by R. N. Morris
*
Ivan Iakovich Bakhmutov slammed the paper down on the boardroom table.
‘Bad, very bad,’ snarled von Lembke, through teeth clenched around a cigar he was in the process of lighting.
Prince Naryskin took the paper. ‘What?’
‘There!’ Bakhmutov jabbed the offending article with a finger.
‘My God! It cannot be true?’
‘Of course it’s not true,’ declared Bakhmutov, pacing the room restlessly.
‘Then why print it?’
The naivety of Prince Naryskin’s question drew an ugly guffaw from von Lembke.
‘Our enemies are behind this,’ said Bakhmutov darkly. ‘They seek to ruin us.’
‘I thought you had friends on the Gazette.’ Von Lembke’s tone was mocking. Bakhmutov did not deign to answer the remark.
‘But I do not see what this has to do with us.’ Prince Naryskin looked up pleadingly at Bakhmutov.
‘It brings her name back into the public mind.’
‘She was his mistress,’ said von Lembke flatly. He was surprised to see Prince Naryskin blush.
‘Not only that, it associates her name with the most despicable crimes. At a time when we are seeking to capitalise on your involvement with the bank. They mention the Naryskin Palace, I see. And so they sully your name as well as hers.’
‘This is insufferable!’ protested Prince Naryskin.
‘Question is, what to do about it?’ Von Lembke’s thin smile closed tightly shut. He studied his cigar intently, casting occasional sly glances at Prince Naryskin.
The prince felt himself the object of Bakhmutov’s attention too.
‘My dear friend, I think the time has come to discuss the terms upon which the board would be willing to consider the cancellation of your debt. That is something you desire, is it not?’
But there was something about Bakhmutov’s smile that made the prince question whether this was as desirable an outcome as he had once imagined.
*
‘What is the meaning of this?’ Porfiry threw the newspaper at Virginsky as he came in for his morning briefing. The pages fell apart in a flurried panic, littering the surface of Porfiry’s desk.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Do I not have enough to contend with? A servant who is a Third Section spy. Salytov carrying on an illicit trade in the bodies of murder victims. And now this. You. Talking to the press when I had explicitly forbidden it.’
‘But I know nothing about this,’ said Virginsky, retrieving the scattered newspaper sheet by sheet.
‘Again, I know nothing! Are you a moral coward too, Pavel Pavlovich? Do you refuse to take responsibility for your actions?’
‘I did not speak to any journalists.’
‘This is not helpful.’ Porfiry shook his head darkly. ‘Who knows what it will unleash. There are consequences here that you cannot conceive of.’
Virginsky put the paper back together carefully and folded it as neatly as he could. ‘I swear to you, Porfiry Petrovich, I had nothing to do with this.’
‘We will just have to deal with whatever comes our way. In the meantime, where is Salytov?’
‘You do not believe me.’ There was a deadened fatality to Virginsky’s tone.
‘I have no time to consider the question now. We will inquire into this in due course.’
There was a brisk rap at the door.
‘At last, Salytov. Come in!’
The fact that Porfiry had been expecting Lieutenant Salytov made the appearance of the man who did come through the door especially mystifying. His face was somehow familiar, and yet, as Porfiry strained his memory to place it, all recollection of the man’s identity eluded him. He knew him from somewhere. But where? There was something not right about the man, or perhaps he was sensing some fundamental change that had taken place since the last time he saw him that made recognition impossible. He was dressed in a dark frock coat. The more Porfiry looked at this item of clothing the more certain he was that here was the source of the mystery. The man held a charcoal grey bowler in one hand; between the thumb and forefinger of the other, he twirled the apex of a waxed blond moustache.
‘Good day, Porfiry Petrovich Razumikhin!’ His voice sank to a conspiratorial whisper on the last word.
As soon as he heard the voice, he knew where he had seen the man before. ‘You’re out of uniform.’
