The Gentle Axe

by R. N. Morris

  He thought about turning around. He imagined himself outside, running, yes, running like a coward away from this place. But he imagined other things too: a knife coming out of the darkness and plunging into his midriff. He imagined a figure stepping out of the shadows. The face was a smooth blank. At the same time Salytov felt a retrospective anger at the way Porfiry Petrovich had tried to make a fool of him over the disappearance of the prostitute’s accuser, the man they now believed was Konstantin Kirillovich Govorov. But it had had nothing to do with him. The man had absconded before he became involved.

  He would show Porfiry Petrovich. He would bring Konstantin Kirillovich Govorov in alone.

  But more than anything, it was Salytov’s fear that persuaded him to stay.

  He could hear footsteps in the ground floor apartment now. In a moment he could be dead.

  The door cracked open. The glow of an oil lamp held at chest height flared upward, illuminating a single dark eye, set deep beneath a sprawling, highly animated eyebrow.

  “Govorov?” The hoarseness of his own voice surprised Salytov.

  “Upstairs.” The eyebrow wriggled as if from the effort of producing the word. A waft of pickled cucumber came with it.

  “Show me.”

  The eyebrow plummeted heavily. The movement expressed angry refusal.

  “I am a police officer. It will be better for you if you cooperate.”

  The door swung inward, allowing the halo of light to spread across the hall. The oil lamp was held by a short, balding man of about fifty. The first thing Salytov looked at was his eyebrows. He was impatient to dispel a superstitious sense of evil. Seeing them in the context of the full person only partially reassured him. He remained disturbed by their apparent unruliness and independence. He had to force himself to take in the rest of the man’s face. His skin was sallow, features Asiatic, his face skeletally gaunt beneath high, sharp cheekbones. A large bald head tapered acutely into a pointed beard, like an inverted onion dome.

  “I don’t want any trouble,” said the man. “This is a respectable house.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. You are?”

  “Leonid Simonovich Tolkachenko. I am the yardkeeper here.”

  “You have keys to all the apartments?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bring them.”

  The light went with Tolkachenko as he withdrew. Salytov felt Govorov’s presence fill the darkness.

  “What has he done?” said Tolkachenko sternly, returning with the bobbing light and the keys.

  “It’s no concern of yours,” said Salytov to the caretaker’s back as he followed him up the creaking stairs.

  “I knew it would end badly,” Tolkachenko threw over his shoulder.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I told him it had to stop.”

  “What?”

  “He brought girls here. He denied it. But I saw them and heard them. He tried to sneak them up the stairs. But I know the creak and groan of every step. And there is a board outside his door that calls out to me.”

  They reached the first landing. Tolkachenko pointed to the door on the right and nodded. Salytov gestured for him to open the door.

  The flat was in darkness.

  Tolkachenko cast the lamp’s unfocused glow about the room. “He’s not here.” Tolkachenko seemed surprised. “He was here.” The caretaker crossed to the window and held up the lamp to look out. He tested the window and found it locked. “How strange.”

  “Perhaps he slid down the banister,” said Salytov, grinning in the darkness. “Bring the light over here,” he added sharply. He was aware of an undefined dark shape hovering at shoulder height. “Give me that!” He took the lamp and allowed its flare to wash over the shape, which he was able to identify as a camera on its tripod. “So this is where he takes the photographs,” muttered Salytov. In that instant he hated Govorov. His desire to catch him and see him punished—for something, he didn’t care what—solidified.

  The swing of the sputtering oil lamp gradually revealed the room as a series of unrelated fragments: a sofa draped in a satin throw, a table littered with breadcrumbs and dirty crockery, an unmade bed, an open escritoire, a shelf of books, and propped up beneath it, a seven-stringed gypsy guitar. The escritoire demanded closer examination. Even at a distance Salytov recognized its contents as more of the genre of photographs he had confiscated from the tavern owner. In fact, it contained multiple copies of the same photograph. It was that girl again, the prostitute who had been brought in for stealing the hundred rubles. She was lying naked on Govorov’s sofa, her arms behind her head, her legs at right angles to each other, one knee sticking straight up, the other pointing out. Salytov felt his mouth contract with dehydration, sticking slightly to his teeth. The insistence of the image, repeated on every card he looked at, was dizzying.

