by R. N. Morris
‘And he owed me a coat.’
‘I see. Ferfichkin is dead. He was murdered. Stabbed through the heart by a man he bumped into.’
‘No? He was a bumper-into, after all?’
‘We can connect you with all three murders. Indeed, I would say that there are enough prima facie connections to make a case.’
‘Then it must be true,’ said Rostanev. ‘I must have done it.’ He scratched his lank-haired head in some perplexity. ‘Goodness knows what I was thinking.’
The following morning, the Thursday of the third week after Raisa and Grigory’s deaths, Porfiry was turning the pages of the latest issue of the Periodical. He was smoking, with a languid and almost nostalgic sensuousness. From time to time he emitted a heavy sigh, as if overcome by ennui. Whether he was more absorbed in the act of smoking, or that of reading, was hard to say. At any rate, his countenance discouraged interruption.
Virginsky sat at his station by the window and sorted through the case files, trying to bring some order to the clutter he had accumulated. Occasionally, he would be drawn by one of Porfiry’s sighs to look up wonderingly, only to find the magistrate sealed off from all enquiry. However, after one particularly prolonged sigh, he met Porfiry’s eye at last.
‘He is either an innocent lunatic or a very clever dissembler,’ said Porfiry. Prompted by Virginsky’s quizzical frown, he added, ‘I believe we will soon be able to tell for certain which.’
Porfiry lit another cigarette and went back to scanning the journal. After a few moments, he broke off with a jerk of his head and looked down at a number of flies lurching across his desk. Without taking his eyes off them, as though he wished to misdirect them, he rolled up his copy of the Periodical. Then he began to beat the desk furiously with it. He did not seem to be aiming at specific flies, but rather striking at random, with the intention of getting in as many blows as possible over the widest area, in the shortest possible time.
Virginsky watched open-mouthed.
When the frenzied swatting was over, the desk was strewn with insect corpses, as well as a few twitching, mutilated, but still living, specimens. Porfiry turned a smile of triumph towards Virginsky. Not meeting with the validation he had hoped for, Porfiry turned up the underside of the rolled journal to discover a few squashed flies stuck there. He frowned and then dropped the journal into the waste-paper bin by his chair.
Virginsky shuddered out his incredulity. ‘But aren’t the connections overwhelming? He admits to writing the letters. He went to Chermak High School. His name is in the Ballet’s order book.’
‘And he is conveniently mad, of course. Do not forget that.’
Virginsky frowned thoughtfully. ‘What do you intend to do now?’
Porfiry didn’t answer. He looked down at the dead flies on his desk.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Yes,’ called Porfiry.
Lieutenant Salytov came in, bearing a disintegrating cardboard box. He carried it hurriedly over to Porfiry’s desk where he let it drop. ‘We found these in Rostanev’s room. Letters. Hundreds of them.’
Porfiry picked several out at random. ‘They are very much in the style of the letter he sent to Dr Meyer. The handwriting matches exactly.’ Sorting through the letters in his hand, he brandished one eagerly. ‘Ah! The letter to Gorshkov. It seems that, in typical civil service style, he made a copy of each letter before he sent it. I am confident that we will find copies of the letters sent to Meyer and Vakhramev in this box.’ Porfiry read the letter out loud. ‘“To my dear friend Mr Gorshkov, how I feel for you. To lose a child is painful enough. But to have your pain mocked by a miserable skinflint who is not fit to touch the hem of your dead baby’s blanket. I am referring to the ogre Ferfichkin, who slanders you around the city as a madman and a debtor. I myself heard him say that he would dig your dear Anastasya out of the earth and boil her bones to make a poultice just to teach you a lesson. That is the kind of man Ferfichkin is. And to think he lives, and grows fat on pies and sweetmeats, while your poor baby lies rotting in a flimsy cardboard coffin. Yours in sympathy, a well-wisher.”’ Porfiry blinked thoughtfully. ‘You will notice he signs himself “A well-wisher” every time. There is another, more significant pattern to them, however.’ He looked at Virginsky enquiringly.