‘I am not obliged to signal my presence with the uniform everywhere I go, although it is sometimes useful to don the sky blue – when one wants to make an impression.’
‘Was it for show then, your exercise in the Nikolaevsky Station?’
‘Not at all. We were in earnest.’
‘Did you catch your man?’
‘Murin? No. He still evades us. But I believe we are closing in on him. It is to be hoped that we will catch up with him soon. He is a very dangerous individual.’
Porfiry nodded his head, almost in admiration. ‘Evidently you have discovered my family name.’
‘I did not know it was a secret.’
‘Perhaps you would be so good as to reveal yours?’
‘I am not bound to.’ The visitor renewed the energy with which he rolled his moustache and smiled. ‘However, I am here on official business, so there is perhaps little point in concealing it. I am Major Pyotr Afanasevich Verkhotsev.’
‘You are Maria Petrovna’s father!’ exclaimed Virginsky.
‘And you are Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky,’ said Verkhotsev, facing Virginsky with a polite bow. ‘Now that we are all friends, perhaps I should reveal the purpose of my visit. I have here …’ Verkhotsev withdrew a sealed paper from inside his frock coat ‘… a warrant issued by Count Shuvalov, whom you will know as the Head of the Third Section of His Imperial Majesty’s Chancellery.’
‘Yes, yes. Quite.’ Porfiry broke the seal and studied the document Verkhotsev had handed to him.
‘You will see that it is quite in order. It requires you to share with me all the evidence you have gathered so far in the investigation into the murder of Yelena Filippovna Polenova, as well as all evidence relating to the murders of Dmitri Krasotkin, Artur Smurov and Svetlana Chisova. As you will observe, the warrant has been countersigned by Count Konstantin Palen, the Minister of Justice, and General Trepov, the Chief of Police. The Chief Superintendent of the Haymarket Station, your very own Nikodim Fomich, has also initialled it to signify his approval.’
‘You are taking over the investigation?’
‘No, no, no! Only a very vain or foolish man would remove the greatest investigator in St Petersburg from a case in order to take it over himself.’
‘You flatter me. For my part, I will say that you are welcome to it.’
‘Really? Why do you say that?’
‘I hope you will not take this the wrong way, but, in my experience, as soon as the Third Section becomes interested in a case, I myself lose the will to continue with it.’
‘I am sorry to hear that, Porfiry Petrovich. Mortified, even. May I ask why?’
‘Things become unnecessarily complicated.’
‘Ah, now – if I may be permitted to correct a misapprehension on your part?’
Porfiry nodded for Verkhotsev to continue.
‘It is not that things become complicated with our involvement. It is rather that we reveal how very complicated they were right from the beginning. Things are always complicated, Porfiry Petrovich. Invariably so.’
‘But they acquire a degree of complication that makes it impossible to get to the truth.’
‘There is nothing I desire more than to get to the truth. Especially in this case. I think you will understand that this is a case that concerns me personally. Pavel Pavlovich has already alluded to my daughter Masha’s involvement. In addition, an account in today’s Gazette has alerted us to the wider implications of these cases. By the by, I might ask, Porfiry Petrovich, why did you decide to release the details of the case in this way?’
‘It was not
my decision,’ said Porfiry sourly, blinking aggressively towards Virginsky. ‘I did not authorise it.’
‘The Gazette speaks of a source at the Department for the Investigation of Criminal Causes. It was not you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then who?’
‘I cannot say.’
‘Do you have any suspicions, Pavel Pavlovich?’
‘I am as much at a loss as Porfiry Petrovich.’
‘I cannot believe the great Porfiry Petrovich is ever at a loss.’
‘Please, I really would prefer that you did not flatter me in this way. It is rather unnerving to be flattered by a representative of the Third Section.’
‘Ah, but it is not flattery.’ Verkhotsev now did something that almost scandalised Porfiry: he blinked. He blinked excessively and rapidly, in a manner Porfiry could only think of as his own. And how provoking it was to see the coyly feminine gesture mirrored in another’s face! He had the distinct impression that the man was mocking him. Either that, or Verkhotsev had arrived independently at the same mannerism. It was certainly an uncomfortable spectacle to behold.
