The Gentle Axe pp-1

by R. N. Morris

  “Can I help you?”

  Virginsky turned. A sleek, elegantly dressed man of around thirty stood before him. He tilted his head back so that he could look down at Virginsky more effectively.

  Virginsky thought of all the things he could say to the fellow as he took in the details of his appearance, the long oiled hair that curled solidly at his collar, the crisp black frock coat, beneath it the taut waistcoat, as glistening and bright as a polished mineral, and the finely tapered, beetle-black shoes. Everything was sharp and unassailable, a hostile elegance, even the needle-scent of his perfume.

  “I bought a hat here once,” said Virginsky, putting as much defiance as he could into the claim.

  The shopman disdained to comment but pivoted backward at the waist, as though reeling from the words.

  “My father is a landowner,” blurted Virginsky. He bowed his head and left the shop, burning with a hotter, deeper shame than he had ever known.

  Dmitri led them down the dingy corridor. It was so narrow, they were forced to proceed in single file. Uninvited, the ragged porter brought up the rear. There was a watchful stupidity to his expression. His heavy-lipped mouth hung open. He evidently didn’t want to miss anything.

  It was hardly a room at all, just an odd bit of space left over after the construction of the rest of the hotel, an airless cell crammed into the last corner beneath the stairs. The door had a corner cut out of it to accommodate the sloping ceiling. Dmitri’s candle showed up the grime that lay over everything. The wallpaper was yellowish, though it seemed more likely that it owed its color to age than to any printing process. There seemed to have once been a pattern to it. The single bed almost filled the floor space. Next to it a wooden stool doubled up as a bedside table. There were more candles on a dark, oversize chest. Dmitri lit them from his own candle.

  “Who’ll pay for those?” demanded the porter.

  “You may present me with a bill. I will pass it on to the chief of police for approval,” answered Porfiry.

  “The chief of police!” scoffed the porter excitedly. But seeing the seriousness of the others, including the boy, he became discouraged and sullen.

  Porfiry handed a candlestick to Salytov and took one himself. The two of them examined the room closely. Porfiry looked under the bed, where, unsurprisingly, he found a thick drift of dust. In places, it seemed, the dust had adhered into heavy clumps. Porfiry removed one glove and tested one of these clumps with a fingertip. It was not dust after all.

  Porfiry rose to his feet stiffly, with a pinch of the substance between his thumb and forefinger.

  “What is it?” asked Salytov.

  Porfiry sniffed it. “I can’t say for certain, but I think it’s horsehair.”

  “Horsehair?”

  “Yes.”

  Salytov sank down onto his knees to take a look beneath the bed himself. Porfiry turned to Dmitri. “Is there anything you can remember, any detail at all, that struck you as odd, from the time that Govorov was staying in this room? Did you hear any cries, for instance?”

  Dmitri shook his head.

  “Did Govorov ask for anything? Did he eat? Did you bring food to his room?”

  “Yes, he ate. Of course he ate.”

  “What did he eat? Can you remember?”

  “Veal. Hors d’oeuvres. Tea.”

  “Did he ask for anything else?”

  Dmitri thought for a while. “He didn’t want vodka. I asked him if he wanted vodka, and he said no.”

  “That’s interesting,” said Porfiry. He gave Salytov, who was now back on his feet, an inquiring glance.

  Salytov nodded pensively. “Yes, I would not have had our Govorov down as an abstemious gentleman,” he confirmed.

  “Perhaps he brought his own vodka?” suggested Porfiry. “Let’s see,” he began to recap. “He declined the vodka but accepted the veal-even though this would have been within the Christmas fast, would it not?”

  Dmitri nodded.

  Porfiry continued: “Obviously not a strict observer of the Faith.”

  “Who is these days?” said Salytov. “Besides, I am surprised you expect a murderer to observe the fasts.”

  “We don’t know he is a murderer,” said Porfiry with a provocative smile.

  “It’s all we have,” said Dmitri abruptly. “If you don’t eat veal, you don’t eat here.”

  “We’ve never had any complaints,” said the porter aggressively.

