by R. N. Morris
“I agree.”
The startled bristling of Liputin’s unruly eyebrows settled into a suspicious scowl. “In that case, how do you explain-?”
“The two voices in the flat?”
Prokuror Liputin nodded anxiously.
“Govorov was an actor, a skilled mimic. It is my belief that he was talking to himself. It is likely that he was drunk. If he had been poisoned, he was possibly also raving. We all rehearse or reenact arguments in our heads. Perhaps he was simply vocalizing the process.”
“Exactly! You have explained it just as I would myself. Apart from the poisoning. I would not have hypothesized poisoning. It was just a drunken actor raving, preliminary to the extreme moment.”
“But you are overlooking the mysterious individual on the stairs, whose presence was mentioned by both witnesses. Tolkachenko said that his voice sounded familiar. When pressed on this, he claimed that it was the same as the other voice he had heard in the flat, the voice that was not Govorov’s. Or, if my theory is correct, the voice that Govorov was mimicking.”
“What does that prove?” demanded Liputin antagonistically.
“It proves nothing. It suggests, perhaps, that Govorov had just been conversing with this individual and was playing the scene again, this time taking both parts. Perhaps rewriting the script so that he got the better of his interlocutor. In all likelihood, the two men had parted company at Govorov’s door. But for some reason the mysterious man did not leave the building. He went up to the next landing and waited. What was he waiting for? Possibly for the sound of Govorov’s fall.”
“Perhaps this, possibly that, in all likelihood the other-”
“Very well. I will confine myself to those things I know for certain. The words that Govorov spoke, in his own voice, through the door to Tolkachenko. ‘It’s not me who’s the murderer.’ This is not simply a protestation of innocence. It is also the beginning of an accusation. It suggests he knows who the real murderer is. Providing someone with a motive for killing him. A reasonable supposition would be the individual waiting on the stairs.”
“But you are forgetting one thing, Porfiry Petrovich. There is no real murderer because there has been no real murder. What murder? Not the dwarf, I hope? Because you know very well that the man who killed the dwarf died by his own hand.”
“But the new evidence-”
“The new evidence concerned the disappearance of Ratazyayev. Do you have evidence that Ratazyayev has been murdered? Did his body turn up? If so, I am surprised you did not inform me of such a significant development.” The prokuror couldn’t help smirking at the cleverness of his satire.
“At the very least, in the case of the sudden demise of an otherwise healthy individual in the prime of his life-”
“That hardly describes this fellow Govorov.”
“-the law requires we establish cause of death. A medical examination is required for that.”
“A medical examination is not necessary for every old soak who drinks himself into the ground. Your own report mentions the empty bottle found near the body.”
“But what if we were wrong to dismiss Dr. Pervoyedov’s findings concerning the cause of death in the case of the yardkeeper? Let us allow, for one moment, that Borya was poisoned with contaminated vodka. Do we now have another instance of the same crime? Is this a modus operandi? Will it come out, will it be something we read about in the newspapers, that in our eagerness to close that case, we allowed a murderer to kill again? It is too late to prevent Govorov’s death. But imagine the scandal there would be if we made the same mistake again.”
“Porfiry Petrovich. I am not wrong. I am never wrong. It is impossible for the office of the prokuror to make mistakes. The law is quite clear on this. However”-Prokuror Liputin looked Porfiry in the eye-“it is certainly possible that you could have made a mistake. You could, for example, have misinterpreted my instructions.”
“I am sure that that is what has happened.”
“So I shall speak very clearly this time, in order that there should be no misunderstanding. You are to commission Dr. Pervoyedov to conduct a medical examination of the deceased Govorov forthwith. If the test for prussic acid poisoning is positive, you are to reopen the case of the dwarf-”
“Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov.”
“-and the yardkeeper. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Prokuror Liputin.”
“Incidentally, if Dr. Pervoyedov does find that Govorov was poisoned by prussic acid, I will have no choice but to instigate disciplinary proceedings against you, Porfiry Petrovich.”
“I understand, your excellency,” said Porfiry, almost losing his balance through the depth of his bow.
