by Karel Čapek
“He wasn’t,” said Gelnaj. “Hafia told me that Uncle Stepan hadn’t been with them in the evening.”
“Very well. Or someone in the family let him in at night; but then it couldn’t have been a stranger. Stepan was there for five years as a worker. The whole village knows that for those five years he had relations with Hordubalova—”
“No, only for four years. The first time they were together in the straw, afterwards the mistress went to him every night in the stable. Hafia told me that, Charley.”
“That Hafia of yours seems to know a lot,” scoffed Biegl.
“Well,” said Gelnaj, “you know, a country child—!”
“Well, go on: Hordubalova is expecting a child—it is common sense that it’s with Stepan, because Hordubal, the American, only came back in July. Hordubalova knew that it would come back on her; Hordubal wanted her for himself—”
Gelnaj shook his head. “It might not be like that, Biegl. He used to sleep in the cowshed, and she in the loft, or in the room. I know that from the neighbours.”
“—But she kept on with the workman.”
“That’s just what I don’t know,” said Gelnaj thoughtfully. “Hafia thinks not. But during the last few days Polana used to go away, behind the village. The neighbour saw her go off.”
“Man,” exclaimed Biegl in astonishment, “you know as much as an old woman. But I want myself to get a logical picture.”
“Aha. And can’t you work it out on your own, Charley?”
“No, I must get it straight in my head by talking about it. That fool Hordubal trusted Stepan so much that he betrothed his little daughter, Hafia, to him. But, tell me, isn’t it absolutely mediaeval—to betroth a child!”
Gelnaj shrugged his shoulders.
“But then it somehow dawned on him that his wife was leading him a pretty dance, and he threw Stepan out of the house.”
Gelnaj snorted with disapproval. “And what are you trying to tell me, Biegl ? First Stepan went away from the Hordubals, and only afterwards did he betroth Hafia to him. Ask the wives in the village.”
“That doesn’t agree with my idea,” said Biegl, growing confused. “Well, man, how does it really hang together?”
“I don’t knqw, Charley, I have no—what do you call it? logical picture. It’s a family affair, and not one of those clear-cut cases. Not at all, it can’t be clear. You’ve got no family, Biegl, that’s it.”
“But, Gelnaj, after all, it’s as easy as A B C: Polana wanted to get rid of her husband: Stepan—would like to marry and take the farm. Those two came to an understanding, everything ready. Yesterday Polana ran for Stepan—”
Gelnaj shook his head. “Wrong again. Hafia told me that Hordubal sent her himself yesterday to fetch Stepan back. And it’s not my affair! Biegl, but hadn’t the victim a bag under his shirt with money in it?”
Biegl was taken aback. “What, a bag? He hadn’t got anything.”
“So you see,” said Gelnaj. “And they say that he had more than seven hundred dollars. Have a look for those dollars, Charley.”
“You think—murder and robbery?”
“I don’t think anything, but the money’s gone. Old Manya saw it once with Hordubal. Manya wanted to build a new barn—”
Biegl whistled quietly. “Ah, so! Then the real motive would be money!”
“Might be,” nodded Gelnaj. “It usually is. Or say vengeance. Biegl—there you have another motive which might do. Hordu-bal threw Stepan over the fence into the netdes. For that, Charley, in a village, the usual thing is a clasp-knife. You can choose which motive you like.”
“Why do you tell me that?” frowned Biegl.
“Well, so that you can make a logical picture for yourself,” said Gelnaj innocendy. “And perhaps Manya killed him because of that stallion.”
“That’s nonsense!”
“Just so. In a family they murder for nonsense, my dear Biegl.”
Biegl shut up sulkily.
“Don’t get angry, Charley,” growled Gelnaj. “Instead I’ll tell you how Hordubal was murdered. With a bodkin for making baskets.”
“How do you know that?”
“It was lost yesterday at Manya’s farm. You can look for it, Biegl.”
“What does it look like?”
“I don’t know. I think it looks like some kind of a needle, but that’s all I know,” said Gelnaj, carefully cleaning his pipe. “Except that at Manya’s they’re going to cart the manure heap away.”
CHAPTER V
GELNAJ and Biegl were drinking wine and waiting for the doctor to return from the post-mortem.
