The Gentle Axe

by R. N. Morris

  “Stepan Sergeyevich was comfortable enough,” she answered from the doorway. There was not room for them both inside. “He didn’t need anywhere bigger. He never complained.”

  Porfiry took in the details of the dead man’s lodging: the child-sized bed tucked beneath the eaves, the desk and single chair, both sawed off at the legs. The other furniture consisted of an enormous-seeming ottoman and an ornately carved trunk of dark wood. Through a small dormer window he looked down on Srednyaya Meshchanskaya Street. The sky was darkening. It seemed that there was a blizzard thickening in the air. But the room was warm: the heat of the house rose into it. Unlike the highly varnished parquet of the lower apartments, the floor was of rough boards. The room was clean, however. Porfiry looked around for an icon on the white-painted walls but did not see one.

  On the desk, there was a neat pile of paper and an open book. Porfiry lifted the book to glance at the cover. It was the first volume of Proudhon’s Philosophie de la misère.

  “The Philosophy of Misery,” said Porfiry aloud. The book was open on page 334. A phrase from the middle of the page, underlined in red ink, drew his attention: “J’insiste donc sur mon accusation.” Porfiry returned the book to the desk. He picked up the top sheet from the pile of paper. He saw that it bore—written in a flamboyant hand and also in red ink—a Russian translation of the page he had just glanced at. In it, the phrase “I insist therefore on my accusation” was also underlined. In the Russian version, the words immediately following this were: “The father of Faith will be the destroyer of Wisdom.” Startled by the strange statement, he checked the original French text. There, after the underlined phrase, he read: “Sous le régime aboli par Luther et la révolution française, l’homme, autant que le comportait le progrès de son industrie, pouvait être heureux…” The Russian translation of this phrase—“Under the regime abolished by Luther and the French Revolution man could be happy in proportion to the progress of his industry…”—came only after the interpolation concerning the father of Faith.

  Porfiry placed the sheet back on top of the pile and turned to Katya with a smile. “And you keep it tidy for him. It seems to me Anna Alexandrovna runs a well-ordered household. She is a good mistress, I would say.”

  “The best.”

  “Tell me, did anything else unusual happen on the day of the argument? Did Goryanchikov or Borya have any visitors, for example?”

  “There was a boy,” answered Katya with surprise.

  “A boy? What boy is this?”

  “I don’t know. I had never seen him before. It was strange. He insisted on seeing Stepan Sergeyevich. And on his way out he called on Borya in his shed. Soon after that they had their argument. And soon after that Stepan Sergeyevich went out.”

  “Wearing his shuba?”

  “Of course…as Anna Alexandrovna has said.”

  “And how soon after Stepan Sergeyevich went out did you notice that Borya was missing?”

  “Well, of course, the yard needed clearing. We couldn’t open the door for the snow. We had to ask Osip Maximovich’s man Artur to do it for us. He wasn’t happy about that, I can tell you. Considers himself above such tasks.”

  “And who has kept the yard clear for you in Borya’s absence?”

  “Anna Alexandrovna has come to an arrangement with one of the neighbors’ yardkeepers. He sometimes helps us out when Borya goes missing.”

  “This boy interests me. Was he a friend of Anna Alexandrovna’s daughter perhaps?”

  “No!” cried Katya, outraged at the suggestion. “He was a scruffy little urchin. Sofiya Sergeyevna would have nothing to do with the likes of him. Besides, he was only about ten years old.”

  “And how old is Sofiya Sergeyevna?”

  “She was thirteen at her last birthday.”

  “I see. Tell me more about this boy. Did you speak to him?”

  “I answered the door to him. And I would have shut the door in his filthy face too if Stepan Sergeyevich hadn’t come down and seen him.”

  “Did Stepan Sergeyevich know the boy?”

  “I don’t think so. But he heard him asking for him by name.”

  “So he had the boy admitted and brought him up here to his room? How long did the boy stay?”

  “Not long. Ten minutes at the most. If that.”

  “Does Stepan Sergeyevich give lessons as a tutor?”