  “And there was nothing else?” pressed Porfiry.

  “Only veal and hors d’oeuvres,” said Dmitri.

  “I meant anything else at all out of the usual.”

  “Well,” said Dmitri, letting out a huge sigh and frowning thoughtfully. “He did ask for a needle and thread. And a pair of scissors too.”

  “Ah!” cried Porfiry. “That is interesting. Was this after Goryanchikov had joined him or before?”

  Dmitri’s expression was blank.

  “The dwarf,” prompted Porfiry.

  “Oh, the dwarf was here. It was because the dwarf needed a patch in his suit.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s what he said. He said, my friend needs to patch his suit.”

  “So it was Govorov who made the request? Did you see Goryanchikov-the dwarf-at this point?”

  “No. He was inside the room. The gentleman came out to speak to me. He kept the door closed behind him.”

  “That is very interesting. And it could be significant. Ilya Petrovich, do you remember a patch on Goryanchikov’s suit?” Porfiry asked.

  Salytov shook his head.

  “Neither do I. Let us look at the bed, for a moment,” continued Porfiry. He pulled off the coarse blanket and gray sheets and threw them on the floor.

  “Do you mind!” objected the porter.

  Porfiry ran a finger along the seam of the mattress. “It’s been sewn up,” he said. “Rather badly, by the looks of it.” He picked at the large stitches with his nails. They unraveled easily. Salytov, Dmitri, and the porter, each holding a candle, pressed in at his shoulders, craning to see what he was doing.

  “Please be careful not to set fire to the bed,” pleaded Porfiry drily. “You may destroy vital evidence.”

  Porfiry pulled out a length of thread and folded back the corner of the mattress covering. There was a chorus of gasps behind him.

  Inside the mattress, lying flat on top of the horsehair wadding, was a small fur coat suitable for a child. The arms were folded over neatly, reminiscent of a corpse laid out in a coffin.

  Porfiry opened his cigarette case. He took one out and put it in his mouth. There were eight left. These he gave to Dmitri.

  Govorov Returns

  Porfiry saw Prince Bykov before Prince Bykov saw him.

  The young nobleman was sitting on one of the chairs outside Porfiry’s chambers. His expression was pained but patient, self-consciously stoical. With one hand he fondled his fur-covered top hat as if it were a lapdog.

  Why is he here? thought Porfiry. But the desperate neediness in the prince’s eyes was clear, even from a distance. He came to the police station because he was compelled to. It was the last link he had with his vanished friend.

  Porfiry experienced a mild spasm of guilt, the kind that comes when one is reminded of a duty deliberately ignored. But there was a kind of arrogance to his presence too, an aristocratic failure of imagination. Such a man was evidently incapable of understanding that Porfiry had anything better to do than investigate the causes of his unhappiness.

  Porfiry was about to turn on his heels when he heard his name called out.

  The clerk Zamyotov had seen him. At his loud, piercing “Porfiry Petrovich!” Prince Bykov looked up.

  Porfiry blinked several times and squeezed his lips into a smile.

  The prince rose to his feet, his hat in one hand, the other extended vaguely as if to grasp something.

  “My dear prince,” said Porfiry, walking briskly over to him as if he could not be more delighted to see the prince
. “How opportune it is that you should present yourself here! There is an important question I must ask you.”

  Prince Bykov tossed his head so that the dark tight curls at his collar shook. Confusion, and the effort of thinking it through, gave his face an antagonistic edge.

  “Please.” Porfiry held open the door to his chambers for the prince. “We have been pursuing a very significant lead.”

  “You have found Ratazyayev?” Now Prince Bykov’s expression shone with trusting expectation.

  Not for the first time, the young man’s emotional openness embarrassed Porfiry. He gestured for the prince to sit down. “No,” he said, taking his own seat behind the desk. He averted his eyes, so as not to have to witness the disappointment that would inevitably cloud the prince’s features. “But we have tracked down Konstantin Kirillovich Govorov. Do you remember that I asked you about him?”

  Prince Bykov frowned at the name. “Has he told you what happened to Ratazyayev?”