‘At any rate,’ continued Verkhotsev. ‘The article makes interesting reading. Do you really suspect Yelena Filippovna of murdering the children? She was at school with my daughter, you know.’
‘The distinctive bruises on the children’s necks are very suggestive, but not conclusive. In addition, some new evidence has come to light which rather militates against one of our theories – that Yelena Filippovna was murdered to prevent her from killing any more children.’
‘Indeed? May I see it?’
Relieved to have something to do, Porfiry retrieved the key to his desk from his pocket and unlocked the drawer. He opened the green case file and handed the anonymous note to Verkhotsev. ‘This arrived yesterday. A length of silk thread was enclosed with it.’ Porfiry rolled his thumb and index finger to lay a trail of red on to his desk, as if he were sprinkling magical powder. ‘You should know that a similar thread was found on the body of Yelena Filippovna.’
‘How interesting.’
‘If her murder was political, as the note suggests, then she was chosen as a victim purely on the basis of her status as a pampered society woman. That does not disprove she was the children’s murderer, of course, although it would be a colossal coincidence for the revolutionary assassin to have picked her, of all the women he could have picked.’
‘Unless he knew, of course.’
‘But if he knew, why not make it explicit in the note? And besides, killing the specific murderer rather undermines the political point the sender wishes to make. Such a killing has no wider societal significance. The meaning of the note, as I understand it, is that women like Yelena Filippovna, who live as parasites on the labour of children like those murdered, are guilty by their very style of living – not because they have actually strangled anyone. The sender of the note wishes to equate such a life with the most heinous of crimes.’
‘Yes. I see your point,’ said Verkhotsev. ‘But as you conceded, we cannot rule out a coincidence here. There have been no more children found since her death?’
‘Not as far as we are aware. However …’
Verkhotsev had become distracted by the open file on Porfiry’s desk. The edge of a photograph was visible. ‘What have you there?’
‘These are the photographs that show the bruises on the children’s necks.’
‘May I see them?’
‘Please.’
‘This is the mark that has aroused your interest?’
Porfiry’s chair squealed sharply as he rose from his desk to join Verkhotsev. ‘Yes. You will see that it is found in each of the photographs.’
‘And the ring? May I see the ring?’
‘Pavel Pavlovich, would you be so good as to fetch it?’
Virginsky nodded sullenly and left the room.
‘An interesting young man, your Pavel Pavlovich. Is he entirely trustworthy, do you think?’
‘Entirely,’ replied Porfiry without hesitation.
Verkhotsev raised both eyebrows sceptically and returned the photographs to the folder. ‘I am glad you have chosen to co-operate.’
‘I was not aware that I had a choice. The number of signatories on your warrant is overwhelming.’
Verkhotsev waved a hand dismissively. ‘Ah, but a person may still be obstructive. And you have chosen not to be. I am grateful to you for that. As a father.’
‘You are here as a father?’
‘In part. Of course.’
‘Did Maria Petrovna ask you to involve yourself in the case?’ Porfiry could not keep the disappointment out of his voice. Had he failed her?
‘Masha? We discussed it, naturally. I am pleased to say I have an open and trusting relationship with my daughter. It is not always the case these days between parents and their children. The next generation is a great cause for concern, do you not agree?’
‘I do not care to make sweeping generalisations about anyone. I prefer to judge individuals on an individual basis.’
‘You are quite right. However, the young are subjected to so many alarming influences. One cannot help but be frightened for them. Take this note, for example. There is a seductive logic to it, do you not think?’
‘Logic? Surely you mean false logic?’