“And where did you find that glass-cutter?”
“At Hordubals’, in the room. What have you got to say to that ?”
“These peasants are like that,” said Gelnaj, very upset. “They hate to throw anything away even if it incriminates them. They think it may come in handy sometime—” he spat expertly. “A stingy lot—”
“Hordubalova said that the glass-cutter had been there for ages, even before her husband went to America. But Farkas, the glazier, says that he can remember Stepan buying it there about a month ago.”
Gelnaj whistled. “A month ago! Look here, Biegl, that’s strange: that they’d thought of it a month ago. To kill somebody quickly, I could do that myself, but to think over it day by day—And you haven’t found those dollars yet?”
“No. In that room I unearthed a flash-lamp. I’m trying to find out where Stepan bought it. That’s another proof, isn’t it? There’s enough evidence for the woman to be arrested as well. But they say that we ought to find some definite proofs.”
Gelnaj fidgeted on his chair. “Charley, since it’s you—I know something too. They say that Stepan’s brother-in-law, someone called Janos, had let it out that about a week ago Stepan came to him in the field, and said: ‘You, Janos, you could have what you like, a pair of oxen, perhaps, and you could choose them yourself at the market—for a small job,’ he said, just to put Juraj Hordubal out of the way.’ ”
“That’s good,” acknowledged Biegl. “And what did Janos do?”
“ ‘Get on with you,’ he said to him, ‘and have you money for it, Stepan?’ ‘I haven’t,’ said Stepan, ‘but the mistress has: we’ve promised each other to get married when Hordubal’s gone.’ ”
“Then we’ve got them,” said Biegl with relief, “and they’re both in it.”
Gelnaj nodded. But at that moment the doctor appeared, coming from the post-mortem, hurrying on his stumpy legs, and looking round with short-sighted eyes.
“Doctor,” shouted Gelnaj, “won’t you stop for a minute?”
“Ah,” said the doctor bluntly. “Well, perhaps. Bring me some brandy. He’s already begun to smell, poor chap. Not a pleasant job. Aha,” he sighed, putting down his empty glass. “And do you know, gentlemen, that they killed a dead man?”
Biegl’s eyes opened wide. “Why, how’s that?”
“Very likely he was breathing his last, a comatose state. Nearly dead. Pneumonia in a very advanced stage, the right lung already septic, as yellow as gall. He wouldn’t have lived till morning.”
“So it wasn’t necessary then,” said Gelnaj slowly.
“That’s true. A dilatation of the aorta—as big as your fist. Even if he hadn’t had pneumonia, the slightest excitement would have finished him off, poor chap.”
The policemen maintained an uneasy silence. At last Biegl cleared his throat, and inquired: “And what was the cause of death, doctor?”
“Well, murder. He was stabbed in the left chamber of his heart. But because he was at the last gasp there was little loss of blood.”
“And what do you think it was done with?”
“I don’t know. A nail—or, to put it briefly, with a thin, pointed metal object, about ten centimetres long, round in section—are you satisfied?”
Gelnaj played with his glass with his fat fingers to hide his confusion. “And, doctor—couldn’t it be said that he died of pneumoni
a ? See here, when he would have died in any case—why make such a fuss—?”
“That won’t do, Gelnaj,” burst out Biegl. “It’s murder!”
The doctor’s glasses glistened. “It would be a pity, sir. An interesting case. You rarely come across a murder with a needle or something similar. I shall put the heart in spirit, and send it”—he began to grin—”to a specialist. So that you can have it as clear as a pikestaff, gentlemen. It’s no use, it’s murder within the meaning of the law. Oh, God, but how unnecessary!”
“Well, that’s that,” grumbled Gelnaj. “And this jackass calls it a simple case!”
CHAPTER VI
BUT the bottle with Hordubal’s heart was broken in the post, and the spirit ran out; so that the heart of Juraj Hordubal reached the learned gentleman’s study in a very bad state.
“What are they sending me this for?” inquired the angry white-haired gentleman. “And what have they written? That they diagnosed a wound with a sharp instrument. These country doctors!” The professional expert sighed, and looked at Juraj Hordubal’s heart from a safe distance. “Write: a stabbing wound is ruled out, the hole is too small—it’s a shot through the muscle of the heart from a weapon of small calibre—most probably a Flobert. Take it away!”