‘He is, in every case, providing the recipient with a motive for murder.’
Porfiry nodded grimly.
‘Goading them to it,’ added Salytov darkly.
‘Perhaps,’ said Porfiry.
‘The letters certainly are designed to touch a raw nerve,’ said Virginsky.
‘He pushes them and pushes them. But they actually commit the murders,’ continued Salytov. ‘The men you let go,’ he added pointedly.
‘And how is the investigation into the possibility of a revolutionary cell at Ballet’s the confectioner’s progressing, Ilya Petrovich?’ asked Porfiry in retaliation. ‘I understand Nikodim Fomich was to assign some men to it. Have any significant leads come to light that I ought to be informed of?’
‘Nothing significant, so far,’ answered Salytov resentfully. ‘Perhaps the boy and his associates are not involved in these murders, as I first thought. However, I remain convinced that they are criminal and possibly dangerous individuals. Time may yet prove me right.’
‘Nikodim Fomich will not be able to extend that operation indefinitely.’
‘The same may be said of your investigation,’ countered Salytov.
Porfiry took refuge in lighting a cigarette.
‘Isn’t it true though, Porfiry Petrovich,’ put in Virginsky brightly, ‘that you have never really explained how the letter Vakhramev took to Setochkin’s was removed from Setochkin’s study? Only Vakhramev was in there with him. He would seem to be the most likely suspect.’
‘I detect a conspiracy against me,’ said Porfiry, his face screwed up into a smile that seemed almost to pain him.
Virginsky and Salytov were evidently startled to find themselves on the same side. Virginsky was the first to try to put some distance between them. ‘Even if what we seem to be saying is true, the writer of these letters is still the murderer, is he not? The recipients, Dr Meyer, Vakhramev, Gorshkov, are merely his weapons.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Salytov, who appeared to be just as eager to differentiate his views from those of the younger man. ‘If Meyer contaminated the chocolates, he committed murder - cold-blooded, premeditated murder - which he has sought to cover up with this story of a mysterious other who bumped into him outside the confectioner’s.’
‘And Rostanev says he is not a bumper-into,’ said Porfiry, with amusement. ‘Did you discover anything else of interest about him, Ilya Petrovich?’
Salytov consulted a small notebook. ‘I talked to some of his neighbours about his habits, which were described as regular. It is generally agreed that he keeps himself to himself. He rarely goes out, except to go to work, and has never been known to have visitors. ’
‘Never?’
‘He is without a single friend in St Petersburg, it seems,’ said Porfiry to Virginsky’s incredulous question. ‘That is dangerous.’
‘And he has no servant,’ Salytov informed them.
‘A man without friends, without even the company of a cook, will inevitably spend too much time with only himself for company. He will get to brooding. He will live in a world shaped only by his own dreams. A world in which he will perhaps see himself as all-powerful - with the power to correct the present and avenge the past.’ Porfiry pursed his lips conclusively.
‘But he is such a funny little man,’ protested Virginsky.
‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ said Porfiry. ‘I wonder, however, how it is possible for him to hold himself so completely aloof from all his neighbours. I can well enough imagine the kind of overcrowded dwelling he resides in. On Gorokhovaya Street, I have no doubt.’
‘Gorokhovaya, 97,’ confirmed Salytov.
‘I expect he has little more than a cupboard under th
e stairs, or perhaps just the corner of some kitchen. It is when you have such a general promiscuity of lives that the instinct for isolation becomes greatest. But the opportunity is lacking.’
‘He has a room to himself,’ said Salytov. ‘With a bed in it. There is not much space for anything else, I grant you. He keeps all his possessions in boxes under the bed. My God, you should see the number of quills we found. He is at the end of the corridor and the one room next to his is vacant. So I dare say he has all the solitude he desires.’
