by Otto Penzler
“No, I won’t,” the detective replied bluntly. “You can give the letters to her yourself. I’m not going to arrest you, Voronov.”
There are cases in which the unusual solution, the sudden conclusion, does not spring from a chain of formal clues and evidence, from a logical sequence of data already established, from a final summary of the events. Often there are such dark and tangled labyrinths of facts and details of human relations, such a terrible piling up of all sorts of circumstantial evidence and chance occurrences, that the most experienced investigator finds himself ready to throw up his hands. In such cases his guiding lights are his intuition and experience, his perseverence and conscience, and above all, his humaneness. These will surely lead him to the truth in the end …
The detective had put himself in a very awkward position by releasing Voronov. On the one hand, Voronov’s guilt seemed indisputable; on the other hand, the freeing of Voronov had been prompted solely by the investigator’s intuition—by the fact that he believed the man’s story despite all proofs to the contrary. He based his belief on those dim, vague, and unclear grounds which are formed within the soul, which do not always seem logical, which are so difficult to express in words, which appear as a result of the investigator’s psychological and professional insight, and the keenness of his intuition. They are the fruitful outcome of many years of thoughtful and tireless work, of training in observation, of experience in criminology, and of the constant habit of analyzing events and characters.
The detective was convinced that Voronov had not murdered Professor Burov. But he had to prove it, and what is more, he had to solve the mystery of the Professor’s death. Certainly Voronov could not be cleared of the murder charge simply because the detective was emotionally convinced of his innocence.
The autopsy was performed by Dr. Semyonov with his usual skill and care. His findings boiled down to two points. First, Professor Burov died as a result of injuries caused by the blow of a hunting knife, plunged into the victim’s left eye; and second, the blow had been inflicted with a force greater than that of a human being’s.
“What do you mean by ‘greater than that of a human being’s’?” the detective asked.
“I mean,” Dr. Semyonov answered, “that the strength with which the blow was struck was greater than could be expected from an average person. But just how great that force was I cannot tell.”
The detective examined the Professor’s rifle. It was a Winchester and supplied nothing of interest to the case. The knife which inflicted the fatal blow was also quite ordinary—a cheap hunting knife with a wooden handle. But on examining it more closely, the detective discovered a small fault in the end of the handle, obviously the result of poor workmanship. The tiny tip of the metal rod by which the handle was attached to the blade protruded as a sharp point from the end of the wood, though it was barely perceptible.
The investigator ran his finger over the tiny point of metal, then suddenly sprang to his feet.
An hour later a group of hastily summoned experts—gunsmiths and hunters—crowded the detective’s office.
“Tell me,” he asked them, “what would a hunter do if he had a hunting knife with a wooden handle in his belt and found that a cartridge in his rifle had stuck in the magazine? For instance, if the cartridge became slightly enlarged from dampness or had a flaw—what would a hunter do then?”
The experts began to whisper among themselves.
“In such a case,” one said, when they had finally come to a unanimous decision, “he would probably take his hunting knife and carefully tap its smooth wooden handle on the cartridge to ease it into the magazine.”
“That’s what I thought, too,” the investigator said. “Well, now, have a look at this knife. Notice the tiny metal point sticking out of the wood. Now, imagine that a hunter were to try to push the cartridge in with this knife. What do you think would happen?”
The experts examined the knife, noted the tiny metal protuberance, and reached agreement.
“This bit of metal,” they said, “sharp and strong as it is, could easily play the part of a firing pin. If this knife were used to tap the cartridge, it might cause an explosion that would fire the rifle.”
The detective turned to the gunsmiths.
“Tell me,” he said, “if the cartridge had not fully entered the magazine and if, as a result of the hunter’s carelessness, the rifle were fired, where would the main force of the explosion be directed? And how great would that force be?”
“The force of the explosion would be directed backwards, throwing the hand holding the knife back to the face. The force of the shot would be very great.”
The detective heaved a sigh of relief. His theory had been confirmed.
Just then Dr. Semyonov entered the office. The investigator showed him the knife and told him what the experts had concluded.
“That’s all very clever,” Dr. Semyonov said slowly, “and even quite believable, if not for one small detail. Considering the length of the Professor’s arm, his height, and the correlation of various parts of his body, his right hand would have wounded him in the right eye. And as you know, Professor Burov was killed by the knife entering his left eye.”
