by R. N. Morris
Marfa Denisovna moved the seven of hearts across, placing it on the eight of clubs.
“Marfa Denisovna? Did you hear me?” Now there was an edge of panic to the younger woman’s voice.
“I heard you.”
“He asked about the argument.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him what I had to.”
“So. Stepanushka is dead. Poor Stepanushka. Ah well, it was meant to be. God did not look favorably on his life. His deformity was a punishment.”
“But why should he have been punished? It was not his sin.”
“He was not the only one punished.” Marfa Denisovna laid down the cards and spread out her fingers. There was not one that was without a wart. In places the clusters of nodules distorted the shape of the finger. It had not escaped Marfa Denisovna’s notice that her affliction made it harder for her to place her hands together in prayer. She picked up the cards again and dealt out the next three.
“They will be back. The authorities. A policeman will come to take statements from us all,” said Anna Alexandrovna hurriedly.
Marfa Denisovna at last looked up at Anna Alexandrovna, though with eyes that were barely visible. “I have always taken good care of this family. You need not be afraid on my account.”
“I’m not afraid.”
Marfa Denisovna continued playing in silence. At last she said, “I took care of things before, didn’t I? And I will take care of things again. God’s will be done.”
The Testimony of a Prince
"Of course, you must have expected it,” said Chief Superintendent Nikodim Fomich.
“I expected nothing of the sort,” answered Porfiry.
“Porfiry Petrovich.” Nikodim Fomich spread the fingers of both hands out on his desk as if he were taking precautions against its levitating. He pressed down firmly once and then sat back. “The prokuror has decided-”
“The prokuror is an arrogant fool.”
“In his opinion, the case is closed. The dwarf was murdered by the yardkeeper. The yardkeeper committed suicide. Your own investigations have uncovered several independent testimonies alluding to a violent argument between the men. Lieutenant Salytov has now interviewed all the residents of the house. A number of them have testified to the fact that the yardkeeper was heard to threaten the life of the dwarf.”
“But the medical evidence-”
“In the prokuror’s opinion, the medical evidence is flawed. ‘Suspect,’ I believe, was the word he used.”
“Dr. Pervoyedov said that he had never seen a clearer case of poisoning by prussic acid.”
“Those were the words he used?”
“Something like that,” answered Porfiry uncertainly.
“The prokuror is not impressed by Dr. Pervoyedov.”
“But that’s outrageous.”
“Another doctor, a doctor appointed by the prokuror, is of the opinion that the prussic acid traces were due to a contamination. Dr. Pervoyedov has been very overworked at the hospital. It is unlikely that the prokuror will allow you to call on his services again. He feels that Dr. Pervoyedov should be fined for incompetence, due to the contamination that has occurred. The facts of the case, as the prokuror understands them, are not consistent with poisoning by prussic acid.”
“No, no, no, no, no! That’s insane!” protested Porfiry.
“Be careful, Porfiry Petrovich. This is not like you.”
“But you must see the illogicality of the statement you just made.”
“Porfiry. This is Russia. We are governed not by logic but by authority. You know that as well as I. In fact, your friend Dr. Pervoyedov is getting off lightly. The prokuror was at first of the opinion that he had falsified the results deliberately to further his career. I managed to persuade him that that was not the case.”
Porfiry slumped in his seat. He could not speak for some time. At last he murmured, “What do I do now?”
“You must let it drop.”
“But the dead men? What of the dead men?” He saw in his mind an image of Goryanchikov and Borya transformed into masonry figures bearing the upper stories of an imaginary building. But unlike the real atlantes and caryatids of St. Petersburg, they writhed and groaned under the strain.
“They are dead. In the opinion of the prokuror, they should not be allowed to disrupt the smooth running of the judicial system.”
“Why didn’t he tell me this himself? I report to him, not to you.”
“Shall I tell you what I believe? I believe he is afraid of you. You’re cleverer than he, you see, Porfiry. All he has is his ambition and his power. You have more. You have cleverness and compassion.”