“Well, now we’ve got it,” said Gelnaj to Biegl, as he returned from Rybary. “And it says, Charley, that Hordubal wasn’t stabbed, but was shot from a Flobert. So there!”
Biegl’s hands fell. “And what does the doctor say to that?”
“What can he say? He’s furious. You know him, don’t you? And he sticks to his own opinion, he says. Well, then, a Flobert; the bullet hasn’t been found, it’s true; but what can one do? You must look for someone who has a Flobert.”
Biegl threw his helmet into the corner. “I shan’t leave it like that, Gelnaj,” he threatened. “I shan’t let anyone butt in here. Good Lord! I’d nearly finished, it all fits in, and now this! Tell me, can we go to the court—with this ? Where shall we find a Flobert, man?”
Gelnaj shrugged his shoulders. “So you see, this is because you wouldn’t let poor Hordubal pass to heaven with pneumonia. You deserve it, and so does the doctor.”
In a rage Biegl sat down on his chair. “This, Gelnaj, has spoiled all my pleasure. The greatest pleasure I ever had.”
“Well, what is it?”
“I’ve found the dollars. Something over seven hundred, and the bag as well. They were behind the beam in the loft in Rybary.”
Gelnaj was surprised, and he took his pipe out of his mouth. “Well, that’s something, Charley,” he said with appreciation.
“But it took some finding,” said Biegl, with satisfaction. “I’ve added it up: do you know how long I was searching round in Rybary ? No lesr than forty-six hours. I didn’t leave one little straw untouched. Stepan can stuff himself with his alibi. What do you think, Gelnaj: will it satisfy the jury ? The money has been found, the glass-cutter that Stepan bought isn’t bad either, then you’ve discovered contradictions in their statements, and a motive like a traction engine.”
“Four motives,” suggested Gelnaj.
Biegl shook his head. “Not at all! It was just an ordinary, mean, ugly murder for money. I’ll tell you how it happened. Hordubal knew that Manya had relations with his wife, and he was scared of him. That’s why he carried his money under his shirt, that’s why he betrothed him to Hafia, that’s why he threw him out in the end, that’s why he locked himself in the cowshed. Quite a clear case, Gelnaj.”
Gelnaj blinked thoughtfully. “And I’ve always got those horses in my mind. Stepan liked horses. He didn’t talk of anything else but them, to buy more land, and breed nothing but horses. There was a piece of land for sale behind Hordubal’s meadows. Perhaps Manya wanted Hordubal to buy it, and he wouldn’t, and carried his money under his shirt—I shouldn’t wonder, Charley, if it wasn’t for that.”
“Anyway, it comes to the same thing: for money. It certainly wasn’t because of love for Polana.”
“Who knows.”
“No. Gelnaj, you’re an old policeman, and you know the people in the village; but I’m young, and I damned well know something about women. I’ve had a look at Polana. She’s a plain, bony woman—and old, Gelnaj; it’s true she’s had relations with the farm-hand—I think it must have cost her a heap of money. But for her, Gelnaj, Hordubal wouldn’t let himself be killed, for her Stepan wouldn’t commit murder. But for money—it’s quite clear. Hordubal was a village miser, Polana was after the money so that she could keep her lover, Stepan would do anything for brass—and there you’ve got it, Gelnaj. In all this there wasn’t as much love as that,” Biegl snapped his fingers. “A dirty case, man, but quite simple.”
“ Well, have you got it all together, Biegl?” said old Gelnaj. “Like the public prosecutor. According to you it’s so simple—”
Biegl grinned with self-esteem.
“—but according to me, Charley, it would be simpler still if the Lord had taken Juraj Hordubal. Pneumonia, amen. And after a time the widow would marry the farm-hand—a baby would be born—But you don’t like that Biegl, it’s such a simple story.”
“No. I like to find out the truth, Gelnaj. That’s a job for a man.
Gelnaj blinked thoughtfully. “And you have a feeling, Charley, that you’ve found it? The real truth?”
“—I’d like to find that needle yet.”
