The Gentle Axe

by R. N. Morris

  “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.”

  16

  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.

  “If Prokuror Liputin—”

  “Please don’t bring Prokuror Liputin into this. I will speak to Virginsky.”

  Nikodim Fomich noticed the strain in his friend’s voice. He saw too the dark patches beneath Porfiry’s eyes. “You’re smoking too much,” he said.

  Porfiry held the smoke in his lungs. His eyelids quivered closed. He was light-headed, near to swooning. Finally, he let the smoke out in a sudden, noisy gasp and looked Nikodim Fomich in the eye. “It helps me think.”

  YOU CAN’T KEEP me here.”

  Porfiry sighed and looked down at Virginsky. The student was stretched out on the pallet bed of his cell. His eyes were closed complacently, arms folded behind his head. His cheeks had filled out and picked up color. He had evidently put on weight.

  “That’s true,” agreed Porfiry. “I have come to tell you that you are free to go whenever you wish.”

  This seemed to disturb Virginsky, who looked up doubtfully. “Very well,” he said at last and sat up.

  “I want to believe that you are innocent,” continued Porfiry. “So let us proceed on the basis that you are. If you leave here, you may be putting yourself in danger. The person who killed Borya and Goryanchikov is still at large.”

  “I thought the official story was that Borya killed Goryanchikov and then killed himself.”

  “That is the official story. I say again, the person who killed Borya and Goryanchikov is still at large. This is a dangerous individual. He may kill again. At least while you are here, you are safe.”

  “But why should they kill me?”

  Porfiry gave a vague shrug. “Let me put it another way. While you are held here, as our chief suspect, the real murderer will believe himself to be in the clear. He may drop his guard. He may even reveal himself through some careless mistake. If we release you, he will feel himself to be under suspicion once more. It is natural, the natural neurosis of a criminal. He will begin to wonder what you have said, or what you could say. He will look for connections. He will wrack his brain, running over every conversation he has ever had with you, until he remembers the one time when, perhaps, he let slip that one incriminating detail.”

  “And what if I don’t know the fellow?”

  “Oh, be under no illusions, my friend. The murderer is someone known to you. Someone you know, someone who knows you.”

  “You can’t be certain of that.”

  “I feel it very strongly.”

  “What would you have me do?”

  “I am asking you to remain here a while longer. Voluntarily, you understand. We will make your stay as pleasant as we can.”

  “Why should I?”

  “It would help me. It would help me find the murderer of Goryanchikov and Borya. There will perhaps come a time when I will ask you to undertake a more dangerous commission.”

  “What would that be?”

  “To leave here. In so doing, you may help us bring the murderer out into the open. But you could also be putting yourself at risk. That is something you will have to face, but it is not necessary that you face it yet.”

  Virginsky touched the fingertips of both hands to his forehead, then pushed them back through his hair. He looked up at Porfiry. “No,” said the student at last. “I would rather die a free man than live forever as a prisoner. Besides, there are things I need to attend to.”

  Porfiry’s nod was unsurprised.

  BACK IN HIS own chambers, Porfiry placed the box that he had taken from Borya’s shed on his desk. The box was made from burled birch, most likely Karelian, wonderfully smooth to the touch, and honey-gold. The hinges and lock were brass. There was a brass emblem in the shape of an eagle inlaid into the lid.

  He tried the key that Zoya had given him, the key she had found on Borya. It turned easily in the lock, and the box opened. Inside he found a single crisply folded sheet of ivory-colored writing paper.

  Porfiry lifted the sheet to his nose without unfolding it and breathed a scent he recognized. He opened the paper to read a short handwritten note:

  Do you remember the summer? Do you remember the day we met in Petrovsky Park this summer gone? Do you remember the place near the boating lake, the dip in the land surrounded by birch? How could you forget it? I will hate you if you have forgotten. But you will not have forgotten. I saw from your eyes that you would never forget. It is there, recorded in the map of your heart. I saw so much from your eyes. I saw your goodness. I saw your fear. But do not be afraid. Trust in your goodness. Meet me there tonight at midnight. There is a way forward in all this. If you love me, which I have never doubted, you will come.

  The note was signed: “A.A.” He held the paper to his nose again. The scent, he was sure, was Anna Alexandrovna’s. Despite its wholesome freshness, he found the effect of it was not conducive to thought. But he had no desire to swap it for one of his cigarettes.

  He was suddenly aware of high-pitched shouting coming from the station. With hurried guilt, he placed the note back in the box, closed the lid, and locked it. The shouting continued. It was getting louder, approaching his chambers. Porfiry looked up to see his door burst open and Katya—Anna Alexandrovna’s maid—come in, holding by the ear a very dirty-faced boy of about nine or ten, dressed in grubby livery. The boy was screaming in protest: “You’re killing me! Let go!”

  “This is him! Here he is!” cried Katya, and all the determination of her character seemed to be expressed in that grimly triumphant cry. “The boy!” She gave a vicious twist of the hand holding his ear, screwing the boy’s head down. The boy tipped forward and squealed in pain.

  “Ah!” said Porfiry, rising from his chair. “You mean the boy who came to visit Goryanchikov?”

  “He came back. I caught him spying on the house.”

  The boy’s shrill screams had not let up: “You’re pulling my ear off!”

  “Could you not let go of his ear? You appear to be hurting him.”

  “If I let go, he’ll run off. You watch. I brought him all the way here like this.”

  “Good heavens. I really would like you to let him go. Testimony obtained under duress is not admissible in the new law courts.” Porfiry crossed to the door and locked it. “There, now,” he said, dropping the key into the hip pocket of his frock coat. He nodded sternly to Katya. She frowned uncertainly, still reluctant to let go.

  “You don’t know this one,” she said.

  “The door is locked. He can’t escape.”

  Finally she released the ear. It seemed, from her wary dismay, that she believed he would vanish the moment he was out of her grip. But also there was the sense that she had relinquished the s
ource of her own confidence and momentary power. She seemed to find herself superfluous now that she had let him go. Noticing this, Porfiry bowed and thanked her. “I beg you to stay while I question him,” he said. The boy stood up straight, rubbed his ear, and regarded Katya with a look of vindicated innocence.

  “You’re not out of here yet,” she warned him.

  “So, boy, tell me, what is your name?” asked Porfiry.

  “I’ve done nothing wrong,” the boy answered.

  “No one is accusing you of anything. But it is possible that you may be able to help us in a murder investigation.”

  The boy’s eyes widened in his coal-smudged face. “Murder!”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there a reward?”

  “You will have the satisfaction of knowing that you have done your duty as a loyal subject of the tsar.”

  “That’s not much of a reward.”

  “Perhaps I should explain to you how the legal system works. It is not so much a question of rewards for doing your duty as penalties for not. If you do not provide me with the information I require, I can have you locked up.”

  “And flogged,” added Katya, with a threatening nod.

  “That may not be necessary,” corrected Porfiry. “The loss of liberty in itself is considered to be a sufficient deterrent. Of course, if I feel that you have rendered us exceptional help, I can recommend that your services be recognized. There is the possibility of a citation or even a medal.”

  “What’s a citation?”

  “It’s a piece of paper with your name on it, outlining the extent of your contribution.”

  “What use is a piece of paper?”

  “It will be sent to the tsar.”

  “And what will the tsar do with it?”

  “He will be gratified.”

  “Will he give me money for it?”

  “He will not lock you up and have you flogged,” said Porfiry, rather wearying of these negotiations. “And he may recommend that you be given a gold medallion. But it all depends on how much you help us. Of course, nothing can happen if you don’t tell us your name. We can’t write the citation if we don’t have your name.”