by R. N. Morris
He took one last look at the door to Lyamshin’s. A man of more than average height was just pushing it open. Something about this figure’s back struck Porfiry as familiar. He watched as the man cast a furtive glance over his shoulder before going inside. That quick glimpse was all that Porfiry needed. The pallor of the man’s face was unmistakable, as were his thin compressed lips and his cold gray eyes.
“Porfiry Petrovich!” Porfiry frowned to hear his name called. Lieutenant Salytov was running up to him. His shout drew the attention of more than a few passersby.
“Shhh!” Porfiry beat the air with an outstretched palm, signaling Salytov to be quiet.
Salytov stopped a pace in front of him, out of breath. “But there’s something you need to know. I came straight over to tell you. I hoped I would find you here. We’ve had a report of a student trampled to death on the Kazansky Bridge.”
“Virginsky?”
“It’s impossible to say for certain. The head was mangled by the horses’ hooves. But the rest of the victim’s appearance fits Virginsky’s description.”
Porfiry looked back at the door to the pawnbroker’s. “Nothing makes sense,” he said. “There is no logic to any of this.”
“I am going there now,” said Salytov, squinting as if into the sun. But there was no sun, of course, in the gloomy arcade. “Will you come with me?”
Porfiry heard the agitated jangle of the bell to the pawnbroker’s. “Look,” he said, indicating the tall, thin gentleman with the pinched mouth who was coming out.
“Vadim Vasilyevich,” murmured Salytov.
Porfiry nodded in confirmation.
The publisher’s secretary was holding a small and densely ornamented gold box. He sheltered it protectively in both hands, as though it were a damaged bird he had rescued.
“Vadim Vasilyevich!” Porfiry raised a hand as he called out.
The secretary looked up at his name. For a moment, he seemed to contemplate making a run for it, but the sight of Salytov bearing down on him deterred him.
“May I see what you have there?” asked Porfiry, as he strode up to him.
Vadim Vasilyevich handed the box over without a word. It was heavy in Porfiry’s hands. He tried the lid, but it was locked.
“Do you have the key?”
“I do not.” Vadim Vasilyevich’s bass voice resounded with antagonism.
“You have just redeemed this?” Porfiry turned the elaborate box in his hands.
“You spied me coming out of the pawnbroker’s, I believe.”
“Why would a gentleman like yourself have need of the services of a pawnbroker?”
Vadim Vasilyevich hesitated before answering. “I have redeemed it on behalf of a friend.”
“Osip Maximovich?”
The secretary’s silence was answer enough.
“The question is even more pertinent. Why would a gentleman like Osip Maximovich have need of the services of a pawnbroker?”
“I really do not know. Except to say, even a gentleman may find himself in pressing circumstances.”
“The business is failing?”
“No. There is no question of that. It is just, sometimes, it pleases Osip Maximovich to engage in eccentricities. I really do not know why he pawned this object. I only know that he was most desirous of having it returned to him.”
“He commissioned you to redeem it on his behalf?”
“You may put it like that, but it was not so formal.”
“What were his words to you when he asked you to undertake this commission?”
“I cannot recall.”
“Cannot? Or will not?”
“He said it was time for him to have it back. That was all.”
“I see.” Porfiry handed the box back to the secretary. “Then please, return it to him with my compliments.”
Vadim Vasilyevich looked uncertainly at Porfiry. “May I go now?”
Porfiry nodded tersely. Vadim Vasilyevich clutched the ornamental box to his chest and hurried away.
Porfiry’s gaze scoured Salytov’s bewildered face. “Lead the way,” he said at last.
There was feverish excitement in his gaze as he followed Salytov across the flea market toward the Nevsky Prospect exit.
It was a fine day, cold but clear. The city glistened in the frost-refracted sunlight, like a newly forged weapon.
Porfiry dawdled as if he wanted the short walk to the Kazansky Bridge to last forever. Salytov repeatedly had to stop and wait for him, frowning severely as he bit the inside of his cheek. Then he would nod and turn as Porfiry drew level, and walk ahead again. They did not speak.