  “Not anymore. And this boy was not the sort of boy to have lessons. He had a stupid face.”

  “You took against the boy, I can see.”

  “He left a trail of dirty footprints throughout the house. It was a job to get them out.”

  “And what about Stepan Sergeyevich? Did you like Stepan Sergeyevich?”

  The question went unanswered.

  “Katya?”

  “One should not speak ill of the dead.”

  “He was a difficult man to like, though, wasn’t he?”

  “He was a devil.”

  “Do you know a friend of Goryanchikov’s called Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky?”

  “I believe there is a gentleman of that name who visited from time to time.”

  “Did he visit on the day of Goryanchikov’s disappearance?”

  “No. However, it’s strange you mentioned it…He called to visit Stepan Sergeyevich yesterday.”

  “Yesterday? What time was this?”

  “It was late. Very late. Anna Alexandrovna and her daughter had both gone to bed. He knocked the whole house up.”

  “And he asked to see Stepan Sergeyevich?”

  “He demanded to be admitted to his room.”

  Porfiry fumbled in his pockets for his enameled cigarette case. A severe frown from Katya deterred him from opening it. Nonetheless, in this instance, he found the touch of it stimulating enough.

  OUTSIDE, Porfiry finally lit the cigarette he craved. The blizzard he had seen massing from Goryanchikov’s room had blown itself out. But the courtyard had already been cleared. Porfiry felt sorry for Borya, whose death had been so quickly and easily compensated for, as if erased beneath a snowfall.

  Inside the yardkeeper’s shed it was as if the objects of his life were shaping themselves around the fact of his death, around his physical absence. There was an old paint-spattered wooden chair, its seat worn and polished by many sittings. It was crammed in next to a folding card table, the baize threadbare and stained. The samovar on it seemed to possess an air of mournful disappointment. Chipped cups milled around it without purpose. The sawdust had settled on the floor, around an assortment of bricks and logs. The bottom of a barrel was propped up against one of the shed’s sides. Life continued only in the cobwebs that grew heedless over the tools and tins of his occupation.

  Porfiry backhanded a line in the air, a conjurer’s gesture, as he checked off the row of hanging axes. But of course, he did not need to do this. He could see perfectly well where the missing axe should be. He could judge too, from its position in the hierarchy of axes, that its size matched that of the bloodied axe found on Borya.

  He stared at the gap and wondered at the mind that had chosen this axe over the three others hanging there. The second-smallest axe had been taken. The chances were that it was snatched in haste. But even so, some exercise of intent must have been involved, whether conscious or unconscious. Why, for example, was the smallest axe not taken, which would surely have been more convenient? The axe, or rather the absence of this particular axe, had to point at something. It was in precisely such a detail that the killer would betray himself.

  Porfiry brought his hand back and in the air drew a vertical line up and then back down the gap formed by the missing axe. He realized that he had crossed himself. His hand came to rest on a small birch box that lay on the shelf beneath the axes. He picked up the box and discovered that it was locked.

  IN AN UPSTAIRS APARTMENT, seated alone at a card table, Marfa

  Denisovna looked down at hands disfigured by warts. She laid out the cards for a game of solitaire. She accepted the fa
ll of the cards in the same way as she had accepted her warts, and all the other things sent by God. Without pleasure or complaint.

  Marfa Denisovna was sixty-six, as old as the century. It was a convenient coincidence, because if she ever forgot her age, she only had to ask the year.

  Deep peach-stone whorls lined her face. She lacked lips entirely and showed as little as possible of her eyes. Her body was wiry and compact. There was not much to her physically, but she was far from frail. The passage of time had worn away all softness from her, leaving a human kernel. Her shoulders were draped in an enormous black shawl. A delicate lace bonnet seemed out of place on her tightly pinned-up, almost metallically hard gray hair.

  She did not look up as Anna Alexandrovna came in.

  “Has he gone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who was he?”

  “An investigator.”

  “What did he want?”

  “They have found Stepan Sergeyevich and Borya.”

  Marfa Denisovna moved the ace of spades up.

