by R. N. Morris
“It’s true, though.”
“Last night I went to Fräulein Keller’s,” said Porfiry abruptly. Virginsky faltered in his step. Porfiry watched him. “The boots?” asked Porfiry blandly.
“They’re still a little loose.”
“Your friend Lilya wasn’t there. It’s Fräulein Keller’s opinion that she’s found herself a rich protector.”
“Is that how it is?”
“If you believe Fräulein Keller.”
“Why are you so sure that Lilya has something to do with this?”
“I’m not. But Lilya herself presented me with a small mystery. The mysterious Konstantin Kirillovich.” Again Porfiry watched Virginsky closely. “It is a coincidence that Lilya should come to our notice the night before an anonymous note was received alerting us to the two bodies in Petrovsky Park. A coincidence that I should see Lilya at Lippevechsel’s Tenements when I came over to see you yesterday. As an investigator, one learns to mistrust coincidences. I discover she is known to you. And you, I’m afraid, are the only person I have so far whom I can link to the two dead men. So Lilya is also linked.”
“But it’s all nonsense. It means nothing. It could lead you nowhere.”
“Yes. But so far it’s all I have to go on.”
“Besides, there are lots of other people who knew them both. It’s just you haven’t met them yet.”
“Today I hope to rectify that,” said Porfiry, as he came to a halt. They had reached Bolshaya Morskaya Street. “Now then. Seven, seventeen, or seventy? Which is it? I wonder.”
“It’s that one,” said Virginsky. He pointed out a pink house in a three-story terrace on the other side of the street. The building was recently built, within the last twenty years. It was highly ornamented with lion’s-head relief panels set into the stonework, ionic pilasters on the second story, and even caryatids—massive female sculpted figures—framing the passageways that led to the courtyards behind.
“An elegant building,” commented Porfiry, though his voice lacked the warmth of approval. “Who would have thought it was home to two victims of murder? Perhaps the caryatids provide a clue. I always think of murder victims when I see the stone inhabitants of Petersburg.”
“That’s very fanciful of you.”
“No doubt. It must be something to do with my occupation. Too many unsolved cases, I’m afraid. I seem to see the dead appealing for justice everywhere I look. And yet their faces seem strangely calm, do you not think? As if they are reconciled to their fate.”
“Who could be reconciled to such a burden?”
“You mean the burden of supporting the upper stories?” asked Porfiry with a smile.
“I mean the burden of being a woman. They are women, aren’t they?”
“These ones are. One does see men, of course. Technically, the male figures are atlantes. Shall we go in?”
Looking from the house to Virginsky, Porfiry noticed that the student’s face showed signs of sudden agitation.
“You can’t force me to.” His eyes were fixed on the pink house, but his head was leaning backward as if subject to a force of repulsion.
“My dear friend, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Well then, I won’t do it. I’ve brought you here. I’ve pointed it out. That’s enough.” The force of repulsion acted now on his whole body. He began to edge away from Porfiry. The next moment he turned on his heels and broke into a wide-paced run. Without slowing his step, he called over his shoulder, “Boots! Excellent!”
Porfiry had the impression he was grinning.
THE NUMBER OF the house turned out to be 17. An additional sign indicated that the house belonged to the widow of State Councilor S. P. Ivolgin.
The door, which was to the left of the central caryatid-framed passageway, gave directly onto the street. The maid who opened it was dressed in a neat gray dress with a well-starched apron over it. Her hair was tied up inside a clean white cap. She had an attractive, intelligent face. Porfiry sensed a spirited independence that he could imagine crossing over into pride or even impertinence. Her eyes were questioning without being suspicious. There was a slight impatience in her demeanor that suggested he had dragged her away from some important work. He guessed her age at around thirty.
“Good day,” began Porfiry. “Is this the home of Goryanchikov, the student?”
“Yes?”
“May I speak to Goryanchikov?”
“He’s not here. He hasn’t been here for several days.”
“Have you any idea where he is?”
Porfiry felt himself subject to her scrutinizing gaze.
