A Vengeful Longing

by R. N. Morris

  ‘Can you not simply commission another doctor to repeat his tests?’

  ‘Provided there are enough mice left in St Petersburg, then I suppose it is a possibility, but really it is too aggravating.’ Porfiry cast a dismissive glance over the medical report.

  ‘Porfiry Petrovich, what if Pervoyedov the character witness is right?’

  ‘Impossible! These doctors always stick together. There is more than enough evidence to justify bringing in Meyer. Once we have him, and he is away from his sources of comfort, whatever they may be, I feel sure he will crumble. A confession will count for more, as far as a jury is concerned, than confusing scientific evidence. I shall instruct the Shestaya Street Bureau to arrest him.’

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘What else do you suggest I do?’ Porfiry’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed Virginsky through a cloud of smoke he had just produced.

  ‘What about the confectioner’s? Should we not investigate the possibility that the chocolates were contaminated at source?’

  ‘Do you really think that’s likely? What would their motive be?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s hard to imagine what motive any shop could have for poisoning its customers.’

  ‘Yes, but surely it is a question of eliminating every possible cause, until only one survives.’

  Porfiry met Virginsky’s heated insistence with an aggressive flurry of lashes. The younger man blushed. Porfiry expelled more smoke. ‘You mean, a question of going through the motions? And in the meantime, a murderer remains at liberty.’

  ‘The converse of that is that you may arrest an innocent man.’

  Porfiry slammed Pervoyedov’s report down on his desk. ‘Another cursed fly! How are they getting in here?’ He looked up at Virginsky. ‘Pavel Pavlovich, as I have had occasion to remark already, you think and argue like a defence advocate. This is a useful skill for an investigating magistrate to have, although I should warn you against taking it too far. Experience informs me that by far the likeliest explanation in this case is that Meyer has murdered his wife and child. He is a doctor. He has access to toxic materials. I do not think we will have to look far to find a motive.’

  ‘I am surprised to hear you talk like this, Porfiry Petrovich.’

  ‘However,’ Porfiry pressed on, the batting of his eyelids increasing emphatically, ‘in order to construct a watertight case against him, we must caulk any chinks. Therefore, I would, as a matter of course, send someone to the confectioner’s on Nevsky Prospekt.’

  ‘As a matter of course?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why did you not mention it earlier, I wonder.’

  ‘It is all part of your training. Another skill you will find useful to possess is the ability to persuade a sceptical superior of your theories.’

  ‘I see. I thank you, therefore, for the lesson, Porfiry Petrovich.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  5

  At the confectioner’s

  Sunlight flashed in the vast window of Ballet’s the confectioner’s, a white blaze that transformed the glass into a field of living energy. Lieutenant Salytov watched his reflection as it was consumed by the glare, his cockaded hat being the last of him to disappear. Ballet’s was on the sunny, even-numbered, side of Nevsky Prospekt. In general, and particularly in summer, Salytov preferred to keep himself to the shady side of the street.

  His startled reflection reappeared for an instant. He drew himself up and regarded his ghostly double with a disdain it had the effrontery to reciprocate. For a moment it appeared that he was about to challenge himself to a duel. But then he looked through himself and took in the interior of the shop. Most of the twenty or so tables were empty. Circular, draped in sharp-edged linen, they seemed like miniature suns, with the same relentless brilliance. He spotted only three customers. Sitting on his own at a table by the window was a young man, somewhere in his twenties, of surprisingly impoverished appearance, considering the tariff at Ballet’s. He was reading one of the newspapers that Ballet’s provided for its customers, with a half-drunk cup of coffee on the table before him. At another table, further into the interior, two men were deep in conversation, their heads inclined conspiratorially. Other than that, he couldn’t ascertain anything meaningful about their appearance. The glass flared again, obscuring his view, and he went inside.

  As Salytov crossed the floor of the shop, the two men broke off talking and watched him warily. One of the men had a red, pock-marked face and tiny eyes. The other was almost handsome, though his collar was very grubby and he had dark rings around his eyes, as if the grubbiness had spread there.

  There was a stout woman serving behind the counter. Her expression, as well as her build, suggested a reluctance to part with the pastries and sweets she was selling.

  Salytov looked down at the display of goods in a glass-fronted cabinet, as if he might buy something. ‘The chocolates that you sell, they are made here on the premises?’

  ‘That is so, sir.’ The woman had a strong German accent; her nationality was possibly significant, it seemed to Salytov.

  ‘Were you serving here in the shop Saturday last?’

  ‘I . . .?’ She regarded him uncertainly.

  ‘You must answer my questions.’

  ‘Yes. I was here. I am here every Saturday.’

  ‘You have many customers for your chocolates, I imagine?’