  “Ah. The fact is, we haven’t actually spoken to him yet. But we know where he lives. We are hoping to speak to him very soon. The yardkeeper at his apartment is very cooperative. He will inform us the moment Govorov returns.”

  “What if he doesn’t return?”

  “Let us hope that he does,” said Porfiry with a strained smile. He leaned back in his seat to light a cigarette.

  Prince Bykov watched him disapprovingly. “You said you wanted to ask me a question.”

  Porfiry closed his eyes. “The student Virginsky described both Govorov and Ratazyayev as actors. Please think back to the circumstances in which you heard the name Govorov. I believe you once told me that you had heard the name. Is it possible that it was in connection with Ratazyayev’s acting career?”

  “I really don’t know. I suppose it’s possible.”

  “You will have to do better than that,” said Porfiry sharply. In truth, he was weary. “For instance, can you tell me the last professional production in which Ratazyayev performed?”

  Prince Bykov seemed hurt rather than offended by Porfiry’s harsh tone. He composed himself and considered his answer. “It was hard for him to come by roles in recent years. His friends, or rather former friends, had turned against him.”

  “Why was that?”

  “He was thought to be unreliable. But it was…not fair. There had really only ever been one incident.”

  “What incident was this?”

  “But surely you know?”

  Porfiry shook his head, his mouth turned down.

  “He got drunk once. Very drunk. During a production. He went on stage drunk and-oh, I can’t believe you’ve never heard of the time the famous Ratazyayev…” Prince Bykov placed a pale hand over his eyes. “They have never forgiven him for it.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Must I say it?”

  “It may be significant. It may very well be significant.”

  “He relieved himself into the orchestra pit during the performance.”

  “I see.”

  “And then he fell off the stage. It caused a scandal. He…ran away. He was not seen or heard of for a year.”

  “So he has disappeared before?”

  “Yes, but this was a long time ago. Before I met him. Of course, I had heard the story-who has not?”

  “I had not, until now. But tell me, what was the production in which this unfortunate incident occurred?”

  “It was a revival of The Government Inspector, at the original Mariinsky Theater.”

  Porfiry was silent for a moment. “In ’fifty-six?” he asked distractedly.

  “So you do remember it?”

  Porfiry didn’t answer the question. “That was a long time ago. Ten years. How has he managed to earn a living since then, if not through acting?”

  “He has relied, to a large extent, on the goodwill of his friends. He still has friends.”

  “Govorov?”

  A wrinkled anguish disfigured Prince Bykov’s face. “I see, sir, that you are determined to force me to speak about that individual. Let me say first that I have never met him, that I will not meet him. I do not approve of him. I will say that he has been loyal to Ratazyayev. However, I also believe that his is a loyalty Ratazyayev would have been better off without. The loyalty of a viper is poisonous.”

  “You admit that he is a friend from Ratazyayev’s acting days?”

  “He was to blame! It was he who got Ratazyayev drunk! More than that, he goaded him on.”

  “I see. And recently?”

  Prince Bykov closed his eyes on a shudder. “Through Govorov, he became involved in certain…vile activities.”

  Porfiry opened a drawer in his desk and produced the photographs Salytov had taken from the innkeeper. He spread them out and pushed those that featured male participants toward Prince Bykov.

  The prince compressed his lips in disgust and nodded. “Yes. That is Ratazyayev. It is Ratazyayev in them all.”

  Porfiry gathered the photographs up.

  Prince Bykov looked away, trembling. “He also occasionally acted as a distribution agent for a publishing company. This was through Govorov also.”

  “Athene?” The name escaped without conscious thought. Porfiry did not know why he made the assumption.

  “No.” Prince Bykov was definite. “I have heard of them,” he added thoughtfully. “But this was not a respectable house.”

  “Priapos.” It was not offered as a question.

  The prince dropped his eyelids in confirmation.

  Leonid Semenovich Tolkachenko felt the turmoil of too many pickled cucumbers eaten too hastily.

  He was sitting in his armchair reading The Northern Bee. He had to hold the candle close to the newspaper. There was no light from the window. It was past three in the afternoon. Soon he would have to go outside and attend to his duties.