The detective’s solution, which had seemed so clear and correct, had fallen to pieces. But he was a stubborn man, so he continued his investigation. Back he went to the family of the dead Professor.
“Was there anything peculiar about Professor Burov physically?”
“No—nothing peculiar.”
“Did you ever see the Professor use a scalpel?”
“Yes, certainly—he often worked at home.”
“In which hand did he hold the scalpel?”
“In his left hand—the Professor was left-handed.”
The detective almost danced with joy. There, at last, was the final clue!
Now everything seemed in order. The truth had been uncovered. Professor Burov’s death was explained, and Voronov was cleared completely. The case could now be closed “For lack of evidence attesting to a crime.”
But the Professor’s brother came to see the investigator.
“I’m ready to agree that you are right and that my brother died as a result of his own carelessness,” he said. “But where did the knife come from? My brother did not own such a knife. Whose knife was it? Until you answer that question, Inspector, I cannot consider the case closed.”
Professor Burov’s brother was certainly entitled to an answer.
The detective checked the supply list. In the huge pile of bills, lists, and receipts, among hundreds of items including ammunition, rifles, tents, canned goods, binoculars, pans, thermos bottles, axes, pliers, hammers, metal cans, kerosene stoves, thermometers, dishes, and a multitude of other things, the detective searched in vain for an item marked: Hunting knife—4 rubles.
Recalling that the expedition had sailed from Archangel after stopping there for several days, the investigator decided to go to that city and see what he could learn there.
He arrived in Archangel the next morning and immediately started on a tour of all stores that sold hunting knives. He was shown hundreds of hunting knives, expensive and cheap, Finnish knives, knives from Vologda, Kostroma, Vyatka, and Pavlovo-Posad—but not one of the kind he was looking for. Salesmen eyed their fussy customer in dismay; store managers shrugged, cashiers giggled—but nowhere could he find the knife he was seeking.
Finally, toward evening, he wandered into a small sporting goods shop on the Dvina Embankment. Almost the first thing he noticed was a hunting knife with a wooden handle—exactly like the one that had killed the Professor.
“How much does this knife cost?” the investigator asked.
“Three seventy-five,” the salesman answered.
The detective called the manager and learned that only one cooperative made such knives, sending its entire output to this store. And yes, the knives had been on sale when the University expedition was in Archangel.
“We hav
e sold many of them,” the manager said, “but we can’t remember all our customers.”
The detective returned to Moscow. There, in Professor Burov’s notebook, among hundreds of entries, he found the following: Archangel. Hunting knife—3 rub. 75 kop.…
“Sit down, Comrade Voronov,” the detective said, smiling. “This is the last time I’ll be summoning you. Kindly read the order to close the case. Sign here, to show you’ve received your copy.”
Voronov took up the pen. Suddenly everything seemed to swim before him—the pen, the inkwell, the face of the investigator sitting across the table. But the investigator’s words finally sank in. The young scientist realized that his horrible experience was now a thing of the past, that his innocence had been proved, that the uncommunicative man sitting across the desk from him had saved his life and his honor.
IVAN BUNIN
THE GENTLEMAN
FROM SAN FRANCISCO
When Ivan Alexeyevich Bunin (1870–1953) was told in 1933 that he had won the Nobel Prize for Literature, he asked what the amount was. Living in France at the time, he was told it was 600,000 francs (about $38,000). He said he was lucky, but then pointed out that a barber from Tarascon had won 5,000,000. His move to Paris, followed by one to the French Riviera, had been necessitated when he sided with the reactionary forces at the outbreak of the Russian Revolution and fled the country in May 1918.
The precocious author and poet began writing poetry at the age of eight, heavily influenced by his mother’s reading Pushkin aloud to him. His tutor taught him to read and write with the aid of such books as Don Quixote, Robinson Crusoe and the stories of Gogol, convincing him that he wanted to be a writer. His poetry and translations of Longfellow’s Hiawatha and Byron’s Cain earned him the Pushkin Prize in 1903, the highest literary award given by the Russian Academy; he was elected to its literary division in 1909. The following year, he wrote The Village, the novel that brought him international renown. It was his first major work to use as its theme one he used frequently in other books: the trials and complex, often tragic, lives of the Russian people under the Czar.
