The Gentle Axe

by R. N. Morris

  “She could equally be motivated by them. Or rather by a false modesty and a distorted sense of shame. To keep certain things secret. Poison is a notoriously female weapon.”

  “But she would have to have had a man working with her. If only to string up the yardkeeper.”

  Porfiry shrugged. “I have my theories about that. More of a problem is the fact that her hand does not match the note I found in the box in Borya’s shed. I believe it was that note that led him to his death.”

  “It does not match?” asked Liputin, somewhat surprised. He searched quickly through the file to produce the two sheets of paper. “The paper is different, of course. But that means nothing.”

  “The paper is different. And that means nothing, as you say. But there are differences in the handwriting. Anna Alexandrovna’s is more rounded and, I would say, feminine. I believe the other note was written by a man attempting to copy her hand.”

  “You can’t possibly be sure of that!”

  “You’re right. I can’t be sure it was a man. But I am sure it is a forgery.”

  “But you did identify the scent on the paper as hers?”

  “Yes. However, anyone can buy a bottle of scent.”

  “It would have to be someone who knows what scent she uses.”

  Porfiry Petrovich nodded.

  “For instance, her maid,” suggested Liputin.

  Porfiry Petrovich pursed his lips, as if impressed. “When I called at the Widow Ivolgina’s house the other day, I noticed a particularly unpleasant taste in the air. I had just extinguished a cigarette. It is known that smoking cigarettes in the proximity of prussic acid can lead to such a reaction. I asked the maid about it, and she said that they had been fumigating mattresses. Fumigation is one of the domestic uses of prussic acid. She certainly would have had access to the substance.”

  “So it is the maid?”

  Now Porfiry raised his eyebrows doubtfully. “But then again, anyone in the house would have had the same access. The old nursemaid, Marfa Denisovna, for example. Or the cook, Lizaveta. Then there are the two gentlemen who lodge there. Osip Maximovich and his secretary, Vadim Vasilyevich. We know that Goryanchikov did work for Osip Maximovich’s publishing firm.”

  “Yes, but I see that Osip Maximovich’s alibi is vouched for by the late Father Amvrosy of Optina Pustyn. The telegram from that fellow in Kaluga confirms it.”

  “It would appear so.” Porfiry read from Ulitin’s telegram: “‘Someone by that name was here,’ were the elder’s exact words.”

  “There you have it,” said Liputin carelessly.

  “An interesting choice of words, do you not think?”

  “The reverend father was dying. I don’t think we can read too much into his exact choice of words. We were fortunate to get a testimony out of him at all. And besides, there was the convent register.”

  “A simple yes or no would have answered the magistrate’s question more decisively, without expending undue energy.”

  “These old mystics like to talk in riddles,” said Liputin conclusively. “So where are we? What of Vadim Vasilyevich? He has no alibi.”

  “And no motive, as far as we can ascertain.”

  “Oh, really, Porfiry Petrovich! You are really most infuriating! Will you not simply tell me who the murderer is?”

  “Please be assured that if I knew, I would not hesitate to tell you.”

  Liputin leafed through the documents of the file. “You released the student Virginsky.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you have at least discounted him?”

  “To some extent, I had discounted him, insofar as I had discounted anyone. You will know from the report that I had him tailed. And that he was seen to enter Friedlander’s the apothecary. This was the day before Govorov’s death.”

  “You questioned the apothecary?”

  “Lieutenant Salytov did.”

  Liputin searched through the papers to find the relevant statement. “‘He attempted to purchase laudanum. And failed.’” Liputin looked up, suddenly inspired. “Perhaps he was testing the apothecary. Someone who was lax enough to sell laudanum to an undernourished student might be amenable to even more questionable transactions. Your spy lost him. He may have tried again, somewhere else, and succeeded.”

  “But the murderer already had a source for prussic acid,” argued Porfiry, “as Borya’s death testifies.”

  “But to purchase too much from one source would certainly arouse suspicion.” Liputin spoke as if the matter were settled.