Porfiry looked at Salytov without speaking for several moments. ‘That is good work, Ilya Petrovich,’ he said at last, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘Now, shall we see if our guests have arrived?’
Behind his wire-framed spectacles, Dr Martin Meyer’s eyes flickered and latched on to Porfiry with a tensioned eagerness that became immediately abashed. His face was fuller than Porfiry remembered it and there was a ruddiness to his complexion that had not been there before. He rose hesitantly from his chair in the waiting area outside Porfiry’s chambers.
‘Dr Meyer,’ said Porfiry, taking the proffered hand. ‘You look . . . well.’ It seemed an inappropriate thing to say, as if there was something shameful in the man’s evident good health. But it was the truth.
‘I . . . I have been to hell and back,’ said Meyer, glancing down, then straightaway meeting Porfiry’s gaze again. ‘But I have found a way through.’
‘Good.’
‘The Lord came to me in my darkest hour. I sank so low, I was ready to take my own life. I had nothing left to live for, or so I thought. I was poised on the edge of the precipice. And then I heard the words of the Psalm calling me back.’
Porfiry smiled but said nothing.
‘I know that Raisa and Grigory are in a better place.’ The eagerness that had been noticeable in his eyes now seemed closer to fervour. ‘Even the Lord Jesus did not eschew the company of prostitutes and sinners. Did he not allow His feet to be anointed by Mary Magdalene?’
‘You have forgiven her? In your heart?’
‘I had nothing to forgive her for.’
‘If only it hadn’t required such a terrible upheaval to bring you to this realisation.’
‘There is nothing that you can say that I haven’t already thought a thousand times over. It is I who needed her forgiveness. But it is too late for that now. Still, I console myself that we will meet again in that better place.’
‘You have become a true believer, I see. And I took you for a thoroughgoing man of science, an atheist.’
‘I was, and look at the good it did me.’
‘Porfiry Petrovich.’ Porfiry recognised the voice, clipped with the impatience of command, before he turned to face Prokuror Liputin. Next to him, hanging back a little, Ruslan Vladimirovich Vakhramev pulled at his lips contemplatively and avoided meeting anyone’s eye. A change had taken place in him too. His face was just as florid as before, but whereas once this had seemed to be the effect of bluster, there was now a raw quality to the skin, as if shame had worked upon it like a corrosive agent. His silver whiskers, formerly perfectly groomed, had been allowed to go to seed, as it were, and hung limp and lacklustre. His glance had grown more complex, and was meek as well as evasive. In the space of days, he had aged immeasurably.
‘Good day, Your Excellency,’ said Porfiry. ‘And Ruslan Vladimirovich, thank you for coming in.’
Vakhramev nodded minimally in acknowledgement. His eyes darted towards Porfiry, then away, scattering his gaze wildly about.
‘As I understand from the officer you sent to arrest him, he had little if any choice in the matter,’ said Liputin.
‘It was not an arrest; it was a request. I have need of Ruslan Vladimirovich’s assistance. I do not intend to detain you any longer than is necessary. We are just waiting for - ah! And here she is!’
Lara Olsufevna held herself with her accustomed upright bearing as she swept into the bureau, leaving the young politseisky who had brought her trailing. She viewed the men around her with deep suspicion through the pince-nez that saddled her imperious nose.
Porfiry bowed deeply to her; her narrowed gaze made it clear that this cut no ice. ‘Greetings to you, Lara Olsufevna,’ he ventured. Her lips trembled and pursed, perhaps indicating the softening of her distrust. ‘It is my belief that the three people here,’ continued Porfiry, ‘Dr Meyer, Ruslan Vladimirovich, and Lara Olsufevna, have each met, at various times, the individual responsible for the deaths of Raisa and Grigory Meyer, Colonel Setochkin and Yemelyan Antonovich Ferfichkin. Dr Meyer bumped into him outside Ballet’s the confectioner’s. Ruslan Vladimirovich enjoyed the pleasure of this man’s company at a certain farewell celebration in an establishment on Sadovaya Street many years ago.’ Understanding the allusion, Meyer glared at Vakhramev, who looked down, his face flooding with colour. Meyer continued to look at the other man, his expression becoming agitated rather than fierce. A great emotional turmoil seemed to be raging within him. ‘And this lady, Lara Olsufevna, spoke to him at the funeral of a child. I am talking about the Uninvited One. We might also call him Nikolai Nobody. But who exactly is he?’