  “Filthy whore,” commented Tolkachenko, with a heavy swallow. “And to think, all this has been going on above my head. Wait till I see Govorov.”

  “Say nothing. Do not arouse his suspicions. Do you understand? He may well be dangerous. This is a murder investigation. The moment he returns, send word to me. I am Lieutenant Ilya Petrovich Salytov of the Haymarket District Police Bureau. The Stolyarny Lane station.”

  “I know it. Not that I have ever been in trouble with the police,” added Tolkachenko quickly.

  “What hours does he keep, this Govorov?”

  “It is hard to say. He is not what you would call a regular gentleman. Sometimes he sleeps all day. Sometimes he is out all night.”

  Salytov crossed to the shelf of books. The volumes were all roughly the same size and shape, all in the same maroon cloth binding. He scanned the titles: Hareem Tales, The Adventures of a Rake, Pandora’s Awakening, White Slaves, A Sojourn in Sodom, The Gentleman’s Privilege, The Whip and the Whipped, The Pleasure of Purple (Being a Sequel to The Whip and the Whipped), Flesh and Blood, She Gave Herself to Gypsies, One Thousand and One Maidenheads, The Monk and the Virgins. Each one bore the imprint Priapos.

  Salytov gave an emphatic nod of triumph. It was not for the benefit of the caretaker, to whom he had nothing to prove, and whose presence he had anyway forgotten. He was imagining that he was showing the books to Porfiry Petrovich.

  18

  The Hotel Adrianople

  THE DROZHKI SPED north across the Neva over the Dvortsovy Bridge. The driver stood to whip the horse, a bay stallion. The beast’s neck arched and writhed. Its back rippled beneath glistening skin. Steam rose from its flanks. It turned its face sideways into the sharp oncoming air. Under the driver’s cries, the horse’s snorts, and the constant jangle of the harness bells, Porfiry Petrovich could hear the hiss of the runners over the smooth ice. He folded down his fur collar so that the moisture from his breath would not dampen it.

  It was good to be sitting in an open drozhki wrapped in furs, hurtling into the coldest, clearest day of the winter so far.

  “Fools,” muttered Salytov.

  Porfiry turned to see what had provoked the remark. Salytov’s gaze was locked onto a wooden sledding hill built on the frozen river. It was Saturday morning, and the thrill-seekers rushed four abreast up the steps of the great tower. Their shrieks as they came down the other side hung high in the emptied air. It was mostly boys and young men, but there were some girls there too, their faces flushed and intent on excitement. Porfiry smiled. He felt vicariously the stomach lurch and the soul’s vertiginous untethering.

  He did not feel inclined to push Salytov for the source of his misanthropy. “You did well, Ilya Petrovich,” he commented instead, shouting over the noises of transit. The sledding hill was behind them now, though the yelps of pleasure and fear could still be heard.

  Salytov did not reply. His expression was hidden from Porfiry.

  “Finding Govorov’s lodging was a breakthrough.”

  “It was nothing but methodical old-fashioned police work. A lead was bound to come eventually. It came sooner rather than later. I was luc
ky.” Salytov did not face Porfiry as he shouted his reply. The investigator had to strain to catch his words.

  “You know as well as I do, you make your own luck in this game.”

  Salytov grunted.

  “Of course, the question raised by your discovery is, why should a man who has permanent lodgings in Spassky Lane take a hotel room on the Bolshoi Prospect?”

  Salytov’s refusal to face Porfiry became pointed.

  Porfiry frowned. “Ilya Petrovich, if I have offended you in any way…”

  Salytov half-turned in Porfiry’s direction. But he could not bring himself to look the other man in the eye. “You have not offended me,” he said in a stiff tone.

