginsky’s, he breathed again the scent he had noticed when he first came into the room.
“How long have you known Lilya?” Porfiry murmured gently.
“Lilya?”
“She was here. Just now. She is a friend of yours?”
“Yes. Do you know her too?” There was a bitterness in Virginsky’s voice.
“Not really. Not in that way. She was brought in for questioning.”
“She is a good person.”
“I’m sure she is,” said Porfiry, picking up the books and holding them in one arm, so that he was able to support Virginsky with his other hand. He sensed a stiff resistance in the other man as they started walking.
8
At the Obukhovsky Hospital
THE HUNGER HAD GONE, but now it was back. The city danced around him in the falling snow. There was a sense of finality to the snow. This was how it was going to be from now on. He was light-headed. It was the hunger, he told himself. But it was something else. He felt himself to be on the brink of something. How did he come to be in this jangling drozhki, sitting next to this stranger, this strangest of strangers? The plump little fellow with the blinking eyes lit a cigarette and watched him closely.
“Porfiry Petrovich,” he heard himself say.
“Yes?” said the man next to him, exhaling smoke.
“I’m cold,” he told the man.
The man nodded and rearranged the furs that lay over his lap. “We’ll soon be there.”
“Where?”
“The Obukhovsky Hospital. Don’t you remember?”
“Am I ill?”
“Possibly yo
u are ill. There is a doctor there who will examine you. But that is not why we are going.”
Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky shivered and tried to think. “Why are we going?” he asked at last.
“You’re going to help me. You have a duty to perform. It’s not a pleasant duty, I’m afraid.”
He realized now where it came from, this feeling of being on the brink. “The city will never look the same to me again,” he said, as they glided over the frozen Fontanka between two lines of birch trees placed there to mark the route. Beyond the trees, men were loading a sled with blocks of ice hewn from the river.
Porfiry Petrovich did not answer.
“Are you a policeman?” asked Virginsky.
“I am an investigator. A magistrate.”
“And he is really dead?”
“I believe so.”
As the drozhki slowed, he caught sight of the bronze bust of Catherine II on the side of the hospital she had founded. He had the feeling she was waiting for him.
“Porfiry Petrovich.”
“Yes?”
“I’m cold.”
PORFIRY, still with the books under one arm, led Virginsky along the crowded corridors of the men’s hospital. Some men were slumped against the walls, others lay where they had fallen on the floor. A few paced. All were dressed in ragged and dirty clothing. The Obukhovsky was a free hospital.
Occasionally, one of the men turned toward them and watched them pass with a kind of hostile expectancy that stood in place of hope.
Virginsky experienced a heightened sensitivity. The sound of coughing resonated in the joints of his bones. He was aware of the smell of his own body and how it reacted with the other smells around him. He drifted in and out of physicality.
“It’s like a magnet, a great stone magnet, it draws them to it,” he murmured, in one of his lucid moments.
Porfiry met the observation with an expression of mild inquiry.
“This building. It’s like a magnet for their misery. And God knows there is enough of it.”
“You speak as if you’re not one of them.”
“I have no right to. I have been drawn here too. By my misery.”