The Kazansky Bridge rose in an angular peak over the frozen Yekaterininsky Canal. As they approached it, they could see the stooped backs of the small crowd that clustered on the incline, defying the repulsive effects of the sloping, icy pavement. A polizyeisky shouted and scowled discouragement, but the stubborn voyeurs refused to disperse. They gazed with desperate fixity at a point on the ground, beyond the sharp ridge, as yet unseen by Porfiry and Salytov. Another polizyeisky could be seen turning away traffic.
A private closed carriage, fitted with winter runners, was pulled up just in front of the bridge. The horses stamped and snorted, their eyes bulging with wild indignation. The liveried driver took a sly swig from a flask. Inside, a dark, indeterminate figure sat motionless and withdrawn.
As Porfiry stepped onto the bridge, he felt his feet slide from under him. A firm hand caught him under the armpit and prevented him from falling. It was hard to see solicitude in Salytov’s expression. He unhanded Porfiry quickly, as though with some distaste.
Now that he was in among them, Porfiry could tell that it was more than fascination that held the onlookers. A kind of profane and callous awe was evident in their faces. They were mostly poor folk, servants, seamstresses, prostitutes, ragpickers, and low-grade civil servants, shivering with grim excitement in threadbare coats. It seemed that for the moment they had found relief from their own misery by contemplating the fate of someone worse off than themselves. And yet there was a sense of community, solidarity even, in their gaze. Although the victim was in all probability a stranger to them, it seemed they took the death personally, and they directed sly, resentful glances toward the waiting carriage. At the same time, however, a flicker of triumph, which they could not suppress but dared not acknowledge, showed in their eyes. It was the triumph of the living over the dead, and for the moment that they were possessed by it, there was no room for any other feeling, not even pity.
Their shoulders, as Porfiry and Salytov pushed through them, were hard but unresisting. Salytov negotiated briskly with the polizyeisky, who seemed both relieved and embarrassed to see them. “They are like dogs, sir. Like dogs in heat,” he explained, gesturing to the crowd.
Salytov got details of the accident from a witness whom the polizyeisky had detained, a cavalry officer who happened to be on the bridge at the time. His rank and bearing lent authority to his account, and there was an immediate understanding between the two men. He spoke clearly and unhurriedly, neither agitated nor bored. He had seen worse, was the impression he gave, but he recognized the necessity of due process and was respectful of that, if not of the dead. It seemed he felt more pity for the horses than for the trampled man.
Porfiry paid only scant attention to the officer and found himself looking at the obscure figure in the closed carriage. Finally he walked over. The black and highly polished lacquer of the coach’s bodywork shone impenetrably. It reflected back the tragedy of the day, without allowing it to touch the passenger within. Porfiry looked through the window. A girl of about nineteen or twenty stared back at him. The spreading bulk of her furs set off the fine, haughty beauty of her face. Her expression communicated outrage at Porfiry’s presumed insolence.
For an instant he wanted to drag her out of the carriage and manhandle her over to where he knew the dead man lay. Instead he simply bowed his head and looked down at the family crest laid in gold le
af on the carriage door.
He turned away and, at last, surmounted the crest of the bridge. With sudden decisiveness, as if to emphasize the independence of his actions, he looked down.
Inevitably, his gaze went first to the head, which had exploded like a trampled fruit. The snow around the sprawl of flesh, bone, hair, and brains was a dirty pink slush. Madly, Porfiry stared at the mangled center of this dark vortex, as if he really believed he would be able to recognize Virginsky’s features there. And when he could not, he cast about desperately over the rest of the body. All the limbs had a rag-bag casualness to them, as if they had been arranged by someone in a hurry, or with only a partial understanding of how the human body fitted together. Even the shape of the dark overcoat failed to impose any form or coherence.