The compliments depressed Porfiry. “I’m surprised to hear you say I have compassion. Dr. Pervoyedov would not agree with that, I think.”
“But if you didn’t, you wouldn’t care who killed these men.”
“It’s not compassion that makes me care who killed them. I don’t have compassion for the dead. It’s no use to them. What are they going to do with my compassion?”
“I know what drives you, Porfiry. I know for whom you have compassion.”
“If so, you know more than I do.”
“The perpetrators. The poor, miserable sinners.”
Porfiry clasped his hands together and placed the knuckles of his thumbs against his lips. The gesture was prompted by agitation, but it looked a little like he was praying. “You’re thinking of that boy.” There was a note of denial in his voice. He would not look at Nikodim Fomich.
“Not just of him. It is for their souls, for the souls of them all, that you do it.”
“You’re talking nonsense. Why should I care about anyone’s soul but mine? I might have said such things in the past. But it was just a ruse. A technique. To get the confession. The confession is everything.”
“That’s my point!”
“But not for the reason you think. They can all go to hell for all I care. I can have no compassion for a cold-blooded murderer.”
“But you can, Porfiry. And you do. And that is what separates you from our esteemed prokuror.”
The tension flashed in Porfiry’s eyes. His expression oscillated between wounded and angry. “You’re wrong. You’re wrong about everything. It’s for the glory that I do it. I am as ambitious as the prokuror.” Still he would not look at Nikodim Fomich, as if he were afraid he would find confirmation in the other man’s gaze.
The clerk Zamyotov was waiting for Porfiry at the door of his chambers. Porfiry was in no mood to confront Zamyotov’s sly insubordination. However, he sensed something unwonted in the other man’s expression. Zamyotov seemed distracted, almost rattled, and this caused him to abandon any pretense. The angry impatience with which he greeted Porfiry was openly impertinent.
“Porfiry Petrovich! Where on earth have you been? How am I expected to fulfill my duties if you do not inform me of your whereabouts and movements? This gentleman-”
Porfiry frowned at a slightly built young man seated on one of the chairs reserved for witnesses and suspects waiting to see the investigating magistrate. The fellow’s eyes locked onto Porfiry’s desperately and beseechingly. His tie was fastened in a large looping bow. An overcoat trimmed with silver fox was draped over his shoulders. Beneath it he wore a mustard-colored suit and emerald waistcoat. A beaverskin top hat perched on his lap, kid gloves folded neatly on top of it. His hair lay in tight curls around his collar. He was clean shaven; in fact, Porfiry suspected his cheeks had not yet felt the razor. In the angle of his head and the needful intensity of his gaze, Porfiry saw some connection with Zamyotov’s flustered mood.
“-a personage of indisputable rank and influence.”
The young man smiled appealingly as Zamyotov spoke.
“Indeed,” said Porfiry drily. “It is not like you to be impressed by rank and influence, Alexander Grigorevich.”
Zamyotov pursed his lips as he weighed up his response. “I don’t know quite what you are implying.
I know only that he will not go away until he has seen an investigating magistrate. It concerns a matter requiring the utmost sensitivity. Having acquainted myself somewhat with the essentials of the case, I felt that you, Porfiry Petrovich, would be the person best-”
“Please, Alexander Grigorevich, your flattery is making me anxious.”
Porfiry smiled as he caught the look of confusion on the clerk’s face. He felt him close on his heels as he entered his chambers.
“But what am I to tell him?” demanded Zamyotov.
Porfiry looked up from behind his government-issue desk and calmly assessed the clerk’s angry insolence.
“A matter requiring-what was it? Sensitivity? But is it a criminal matter, Alexander Grigorevich? If it is not a criminal matter, I don’t see how I may be of service.”
“I believe it is a complicated case,” said Zamyotov, frowning distractedly. It seemed that Porfiry’s tone escaped him. “Obviously, not being an investigating magistrate, I am myself not qualified to judge legal issues.”
“My goodness! Such humility, Alexander Grigorevich!”