Verkhotsev raised his palm in demurral. ‘You do not have to pick your words carefully in front of me, Porfiry Petrovich. I am not here to trip you up. Logic is pitiless. That is why we cannot build a society on logic alone. Therefore I do not indicate my approval of such a declaration by referring to its logic. Nor am I trying to entice you into doing so. Yes, it is logical. But it is also insane. Man is not an organ stop to be pushed in or pulled out for a prescribed effect. You know what I am talking about? The young are seduced by such ideas. I know. I was young once. When I think about myself as I was in my younger days – my idealism and passion – I find I am moved by a protective tenderness. That is all I am trying to do, Porfiry Petrovich. To protect the young from themselves. I am driven by compassion for them. And yet they see me as their enemy.’
‘Whereas you see yourself … ?’
‘As their saviour, of course!’ Verkhotsev grinned ironically.
‘Perhaps it is your methods that they hate.’
‘And yet they would willingly throw themselves at the feet of a monster like Nechaev!’
‘True.’
‘This note. Was it written by Yelena Filippovna’s killer?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Captain Mizinchikov?’
‘I am not so sure. The only thing condemning Captain Mizinchikov is his flight from the scene of the crime. There may yet turn out to be a reasonable explanation for that.’
‘But what of the razor found at his apartment? Not to mention the bloodstains on his uniform?’
‘As for the razor, it proves nothing. A man may keep a razor. It cannot possibly have been the murder weapon. It is true that it was found in an unusual place – one does not normally keep one’s razor in a desk drawer – and that it was found together with some letters that seem to suggest a motive.’
‘So it could be significant? The newspapers certainly considered it incriminating.’
‘I do not direct my investigations according to what is printed in newspaper editorials.’
‘Quite right. But the blood?’
‘It does not appear to be her blood, as far as we are able to tell.’
‘You can tell this?’
There was a knock at the door. Now, at last, Lieutenant Salytov presented himself. Porfiry judged the impact of his entrance in Verkhotsev’s eyes, which flickered with interest as he took in the other man’s damaged face.
‘You wished to see me?’
‘Shall I wait outside?’ suggested Verkhotsev with disarming discretion.
‘No. This pertains to the case.’ Porfiry pinched the bridge of his nose as he bowed his head, before turning abruptly to Salytov:
‘On the twenty-third of September, you sold the body of a male child to the Medical-Surgical Academy on Morskaya Street. Do you deny it?’
The expression of Salytov’s melted flesh was one of perpetual surprise. But it seemed possible that he was genuinely surprised to find himself summoned to the investigating magistrate’s office to answer not questions but allegations, and in the presence of a stranger. He regarded Verkhotsev haughtily. ‘Who is this man?’
‘That need not concern you,’ answered Porfiry quickly, cutting off Verkhotsev before he could introduce himself. ‘Just answer the question. Do you deny that you traded in the body of a dead child?’
‘I do not deny it.’
‘By what authority?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Who authorised you to make the sale?’
‘No one. That is to say, I did not need any authorisation.’
‘Where in the police code does it say that officers are entitled to sell for their own gain whatever bodies they happen to come across?’
‘I cannot point to the specific article of the code, but the practice is widespread and allowed.’
‘Allowed? Oh no, my friend, it is not allowed! Did you not consider that you had a duty to report the body and investigate the death?’
‘What’s the point? There was no way of identifying the body. No one came forward to claim him.’
‘Did you advertise the discovery of the body?’
‘N-no,’ admitted Salytov; for the first time a note of uncertainty entered his voice.
‘Then how can you be surprised that no one came forward?’
‘No one ever does. He was a street child, most likely. Left for dead by his family. They could not care for him in life. What did they care about his death? His parents, if they are alive, and if they did not kill him themselves, were probably in a drunken stupor the night he died. Even now, I dare say, they do not realise he is missing. Or if they do, they are glad. It is one less mouth to feed. Certainly, he is more use to society dead than alive, if his body can be used to train future doctors.’
‘You knew nothing about him. Your assumptions are incorrect. He was not a street child. He was a factory worker. An orphan.’