  “Dead. They are both dead.” Anna Alexandrovna’s voice was distant and empty.

  Marfa Denisovna moved the seven of hearts across, placing it on the eight of clubs.

  “Marfa Denisovna? Did you hear me?” Now there was an edge of panic to the younger woman’s voice.

  “I heard you.”

  “He asked about the argument.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him what I had to.”

  “So. Stepanushka is dead. Poor Stepanushka. Ah well, it was meant to be. God did not look favorably on his life. His deformity was a punishment.”

  “But why should he have been punished? It was not his sin.”

  “He was not the only one punished.” Marfa Denisovna laid down the cards and spread out her fingers. There was not one that was without a wart. In places the clusters of nodules distorted the shape of the finger. It had not escaped Marfa Denisovna’s notice that her affliction made it harder for her to place her hands together in prayer. She picked up the cards again and dealt out the next three.

  “They will be back. The authorities. A policeman will come to take statements from us all,” said Anna Alexandrovna hurriedly.

  Marfa Denisovna at last looked up at Anna Alexandrovna, though with eyes that were barely visible. “I have always taken good care of this family. You need not be afraid on my account.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  Marfa Denisovna continued playing in silence. At last she said, “I took care of things before, didn’t I? And I will take care of things again. God’s will be done.”

  12

  The Testimony of a Prince

  OF COURSE, you must have expected it,” said Chief Superintendent Nikodim Fomich.

  “I expected nothing of the sort,” answered Porfiry.

  “Porfiry Petrovich.” Nikodim Fomich spread the fingers of both hands out on his desk as if he were taking precautions against its levitating. He pressed down firmly once and then sat back. “The prokuror has decided—”

  “The prokuror is an arrogant fool.”

  “In his opinion, the case is closed. The dwarf was murdered by the yardkeeper. The yardkeeper committed suicide. Your own investigations have uncovered several independent testimonies alluding to a violent argument between the men. Lieutenant Salytov has now interviewed all the residents of the house. A number of them have testified to the fact that the yardkeeper was heard to threaten the life of the dwarf.”

  “But the medical evidence—”

  “In the prokuror’s opinion, the medical evidence is flawed. ‘Suspect,’ I believe, was the word he used.”

  “Dr. Pervoyedov said that he had never seen a clearer case of poisoning by prussic acid.”

  “Those were the words he used?”

  “Something like that,” answered Porfiry uncertainly.

  “The prokuror is not impressed by Dr. Pervoyedov.”

  “But that’s outrageous.”

  “Another doctor, a doctor appointed by the prokuror, is of the opinion that the prussic acid traces were due to a contamination. Dr. Pervoyedov has been very overworked at the hospital. It is unlikely that the prokuror will allow you to call on his services again. He feels that Dr. Pervoyedov should be fined for incompetence, due to the contamination that has occurred. The facts of the case, as the prokuror understands them, are not consistent with poisoning by prussic acid.”

  “No, no, no, no, no! That’s insane!” protested Porfiry.

  “Be careful, Porfiry Petrovich. This is not like you.”

  “But you must see the illogicality of the statement you just made.”

  “Porfiry. This is Russia. We are governed not by logic but by authority. You know that as well as I. In fact, your friend Dr. Pervoyedov is getting off lightly. The prokuror was at first of the opinion that he had falsified the results deliberately to further his career. I managed to persuade him that that was not the case.”

  Porfiry slumped in his seat. He could not speak for some time. At last he murmured, “What do I do now?”

  “You must let it drop.”

  “But the dead men? What of the dead men?” He saw in his mind an image of Goryanchikov and Borya transformed into masonry figures bearing the upper stories of an imaginary building. But unlike the real atlantes and caryatids of St. Petersburg, they writhed and groaned under the strain.

  “They are dead. In the opinion of the prokuror, they should not be allowed to disrupt the smooth running of the judicial system.”

  “Why didn’t he tell me this himself? I report to him, not to you.”

  “Shall I tell you what I believe? I believe he is afraid of you. You’re cleverer than he, you see, Porfiry. All he has is his ambition and his power. You have more. You have cleverness and compassion.”