The body was wrapped in a green canvas sheet, rubberized on the inside. Two rubber-aproned orderlies lifted it from the trolley, one at either end. They grimaced noiselessly as they took the full weight. It seemed a point of pride to them not to utter a sound. The load did not sag or bend at any point. The orderlies seemed surprised by this rigidity, although they must have experienced it before. Perhaps it surprised them anew each time they encountered it. Or perhaps they were thinking of something else entirely.
They dropped it heavily on the waist-high examination table, the pine surface of which was as pitted and stained as a butcher’s block. It had beveled edges and a drainage hole at one end over an enamel trough. There was another, smaller table to one side, with a large set of balancing scales on it.
“How extraordinary. What an extraordinarily novel idea,” commented Dr. Pervoyedov, as he opened the canvas sheet exposing the gray-faced cadaver beneath. “To conduct a medical examination in a hospital! That is to say, to arrange the medical examination to suit the convenience of the medical examiner. What is the world coming to? What indeed. I wonder if our beloved tsar, when he began to entertain the notion of reform, I wonder if he ever dreamed that it would lead to such, such…revolutionary novelties!” Dr. Pervoyedov seemed particularly pleased with this choice of word and so repeated it several times: “Novelties. Yes, novelties. Here at the Obukhovsky Hospital, novelties!”
Major General Volkonsky and Actual State Councilor Yepanchin were once again in attendance as official witnesses. They frowned disapprovingly at Pervoyedov’s outburst.
Porfiry Petrovich smiled indulgently. “I was much struck by the prokuror’s use of the word ‘forthwith.’ Equally by his tone. There was an urgency to it. I took it upon myself to ensure that there would be no possibility of delay.”
“Will Prokuror Liputin be joining us?”
“I think not,” said Porfiry. His smile became tense. “I have the feeling that he wishes to maintain a certain distance from the proceedings until the outcome is clear.”
“Would that we all had that luxury.” After this comment Dr. Pervoyedov worked in silence. He was helped by one of the orderlies, who took upon himself the role of diener. Dr. Pervoyedov had not trained in Germany, but he had learned his pathology from professors who had and from the German textbooks they had brought back with them. The doctor communicated with his assistant-or “servant,” to translate the German term more accurately-through a system of finely nuanced facial expressions and nods. First Pervoyedov examined the already exposed areas of the corpse, including the eyes and fingernails. Then he nodded to the diener, and they began between them to remove the clothes. There was something numbing about the dead man’s open-eyed passivity as he was hefted to facilitate his last undressing.
Now the body lay naked on its back. The contaminating grayness of death had been released. The abdomen spread out to the sides in soft, uneven mounds. The penis was plump and stunted, shrunken into itself. It had the shamefaced air of a whipped dog. It was hard to think of anything more insignificant. Porfiry thought back to the time in the pawnbroker’s when Govorov had accosted him. He felt himself blush and averted his gaze distastefully.
He heard them roll the body over.
“No external signs of traumata,” Dr. Pervoyedov
murmured.
After several silent minutes the body was rolled again onto its back.
“We are particularly interested to know if there is any evidence of poisoning. For example, by prussic acid.” Porfiry addressed the remark to the ceiling.
“Everything in due course, Porfiry Petrovich. Everything in due course.”
Porfiry saw out of the corner of his eye that Pervoyedov had begun the deep, Y-shaped incision that would enable the skin to be pulled back.
Dr. Pervoyedov teased a long-bladed scalpel beneath the flesh with one hand, as he lifted a single thick sheet of skin and tissue away with the other. Porfiry was aware of the movement and the faint meaty smell that came when the body was opened up. The diener was already standing ready with the small curved shears that were used for severing ribs. Dr. Pervoyedov gave one of his communicative nods and then exchanged his scalpel for the rib-cutters.
He clipped methodically through the ribs on either side, with the ugly concentration of a man cutting his toenails. Each time the sharp metallic snip of the blades as they pinched together through the costal cartilages increased the startled determination angling the doctor’s eyebrows.