“The Gentleman from San Francisco” is regarded as one of the greatest short stories of all time. Whether a crime occurs may be left to the reader to decide. It was first published in Russia in 1915; the first English language translation appeared in the January 1922 issue of The Dial.
“Alas, alas, that great city Babylon, that mighty city!”
—Revelation of St. John.
The Gentleman from San Francisco—neither at Naples nor on Capri could any one recall his name—with his wife and daughter, was on his way to Europe, where he intended to stay for two whole years, solely for the pleasure of it.
He was firmly convinced that he had a full right to a rest, enjoyment, a long comfortable trip, and what not. This conviction had a twofold reason: first he was rich, and second, despite his fifty-eight years, he was just about to enter the stream of life’s pleasures. Until now he had not really lived, but simply existed, to be sure—fairly well, yet putting off his fondest hopes for the future. He toiled unweariedly—the Chinese, whom he imported by thousands for his works, knew full well what it meant,—and finally he saw that he had made much, and that he had nearly come up to the level of those whom he had once taken as a model, and he decided to catch his breath. The class of people to which he belonged was in the habit of beginning its enjoyment of life with a trip to Europe, India, Egypt. He made up his mind to do the same. Of course, it was first of all himself that he desired to reward for the years of toil, but he was also glad for his wife and daughter’s sake. His wife was never distinguished by any extraordinary impressionability, but then, all elderly American women are ardent travelers. As for his daughter, a girl of marriageable age, and somewhat sickly,—travel was the very thing she needed. Not to speak of the benefit to her health, do not happy meetings occur during travels? Abroad, one may chance to sit at the same table with a prince, or examine frescoes side by side with a multi-millionaire.
The itinerary the Gentleman from San Francisco planned out was an extensive one. In December and January he expected to relish the sun of southern Italy, monuments of antiquity, the tarantella, serenades of wandering minstrels, and that which at his age is felt most keenly—the love, not entirely disinterested though, of young Neapolitan girls. The Carnival days he planned to spend at Nice and Monte-Carlo, which at that time of the year is the meeting-place of the choicest society, the society upon which depend all the blessings of civilization: the cut of dress suits, the stability of thrones, the declaration of wars, the prosperity of hotels. Some of these people passionately give themselves over to automobile and boat races, others to roulette, others, again, busy themselves with what is called flirtation, and others shoot pigeons, which soar so beautifully from the dove-cote, hover a while over the emerald lawn, on the background of the forget-me-not colored sea, and then suddenly hit the ground, like little white lumps. Early March he wanted to devote to Florence, and at Easter, to hear the Miserere in Paris. His plans also included Venice, Paris, bull-baiting at Seville, bathing on the British Islands, also Athens, Constantinople, Palestine, Egypt, and even Japan, of course, on the way back … And at first things went very well indeed.
It was the end of November, and all the way to Gibraltar the ship sailed across seas which were either clad by icy darkness or swept by storms carrying wet snow. But there were no accidents, and the vessel did not even roll. The passengers,—all people of consequence—were numerous, and the steamer the famous “Atlantis,” resembled the most expensive European hotel with all improvements: a night refreshment-bar, Oriental baths, even a newspaper of its own. The manner of living was a most aristocratic one; passengers rose early, awakened by the shrill voice of a bugle, filling the corridors at the gloomy hour when the day broke slowly and sulkily over the grayish-green watery desert, which rolled heavily in the fog. After putting on their flannel pajamas, they took coffee, chocolate, cocoa; they seated themselves in marble baths, went through their exercises, whetting their appetites and increasing their sense of well-being, dressed for the day, and had their breakfast. Till eleven o’clock they were supposed to stroll on the deck, breathing in the chill freshness of the ocean, or they played table-tennis, or other games which arouse the appetite. At eleven o’clock a collation was served consisting of sandwiches and bouillon, after which people read their newspapers, quietly waiting for luncheon, which was more nourishing and varied than the breakfast. The next two hours were given to rest; all the decks were crowded then with steamer chairs, on which the passengers, wrapped in plaids, lay stretched, dozing lazily, or watching the cloudy sky and the foamy-fringed water hillocks flashing beyond the sides of the vessel. At five o’clock, refreshed and gay, they drank strong, fragrant tea; at seven the sound of the bugle announced a dinner of nine courses … Then the Gentleman from San Francisco, rubbing his hands in an onrush of vital energy, hastened to his luxurious state-room to dress.