Porfiry looked up and nodded a signal to Virginsky, who was standing on the other side of the crowded police bureau. Virginsky opened a door and Lieutenant Salytov pushed in Rostanev, still plucking and tightening the points of his beard. Salytov propelled him roughly forward. Rostanev smirked and began to walk directly towards Porfiry.
Meyer, Vakhramev and Lara Olsufevna followed the investigator’s gaze.
‘If any of you now see the man in question, please do not hesitate to point him out to me.’
They watched Rostanev approach but no one said a word. A final push from Salytov sent the little civil servant buffeting into Dr Meyer. Meyer looked down at him in bemusement and then peered over his head, to continue his search for the suspect.
‘No no no! It was not him,’ said Lara Olsufevna scowling in disapproval at Rostanev. ‘The personage I spoke to was taller than this individual - and a gentleman, of course.’
‘Can you be sure it is not the same man?’ asked Porfiry.
‘I think I would have remembered meeting such an ill-favoured brute as this.’
‘Ruslan Vladimirovich?’ Profiry turned to Vakhramev.
‘It was a long time ago,’ said Vakhramev quietly. ‘But this face, once seen, would never be forgotten. And I have to confess that I have never seen it before in my life.’
‘He is not the one,’ confirmed Dr Meyer.
‘Thank you all so very much,’ said Porfiry calmly. ‘You have been a great help. You may go now.’
With an air of bewilderment, the group of three witnesses broke up. Vakhramev glanced at Liputin uncertainly, but reassured by the other man’s nod moved hesitantly away. Liputin encouraged him further with a dismissive sweep of his hand. The prokuror himself did not move. Lara Olsufevna drew herself up stiffly, conveying a sense of insulted dignity. This provoked an even deeper bow from Porfiry.
‘Gorshkov,’ she said. ‘Gorshkov killed Ferfichkin.’
With that, she turned and swept from the bureau, as if summoning an invisible retinue behind her.
Meyer seemed reluctant to leave. His gaze latched on to Porfiry. ‘If I may help in any other way . . .’
‘I will let you know.’
Meyer nodded as if he had expected this answer. After a moment, he began, ‘That other man . . .’
‘Ruslan Vladimirovich?’
‘Yes.’ Meyer shot Porfiry an exposed and suffering look. ‘He knew Raisa before. In the days when . . .’ Meyer broke off and rubbed the joint of a forefinger against his cheekbone.
Porfiry gave a wincing smile and nodded.
‘Did he sleep with her, do you know?’
‘I do not believe so.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Someone like him did. Many men like him, in all probability. Let him stand for them all. At any rate, he is a respectable gentleman now. No doubt he has put all that behind him.’
> ‘It would seem so.’
‘He has a wife and family?’
‘Yes. A daughter.’
‘A daughter?’ Meyer nodded as he considered this. ‘I hope he loves his daughter. I hope he loves her enough to forgive her whatever she may do or become. Let him not cast her out.’
The doctor bowed slightly. He gave Porfiry a final imploring look before walking with diffident step towards the door.
‘You too, Axenty Ivanovich,’ said Porfiry to Rostanev. ‘And let this be a lesson to you. No more letters.’
Rostanev’s chuckle warbled brassily in his throat.
‘Don’t forget to pick up your things from Alexander Grigorevich on the way out. Though I think we will hold on to the knife.’