  “There is something else to consider,” said Porfiry. “Money. Virginsky never has much of it. If he wanted prussic acid, I do not believe he would ask for laudanum. It’s hardly consistent with the economics of poverty.”

  “Well, the apothecary may be lying. He would hardly be likely to admit selling a deadly poison to a suspected murderer.”

  “He did not know his customer was a suspected murderer. Perhaps he thought he was a butterfly collector.”

  “One does not collect butterflies in December in Petersburg, Porfiry Petrovich.”

  “What I mean is he could have justified the sale to himself—or to a jury.”

  “Juries!” cried Liputin with heat. “Don’t talk to me about juries. Even so, we should bring Virginsky in. He has the motive. The bizarre contract conferring ownership of his soul on Goryanchikov. While we’re at it, we should bring in the apothecary too. I’m sure Lieutenant Salytov would get the truth out of them.”

  Porfiry Petrovich bowed. “The investigation is in your hands now, your excellency.” Something about the way Porfiry said this seemed to give Liputin pause.

  “Yes, it is,” said the prokuror uncertainly. “What is all this business with the philosophy translation?” he asked abruptly.

  “I believe Goryanchikov knew his life to be in danger. I believe he also knew from whom. He has left clues in the text. Interposed sections that are not in the original.”

  “These are the passages you have drawn attention to?”

  “That’s right, your excellency. The first passage I noticed was the one that reads: ‘The father of Faith will be the destroyer of Wisdom.’ Since then I have discovered two other interpolations. One is a reference to Alcibiades and Socrates. You know who Alcibiades was?”

  Liputin moved his head ambiguously. It could have been a nod or a shake of denial, or simply an involuntary tic.

  “The great and, some would say, wholly immoral Athenian general,” continued Porfiry. “As famous for his debauched and sacreligious acts as for his military exploits. The reference is from Plato’s Symposium. The passage in Goryanchikov’s text reads, ‘Did not Alcibiades sleep with Socrates, under the same cloak, and wrap his sinful arms around a spiritual man?’”

  “Yes, yes, yes, Porfiry Petrovich. I am well aware of the loathsome practices the ancient Greeks indulged in.”

  “There is no such mention of Alcibiades and Socrates in Proudhon. The third interpolation…”

  Liputin raised a hand to silence Porfiry while he read the final passage that Porfiry had copied out:

  As everyone knows, Minerva was the daughter of Jupiter. She sprang directly from her father’s head. This miracle was achieved only after her father had devoured her pregnant mother whole. It should not surprise us that such a deity was also the father of many bastards. With an irony the ancients would have appreciated, the name of one of Jupiter’s bastards is Fides.

  “So what does it mean?” asked Liputin, laying down the note and confronting Porfiry with a severe gaze.

  “As yet I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” Liputin’s tone was indignant.

  “Do you know, your excellency? You have now had a chance to study all the evidence we have collected.”

  “Of course I don’t know. This farrago of nonsense is no help. Good grief, Porfiry Petrovich! What have you been doing all this time?”

  “I have been pursuing leads.”

  “And where has it got yo
u?”

  Porfiry held his palms upward, half in supplication, half in apology.

  “It’s just as well I’m taking over.”

  Porfiry nodded meekly. “What will your next step be, your excellency?”

  Liputin seemed to be distracted by a scratch on the corner of Porfiry’s desk. At last he threw a shy, almost abashed glance toward Porfiry. “What would your next step be?”

  “I would go back to where the whole thing started. The girl. Lilya Ivanovna.”

  “The prostitute?”

  Porfiry nodded.

  “You think she is the murderer?” asked Liputin uncertainly.

  “No. But I think she may be the reason for the murders. If I may make one further suggestion, your excellency. I fully accept the disciplinary action that you have initiated against me. However, I would propose that you postpone my suspension.”

  “That’s out of the question. I do not go back on my decisions.”

  “Do you ever gamble, Yaroslav Nikolaevich?”

  The prokuror regarded Porfiry with as much affront as if he had spat in his face.

