A Vengeful Longing

by R. N. Morris

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Porfiry smiled. ‘Good. I’m glad to hear it.’ He paused and looked at the boy as if considering him seriously for the first time. ‘You’ve had a rough time of it recently, haven’t you, Tolya?’

  ‘I . . .’ The boy’s brows came together and he swallowed heavily.

  ‘Lieutenant Salytov, the police officer with the red hair, he had been persecuting you, hadn’t he?’

  Tolya looked down. ‘It wasn’t fair,’ he mumbled.

  ‘That’s exactly right. It wasn’t fair.’

  ‘I hadn’t done anything. He just . . .’

  ‘He just didn’t like you, Tolya. It was as simple as that.’ Porfiry paused, then added: ‘It was unjust.’

  Tolya flashed a questioning glance at Porfiry, torn between belief and distrust. ‘He had no right,’ he asserted, his belligerence fragile, almost false.

  ‘It must have made you very angry, to be treated that way.’

  ‘He broke my stilts.’

  ‘But what could you do about it? He was an officer of the law. Who could you turn to?’

  ‘I told Monsieur Ballet.’

  ‘Of course. And did you discuss it with anyone else? With any of your associates?’

  ‘What associates?’

  ‘Come now, Tolya. Let us not play games. You have been very honest with me so far. That is good. The leaflets that were found in your room. They did not appear out of thin air. Who gave them to you?’

  Tolya looked fearfully between Porfiry and Monsieur Ballet. ‘A man.’

  ‘Did he have a name, this man?’

  ‘No. I mean, not really. He called himself . . .’

  ‘Nikolai Nobody,’ supplied Porfiry.

  Tolya shrugged, seemingly unimpressed. Porfiry looked at him searchingly, forcing a nod of confirmation.

  ‘He has planned this for a long time, and carefully,’ murmured Porfiry. He turned sharply to Virginsky. ‘Come, Pavel Pavlovich. I think the time has come to examine Mr Nobody’s lodgings, don’t you?’

  11

  The vacant rooms

  As he took the key from the yardkeeper, a grizzled old soldier with a dour demeanour, a thought occurred to Porfiry: ‘Why is it never let?’

  The yardkeeper shrugged.

  ‘But don’t the owners want the rent from it?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask them.’ After a long pause, he added: ‘About that.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we will,’ said Porfiry. The pronouncement seemed not to concern the veteran. ‘Have you never seen anyone going into or coming out of the room? Surely you have been curious.’

  The yardkeeper gave a deep, wheezy sigh. ‘All sorts of people come and go here. I can’t be expected to notice them all.’

  Porfiry echoed the yardkeeper’s sigh with one of his own. ‘Very well. And we will also have the key to the room next to it, Rostanev’s, if you please. I take it the room is still unlet?’

  The yardkeeper nodded sharply. ‘Not for long.’ Again there was a pause before he completed his thought: ‘I shouldn’t wonder.’

  Porfiry took the key in two jerky moves, fixing the yardkeeper with a vindictive gaze.

  Porfiry acknowledged, as he placed the key in the lock, a reluctance to confront the emptiness that lay beyond that door. He hesitated and even came close to suggesting that they should look in Rostanev’s room first. It was the peculiar apprehension that comes on the threshold of attainment. The greater part of his dread was made up of the fear that they might, in fact, find nothing; that all his deductions, instincts and intimations had been mistaken and had led him simply to an empty room. He recognised another fear too, wholly irrational but now more powerful: that of coming face-to-face with the man they were tracking down. He reasoned that there was no real possibility that the murderer would be inside the room now and yet he felt his sinister presence lying in wait for him. As he turned the key, he had the sense that he was about to unleash something formless and evil upon the world.

  The first thing that he saw, upon opening the door, was a full-length mirror in a wooden frame on a swivel stand. He moved towards it, noting the stifling heat and acrid chemical smell in the room. The mirror, awash with sunlight, reflected his image back to him, mockingly, the room presenting him with his own emptiness. Virginsky came into the frame, next to him, an eyebrow cocked wryly. The two men paused to consider their own reflections.

  ‘What does this tell you, Pavel Pavlovich?’

  ‘That he is vain?’

  ‘Good. That is certainly one word for it. That he takes the trouble to furnish an otherwise empty room’ - Porfiry cast a glance around, confirming this description - ‘with a mirror suggests a level of self-absorption that might justifiably be described as morbid. What else? There on the floor, for instance, what do you see?’

  Virginsky directed a frown towards where Porfiry was pointing. ‘Dust?’

  ‘Describe it.’

  ‘It is . . .’ Virginsky crouched down to examine the dusty boards more closely. ‘Black.’

  Porfiry nodded encouragement.

  ‘Like charcoal dust.’

  ‘Indeed. Possibly it has come from the stove. Or possibly it is from the manufacture of black powder explosive. Do you notice anything else unusual, Pavel Pavlovich?’

  Virginsky furrowed his brows further and scanned the room. ‘Footprints. In the dust,’ he asserted, more confident now.

  ‘Yes. And?’