  Tolkachenko lived alone in a small apartment at 3 Spassky Lane, the building where he worked as yardkeeper. He had never married. Once, many years ago, when he was still a young man, he had come close to declaring his feelings for the daughter of Devushkin. This Devushkin was a clerk in the Ministry of Internal Affairs, where Tolkachenko worked at the time as a courier. Tolkachencko had also lodged with the family, sub-renting a room hardly bigger than a cupboard in their tiny apartment. The girl, Mariya Alexeyevna, was sixteen when it started. He left gifts for her that he could ill afford and feigned an interest in literature. But despite the family’s poverty and the father’s alcoholism, her parents were proud. They talked frequently and loudly of a very important personage from whom they imminently expected a proposal. Tolkachenko grew discouraged, even though the proposal from the important personage was not forthcoming. He stopped buying bonbons and lace. He went back to reading The Northern Bee. Mariya Alexeyevna ceased to be sixteen. In his eyes, she ceased to be many things. Her father lost his position. Her mother died, it was said, from disappointment. Mariya Alexeyevna began to look at Leonid Semenovich with big pleading eyes. Now she left gifts for him, books that he never read. She suggested a walk along the Fontanka in one of the city’s white summer nights. But he had remembered, with a mixture of shame and revulsion, the estrangement from himself that he had suffered at the height of his passion. Perhaps he had wished to punish her for that. Perhaps he had been afraid of experiencing such feelings again or, even worse, of not experiencing them. Or perhaps he had simply awakened from a strange dream. He did not meet her at the appointed time. Instead he put his few belongings into a carpetbag and walked away from the Fontanka. He did not look up once into the brilliant night sky. Nor did he ever make inquiries to find out what became of her.

  Thirty years on Leonid Semenovich Tolkachenko sat alone in the dark, reading The Northern Bee by candlelight. Since the policeman’s visit, he felt a more direct connection with the news accounts. Until now the wives beaten to death, the trampled drunks, the fathers murdered by their sons had existed at one remove, contained within the surface of the newspaper as if behind a looking
glass. Now such dangers and terrors were spilling out into the world he occupied. He could vouch personally for their reality. Reading the paper was no longer a comfortable sensation; the anxieties it inspired, with its fulminating editorials against the new law courts, were no longer vicarious.

  A murder investigation, that was what the policeman had said.

  “Dangerous” was the word he had used.

  In other words, Govorov was a murderer.

  Tolkachenko swallowed back a dyspeptic, vinegary belch and read:

  There has never been any doubt as to Protopopov’s guilt. On several occasions, in the presence of witnesses, he threatened to kill the victim. He was seen going into her apartment. A revolver was heard to discharge. When the police arrived, he was sitting calmly next to the dead body of his landlady with the murder weapon in his hand. He confessed immediately to the crime. And now, thanks jointly to the cleverness of his defense lawyer and the stupidity of the new juries-not to mention the incompetence of the police authorities-this man, a cold-blooded murderer, has walked free. In the process, the victim has been transformed into the criminal. Subject to the vilest slander and innuendo, none of it material to the case, her character has been publicly traduced. The inference we are meant to draw is that she deserved everything that came to her. Naturally, she cannot speak in her own defense. (You may reasonably ask: Why should she have to?) She is dead. Protopopov murdered her. He has never denied it. But this same Protopopov is acquitted, and his acquittal is greeted with rapturous applause. This may be the way it is done in France, but when the innocent become the guilty, when murderers walk free, none of us is safe.

  Tolkachenko heard the street door click. He sat up with a jolt and strained to listen. Footsteps reverberated on the stairs. The old boards shrieked and cracked like fireworks. Tolkachenko’s senses tingled unpleasantly. He was used to listening to the comings and goings of the residents. He could recognize them each by their step. But this time it was difficult. Footfalls overlapped. He narrowed his eyes and discerned two separate step patterns. Was one of them Govorov’s? It was hard to tell. He imagined, in fact, two Govorovs climbing the stairs.