  She shrugged and at that moment looked over Salytov’s shoulder. Salytov turned around. The two men had risen from their table and were heading for the door. The German woman took up a small pommelled stick and beat angrily on a gong that was on the counter top. The sound of the gong was curiously muted, given the energy she put into striking it. ‘You men! You do not leave without paying. This man is a policeman. He will arrest you.’

  The two men stopped in their tracks. The pock-marked one whispered something to his friend, who glared and was about to say something but ran out of the shop instead. The remaining man turned slowly to show a premeditated smile. ‘A simple oversight, Fräulein. You know us. We are friends of Tolya’s. We always pay our way. And if we are temporarily embarrassed, for whatever reason, Tolya is usually magnanimous enough to extend us reasonable credit. Is Tolya in today?’

  ‘That is no business of yours. And no business of Tolya’s to do this thing. You will pay now. Forty kopeks.’

  ‘Ah! How insignificant a sum for men of enterprise and industry such as ourselves. A mere forty kopeks! Fräulein, shame on you, for presuming that we were unable to pay this paltry sum.’

  ‘Pay it then!’

  ‘Pay it then! Pay it then! she cries, giving voice to my very intention. It is as if you have read my mind. How could I not pay it? I am a man of honour. It is easier for me to throw myself into the raging Neva than to walk out of here without paying.’

  ‘I am waiting.’

  ‘And so am I, Fräulein. I am waiting, indeed, for my associate, Stepan Stepanovich, to return having completed a certain business transaction destined to release the required funds. To be candid, it had been our intention to conduct the necessary dealings prior to coming into your establishment, but we were tempted from the righteous path, as it were, by the sight of your beauteous and, if I may say so, bountiful sweetmeats. Fräulein, you have only yourself to blame. Are we not men? That is to say, mortals? Weak, imperfect. I make no claim to perfection, Fräulein. None whatsoever. Ask Tolya.’

  The woman behind the counter made a contemptuous noise, then bluntly declared: ‘You are thieves! Criminals!’

  ‘Fräulein! Is it a crime, now, not to be perfect? A mistake, a simple human mistake, Fräulein, that is what we are dealing with here, one which, as we speak, is in the process of rectification.’

  The shop door opened and the man with the grubby collar and smudged eyes returned. After some tense and whispered negotiation, which involved the pock-marked man grabbing his collar at one point, he counted out some coins which were then handed over
to the unsmiling German woman.

  The two men left, the pock-marked one jostling his associate all the way out.

  ‘They are regular customers?’ asked Salytov after a strangely empty moment.

  ‘They are friends of Tolya’s. They are no good. Tolya is no good.’

  ‘Tolya works here?’

  ‘He is an apprentice confectioner. A bad boy.’

  ‘Does he assist with the making of the chocolate?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Salytov’s left eyebrow shot up. ‘I see. That is very interesting. I would like to talk to him. After I have had a chance to ask you a few more questions. We were talking about chocolates, weren’t we? I am interested in a man who comes here every Saturday, around lunchtime, to buy a box of Ballet’s chocolates. A fellow countryman of yours. A doctor, he would be dressed in a civil service uniform.’ Salytov took out a notebook and consulted the notes he had made when Porfiry Petrovich briefed him. ‘Clean-shaven. Bespectacled. Thinning, blond hair. Of slight build. Walks with a stoop.’

  ‘Yes, I know him. That is Dr Meyer.’

  Salytov snapped the notebook to. ‘Good. Now you will fetch this Tolya.’ The woman disappeared through a door behind the counter. There was a brief explosion of clattering and clamour in the opening and closing of the door. While she was gone, Salytov looked around at the only remaining customer, who lifted his coffee cup absently, but then replaced it without its reaching his lips. The young man sighed balefully as he turned the page of his newspaper, paying no attention to Salytov.

  A lad of about sixteen, with wild hair and staring eyes, burst out through the door to the workshop. He was wearing a white coat, spattered with cocoa dust, which to Salytov’s eye looked at first glance like dried bloodstains.

  The German woman followed him through the door, her eye watchful and anxious. It seemed she did not trust the boy, and trusted Salytov less.

  ‘What do you want?’ demanded the youth, with a sullen glance.

  ‘What do I want? It is not for you to ask me what I want. It is not for you to ask any questions. I will ask the questions and you will answer them. Is that understood?’

  The boy did not answer.

  ‘Is that understood?’ roared Salytov.

  ‘Why are you shouting? I have done nothing wrong. I am a law-abiding citizen.’ Tolya’s own voice was raised in volume and pitch now. ‘I am supposed to be working. The master will miss me.’

  ‘You must answer my questions.’

  ‘You haven’t asked any questions!’ Tolya pointed out in exasperation.

  Salytov seemed momentarily thrown by this, which gave Tolya the advantage. However, his smirk at the lieutenant’s discomfiture was a mistake. ‘Get out here now!’ barked Salytov.