At the bottom of the coat, two brown, worn boots, cracked uppers and gaping soles advertising their antiquity, projected at impossible angles.
Porfiry’s heart began to pound. But then he felt a guilty sickness at his own jubilant excitement. Here was a man driven to death by poverty and despair, or possibly in an alcoholic stupor, which amounted to the same thing. He deserved better than Porfiry’s selfish relief.
Suddenly, from a clear sky, it began to snow.
Porfiry turned his back on the dead man and broke into a brisk walk away from the bridge. This time it was Salytov who had to hurry to keep up.
Wild Surmises
The brightly painted facades of the wine cellars and delicatessens on the Nevsky Prospect beckoned cheerily. Porfiry felt a fleeting, childish wonder at the oversize representations of grapes, charcuterie, and caviar. All he wanted to do was go inside one of those shops and never come out.
Instead he went into the three-story office building on the corner of the Nevsky Prospect and Bolshaya Konyushennaya Street, across from the Lutheran church.
He declined the wiry commissionaire’s offer to escort him to the office of Athene Publishing.
He didn’t wait for his single, sharp knuckle rap to be answered but went straight in, signaling to Salytov to wait outside. Osip Maximovich Simonov, seated at his desk, looked up over his spectacles. Their lenses shone, veiling his eyes with a film of silver. There was not a speck on his black frock coat. His beard had a sculptural perfection to it, and his long hair presented a helmetlike solidity. His neatness went deep.
“May I sit down?” Porfiry bowed from the waist as he made the request.
The other man nodded guardedly.
Porfiry took a seat on the other side of the desk and fixed Osip Maximovich steadily. “I’d like to get to know you better, Osip Maximovich. I feel we have a lot in common.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I was educated at a seminary as well, you know.”
“Indeed? I didn’t know.”
“Couldn’t you tell?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“I will never forget the monks who taught me.”
“Of course.”
“I sometimes wonder if they would remember me.”
Osip Maximovich seemed to shrug.
“I like to think they would,” continued Porfiry.
“I’m sure you were a memorable youth.”
“Yes, but I’m a man now, am I not? The thing is, would they think of the child now when they saw the man?”
“Possibly. Possibly not. Porfiry Petrovich, I hate to-”
“I will never forget what they taught me too.”
“Then your education wasn’t wasted.”
“I was thinking more of my moral education.”
“I too.” Osip Maximovich’s smile revealed his straining patience.
“Do you believe in the soul, Osip Maximovich?”
“You already know that I am a believer.”
“Then I am afraid for you.”
“Please don’t be.”
“My friend Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky claims he doesn’t believe in the soul.”
“I’m surprised to hear you describe such a fellow as your friend.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Oh, I know all about Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky,” said Osip Maximovich quickly. “I know all about his addiction to laudanum. And his habit of stealing other people’s possessions to pawn them. I also know about that blasphemous contract he drew up with Goryanchikov.”
“You do?”
“Yes, Goryanchikov showed it to me.”
“An interesting document, wouldn’t you say?”
“Such a man is capable of anything.”
“Why?”
“Because he has no soul. He has surrendered it to another.”
“But if you don’t believe in the soul-as Virginsky did not-it follows that you don’t believe in the contract,” said Porfiry. “Such a document is meaningless. In fact, it only makes sense if you are a believer.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“How is Anna Alexandrovna?” asked Porfiry abruptly.
“She’s very well.” Osip Maximovich took off his spectacles. A small twinge of a smile quivered on his lips. “We are to be married, you know. Our engagement will be announced on New Year’s Eve.”
“Ah,” said Porfiry. “Now I know you did it. I know you did it all. You killed all of them. Starting with Goryanchikov. Then Borya. Then Govorov. Then Lilya, Vera, and Zoya. You killed them all, Osip Maximovich. I only needed your motive, and now you have given it to me.”
Osip Maximovich didn’t seem surprised. He didn’t even attempt to feign surprise. He simply said, “Nonsense,” then put his spectacles back on. “But tell me, how have you worked all this out?” There was mockery in his tone.