“I’m Porfiry Petrovich, an investigating magistrate. It is to do with a serious criminal matter.” Porfiry looked away down the street, then back into her undaunted gray eyes. “Perhaps it would be better if I came inside.”
The maid agreed without hesitation, bowing slightly as she closed the door behind him.
Porfiry looked down at a highly polished parquet floor. The hall was warm and comfortably furnished without being ostentatious. Rugs from the Caucases hung on the walls, and one lay on the floor. A faintly spicy smell pleasantly stimulated his nostrils.
“I think you had better talk to Anna Alexandrovna.”
“Your mistress? The Widow Ivolgina?”
“Yes.”
“Of course. But I would like to talk to you first. What is your name?”
“Katya.”
“When was the last time you saw Goryanchikov, Katya?”
“Stepan Sergeyevich. His name is Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov.”
“I see. So when was the last time you saw Stepan Sergeyevich?”
Katya thought carefully before answering. “Four days ago.”
“Is it normal for him not to come home for so long?”
“No. Sometimes we don’t see him for a day or two. But four days is unusual.”
“Did you think nothing of it?”
“I was beginning to think something of it.”
“What were you beginning to think?”
“He’d done a moonlight flit. He owes Anna Alexandrovna a fortune in rent.”
“I see. And what was Anna Alexandrovna’s view?”
“She thought the same. We thought we would never see him again. And that she would never see the money. What’s all this about?” Katya asked abruptly.
“I am afraid Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov is dead.”
Katya’s brows came together in a frown as she took in the news. Then an expression something like horror opened up on her face. “Borya!” she cried.
“Why do you say that?”
“Borya killed him, didn’t he? They had a row. Borya threatened him with an axe. It was shortly before Stepan Sergeyevich disappeared.” Her head was trembling perceptibly.
“What was the argument about?”
“I don’t know. What do men ever argue about?”
Before Porfiry could answer, another female voice called from a room at the back of the hall: “Katya! What is it, Katya? I need you in here.” The appeal was followed by the muted clatter of pots.
Katya gave Porfiry a quick look that seemed to have something accusing about it, as if he were to blame for bringing all this on them. That glance left him in no doubt of the depth and force of her protective feelings toward her mistress.
A moment later this lady herself came out from the kitchen, her head tilted upward, poised between inquiry and annoyance. When she saw Porfiry, her expression became guarded. She looked to Katya for some explanation. The maid returned a warning but, in contrast to her mistress, seemed unabashed.
Anna Alexandrovna was dressed simply. Her dark hair was neatly pinned. Her face was still youthful, with a flush of color at her cheeks. Hers was a soft beauty, its malleability such that every touch of experience had compromised rather than enhanced it. Looking into her eyes, which she allowed him to do only for a split second, Porfiry saw that she was older than he had first thought. He saw a glance complicated by cau
tion and disillusion. Porfiry remembered Virginsky mentioning a daughter and wondered briefly what kind of a man State Councilor Ivolgin had been; wealthy certainly, judging from the house he had left to her. The same house also hinted at his ambition and even pretension.
“I did not realize we had a visitor,” she said, dipping her gaze below Porfiry’s face. “I was grinding cinnamon. I needed Katya’s help. I didn’t realize…” Porfiry was touched that she was flustered on his account. She brought with her another scent besides the cinnamon, the faint hint of her perfume. Porfiry was aware of how different it was, in intent and effect, from Lilya’s. It was a clean, uncomplicated fragrance.
“This gentleman is a policeman,” said Katya sternly.
“A magistrate. An investigating magistrate,” corrected Porfiry, with an apologetic smile. “Porfiry Petrovich, madam,” he added with a bow.
“What is it about?” asked Anna Alexandrovna anxiously.
“Stepan Sergeyevich,” answered Katya, her voice strained. “He’s dead.”
Porfiry watched the quick transitions of Anna Alexandrovna’s face with interest. It was difficult to be certain about the precise emotion this news inspired in her, but Porfiry felt that genuine grief was part of it.
“I’m afraid that’s not all,” said Porfiry. “Borya—your yardkeeper, I believe—is also dead.” Porfiry glanced guiltily toward Katya.