Zamyotov’s frown sharpened into annoyance. “It is your job to decide whether a crime has been committed, not mine.”
“Quite so.”
“Will you see him or not?”
“I feel, almost, that it is my duty to see him. Please, show the gentleman in, Alexander Grigorevich.”
The young man entered with a tentative step. Hat and gloves in hand, he had something of the air of a supplicant.
“You may go now,” Porfiry said to Zamyotov, who was lingering expectantly. The clerk challenged the peremptory dismissal with a glare. He slammed the door as he left. Porfiry turned to the young man, indicating a chair. “Please.” The young man moved with deliberation, almost gingerly, as if he were afraid the seat would not support him. And yet, as Porfiry judged, there was hardly anything to him. “You are?”
The young man seemed surprised by the question. He hesitated, as though he were unsure about the wisdom or necessity of supplying his name. At last he said, “Makar Alexeyevich Bykov.” His voice was high and strained. As the name seemed to make no impression on Porfiry, the young man added in a whisper, “I am Prince Bykov.”
“Prince Bykov.” Porfiry’s emphasis was satirical.
“You have heard of me?”
Porfiry allowed a beat before admitting, “No.”
“It’s just that I have written some plays.”
“You are a playwright?”
“They have caused quite a stir in certain circles. Perhaps they have come to your attention in an…uh…official capacity?”
“No. I have not heard of you or your plays.” Porfiry smiled in a way that he hoped was reassuring.
The young man seemed dubious. “Of course, I do not believe there is anything seditious in them myself. My works are inspired by a profound patriotism.”
“That’s all right then,” said Porfiry.
“Were they ever to be performed, however, there is a danger that they might be misunderstood. Willfully misunderstood, I mean. The meaning of the plays is clear enough.”
“I would hope so.”
“Alexander Grigorevich led me to believe that you would be able to help me.”
“I can’t help you with your plays. I am a magistrate, not an impresario.”
“It is not to do with my plays that I have come to see you.”
“Ah-I misunderstood.”
Prince Bykov was overcome by a sudden turmoil of emotion. It was as if he could hold himself together no longer. His voice was breaking as he blurted out, “Ratazyayev is missing.”
“Ratazyayev?”
“Yes.” The prince nodded violently, knuckling away his sudden tears.
“Who is Ratazyayev?”
“He is”-Prince Bykov closed his eyes, steeling himself-“a very dear friend of mine.” Prince Bykov opened his eyes again to see how Porfiry had taken this declaration. His look was raw and exposed but not timid and had about it no pretense. Whatever else he was, Prince Makar Alexeyevich Bykov was an honest man and a brave man too, Porfiry decided.
“I see,” said Porfiry. At that moment he decided also that it was time to take Prince Bykov seriously. “Please,” continued Porfiry, taking and lighting a cigarette. “Please tell me how it came about that Ratazyayev went missing.”
“I blame myself. It was all my fault. We quarreled, you see.”
“What was the quarrel over?”