  “I’m glad to hear it. Then may I ask—” Porfiry broke off. “But no, I may be mistaken.” Porfiry’s reticence failed to elicit the openness he had hoped for from Salytov. He watched the other man closely before pressing: “Do I detect a certain antagonism in your demeanor, Ilya Petrovich?”

  Salytov sighed deeply, making sure it could be heard, then faced Porfiry at last. A fierce and undisguised bitterness showed in his eyes. “I know my place. I am a simple police officer. I do whatever is required of me by the office of the investigating magistrate. If you have any complaints concerning the way I have fulfilled my duties, I suggest you take them up with my superior, Nikodim Fomich.”

  “I have no complaints, Ilya Petrovich. I merely wonder why you dislike me so much.” Porfiry’s throat felt tight from shouting. His voice sounded hoarse.

  “It is not necessary for me to like you. Or for you to like me.”

  “Of course, but what I think you do not realize is that I have enormous respect for you. I specifically requested you to be assigned to this case so that we could work together.” Salytov’s expression was suddenly outraged, as if Porfiry had insulted him. “What have I said now?” demanded Porfiry.

  “You do not know?”

  “No.” Porfiry’s eyes pleaded.

  “You insist that I tell you?” Salytov’s demand received a nod from Porfiry. “Very well. I know that you make fun of me. I know that you send me off on fools’ errands. You intrigue to get me the worst jobs. And here you have the boldness, the effrontery to say that you respect me!”

  “You are wrong, Ilya Petrovich.”

  “No, Porfiry Petrovich. I am right. I know that you are not to be trusted. You use the same tricks and techniques on your colleagues as you do on the criminals you interview. With me, it is flattery and disingenuousness. No doubt you would call it psychology.”

  “Is that really fair, Ilya Petrovich?”

  “You cannot even be straightforward with me now, when you have demanded honesty from me.”

  Porfiry exhaled audibly through his nostrils. “Perhaps you’re right. It is interesting to see myself illuminated by your perception. Not a very flattering portrait you paint.”

  “I do not flatter.”

  “I know, I know. That is my method. Forgive me then. I will own up to everything you accuse me of. Obviously, I am not as subtle as I like to think.”

  Salytov regarded Porfiry’s ingratiating smile coldly. He then leaned toward Porfiry, so that their bodies were pressed together. “You have never forgiven me,” he murmured, though he was close enough for it to be heard.

  “Forgiven you? What is there to forgive?” Porfiry too spoke more quietly now.

  “That it was to me that he confessed,” Salytov hissed with intimate antagonism.

  “I really have no idea—”

  “That student. Raskolnikov. He sought me out and confessed to me!”

  “But I was pleased that it was so, Ilya Petrovich. I was glad that he was able to confess at all. It does not matter to whom. The important thing is he confessed.”

  “Hypocritical nonsense! It was a blow to your vanity. Admit it. Have the decency to admit it.”

  “I see that I will not be able to persuade you of something you’re so determined not to believe.”

  “You cannot persuade me of your sincerity, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Hmm.” Porfiry pulled away and flexed his brow. “I’m sorry you feel this way. It is painful to me.”

  Salytov shrugged.

  “We must simply agree to ignore our differences and concentrate our efforts on the case,” said Porfiry, as brightly as he could.

  Salytov closed the gap between them again. “But will you be honest with me even in that?” His challenge had a pleading edge to it. “Will you honestly share with me all that you have discovered? Or will you—hold something back?”

  “If I am guilty of holding things back, it is only because I have nothing certain to disclose. I have discovered nothing. The solution evades me as much as it evades you.”

  “But you have your suspicions?”

  “Perhaps. But suspicions at this stage of the investigation are worthless.”

  “You see! You will not even share your suspicions with me!”

  “I will say this. I do not believe that Borya killed Goryanchikov—or himself.”

  “That is obvious. You have given me nothing.”

  “As for the student Virginsky—”

  “You let him go.”

  “I had no choice in the matter. I believe that he provides the key to the mystery somehow. Everything comes back to that contract. At the very least it provides him with a motive. But I need more than a motive. And I suspect there is more to it than meets the eye. At any rate, I have put a tail on him. I think it is as well to know what he is up to. It may even save his life.”