  Virginsky’s gaze latched on to a single gleaming strip in the grimy floor. ‘One board has no dust on it at all and no footprints, either.’

  ‘Suggesting?’

  ‘Suggesting . . . suggesting it was not in place when the dust was deposited.’

  Porfiry smiled and took out his cigarette case. He went so far as to place a cigarette in his mouth.

  ‘Porfiry Petrovich, do you think it wise to light a cigarette in this room, given that it has likely served as a manufactory of explosive materiel?’

  Porfiry replaced the cigarette hastily in its case. ‘Quite so, dear boy. Now, as you are already down there, perhaps you would be good enough to see if the board in question is, as I suspect it might be . . .‘

  ‘Loose,’ said Virginsky, lifting the board clear with an echoing clatter.

  Porfiry crossed the room, his soles creaking in the dust, to look down on their discovery. Lying along the narrow uncovered space was a length of rubber hose, like a black snake feeding on the darkness below the boards. Virginsky lifted one end out and gently tugged it, to discover that the other end, out of sight beyond the extent of the exposed trench, was firmly attached to something. He looked at Porfiry quizzically and handed him the loose end as he continued to grub around in the floor space.

  ‘There’s an end of rope here too, tucked away. I can just reach it.’ Virginsky eased his hand under the board.

  Porfiry continued to puzzle over the pipe, though he kept a distracted eye on Virginsky too, especially when the young man produced, in the manner of a conjuror with his rabbit, the train of a rope ladder, the wooden rungs knocking against the open edge of the boards. Porfiry was torn between the two pieces of evidence. He laid down the pipe and turned his attention to the rope ladder. ‘Here, look at this,’ he said, showing Virginsky the frayed end beyond the knot that tied together the two sides of the ladder. Reddish-brown flakes and particles were caught up in the fibres of the rope, marking a narrow band. ‘What do you say that is?’

  ‘Rust?’

  ‘Yes. That’s what it looks like to me too. We will take this back to the bureau. Now, what are we to make of this hose?’

  Virginsky picked up the stiffly pliable pipe and ran his hands down its length as far as he could. He got on to his knees and peered into the hole, following its course into darkness. ‘It seems to be going towards the room next door.’

  Porfiry nodded.

  ‘Rostanev’s room,’ said Virginsky, looking up at Porfiry. His voice was slightly breathless.

  ‘Shall we see wher
e it comes out?’ Porfiry smiled and fluttered his eyelashes, as if he had suggested a mildly diverting pastime.

  The image of the room as they had last seen it superimposed itself on the negative stillness that met them now. The only residue of that grotesque tableau was the dark russet stain in the centre of the thin, comfortless mattress. The bed dominated the room, which seemed far smaller than its neighbour.

  ‘Someone must be paying the rent for that room next door,’ mused Porfiry. ‘Why else would they allow it to remain empty? I dare say, however, that if we were to pursue the matter with the owners, our enquiries would lead to Nobody.’

  ‘He must be a man of some standing,’ ventured Virginsky. ‘To be able to afford the rent on a vacant room, presumably in addition to his proper lodgings.’

  ‘It may be that he has a private income as well as a salary. Even so, there are many nobles who manage to destitute themselves despite such double advantages. Perhaps he has found a way, uniquely in St Petersburg, to live so far within his means that he is able to meet the extra burden comfortably.’

  The space beneath the bed was empty now, as all Rostanev’s boxes of belongings, the quills, papers and jars of ink, had been removed to the police bureau. It was apparent that the deceased clerk had had little else to his name. The room resonated with a faintly metallic echo of despair, the tubular-constructed iron bedsteadvibrating to their voices.

  ‘The pipe was at the rear of the room. It would come out somewhere around there, I think,’ said Porfiry pointing to the far corner of the room. ‘Somewhat near that leg of the bed.’

  Virginsky put a hand on the bed and gave it a testing push. It moved with a protesting wail and a slight tug of resistance. A curve of the black hose, which appeared to be rammed deep inside the end of the hollow leg, came snaking out of a knot hole in the floor. The bed settled unevenly, tipped up at one corner by the tough hose.

  ‘What on earth?’ cried Virginsky.

  ‘The voices,’ said Porfiry, startled by his own conclusion.

  ‘Who? Who is he?’ Back in his chambers, Porfiry lit a cigarette and stared wonderingly at Virginsky. ‘We must have missed something, Pavel Pavlovich. I can feel him. I have the quite desperate sensation that I have encountered him. That I have stared him in the face and even spoken to him. That’s how real he seems to me.’

  There was a knock at the door. Zamyotov peered in. ‘This has come for you.’ His tone was ironically excited; he waved a letter tantalisingly through the gap in the door. Porfiry nodded to Virginsky, who rose and snatched it from him. ‘Temper!’ chided Zamyotov, before disappearing.

  ‘It’s from the owners of Gorokhovaya 97, following our enquiry concerning the letting arrangements of the room next to Rostanev’s.’

  ‘Don’t tell me - Nikolai Nobody,’ said Porfiry despondently.