At last the cutting was complete, and he once again exchanged the shears for a scalpel. The diener, prompted by a particularly emphatic nod from Dr. Pervoyedov, placed the rib-cutters on the other table. He then bowed over the open chest of the body and suddenly plunged the fingers of both hands between the exposed and severed ribs, closing his grip beneath the sternum. He gave a sharp tug. Dr. Pervoyedov’s scalpel licked into the dark opening created to release the last tethers of tissue. The chest plate came away and was placed on the other table.
“If I remember correctly, Dr. Pervoyedov, you mentioned that in the case of the yardkeeper, Borya, the covering of the lungs was inflamed. It was that, I believe, that first alerted you to the possibility of poisoning. I wonder if that is the case in this cadaver?”
“We shall have a look, Porfiry Petrovich. Fortunately for you, I follow the Virchow method.” Dr. Pervoyedov drew his scalpel across the top of the abdomen. The skin fell away under pressure from the bloated internal organs. The doctor stepped back, giving way to his diener, who was now intent on some dark business involving string and scissors inside the body. Dr. Pervoyedov watched him with an expression of focused approval. “The Virchow method, you know, by which the organs are removed and examined separately.” To the diener he added: “Give me the lungs first, will you?”
The diener plunged both hands into the cavity and removed them a moment later, cradling an elongated raw pinky mass.
“The left?” asked Dr. Pervoyedov.
The diener nodded.
“It looks very pink. Not healthy. Not healthy at all. Yes, I would describe that as inflamed, wouldn’t you, Porfiry Petrovich?”
“You are the expert.”
“Ha! I am the expert! That’s nice. That’s very nice.” Dr. Pervoyedov shook his head. Then nodded for the diener, who placed the lung on the scales.
The weighing tray plummeted with a heavy clatter, as though angry at being disturbed. The diener gradually added weights to the opposing plate until the weighing tray rose and bobbed and settled. “Thirty-nine lot, zero zolotnik, and twenty dolya,” he announced, glancing to the doctor for his reaction.
“Within the parameters of normality,” said Dr. Pervoyedov. “Put it on the dissecting table, and I’ll take a section to look at under the microscope.”
“Would it not be possible to test the stomach contents first?” There was a slight edge of impatience to Porfiry’s voice. “I am eager to know if there is any evidence at all of poisoning.”
Dr. Pervoyedov seemed genuinely shocked by this suggestion. “But that’s not the Virchow method. By that method, I must complete my examination of the lungs before moving on to the next organ. What method are you suggesting I follow? It’s not the Rokatinsky.”
“I suggest you follow the”-Porfiry Petrovich hestitated only for fraction of a second-“the Pervoyedov method. By which you prioritize the order of examinations in order to confirm or refute the suspicions of the investigating magistrate as quickly as possible.”
“The Pervoyedov method, you say?”
“You could write a learned article on it. For the Russian Journal of Pathology.”
“Ah, but the thing to do is to be published in Germany. That’s the thing,” said Dr. Pervoyedov, waving a scalpel carelessly.
“Well, then. Write it in German.”
“The Pervoyedov method…It has a certain ring to it.” Dr. Pervoyedov grinned. “Unfortunately, the method you propose is, from a scientific point of view, utterly nonsensical. If I were to attach my name to it, it would very likely spell the end of my career as an academic pathologist.”
“It would be looked upon very favorably by the judicial authorities.”
“Ah, yes. I don’t doubt it. That’s the thing, you see. There you have it in a nutshell, Porfiry Petrovich. On the one hand, you have the interests of science. On the other, the interests of the office of the investigating magistrate. I had hoped they were the same. But the more I do this job, the more I learn they are not.”
“I trust our interests are the same. Both parties want the truth.”
“But you will insist on dictating which truth you want.”
“That’s unfair, Dr. Pervoyedov. I am merely seeking to influence the order in which the various truths concerning this case are discovered.”
The diener had by now weighed the second lung and was waiting for instruction.
“You know he’s proposing to fine me, don’t you,” said Dr. Pervoyedov with sudden and sincere bitterness.
“I’m sure Prokuror Liputin can be prevailed upon to drop the intended disciplinary proceedings against you.”