  “You think he is in danger?”

  “If the murderer believes he can incriminate him.”

  “Who do you think the killer is?”

  Porfiry Petrovich sighed despondently. “I do have a fault, you’re right. It’s a very Russian fault. I’m superstitious.” Porfiry’s glance was momentarily shy, almost apologetic. “Did you know I come from Tartar stock? On my grandmother’s side. She was born into a Kezhig tribe. Married a Russian subaltern. In my more fanciful moments, I like to imagine she was the daughter of the tribal shaman. Perhaps that accounts for it, my superstition. At any rate, it is that which is to blame for any reticence you may have noticed in me. Nothing more. Incidentally, contrary to what you may think, I do not believe these mysteries are solved rationally, through the exercise of a cold, deductive reasoning. The thing that terrifies me—sometimes, when I allow myself to think about it—is that I don’t know how they are solved. One must go to a place within one’s self. It is a kind of Siberia of the soul. In the criminal, it is the place where these deeds are conceived and carried through. But we all have a similar place within us, or so I believe. I know that I have. I can’t speak for you, of course.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “My point is, one cannot see clearly there. One gropes one’s way. Occasionally figures come toward one. Perhaps one is able to glimpse the features of a face.”

  Salytov relaxed heavily. He threw himself back and sat for a while considering Porfiry’s analogy. “Nonsense,” he shouted, at last. “You’re still trying to hoodwink me. You just want to guard your secrets in case I get there first. I must disclose everything I learn to you, but you can keep everything back.”

  “This has been a very diverting conversation,” said Porfiry. He took out his brightly colored cigarette case and held it open toward Salytov. The policeman snorted his refusal. The drozhki began to slow. Porfiry put away the case without taking a cigarette.

  VIRGINSKY SAW THE tramp huddled in a doorway on Gorokhovaya Street, a coarse sack pulled over his head. He knew from the ragged felt boots sticking out at the bottom that it was the same man.

  He was relieved that the man’s face was hidden. It saved him from confronting the fear that now obsessed him: that he would recognize himself in the stranger’s features. Somehow the idea had entered his mind that this figure dogging his steps was nothing other than his future self. The absurdity of it did not escape him. That he was incapab
le of religious faith but was prepared to entertain this stupidity as a literal truth.

  I am mad! He almost laughed out loud.

  His self-awareness offered hope.

  I think I am mad, therefore I am not mad.

  He sensed a movement in the sacking as he passed. But did not look. He was torturing himself with the notion that the instant he looked the tramp in the eye, he would merge with him. He would become his future. What a ludicrous and humiliating—yes, humiliating, everything about his life was humiliating now—superstition! And yet he believed in it enough to keep his eyes fixed firmly ahead.

  With the tramp behind him, he allowed himself to think about the meal he would soon have in a cheap restaurant. Perhaps that should have been humiliating too, given the means he had used to acquire the money for his dinner. He had not just begged; he had lied. Virginsky had no intention of attempting a word of the translation. He had gone there simply to see what he could get out of them. But he found that he was not ashamed or humiliated. He felt no compunction at all.

  He was almost grateful to his hunger, as it enabled him to look forward to a five-kopek meat pie as if it were a banquet. It also excused any behavior.

  He had just one more errand to run before dining. Glowing spheres of color drew him. He approached the lights in the window of Friedlander’s the apothecary. He was momentarily touched by wonder, although he knew that they were just big bottles filled with colored liquid and lit from behind. Unconsciously, his gaze went back to the doorway where he had last seen the tramp. He was dismayed to see that it was empty.

  THE HOTEL ADRIANOPLE was a low wooden structure that squatted heavily at the side of the Bolshoi Prospect, a brooding shadow compressed beneath the featureless sky. In places, its timbers were charred, as if someone had tried to set light to it.

  It was dark inside, and deserted. The reception area was minimal. A rack of keys was suspended behind a high desk at the start of a narrow, low-ceilinged corridor. Dirty yellow wallpaper absorbed the weak light.