  The compliments depressed Porfiry. “I’m surprised to hear you say I have compassion. Dr. Pervoyedov would not agree with that, I think.”

  “But if you didn’t, you wouldn’t care who killed these men.”

  “It’s not compassion that makes me care who killed them. I don’t have compassion for the dead. It’s no use to them. What are they going to do with my compassion?”

  “I know what drives you, Porfiry. I know for whom you have compassion.”

  “If so, you know more than I do.”

  “The perpetrators. The poor, miserable sinners.”

  Porfiry clasped his hands together and placed the knuckles of his thumbs against his lips. The gesture was prompted by agitation, but it looked a little like he was praying. “You’re thinking of that boy.” There was a note of denial in his voice. He would not look at Nikodim Fomich.

  “Not just of him. It is for their souls, for the souls of them all, that you do it.”

  “You’re talking nonsense. Why should I care about anyone’s soul but mine? I might have said such things in the past. But it was just a ruse. A technique. To get the confession. The confession is everything.”

  “That’s my point!”

  “But not for the reason you think. They can all go to hell for all I care. I can have no compassion for a cold-blooded murderer.”

  “But you can, Porfiry. And you do. And that is what separates you from our esteemed prokuror.”

  The tension flashed in Porfiry’s eyes. His expression oscillated between wounded and angry. “You’re wrong. You’re wrong about everything. It’s for the glory that I do it. I am as ambitious as the prokuror.” Still he would not look at Nikodim Fomich, as if he were afraid he would find confirmation in the other man’s gaze.

  THE CLERK ZAMYOTOV was waiting for Porfiry at the door of his chambers. Porfiry was in no mood to confront Zamyotov’s sly insubordination. However, he sensed something unwonted in the other man’s expression. Zamyotov seemed distracted, almost rattled, and this caused him to abandon any pretense. The angry impatience with which he greeted Porfiry was openly impertinent.

  “Porfiry Petrovich! Where on earth have you been?
How am I expected to fulfill my duties if you do not inform me of your whereabouts and movements? This gentleman—”

  Porfiry frowned at a slightly built young man seated on one of the chairs reserved for witnesses and suspects waiting to see the investigating magistrate. The fellow’s eyes locked onto Porfiry’s desperately and beseechingly. His tie was fastened in a large looping bow. An overcoat trimmed with silver fox was draped over his shoulders. Beneath it he wore a mustard-colored suit and emerald waistcoat. A beaverskin top hat perched on his lap, kid gloves folded neatly on top of it. His hair lay in tight curls around his collar. He was clean shaven; in fact, Porfiry suspected his cheeks had not yet felt the razor. In the angle of his head and the needful intensity of his gaze, Porfiry saw some connection with Zamyotov’s flustered mood.

  “—a personage of indisputable rank and influence.”

  The young man smiled appealingly as Zamyotov spoke.

  “Indeed,” said Porfiry drily. “It is not like you to be impressed by rank and influence, Alexander Grigorevich.”

  Zamyotov pursed his lips as he weighed up his response. “I don’t know quite what you are implying. I know only that he will not go away until he has seen an investigating magistrate. It concerns a matter requiring the utmost sensitivity. Having acquainted myself somewhat with the essentials of the case, I felt that you, Porfiry Petrovich, would be the person best—”

  “Please, Alexander Grigorevich, your flattery is making me anxious.”

  Porfiry smiled as he caught the look of confusion on the clerk’s face. He felt him close on his heels as he entered his chambers.

  “But what am I to tell him?” demanded Zamyotov.

  Porfiry looked up from behind his government-issue desk and calmly assessed the clerk’s angry insolence.

  “A matter requiring—what was it? Sensitivity? But is it a criminal matter, Alexander Grigorevich? If it is not a criminal matter, I don’t see how I may be of service.”

  “I believe it is a complicated case,” said Zamyotov, frowning distractedly. It seemed that Porfiry’s tone escaped him. “Obviously, not being an investigating magistrate, I am myself not qualified to judge legal issues.”