Anna Alexandrovna shrieked. “Oh, this is terrible! Terrible!” she cried, a hand coming up to her suddenly white face. Katya rushed up to her and embraced her.
Porfiry’s bow was contrite. “There is no easy way to break such news.”
“Oh, poor Borya,” cried Anna Alexandrovna, pulling herself away from her maid’s support. “It’s all right, Katya. I’m all right.” But she staggered as Katya released her. Porfiry held out a hand that was rejected with a shake of the head. “Please, sir…?”
“Porfiry Petrovich,” Porfiry reminded her.
“Please, Porfiry Petrovich, would you accompany me into the drawing room?” She gestured toward a pair of double doors. “There is a samovar there. Katya, will you serve us some tea, my dear?”
THE SAMOVAR GURGLED and hissed agitatedly. Porfiry Petrovich and Anna Alexandrovna turned away from it as though with discretion. She gestured for him to sit on a gold and maroon Russian sofa. As he did so, a gust of wind rattled the panes.
The drawing room was lined in pale blue brocatelle, with gilt work on the rococo moldings. The air was humid with tea-scented steam. Silk curtains of the same blue were draped in swooping sections across three large windows. The light that filtered through cast a milky sheen over Anna Alexandrovna’s dark dress. Within a marble fireplace, short, quick flames peeped shyly out of a mountain of glowing coals.
“It’s such a shock,” said Anna Alexandrovna, looking out of the window, as if she were commenting on the sudden violence of the weather. “How did it happen?”
“I’m afraid it seems as if they were both murdered.”
“No!” She searched his face for a different answer.
“Their bodies were found together in Petrovsky Park.”
“Petrovsky Park?” There was no doubt about it. The mention of Petrovsky Park had startled her. But now her expression became guarded. She leaned back slightly from Porfiry. He watched her expectantly, but she gave nothing more away.
Porfiry accepted a glass of tea from the tray Katya held out to him. He slipped a sugar crystal between his teeth to sweeten it. He placed the glass on the low mahogany table that was in front of the sofa.
“Katya informed me that Borya and Goryanchikov—Stepan Sergeyevich, that is—quarreled shortly before Stepan Sergeyevich disappeared.”
“Yes. That’s right. Everyone heard it.”
“Everyone? Who else lives in the house?”
“My daughter, Sofiya. And Osip Maximovich. And Vadim Vasilyevich. However, Osip Maximovich was not here on the day of the quarrel.”
“Who are these gentlemen?”
“Osip Maximovich rents the second floor. Vadim Vasilyevich lodges with him and serves him in the capacity of a secretary. He also has a manservant, Artur.”
“Is there anyone else in your household?”
“Yes, there is Marfa Denisovna. She was Sofiya’s nurse when she was younger. She lives with us still. And Lizaveta, our cook.”
“You have a cook, and yet you were grinding your own cinnamon?” Porfiry teased her.
“There are some jobs I like to do in the kitchen, both because they give me pleasure and because I don’t like to leave them to others.”
Porfiry nodded his understanding and tried to make up for his gentle mockery by blinking repeatedly. Anna Alexandrovna seemed startled. “We will want to speak to everyone in the house,” he said more seriously. “One of my officers will come back this afternoon to take statements.”
“But Osip Maximovich and Vadim Vasilyevich will be at the publishing house.”
“The publishing house?”
“Osip Maximovich is a publisher.”
“I see. You said that Osip Maximovich was not here on the day of the argument. Do you know where he was?”
“He was staying in a monastery in Kaluga province.”
“Optina Pustyn?”
“That’s right. He was on retreat.”
“When did he leave for Optina Pustyn?”
“Oh, weeks before. I mean, possibly two weeks before.”
“Did he go alone?”
“Yes. Vadim Vasilyevich took him to the station and saw him off.”
“But Vadim Vasilyevich was here in the house at the time of the argument?”
Anna Alexandrovna thought for a moment before replying: “I think so, yes. It’s hard to say for sure.”
“And when did Osip Maximovich return?”
“Last night.”
“Only last night? I see. And as for Borya…when did you notice that Borya was missing? Presumably you had noticed that Borya was missing.”