  ‘No. According to this, both rooms were let to Rostanev.’

  ‘But that’s impossible,’ cried Porfiry. ‘As well as insane. I mean, on his salary it’s a miracle he could afford the rent on one room, let alone two. And if he did rent two, why would he choose to live in the smaller one? No, this is a screen.’ Porfiry applied himself to smoking intently for several moments. ‘Someone . . . paid his rent for him . . . and used the vacant room for his own purposes. Who would do such a thing?’ Porfiry Petrovich took one final deep draw on his cigarette, so deep that he fell into a coughing fit. When at last it died down, his eyes running with tears, he was able to gasp: ‘Pavel Pavlovich, give me that school list again.’

  Virginsky crossed to Porfiry’s desk with the paper. Porfiry scanned the names eagerly. ‘We have him,’ he said quietly, his voice hoarse from the recent paroxysm.

  12

  Philosophical ideas

  ‘What is this concerning?’

  Porfiry looked at the man who had just spoken - a man of average height and nondescript appearance, possessing the kind of face, clean-shaven in the civil service style, that seemed instantly familiar and yet was difficult to remember, a kind of blankness - and knew he had his murderer. He noted the control with which the other held his face, and therefore his emotions, in check. He must be in turmoil beneath that blank mask, thought Porfiry. He watched the corner of the man’s mouth closely, waiting for it to pinch up in minuscule betrayal of what he must be feeling. But Collegiate Registrar Yefimov gave nothing away.

  Behind Yefimov, the banks of copyists and clerks looked up, regarding Virginsky and Porfiry with evident trepidation. The jerry-built towers of files and papers had been reconstructed higher than ever. The men twitched protectively, bound to their stools by their duties, but desperate to throw themselves between the unwelcome visitors and their treasured documents. Only Yefimov seemed unconcerned at the magistrates’ return.

  ‘We wish to talk to you about Rostanev,’ said Porfiry.

  ‘Of course.’ Yefimov bowed.

  ‘His name came up in connection with a murder victim called Yemelyan Antonovich Ferfichkin.’ Porfiry paused to study Yefimov’s face at the mention of Ferfichkin’s name. He noticed the man’s eyes veer to the side and up, once, quickly. ‘It was over a debt to do with the sewing of a fur collar on to an overcoat. Rostanev could afford the collar but not the cost of having it attached. Ironic, is it not?’

  ‘A tragedy. It is such small, insignificant tragedies that make up the lives of men like Rostanev.’

  ‘How could he afford the collar, I wonder?’

  ‘I gave him an advance on his salary.’

  ‘How very generous of you.’

  ‘I know what it is like. I understand how important such a thing can be to a man.’

  ‘A man who has been humiliated and insulted all his life?’

  ‘To any man,’ said Yefimov. ‘But yes, particularly to the sort of man you describe, a man like Rostanev.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘As I said, I understood what he was feeling. It was not just a question of a collar. The collar stood for something.’

  ‘What did the collar stand for, I wonder?’

  ‘Honour. Status.’

  ‘Really? It was not just a collar then? Not just a collar to keep the wind from his neck?’ Porfiry smiled. Yefimov did not. ‘So the money was advanced?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was it ever repaid?’

  ‘I am sure Axenty Ivanovich intended to repay the debt.’

  ‘But didn’t the department require that the money be repaid?’

  ‘I advanced the money out of my own pocket.’

  ‘You are a veritable benefactor. Of course, this placed Axenty Ivanovich in your debt.’

  ‘It was not a question of that.’

  Porfiry nodded absently, barely acknowledging Yefimov’s comment. ‘I wondered, the last time I met you, where we had met before. And now I remember. It was you, that time in the Haymarket District Police Bureau, it was you I encountered in the corridor. I asked you to stand aside and you would not. You demanded that I give way. I would not. There was nonsensical talk of honour then. Finally, you pretended to have an attack of vertigo and fell in a swoon against the wall. Do you remember what I said?’

  ‘I do not remember the incident at all.’

  ‘On the contrary, you remember every slight and insult that you have ever suffered. And you remember very well what I said, don’t you?’ As Porfiry said the words, he watched Yefimov’s lips twitch as he shadowed them: ‘They are always hypochondriacs. Do you remember?’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘But you were at the bureau that day. You came to investigate the noxious smell from the Ditch. I wonder, would I have been the next on your list?’

  ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

  ‘Of course you don’t. However, humour me for a moment, if you would be so good. I have been trying to work out how you are connected to Ferfichkin, other than through Rostanev’s fur collar. I’m sure it was you, anyhow, who recommended Ferfichkin’s tailoring skills to your subordinate - was it not? You don’t have to answer
that yet. It can wait. But something must have connected you directly to Ferfichkin. There had to be some reason why he was on your list. And then it came to me, the complaint Ferfichkin made against his former master. The nobleman who had his name expunged from the record. That was you, wasn’t it?’

  ‘This is ridiculous!’

  ‘It is something we will be able to check. If Ferfichkin lived with you as your servant, he will have been listed at the same address as you at the Address Bureau. There is little point denying it, if it is true.’