  Tolya groaned and began to move with resistant lethargy.

  ‘Now!’

  If Tolya hurried his step, it was done only in a token way, and perhaps even sarcastically. When at last he was out from behind the glass counter, Salytov approached him ominously, regarded him for a moment, like a gymnast poised before a manoeuvre, then threw back his hand and slapped the boy square in the face. Tolya’s head was twisted round under the force, and shock, of the blow. A red imprint showed on his cheek when he turned his head back to look at Salytov. His eyes stood out from his face more than ever. With some satisfaction, Salytov noticed these eyes glisten moistly as tears welled in them.

  ‘You are the one they call Tolya?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Full name.’

  ‘Anatoly Denisovich Masloboyev.’

  ‘You associate with scoundrels, Anatoly Denisovich. Isn’t that so?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Do you want another slap, boy?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then answer the question.’

  ‘I . . . what was the question, sir?’

  ‘Do you associate with scoundrels?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Without warning, Salytov planted another smack on the same side of the youth’s face.

  ‘Try again.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I have seen your friends and they looked like scoundrels to me. Are they scoundrels?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Are you a scoundrel, Anatoly Denisovich?’

  ‘No, sir!’

  ‘You look like a scoundrel to me.’

  ‘No, sir! It’s not true.’

  ‘You have the eyes of a scoundrel. Stop blubbering, boy. It will not help you.’

  Tolya wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his coat and sniffed loudly.

  ‘Where are you from, Anatoly Denisovich?’

  ‘The village of Ulyanka, Your Honour.’

  ‘Ulyanka?’ Salytov’s eyes narrowed coldly. ‘We all know what Ulyanka is famous for. The house at the eleventh verst.’

  ‘I was never in that place,’ said the boy quickly, emphatically.

  Salytov looked at Tolya assessingly. He did not seem to like what he saw. His lip curled almost cruelly. ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘No, sir, Your Honour. Never. Never set foot in it!’

  ‘Your passport?’

  ‘I do not have it with me, Your Honour. It is at my lodgings.’

  ‘No passport? It is all the more likely that you are a refugee from the house at the eleventh verst then.’

  ‘I do have a passport, as I explained, Your Honour. I do not have it on me, that’s all. And, believe me, I was never in that place. Not on my own account. It was my mother -’

  ‘Your mother is a lunatic?’

  ‘No, sir, there were lies told about her. My father’s family was cruel. She is dead now, Your Honour. They drove her to it.’

  ‘A suicide?’

  ‘They drove her to it!’

  ‘Let me see your hands.’ The suddenness of Salytov’s request took Tolya off guard. He held out his arms. His hands were surprisingly clean. Salytov slipped the handcuffs on him with the practised deftness of a conjuror. He grasped Tolya firmly under the arm. ‘A suicide and a lunatic for a mother. No passport. These are sufficient grounds for taking you in. Now you,’ Salytov addressed the German woman, ‘get your master out here now. I wish to speak to the owner of this place.’

  She disappeared back into the workshop, shaking her head and shouting in German.

  While he waited, Salytov turned to look at the young man in the window, who had stopped reading his newspaper and was watching events unfold with some trepidation. ‘As for you - you finish your coffee and leave. This place is closing until further notice.’

  A moment later, Salytov was sharing this information with the proprietor of Ballet’s, whose agitated protestations, and over-groomed moustache, only served to strengthen the police officer’s resolve that his decision, taken admittedly without consultation, was nevertheless the right one.

  Lieutenant Salytov shifted uneasily as he heard the lock turn. The flimsy pamphlets in his hands were damp with sweat. The door to the interview room creaked open. Porfiry Petrovich came out, quickly followed by Virginsky, on whose face Salytov detected a mocking leer. Salytov felt his teeth clench with rage. Really, it was too much to bear. The last time he had seen that insolent puppy, he had been the suspect in a murder investigation. Outraged, Salytov searched Porfiry Petrovich’s face. The magistrate’s expression was pained. He avoided Salytov’s eye.

  The politseisky who had let them out locked the door behind them.

  ‘Release him,’ drawled Porfiry Petrovich wearily.

  Salytov bristled. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘We have no grounds on which to hold him. Indeed, I am puzzled as to why you arrested him in the first place, Ilya Petrovich.’

  ‘He had no passport.’

  ‘He says that it is at his lodgings. Did you send anyone round to look for it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We found it.’

  ‘And is it in order?’

  ‘Yes. However, we also found these.
’ Salytov handed Porfiry Petrovich the pamphlets, crudely printed on thin, almost transparent, paper. Porfiry glanced at them with indifference, before passing them on to Virginsky. ‘You cannot ignore these,’ insisted Salytov hotly.

  ‘Such pamphlets are widely circulated, I believe,’ said Porfiry Petrovich. ‘Is that not so, Pavel Pavlovich?’