  “I propose a wager—that’s all,” pressed Porfiry. “Delay my suspension for two days. If I have not solved the case, you may suspend me, indefinitely—without pay. If I have solved the case, I ask you to take no action against me. My success will redound to your credit. My failure will give you a scapegoat.”

  Prokuror Liputin pinched his lower lip pensively. “I am a Russian, Porfiry Petrovich. Of course I gamble.”

  24

  While the Girl Slept

  THE SUDDEN INTRUSION of green on the snow-covered pavement startled Porfiry. Perhaps he was the only man in St. Petersburg who had forgotten what time of the year it was. But the depth of the green and the darkness of it shocked him into remembering.

  Christmas trees of various sizes tumbled out from the Gostinny Dvor indoor market. The trees came from Finland. Some of them were still unadorned, others already decked with ribbons and painted baubles. The traders walked between them, hawking for business.

  Porfiry tapped the driver’s shoulder. “Here.” To Salytov, he added, “Give me a moment. It’s important.”

  He jumped down from the drozhki. It was half an hour before he returned. He was carrying a small package wrapped in gaudy paper.

  “I wanted to get something for the child. She has a child, you know. A daughter.”

  “The whore?” answered Lieutenant Salytov sullenly, looking straight ahead as the driver’s whip snapped the air.

  A slight smile showed on Porfiry’s lips.

  “What a temper you were in that morning, Ilya Petrovich!” Porfiry cast a wary glance toward Salytov. The lieutenant’s face was already pink from the cold air. It darkened at Porfiry’s words, clashing violently with his orange whiskers. Porfiry saw and continued: “We could hear your shouting throughout the headquarters. If only you hadn’t let Govorov get away, perhaps we would have solved the case by now.”

  Salytov brought his fur-sheathed fist down on the edge of the drozhki. “I didn’t let him get away! It wasn’t a question of letting him get away. He wasn’t in custody. He was the aggrieved party. The one pressing charges. No one expected him to go missing like that. And besides, we didn’t know he was Govorov then. We didn’t know who he was at all.” Salytov caught Porfiry’s smile out of the corner of his eye. “Damn you, Porfiry Petrovich!”

  “I’m sorry. I was being mischievous, I admit. But with a purpose. I want you to frighten her—Lilya Ivanovna—the whore, as you called her. I want you to bully her as you have never bullied anyone. Then, when I tell you, I want you to leave her to me.” Porfiry held up the present he had bought for Lilya’s daughter. “I shall take over.”

  “Does it ever occur to you, Porfiry Petrovich, that your methods may one day backfire on you?”

  Porfiry’s answering smile was unperturbed.

  PORFIRY RAPPED BRIGHTLY on the door, holding the gift he had bought for Vera in his other hand. He was still smiling as he said to Salytov, “Remember, be severe.”

  “Do you really feel the need to prompt me?” answered Salytov, and then blushed.

  “My goodness, Ilya Petrovich! Is that a joke? A joke at your own expense?”

  “Have the good grace not to—” Salytov broke off, flustered. A kind of flinching shudder gripped him. He looked away from Porfiry and continued to flex his neck in the aftermath of his convulsion.

  “No jokes when we’re inside, please. Leave that to me.”

  “If we ever get inside.” Salytov pounded on the door with a clenched hand. The silence that followed seemed enlarged by the violence of the blows.

  “Perhaps they’ve moved,” wondered Porfiry aloud, after a moment.

  Salytov tried the handle, which turned. The door opened inward but soon came up against something.

  Salytov leaned his shoulder into the door and pushed hard. The unseen obstacle yielded with a sigh as it was moved along the floor.

  “My God. My Christ,” murmured Porfiry, closing his eyes. His fingers tightened around the little present. He followed Salytov into the room.

  “This has just happened,” said Salytov, his own eyes greedy for the havoc. “The blood is fresh.”

  “No!” cried Porfiry. “Don’t say it.”

  “If we had come straight here—”

  “How did this happen? How could this happen?”