BOOK III
THE State v. Stepan Manya, twenty-six, farm-worker, single, Reformed Church confession,
And Polana Hordubalova, née Durkotova, widow, thirty-one, Greek Orthodox confession,
For the murder of Juraj Hordubal, farmer, of Kriva, and for being an accomplice in the murder of the said Juraj Hordubal respectively.
Accused, stand up. You have heard the charge. Are you guilty or not guilty ?
The accused pleaded not guilty. He said that he had not killed Juraj Hordubal; he slept that night at home in Rybary. The money behind the beam—he got from the farmer, as a dowry, he said, if he married Hafia. He had not bought the glass-cutter. He had not had any relations with the other accused. He had nothing further to say.
The accused pleaded not guilty. She did not know anything of the murder until the morning. Questioned as to how she discovered that Juraj Hordubal was dead, she said that she only noticed the broken window. She had not had any relations with the other accused. The farmer himself bought the glass-cutter years ago. The murderer must have gained entry through the window, because the door into the yard was bolted, all through the night.
Having said that she sat down, deathly pale, not at all attractive, in an advanced stage of pregnancy; because of her pregnancy, the proceedings had to be expedited.
And the process rolled on with the inexorable routine of the judicial machine. Protocols were read and opinions given, notes rustled, the jury put on a pious air and pretended to follow with understanding every word in the official bill. The accused sat as still as a doll, only her eyes wandered restlessly. Stepan Manya from time to time wiped his forehead, and tried to follow what was being read: who knows if there’s a hitch in it, who knows what the learned gentlemen will spin out of it: with his head respectfully bowed Manya listened, moving his lips as if he were repeating every word.
The court came to the cross-examination of the witnesses.
Vasil Geric Vasilov, mayor of Kriva, was called; a tall, broad-shouldered farmer; slowly and seriously he repeated the words of the oath. He was one of the first to see the corpse. It’s true that he said that it was a family affair. Why ? It’s only common sense, your honour. And, are you aware, Geric, that Polana Horduba-lova had relations with Stepan Manya ? He was aware. He spoke to her himself about it before Juraj came back- And was Hordubal in the habit of treating his wife badly ?—He should have beaten her, your honour, declared Vasil Geric Vasilov, to chase the devil out of her. She would not even prepare meals for Juraj.—Perhaps Hordubal complained of his wife?—He did not, he only avoided people; he perishe
d with grief, like a candle.
Polana sat erect, and gazed into the void.
The police sergeant, Gelnaj, gave testimony which agreed with the indictment. He went over the tangible evidence: Yes, this is the window from Hordubal’s parlour, here on the inner side it is cut with a diamond. That day it was rainy, there was a puddle outside the window: but inside the parlour there was no trace of mud, and on the window-sill the dust was undisturbed. Could a man crawl through this hole? No; in any case he would have had to get his head through, and that’s impossible.
The assistant policeman, Biegl, gave evidence; he stood at attention, and sparkled with zeal. His answers agreed closely with the indictment. He found the glass-cutter in the cupboard, which was locked; Hordubalova did not want to let him have the key, she said she had lost it. He broke the cupboard open, and found the key at last at the bottom of a bucket of oats. He also found Hordubal’s dollars at Rybary. And there’s something else, your honour, which I thought I ought to bring, reported Biegl, in a louder voice, and he produced something from his handkerchief. He had found it only yesterday, when the Manyas were carting the manure heap away. It had been thrown into the midden.
Biegl laid on the table before his honour a thin, pointed object, about fifteen centimetres long, with a circular section. What is it ?—It’s a bodkin for making baskets, which belonged to Manya and was lost on the day of the murder.—Biegl didn’t move an eyelash, but he enjoyed his triumph, and basked in the general interest. For five weeks he had been looking for this miserable needle, and here it is.
Accused, do you recognize this needle ?
No, I don’t. And Manya sat down, gloomy and sulky.
The doctor gave evidence. He wished to make it clear that the murder was committed with a thin, pointed object, round in section. If Hordubal had been shot the projectile would have remained in the body, and it was not there; at great length the doctor explained the difference between a wound from a shot and from a stab; and besides, a rifle of such small calibre must have been fired at such a short range that the shirt would have been burned, and perhaps the skin on the chest as well.