by R. N. Morris
“Yes, that’s it.”
Porfiry placed a hand flat against her cheek. Her skin was hot, and the makeup on it greasy and granular. He closed his eyes. Then felt her hand on his thigh.
“No,” said Porfiry, pulling his hand away and standing up. He distanced himself from Raya’s lingering touch.
“Why did you come?” asked Raya, looking up at him in wonder. Her eyes were very blue, he noticed.
“Where will I find Lilya, do you know?”
“It’s Lilya you want?”
“I wish to ask her some questions. Do you know a student called Virginsky?”
Raya shook her head. Her silk-fine hair opened and closed like a fan.
“How about Goryanchikov? The dwarf?”
“I know the dwarf. He’s a regular here. He always asks for Lilya. Perhaps he is her new boyfriend?” she wondered.
“Impossible. He’s dead.”
The alarm in her eyes intensified.
“It’s likely that he was murdered.”
“You think it was Lilya?”
“Where will I find her?”
“She’ll be with Zoya Nikolaevna, I should think.”
“Who is Zoya Nikolaevna?”
“The old prostitute who looks after Lilya’s child. They share a room and Lilya’s earnings.”
“Did Lilya not board here?”
“Not during the day. Fräulein Keller would not allow the child here.” Raya shivered. She was dressed only in underwear. However, it was not cold in the room.
“Cover yourself up,” said Porfiry.
Raya reached across the bed and pulled down the kimono from the screen. Slipping it on, her face was confused as well as fearful.
“I will tell Fräulein Keller that you pleased me,” he reassured her.
“I don’t understand. Do you want nothing more of me?”
“An address? For Lilya.”
“I don’t know it. How would I know it?”
“No matter.”
“Zoya lives somewhere near the Haymarket, I believe.”
“Thank you. That is very helpful.”
“Are you sure you want nothing more of me? Fräulein Keller says I am to do whatever you ask.”
“Is it not a relief to you?”
“It makes no difference to me. It’s why I am here, after all.”
“Are you really so indifferent?”
She reached out and lifted one of his hands to her face again. He pulled it away. Her reaction was as if he had struck her.
“Please, there’s no need.”
Her habitually cowed expression changed into one of cunning. “Why did you come here?” she asked again.
“I’m looking for Lilya.”
“Lilya is the only one who can please you.”
“Not in the way you think. I merely wish to speak to her.”
“I don’t believe you. You’re a man. And I know why you won’t sleep with me. It’s because you want my gratitude.”
“It makes no difference to me.” There was something pointed in the way his intonation, as well as his words, matched hers. To soften this, he added, “I would prefer it if you’re not grateful. You have nothing to be grateful for, after all.”
“Will you go now?” she asked, as if his presence made her uncomfortable.
He came close to telling her that she hadn’t the right to dismiss him. Instead he said, “What are you frightened of, Raya?”
The question took her aback. “The same as everyone,” she answered after a beat. “Getting old. Losing my looks. Not being able to work.”
“It frightens you that you will one day be free of this place?”
“Hunger isn’t freedom.”
Porfiry lit another cigarette and smoked it through completely in silence. “You’re an intelligent girl,” he said at last. Then he looked into the blue of her eyes and left.
A Well-Ordered Household
The following morning, as he had promised, Porfiry Petrovich called for Virginsky. He brought with him a pair of laborer’s boots. They were not brand-new but they were in good condition.
Virginsky sat on the edge of his bed and looked down at the boots between his feet. His toes poked out of threadbare stockings. The nails were overgrown and yellow. The skin in places burned an angry red.
“Why have you brought me these?”
“You are in need of a stout pair of boots.”
“I am in need of many things. Do you consider it your duty to provide me with it all?”
“I need your help. I want you to come with me to the house in Bolshaya Morskaya Street.”
“I told you enough to find it, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but I think it will be interesting for you to come.”
“Is this part of your investigative technique?”