  The child, Vera, lay on the bed. Her body was in the typical pose of a sleeping child, the disposition of her hands angled by dreams. On her face, they wanted to see an innocent pout, perhaps a shadow of childhood anxieties, or even a hint of willful petulance. Anything but the bloody pulp, the mess of blood and bone and tissue, that confronted them. It seemed that someone had deliberately and laboriously obliterated her face.

  “God help us. God help us. God help us.” Porfiry felt his knees begin to buckle. He lurched backward. A flailing arm struck the door. It swung to. He fell back against it. “This is not right,” he groaned.

  “Let us hope she was asleep,” said Salytov grimly.

  “Why would anyone do this?”

  “It is the act of a madman.”

  Porfiry shook his head. “No. There is reason behind this. Cold reason.

  Did you see what he has done to her face? Why does he not want us to see her face?”

  And now they saw the girl’s mother. Lilya Ivanovna was lying on the floor near the stove, her head pooled in blood, her hair clotted in dark, damp ringlets. Her eyes and mouth were open. As if she had seen and named her attacker at the same moment. Her wound was not immediately evident.

  Salytov crossed the floor and dropped to one knee beside Lilya’s body, examining her head where it touched the blood-drenched floor. “She must have been struck in the back of the head,” he said. “And then turned over post-mortem. Or perhaps she turned herself over before dying. There is blood all over the stove. And on the walls. The little girl was asleep. She must have been asleep. Let’s say she was asleep. Let’s pray she was. The mother turned her back for a moment and was struck down. Suggesting her assailant was someone known to her. The murderer then turned his attention to the girl.” Salytov looked back, tracing the murderer’s movements. He gasped and reared back and pointed. He was pointing at the floor next to Porfiry.

  Porfiry looked down. Now that the door was closed, they could see what had been blocking it: Zoya Nikolaevna, in a silver fox fur coat that was stained with her own blood at the shoulders and down one side. That side of her head was glistening and red and wrong.

  All around, the painted saints and the beautiful gilded Christs averted their gaze. But this turning away had not saved them from defilement. Streaks and spots of blood added a new garishness to their colors.

  “He killed the mother while the girl slept,” Salytov insisted. “Then he killed the girl. Then the old woman came back. And he killed her as soon as she stepped inside. No time even to scream.”

  “God, no!” said Porfiry. He stood
and tottered and fell back against the door. He looked down again at the package in his hand. “This is my fault. This is all my fault. If we hadn’t stopped—”

  “You weren’t to know,” said Salytov unconvincingly.

  “Who has done this?” Porfiry’s stricken gaze demanded the answer of Salytov.

  The policeman’s expression seemed almost insolent. He held his back and neck very straight. “Pull yourself together, Porfiry Petrovich.” Salytov nodded sharply, as if in approval of his own words. Then he suddenly seemed at a loss.

  Porfiry pushed himself away from the door and staggered like a drunk toward Salytov. Salytov watched him in horror, unsure whether he was coming to throttle or embrace him. At the very end Porfiry veered to one side and stooped sharply, as if he would throw himself headlong onto the floor. One arm shot out in front of him and clutched at something. He somehow managed to keep his balance and stand up.

  “What have you there?” said Salytov. He could not make his voice sound natural.

  Porfiry held toward him the hand that contained the present for Vera.

  “I meant the other hand.”

  “Don’t you want to know what I got for her? I chose it very carefully.”

  Salytov didn’t answer.

  “Look! Look at it!”

  Salytov stood up to open the package. It contained a pair of painted wooden figures, a hussar and his lady, with crudely carved but cheerful faces. “What’s in your other hand?” demanded Salytov, without commenting on the toys.

  Porfiry opened his palm to reveal a small glass vial. The label said LAUDANUM.

  THE CABINETMAKER KEZEL’S wife opened the door. Her face was bruised and swollen. Her nose had become a broad glistening mound of purple and yellow.

  Salytov pushed past her. “Where’s Virginsky?” He possessed the apartment with his straight posture and searching glance. The place was immaculately clean, the furniture simple but new, solid and well made. “No sign of blood,” said Salytov to no one.

  Porfiry came in more hesitantly. He looked into the woman’s eyes for a long time, finding something there that he almost understood.