by R. N. Morris
‘What a question! Please, Pavel Pavlovich. You cannot ask me such questions.’ Porfiry began to cough. ‘Really! The stench in here is insufferable! I cannot open the window, because the smell outside is worse. And there is the noise of the workmen in the street. How am I expected to think?’
‘It is the effluence in the canal. Raw sewage flowing in an open drain. A society organised along just lines would not tolerate such a circumstance.’
Porfiry did not take the trouble to remonstrate with him. ‘I sent a letter. Nothing has come of it.’
‘At any rate,’ began Virginsky with a shy, sarcastic smile, ‘as loyal subjects and dedicated servants, we should be thankful that the Tsar at least is safely removed from such noxious hazards. Indeed it is gratifying to know that anyone who has sufficient wealth and leisure may take themselves away from the city when such dangers are most prevalent.’ Making this final remark, Virginsky couldn’t prevent himself from blushing self-consciously.
‘At least you had the decency to look abashed,’ commented Porfiry. ‘However, I must warn you against sarcasm too, Pavel Pavlovich. It is not an endearing habit. Policemen in particular do not like to feel themselves ridiculed. You will find that you will need the cooperation and, indeed, the goodwill of policemen. You would do well to make yourself amenable to them.’
‘That will be difficult for me. You forget that I have been manhandled by policemen. I do not have pleasant memories of my period of incarceration.’
‘The experience will serve you well. You will understand more than most the need for certainty when constructing a case. You know what it means to be wrongly accused and deprived of your liberty. I am confident that you will not take your responsibilities lightly.’
‘May I remind you, Porfiry Petrovich, that it was you who arrested me?’
Porfiry held a hooked forefinger along his mouth. ‘It was not too bad. You had time to reflect. You might even have written a novel, had you been so inclined. Wasn’t that how Chernyshevsky produced the novel we were talking about, the one that has so influenced you?’
‘I am sure he would have preferred to have enjoyed his liberty while writing it. In fact, I imagine he would rather have been spared the necessity of writing it altogether. In a rationally organised society, such a book would be redundant.’
‘I see we have returned to the topic of conversation that we must make a strenuous effort to avoid.’ Porfiry at last pushed himself off his perch and paced to the centre of the room. He stared up at the ceiling, moving his head in erratic jerks. Virginsky tried to follow his shifting eye movements. ‘There is a fly in this room,’ said Porfiry abruptly. ‘It is at the moment a more pressing problem to me than the future organisation of society. You would be more usefully employed catching the troublesome fly than discussing utopias.’
Virginsky made no move to take up Porfiry’s suggestion. ‘But again, I say to you, with respect, Porfiry Petrovich - the fly and the organisation of society are not unconnected. It is the filth in the Ditch that encourages the breeding of flies.’
Porfiry’s gaze snapped towards Virginsky. His look was forbidding. ‘I will say one more thing on this subject. Then we will never talk of it again. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps too there is an analogythat can be drawn between flies and criminals. You will argue that in a rational and just society, there will be no criminals and no crime, for every citizen will realise that it is not in his best interests to commit crimes. You will probably also argue that it is the irrational and unjust organisation of society - analogous to the putrid Ditch - that produces the criminals, who are represented by the flies in our analogy. Eradicate the open sewer and you will diminish the population of flies. Transform society, and there will be no more criminals. That is all very well, but in the meantime, there are flies and there are criminals. We must do what we can, as sane and rational men, to ensure that they do not overrun us.’
‘But if . . .’
‘Enough!’ Then Porfiry added more gently: ‘Really, that is enough on the subject. I have said all I want to say and heard all I need to hear. Besides, there is a case . . .’
‘A case?’
Porfiry sat down behind his desk. ‘I see that there is more to your wishing to join the department than simply a desire to further the common cause.’
‘I admit that the intellectual challenge appeals to me. I like to solve problems.’
‘You need not apologise for that.’
‘I was not . . . apologising.’
‘It can be stimulating. And when it is a question of uncovering the truth, it may even be noble. However, unfortunately, very few of the cases you will be called upon to deal with will challenge your intellect. Even here in the Department of the Investigation of Criminal Causes, as our particular branch of the Justice Department is known. The solutions in most of these cases are all too depressingly obvious. If there is a wife who has been murdered, it is the husband who has done it. A tyrannical father, his son. An oppressive rent collector - look among the tenants. There is more often than not a connection between the murderer and the victim. Nine times out of ten, it is immediately apparent. It is that tenth instance that is the challenge, and for that the investigator has to be alert. But whether it is the intellect that is the most usefulfaculty here, or instinct, coupled with an understanding of human nature - well, my own view inclines towards the latter. These are not abstract puzzles to be unpicked, nor exercises in logic. We are dealing with people’s lives. Crimes are the eruptions of human passions, of greed, desire, jealousy. Despair. These are the criminal causes we investigate. An investigator needs to be watchful. But most of all he needs to be capable of looking into his own heart. Do not rely on your intellect, Pavel Pavlovich. Rely on your humanity. Of course, there are very rare instances in which the victim is selected completely at random, when the connection is merely accidental. I am talking about the crimes of the insane. But perhaps even here, if one knew how to look, one would find a connection.’