“You’re very suspicious. Are you studying law, by any chance?”
“I was. I hope one day to resume my studies. When my finances allow it.”
“And have you considered what you will do when you’ve graduated?”
“I imagine I will be a lawyer. An advocate in the new courts.”
“So you believe in the rule of law?”
“I believe I will be able to exonerate the guilty as well as the next fool.”
“You’re not so cynical as all that.”
“What else is one to do with a law degree?”
“You could be a magistrate. An investigating magistrate.”
“In that case I’ll be performing the opposite function. Incriminating the innocent.”
Porfiry smiled indulgently. “I take it back. You are a cynic.”
Virginsky put one foot tentatively into a boot. “It’s too loose.”
“You could put extra stockings on.”
“Do you have extra stockings with you too?”
“Of course not. Surely you…?”
“I am wearing all the clothes I own.”
“It’s not necessary for you to live in this way.”
Virginsky ignored the remark and tried the other foot. “Where did you get these boots from?”
“Where do you think?”
“I think they came from a dead man.”
Porfiry pursed his lips with amusement.
“They’re not too bad after all,” said Virginsky, standing.
They walked north along Gorokhovaya Street. The Admiralty spire glinted ahead of them, a fine gold blade piercing the bright sky, like the memory of an inescapable crime in the city’s heart. The great thoroughfare glistened and smoked. Huge apartment buildings squatted on either side, presenting rows and rows of windows diminishing into the distance. Porfiry had a sense of all the lives lived out behind those blank panes. For some, such vistas brought to mind a theater backdrop. But for Porfiry, the city’s uniform facades were more like an impenetrable stone curtain. The tragedies took place behind rather than in front of them.
Virginsky smirked with private amusement as his boots pushed firmly through the recent layer of snow.
“What is it?” asked Porfiry.
“Oh, nothing. Except you have bought me for a pair of boots. That is how cheaply I have bartered my soul. Not that I have a soul.”
“You don’t believe in the soul?”
“I didn’t say that. I just said I didn’t have one. But no, seeing as you asked, I don’t believe in the soul. Or in God. Or the devil. Or any of that superstitious rot. Just as well really. If Mephistopheles himself were to come before me with an offer, I don’t reckon much for my chances of holding out.”
“So you compare me to Mephistopheles? But it’s not a question of selling your soul. You want to find out who killed your friends, don’t you? And you talk of becoming a lawyer. Really, you can’t be both a nihilist and a practitioner of law. Your position is fraught with contradictions.”
“Yes. Which is another reason why I despise myself.”
“Do you like your boots?” asked Porfiry after they had walked another few paces.
“I like the fact that they don’t let in the snow.”
“That is a perfectly reasonable position.”
“Tell me,” began Virginsky with some diffidence.
“Yes?”
“Am I not a suspect?”
Porfiry thought for a moment, then replied, “I don’t have a suspect yet.”
“Let’s say I am a suspect. Does it not complicate the issue, involving me in the investigation like this?”
“Let’s say you are a suspect. I will learn something from watching you react to the people in the house where Goryanchikov and Borya lived.”
“So I am a suspect?”
Porfiry gave his pursed smile again.
“This is a game to you,” said Virginsky accusingly.
“But let’s say you’re not a suspect. I much prefer to say you’re not a suspect. Even so, both victims were known to you. It is possible that the murderer is also someone known to you, perhaps someone who lives in the house, who may be there this morning. Your presence may provoke an interesting revelation. Oh, by the way, I may as well ask you this. It could save me a lot of trouble. Do you have any idea who could have killed them?”
“Do you think I would have kept it to myself if I knew?”
“Of course not. But you once said Goryanchikov had many enemies. How about Borya?”
“The only enemy Borya had was Goryanchikov. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“Not really. Whoever killed them wanted to make it look like Borya had killed Goryanchikov and then killed himself. I expect I shall hear much about how the two men hated each other.”
“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 caution 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.