In the evening, all the decks of the “Atlantis” yawned in the darkness, shone with their innumerable fiery eyes, and a multitude of servants worked with increased feverishness in the kitchens, dish-washing compartments, and wine-cellars. The ocean, which heaved about the sides of the ship, was dreadful, but no one thought of it. All had faith in the controlling power, of the captain, a red-headed giant, heavy and very sleepy, who, clad in a uniform with broad golden stripes, looked like a huge idol, and but rarely emerged, for the benefit of the public, from his mysterious retreat. On the fore-castle, the siren gloomily roared or screeched in a fit of mad rage, but few of the diners heard the siren: its hellish voice was covered by the sounds of an excellent string orchestra, which played ceaselessly and exquisitely in a vast hall, decorated with marble and spread with velvety carpets. The hall was flooded with torrents of light, radiated by crystal lustres and gilt chandeliers; it was filled with a throng of bejeweled ladies in low-necked dresses, of men in dinner-coats, graceful waiters, and deferential ma
îtres-d’hôtel. One of these,—who accepted wine orders exclusively—wore a chain on his neck like some lord-mayor. The evening dress, and the ideal linen, made the Gentleman from San Francisco look very young. Dry-skinned, of average height, strongly, though irregularly built, glossy with thorough washing and cleaning, and moderately animated, he sat in the golden splendor of this palace. Near him stood a bottle of amber-colored Johannisberg, and goblets of most delicate glass and of varied sizes, surmounted by a frizzled bunch of fresh hyacinths. There was something Mongolian in his yellowish face with its trimmed silvery moustache; his large teeth glimmered with gold fillings, and his strong, bald head had a dull glow, like old ivory. His wife, a big, broad and placid woman, was dressed richly, but in keeping with her age. Complicated, but light, transparent, and innocently immodest was the dress of his daughter, tall and slender, with magnificent hair gracefully combed; her breath was sweet with violet-scented tablets, and she had a number of tiny and most delicate pink dimples near her lips and between her slightly-powdered shoulder blades …
The dinner lasted two whole hours, and was followed by dances in the dancing hall, while the men—the Gentleman from San Francisco among them—made their way to the refreshment bar, where negros in red jackets and with eye-balls like shelled hard-boiled eggs, waited on them. There, with their feet on tables, smoking Havana cigars, and drinking themselves purple in the face, they settled the destinies of nations on the basis of the latest political and stock-exchange news. Outside, the ocean tossed up black mountains with a thud; and the snowstorm hissed furiously in the rigging grown heavy with slush; the ship trembled in every limb, struggling with the storm and ploughing with difficulty the shifting and seething mountainous masses that threw far and high their foaming tails; the siren groaned in agony, choked by storm and fog; the watchmen in their towers froze and almost went out of their minds under the superhuman stress of attention. Like the gloomy and sultry mass of the inferno, like its last, ninth circle, was the submersed womb of the steamer, where monstrous furnaces yawned with red-hot open jaws, and emitted deep, hooting sounds, and where the stokers, stripped to the waist, and purple with the reflected flames, bathed in their own dirty, acid sweat. And here, in the refreshment-bar, carefree men, with their feet, encased in dancing shoes, on the table, sipped cognac and liqueurs, swam in waves of spiced smoke, and exchanged subtle remarks, while in the dancing-hall everything sparkled and radiated light, warmth and joy. The couples now turned around in a waltz, now swayed in the tango; and the music, sweetly shameless and sad, persisted in its ceaseless entreaties … There were many persons of note in this magnificent crowd; an ambassador, a dry, modest old man; a great millionaire, shaved, tall, of an indefinite age, who, in his old-fashioned dress-coat, looked like a prelate; also a famous Spanish writer, and an international belle, already slightly faded and of dubious morals. There was also among them a loving pair, exquisite and refined, whom everybody watched with curiosity and who did not conceal their bliss; he danced only with her, sang—with great skill—only to her accompaniment, and they were so charming, so graceful. The captain alone knew that they had been hired by the company at a good salary to play at love, and that they had been sailing now on one, now on another steamer, for quite a long time.