‘But what of the case you mentioned?’
‘Ah, yes, good. Good. The case.’ Porfiry picked up a telegram that lay on his desk. ‘This came in shortly before you arrived. From the Shestaya Street Police Bureau in the Peterburgsky District. I will explain the details on the way. I assume you are ready to start work immediately?’
‘Where are we going?’ Virginsky had to hurry to keep up with Porfiry Petrovich, who was capable of moving at a surprising speed, considering his portly figure. They were racing along a low-ceilinged but narrow corridor on the fourth floor of the building in Stolyarny Lane that housed the Haymarket District Police Bureau.
‘Petrovsky Island.’
Virginsky came to a halt. ‘That was where . . .’
‘Yes. Where it all began the last time you and I met. However, this is a new case.’
Virginsky ran to catch up. ‘The place does not have happy associations for me.’
‘Nor for me. In fact, there are few places remaining in St Petersburg that I can go to without being reminded of some tragedy.’
‘Surely Petrovsky Island is outside the jurisdiction of the Haymarket District?’
‘That is so. But the Department of the Investigation of Criminal Causes is at the service of the whole of the St Petersburg police force. There are certain cases that are recognised at the outset to be rather more challenging than the usual. Or possibly it is due to the seriousness of the crime. In this case, a suspected double murder. Earlier today, the wife and son of one Dr Martin Meyer collapsed and died, simultaneously, at the family’s dacha.’
‘I see. And you suspect the doctor?’
‘My dear Pavel Pavlovich! It is assuredly too early to make such pronouncements.’
Virginsky noticed the way ahead was blocked by a man in a civil service uniform, who was holding his ground in the centre of the corridor, instead of stepping to one side as Porfiry rushed towards him. Porfiry had his head down and seemed not to be aware of the other man. The civil servant in question
was of average height and build: a nondescript individual. It seemed he would inevitably be knocked down by Porfiry’s flying bulk.
‘Porfiry Petrovich! Watch out!’
Virginsky uttered his cry just in time. Porfiry teetered forwards and then back on his heels. He looked up at the human obstacle.
‘Sir, you will kindly give way.’ Porfiry’s politeness hardly masked his fury.
‘I give way? No sir. You will give way,’ said the other.
‘I have an important case to attend to.’
‘Ah! And so my duties are unimportant!’
‘It is surely a simple matter for you to step to one side.’
‘An equally simple matter for you!’
‘You must surely agree that I am the one who is in a hurry, the one running along the corridor, while you were the one who was standing there like a . . . like a . . . like a . . .’
‘Like a what, may I enquire?’
‘Like a dummy, sir!’
‘A dummy! You are calling me a dummy!’
‘You pressed me to complete my comparison.’
‘Will you take it back?’
‘I don’t have time to take it back. Simply get out of my way and let’s have an end to this nonsense.’
The other man drew himself up. ‘Sir, we are coming close to the point where I will be compelled to demand satisfaction.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I am a magistrate. You are in a police station. You cannot possibly challenge me to a duel.’
‘Ah! You are admitting that one cannot expect honour from a magistrate!’
‘I am simply pointing out that duelling is against the law. Now kindly step to one side. You have made your point. You are my equal. You yield to no one. As far as all that goes, I agree in principle with your position. However, as a matter of practical necessity, I urge you to get out of my way, sir!’
The civil servant seemed momentarily confused by this. He frowned and drew in a deep breath, as if preparing to frame a question. But instead, the back of one hand shot up to his forehead, and a sinuous swoon seemed to come over him. He fell back against the wall.
Porfiry nodded tersely and stormed on, closely followed by Virginsky.
‘It is my vertigo!’ cried the civil servant. ‘I have not given way to you!’
Porfiry shook his head. ‘They are always hypochondriacs,’ he muttered. They reached the stairs. The soles of his shoes slapped rapidly as he skipped down.
3
A Russian beauty
They stepped out into a cloud of red dust, their ears assaulted by the clamour of destruction. A wall had just come down, on a site being cleared for building work. The gritty particles revolved in the sunlight, uplifted, celebrated, unstoppable. Porfiry coughed, and instinctively felt for his cigarette case.
‘What are they building now, I wonder?’
The city, in summer, was a transitional place. A temporary population of migrant labourers, peasants from the outlying country-side, displaced the regular inhabitants and reshaped the city’s fabric with casual vigour. Their indifference was brutal: without a flinch, hardly pausing to wipe the sweat from their eyes, they would tear down a house here, throw up a new one there, or mask familiar landmarks with novelty. There was the sense that there was no one to stop them; that the permanent citizens would return dismayed and disorientated by the changes wrought in their absence. And so, over the years, their city would become unrecognisable, and they would be left strangers in it.