“Let’s start with Borya.”
“Why start with him?”
“Because he was where my suspicions started. Borya didn’t hang himself. Someone else did that for him. There was oil on the collar of his greatcoat. How did the oil get there? It was when I came to see you here that it came to me. I noticed the shop selling mechanical devices on the ground floor of this building. Of course! He must have been hoisted up by a block and tackle. You tied a length of rope around the bough of the tree, high up, with a loop hanging off it. Through the loop you threaded the rope that was tied around Borya’s midriff, which was attached at the other end to the block and tackle, itself secured to one of the other trees. At this point he was still alive, just, though he was rapidly dying from the poisoned vodka you had given him. We know he was alive because of the bruising we found around the middle of his body. You probably already had a halter loosely in place around his neck. When he was high enough, you tied this rope around the bough. You then untied the rope around Borya’s middle and used Borya’s axe to cut down the rope with the loop. It left the nick in the bark, which I admit puzzled us for some time. Now Borya was hanging by his neck, but he was already dead. The blood had ceased to circulate. That’s why there was no bruising around his throat.”
“But you haven’t explained why I should want poor Borya dead.”
“It wasn’t Borya you wanted dead so much as Goryanchikov. Borya was simply there to take the blame. He wouldn’t do it willingly, of course. So you staged his suicide to make it look like he had been overcome by guilt after murdering Stepan Sergeyevich for the six thousand rubles you stuffed into his pocket.”
“An interesting theory. I admit to being a collector of interesting theories. I find them entertaining. So I will hear you out. And then I shall refute you.”
Porfiry nodded. “You wanted Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov dead because he knew your secret; or rather, secrets. The first secret is that you, Osip Maximovich, are the publisher of both the Athene and the Priapos imprints. That is to say, a publisher of both reputable philosophy texts and disgusting obscenities. Goryanchikov knew this because he worked for you in both capacities. That was the meaning of one of the quotes in the extraneous passage of the translation. ‘Did not Alcibiades sleep with Socrates, under the same cloak, and wrap his sinful arms around a spiritual
man?’ Alcibiades was the pen name Goryanchikov used when translating pornography. ‘Socrates’ refers simply to the philosophical content of the Athene books.”
“Now I really have had enough of this tiresome nonsense. The fact is, Porfiry Petrovich, I can’t have been Borya’s murderer, or Goryanchikov’s. I was a thousand versts away in Optina Pustyn. If you had taken the trouble to check my alibi, you would have saved yourself the embarrassment of making these preposterous and quite unfounded charges.”
“I did check your alibi. I am always suspicious of people who are at pains to produce an alibi before they have been accused of anything, as you did. So I had the deputy investigating magistrate of Kaluga speak to Father Amvrosy in person. Fortunately he was granted an audience with the saintly man shortly before he died.”
“There was no need to do that. You could have simply looked in the convent records.”
“But I wanted, so to speak, to hear it from Father Amvrosy. Father Amvrosy was, after all, your old teacher from the seminary.”
“And?” The word came out bullishly impatient.
“Fortunately, the young gentleman whom I directed to gather this information was very thorough. He sent me a transcript of Father Amvrosy’s exact words.”
“Which were?”
“He said, ‘Someone by that name was here.’”
“There you are.”
“But don’t you think it’s a revealing choice of words? It suggests to me he was expecting a different Osip Maximovich Simonov from the one he received. Certainly, these are not exactly the words you would expect an old teacher to use of a former pupil.”
“But I took the train to Moscow. Vadim Vasilyevich saw me off.”
“To begin a journey is not the same thing as to complete it. I believe you did take the train to Moscow, in the first stage of a journey to Optina Pustyn. But you got off at Tosno. The first station on the route. In the meantime, you had exchanged luggage with an actor called Ratazyayev. Who then went on to Optina Pustyn and impersonated you.”
“Why should this fellow do this for me?”