Prince Bykov’s expression became pained. “Ratazyayev came suddenly into some money. I was suspicious. I accused him of certain things. He said he had an engagement. An acting engagement. Ratazyayev is an actor, you see, although he has not performed on a public stage for many years. I’m afraid I didn’t believe him. I accused him of many things. The engagement was supposed to be in Tosno. It was for a week, apparently. Precisely one week. But what theater is there in Tosno, tell me that? And what kind of a run lasts for just one week? One week! What can you do in one week? Was he not required for rehearsals? But then, no, it’s not a week, it’s two weeks. It was a private acting engagement. There was to be only one performance. The two weeks included the rehearsal time. It was in honor of Prince Stroganov-Golitsyn. You know the Stroganov-Golitsyns have their estate near Tosno. It was to be held on the prince’s birthday. A special performance, arranged by his friends. Very well. What play? Well, first it was to be A Feast During the Plague. A very appropriate play for a birthday celebration, would you not say? So then, no, it’s not A Feast During the Plague, it’s Little Snowdrop. My goodness, Pushkin must give way to Ostrovsky? So no, it’s not Little Snowdrop, it’s Boris Godunov. The whole thing? You can have a passable production of Boris Godunov ready in two weeks? No, no, no. Not the whole thing. Scenes from Boris Godunov. Scenes, only scenes. And what part is he to play? Why, he will take the title role! But if you know Ratazyayev, you will know he would be hopelessly miscast as Boris Godunov. The whole thing was a pack of lies from beginning to end, it was obvious. But when I challenged him, he became angry. He packed his case. He was going to Tosno. I could not go with him. He would not let me carry the case out to the carriage. Would not let me even touch it. So I was not required. That is all very well. I will accept that. I will accept that Ratazyayev is a free man. If he wishes to go to Tosno, I will not stand in his way. But to lie to me! That I will not stand for! And it is a lie! What he doesn’t realize, you see, is that I was in the Cadet Corps with a cousin of Prince Stroganov-Golitsyn’s. Whom I happened to meet at the English Club. And whom I happened to ask about this marvelous theatrical birthday celebration. At which point I discover that the prince’s birthday is in the summer-in August. Surely there must be some mistake. But no. The cousin is quite certain. He went to the party for the prince’s last birthday. And there was not a theatrical performance. There were open-air tableaux. The cousin himself took part in one. A scene from the Trojan War. He was Patroclus, I believe. I decide not to confront Ratazyayev with this. I can’t bear to. I can’t bear to hear more lies. I can’t bear to see the man I-” Prince Bykov broke off. He looked at Porfiry queasily. “A man I greatly admire…humiliate himself with lies.” Prince Bykov regarded Porfiry with a genuinely tortured look. “Perhaps I should have done. Perhaps if I had confronted him, Ratazyayev would be with me today. Instead I chose, to my shame, to employ subterfuge. I spied on him. I disguised myself and followed him to the Nikolaevsky Station, where he was to take the train to Tosno.”
“You disguised yourself? How did you disguise yourself?”
“Is it important?”
“It may be. If he saw you and recognized you, it could have a bearing on the case.”
“He did not recognize me.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I disguised myself as a woman.”
“I see.”
“He looked straight at me and did not see me.”
“And so you followed him to the Nikolaevsky Station.”
�
��I stood behind him as he bought his ticket to Tosno. I heard him say the destination. I saw him take the ticket.”
“You were so close, and he didn’t recognize you?”
“He had no idea. I bought a ticket to Tosno myself. I took the train. I did not sit in the same compartment as him, but I had a good look at him. He was on the train. I saw him on the train.”
“So what happened?”
“I got off at Tosno. I was one of the first to get off, I swear. I saw everyone who got off that train.”
“And?”
“Ratazyayev did not get off the train.”
“He decided to continue his journey?”
“But here is the thing that is strange.”
“Go on.”
“I saw a man, a man I had noticed in Ratazyayev’s compartment, get off at Tosno, and he was carrying Ratazyayev’s case.”
“But it was not Ratazyayev.”
“Precisely.”
“I see. Can you be sure?”
“I was not sure at the time. I doubted the evidence of my own eyes. But now I am sure of it.”
“Why are you sure of it now?”
“Because Ratazyayev has not returned. From wherever he went, he has not returned. He should have been back, he promised me he would be back, two days ago. But he has not come back, and I have not had a single letter from him for the whole time. That is not like him. I know we quarreled, but he would not punish me so much. We have quarreled before, and he has always come back. There have been tears. And reproaches. But forgiveness also. He knows I would forgive him. And he would forgive me.”
Porfiry paused to allow the prince to master himself. Then he asked, “Can you describe the case?”
“It is a brown case.” Prince Bykov mopped his cheeks with an enormous handkerchief. “A brown leather suitcase.”
“But how can you be sure it was Ratazyayev’s case? There must be many people who have brown suitcases.”
“It was the same size and shape, and it was scratched in a certain way.”
Prince Bykov watched expectantly as Porfiry finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in his crystal ashtray. “It is inconclusive,” he announced.