The workmen whistled and shouted through the kerchiefs over their faces. Their eyes never sought to meet the eyes of any residents who were left to witness their vandalism. If accidental eye-contact was ever made, as happened now between Porfiry and one of the hammer-wielding demolition workers, a momentary flicker of defiance or suspicion was all that was exchanged.
Porfiry hailed an empty drozhki that was coming over Kokushkin Bridge. There was a flash of welcome and complicity in the driver’s sidelong glance as he half-turned to watch them climb in. His eyes were squeezed almost shut from blinking out the sweat and sunlight.
‘Petrovsky Island. As quick as you can.’
Porfiry fell back into his seat with a grimace of pain as the cab lurched away, the driver standing to whip and threaten his horse.
‘Does it not occur to him that his horse would live longer if he whipped it less?’ said Virginsky.
‘Be careful,’ Porfiry muttered warningly as he shifted his position on the bouncing seat.
‘What?’ Virginsky stiffened.
Porfiry raised his eyebrows and smiled, but wouldn’t be drawn.
It wasn’t long before they were driving alongside St Isaac’s Cathedral, whose gilded dome blazed in the sun’s profligacy. Virginsky turned a sullen gaze towards the church.
‘Imposing, isn’t it?’ commented Porfiry, smiling watchfully.
‘What has always struck me about it is its proximity to the War Office.’
‘It is just as well to have God on your side before you go into battle.’
Visible now ahead of them, the broad surface of the river glistened and beckoned, alive with teeming craft. A barge hugged the granite embankment, drawn by a team of peasants, who leant and strained and pushed into their harnesses.
As they passed the equestrian statue of Peter the Great, his great bronze horse rearing in the direction of the Neva, the serpent trampled beneath its hooves, Porfiry cast a provoking look at Virginsky, as if to say, ‘Well, and what do you have to say about him?’
The drozhki thundered on to the temporary pontoon bridge, its boards reverberating under the hooves and turning wheels. Porfiry felt a sudden lightening of his mood, an almost festive impatience. It was summer, and he was crossing the river to the islands. The cool breeze of movement, the water’s freshness, lifted him.
Two more bridges later, and they were on Petrovsky Island. As they raced through the park, Porfiry was aware of a desire to slow the drozhki. The easy, squandered greenness around him had a clinging appeal. He looked with an envious nostalgia at the parties singing folksongs around samovars and smiled at the couples strolling and the children chasing the breeze along the paths. He remembered the island’s winter desolation, and it seemed like a duty to make the most of these few green months.
They could tell which dacha it was from a distance: the only one in its group with a cluster of carriages and men around it.
Porfiry tapped the driver. The horse snorted and slowed, released from constant curses and lashes. Its gait became complicated and tripping.
Porfiry took in the details of the house. He saw the crudely rendered horse’s head, cut from a plank and projecting from the apex of the eaves. It was there both to celebrate and ward off the unruly forces of nature. To Porfiry’s eye, no doubt influenced by his knowledge of the two dead bodies within, the dacha’s prettiness was entirely without charm, though he acknowledged that the boards were well maintained.
The dacha creaked in protest as they set foot on the veranda.
The uniformed men there straightened protectively. Porfiry recognised a kind of jealousy in their faces. The scene, and its contents, belonged to them, and they resented the newcomers’ intrusion.
Porfiry noticed the smell immediately. It was that that drew his gaze down to the two bodies on the decking. He turned solicitously to Virginsky. ‘Are you all right?’
Virginsky’s nod was barely perceptible, a mere bob in the aftermath of closing his eyes. ‘You forget. I have seen the dead before.’
Porfiry regarded the young man closely, the face drained of colour, the line of the mouth thin and tight, his eyes held closed. ‘That’s what concerns me. You may wait outside if you wish. But I must go in.’
Virginsky’s eyes now flashed defiance. ‘I would not miss it for the world,’ Virginsky hissed through clenched teeth. He minutely signalled the other men watching them. Porfiry swivelled his body to follow his glance, then turned back and tilted his head away from Virginsky. His look was assessing, al
most disapproving.
‘I understand. However. This is a serious business. There is no place for bravado here. We are all men, that is to say, human beings. No one will think any the less of you.’
‘It is something I have to do. And besides, if not now, when?’
Porfiry conceded with a nod.
A young politseisky whom Porfiry recognised had been following their exchange with interest. His face was open and bright, his eyes sympathetic.
‘Ptitsyn, isn’t it?’ said Porfiry, remembering the officer’s name.
‘That’s right, Your Excellency.’ He was all eagerness and energy, a puppy of a man.
‘So, who have we here, Ptitsyn?’ Porfiry’s face became duly solemn, indeed pained, as he looked down at the bodies. His eye in passing took in the pools of vomit.