“Yes, of course, but…Borya often disappears. He can go missing for days.”
“He is a drunkard,” put in Katya, whom Porfiry was surprised to discover had not left the room, merely withdrawn into the peripheral gloom.
“Was he drunk when he argued with Stepan Sergeyevich?”
“When wasn’t he drunk?” commented Katya without concealing her disgust.
“Katya!” pleaded Anna Alexandrovna. Her eyes widened in admonition.
“Anna Alexandrovna, can you tell me what Borya and Stepan Sergeyevich argued about?”
“They were always arguing. Stepan Sergeyevich took pleasure in goading Borya. Stepan Sergeyevich was an intellectual. He questioned everything. Borya was a simple man. A man of faith. Everything he believed in, Stepan Sergeyevich ridiculed.”
“But what brought it to a head?”
“I don’t know that it was brought to a head. Why do you say it was brought to a head?” There was evasion in her question.
“Katya informed me that Borya threatened to kill Stepan Sergeyevich.”
“Borya would never kill anyone,” protested Anna Alexandrovna feelingly.
“But would you say this row was any worse than any of the others they had had?”
“Oh, things were said, certainly.”
“What things?”
“Please! How can I be expected to know?”
“Where did the argument take place? Can you tell me that?”
“In the yard. Borya was in his shed. Stepan Sergeyevich was in the yard, shouting into the shed.”
“What was he wearing?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Stepan Sergeyevich, what was he wearing?”
“His shuba, I think. Yes, I’m sure of it. He would have been. He never went out without his shuba on. He was very proud of it. He had it made specially, of course. To fit.”
“That’s interesting. He owed you money, I understand. And yet he could afford to have a fur coat made.”
“From t
ime to time Stepan Sergeyevich would do work for Osip Maximovich. Translations. He was paid most generously. But the money never lasted.”
“I hope you will forgive my next question, but it occurs to me and so I must ask it. That is the way it is with investigations.”
Anna Alexandrovna looked anxious but said nothing.
“How did such a man as Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov come to be living in your house?”
“He came to us when my husband was still alive.”
“I see. It was your late husband’s wish that Stepan Sergeyevich reside here?”
“My husband agreed to it, and so I suppose he must have wished it,” said Anna Alexandrovna.
Porfiry blinked excessively again as he took in the tension in her expression. At last he said: “I would like to search Stepan Sergeyevich’s room. And also to have a look in Borya’s shed. Did Borya have an axe?”
“Yes, of course. He had many axes.”
“Of course, what yardkeeper doesn’t have a good collection of axes! Even so, it is useful to have it confirmed. Especially as I expect that I will find one of his axes missing.”
“He killed him with the axe!” cried Katya.
“An axe is involved in these crimes, that’s true,” said Porfiry, turning to Katya. “But I’m curious to know why you are so convinced that Borya killed Stepan Sergeyevich. I have not said that.”
“And Borya was murdered too, Katya.” Anna Alexandrovna appealed to Porfiry: “You did say that they were both murdered?”
“Apparently.”
“Was it with the axe?” pressed Katya.
Porfiry smiled but didn’t answer. “Perhaps you would show me to Stepan Sergeyevich’s room?” He placed the glass on the tray and stood up.
PORFIRY STOOPED TO enter the room, a tiny space with sloping walls in the apex of the house.
“It’s very cramped,” he observed to Katya, who had shown him up.
“Stepan Sergeyevich was comfortable enough,” she answered from the doorway. There was not room for them both inside. “He didn’t need anywhere bigger. He never complained.”
Porfiry took in the details of the dead man’s lodging: the child-sized bed tucked beneath the eaves, the desk and single chair, both sawed off at the legs. The other furniture consisted of an enormous-seeming ottoman and an ornately carved trunk of dark wood. Through a small dormer window he looked down on Srednyaya Meshchanskaya Street. The sky was darkening. It seemed that there was a blizzard thickening in the air. But the room was warm: the heat of the house rose into it. Unlike the highly varnished parquet of the lower apartments, the floor was of rough boards. The room was clean, however. Porfiry looked around for an icon on the white-painted walls but did not see one.