Dr. Pervoyedov considered Porfiry briefly. He shook his head with an indulgent smile as he turned his attention back to the dead man. “Very well. Give me the stomach now,” he said to the diener.
Crooked and bulging, the stomach was sluiced off and placed in an enamel bowl. Dr. Pervoyedov slit the finely veined sac along its tense convexity. A stinking, murky liquid spilled out, and the stomach collapsed into a wrinkled yellow skin.
“Be thankful, gentlemen,” said Dr. Pervoyedov. “He has not eaten solids recently. But judging by the smell, he has drunk vodka.”
“There was an empty vodka bottle found by the body,” said Porfiry. “Some vodka from it appears to have been spilled onto the carpet.”
“It would be as well to test that too.”
Porfiry nodded.
Dr. Pervoyedov opened a drawer in one of the laboratory benches. “I regret that Prokuror Liputin is not here to oversee my actions,” he said. He had in his hand a tab of litmus paper. The doctor dipped the litmus paper into the liquid. An intense red stain spread over it eagerly. He showed it to the official witnesses without comment. They were at a loss as how to meet his arch, questioning expression. Their nods were hesitant and solemn. “Ah well, at least you gentlemen are here to see that I do things properly this time.”
The doctor drew a quantity of the liquid into a syringe, which he then siphoned into a glass retort. With its long tapered spout at the side, the vessel had something of the appearance of a capsized swan. Dr. Pervoyedov showed a large brown bottle to the witnesses, his expression again pointed. The bottle was labeled SULFURIC ACID. The witnesses smiled weakly, averting their eyes and shuffling their feet like reproached schoolboys. The doctor shook his head and turned his back on them. He added a few drops of the sulfuric acid by pipette and shook the retort lightly. He then transferred it to another bench in the laboratory where there was a deep metal tray filled with sand, nesting on a burning gas ring. He closed the retort with a glass stopper and twisted it into the hot sand. He carefully turned the screw of a clamp to hold it at the neck.
“Satisfied?” he asked, with a half turn to the official witnesses. They communicated in dumb show that they were. “Really? Are you
trying to catch me out, gentlemen? That’s very mischievous of you. Very mischievous indeed.”
Dr. Pervoyedov nodded to the diener. The assistant picked up a glass tumbler and crossed to one of the high windows of the pathology lab. A slab of winter pressed against it, its vast blankness even swallowing the black iron bars on the outside. The diener swung open an inner pane, and the air became suddenly sharp and hostile, a splinter of the great destructive force that was ravaging the city. He worked the tumbler between the bars, scooping up the icy snow that had settled on the ledge. His movements, as he closed the window, had a nervous haste to them. He put Porfiry in mind of a jailer sealing the cell of a dangerous prisoner.
Dr. Pervoyedov attached a small receiving vessel to the end of the retort’s long spout. He now bedded this into the tumbler of snow. He shook his head and chuckled to himself. “They tried to catch me out. Imagine! They thought I would forget to collect the distillate.” When he was satisfied with the arrangement, he went back to the table where the empty stomach lay in a pool of slops.
With a deft and decisive manipulation, he turned the stomach through, revealing the furrowed musculature of its interior.
“The stomach lining shows no sign of being subject to any corrosive action.” Dr. Pervoyedov sounded almost disappointed.
“Does that rule out prussic acid?” asked Porfiry anxiously.
Dr. Pervoyedov glanced at the official witnesses, as if to say, Why don’t you ask them? But he contained his resentment. “No, no. Not at all. Oh no. Although it does rule out almost any other poison you might care to mention. In some ways, it makes prussic acid more likely. If poison has been used at all, that is. We must wait for the real test, however.”
“And how long will that be?”
Tiny globules of condensation were beginning to show inside the receiving vessel.
“Not long now. Not long at all, Porfiry Petrovich.”
WHAT DID HE DO, this man, in life?” asked Dr. Pervoyedov, as he removed the receiving vessel from the retort. Barely more than a meniscus of clear liquor had collected. Dr. Pervoyedov rotated the vessel as if he were appreciating a fine cognac.
