by R. N. Morris
The cream of the filling was pale brown, except for one area, now revealed in both sections of the chocolate, where a white powdery deposit, like the tail of a comet, could be seen. It was possible these were un-dissolved sugar particles; it was equally possible they were something else. He scooped some of the substance on to the end of his scalpel, which he dipped into a flask of distilled water. He allowed the extracted sample to dissolve, stirring the water with a glass rod. Finally he drew some of the water off with a pipette and pumped it into a feeding bottle, which he exchanged for the bottle on one of the cages.
The movement of his hand, and the noise of the metal clip as he put the water bottle in place, startled the mice into a mass convulsion. He saw the tiny rodents as bundles of living matter, life reduced to one of its purest and most meaningless forms. For what does a mouse live? he thought. Only for life itself.
But they were such timid creatures, shivering even in the heat of summer, dropping black slugs of faeces at the slightest disturbance of their precarious and reduced world. Even had these mice been in the wild, they would live out their lives in a narrow pattern of behaviour circumscribed by their habits and instincts, under the constant shadow of fear and more often than not racked by the ache of hunger. They reminded him of those peasants who never leave their village, not because they are forbidden by lack of passport, but because it would never occur to them to do so.
And yet this was life. He would even say it was one of the higher forms of life, compared with the twitching, seething organisms he saw under his microscope.
He did not do so now, but he had handled these mice many times. As he watched them, he cupped his hands and felt the remembered spasms of their weightless bodies, the sharpness of their fine claws against his skin, the nip of their teeth. He would always handle them reverently. He felt himself to be handling particles of life itself. The life force, the only thing he was capable of worshipping, pulsated in their fur and fear.
He watched as one of the mice came to sip at the water bottle. It moved away and cleaned its whiskers in a mechanistic reflex. Almost immediately, it returned to the water bottle for a second drink. No doubt it was the sugar in the water that drew it back. Again, this was followed by a burst of cleaning activity, more energetic and extended than the first, Pervoyedov judged. It was enough of a variation from the norm to pique his interest. Pervoyedov leant forward. As if in response, the mouse reared up on its hind legs and opened its mouth in a silent cry. Its pink eyes stood out wildly as it stretched its neck and rotated its head. He saw its throat go into spasm as the breaths came fast and sharp. Now the animal scrubbed at the side of its snout in what seemed like a desperate effort to remove its own face. It finally tucked its head down under its belly, so extremely that it flipped over on its back. The mouse quickly righted itself and began chasing its tail. Then it ran blindly into the side of the cage. After that it began to gnaw at its own forelimbs, drawing blood almost immediately. The mouse fell on to its side, though its legs continued moving, as if it believed it was still running. Before long, these movements became convulsive. There was a final shudder, then the creature was still.
Porfiry let out a small groan of dismay as he entered his chambers. The temperature was perhaps a degree or two higher than previous days, and the stench of sewage was more pungent than ever. The room gave him nothing to breathe. He felt immediately exhausted and nauseous. He swatted a hand vaguely, prompted by the enquiring buzz of a bluebottle circling his head. He saw it fly in an erratic swooping zigzag over to the window, where it rattled uselessly after hitting the glass with an audible pop.
Virginsky followed him in. ‘Shall I open a window, Porfiry Petrovich?’
‘Yes, yes. See if you can get rid of that fly.’ Porfiry took a seat behind his desk, then immediately stood up, pushing the chair away impatiently. In front of him was a large yellow envelope with his name handwritten on it. Porfiry lit a cigarette before turning his attention to it.
Virginsky opened the window to release the fly. The atmosphere in the room worsened perceptibly.
‘Close it!’ cried Porfiry. He took out a sheaf of official form papers clipped together, which he recognised as a medical examiner’s report. A small note, the handwriting matching that of the envelope, fell out with them.
His Excellency, The Honoured and Esteemed Magistrate Porfiry Petrovich,
Allow me to present for your attention my findings regarding the substances that you had delivered to me for analysis. As you will see from the document enclosed, it is impossibleto identify with absolute certainty the toxic agent responsible for killing the two bodies examined by my esteemed colleague Dr Feuerbach, although a number of candidate substances for which there are currently reliable tests, to wit, arsenic, prussic acid, etc., have been eliminated. However, it has been possible to establish the method of administration of the toxic agent. A small quantity taken from the remaining Ballet’s chocolate induced death in a sample of mice; the peculiar symptoms suffered by these mice were replicated in other test groups when distillations taken from the victims’ stomach contents were administered. The same results were achieved with distillations from the vomit recovered from the scene of death. In the interests of providing a juridically acceptable identification, by means of experimentation rather than analysis, a number of known poisons were then administered to further samples of mice, and the reactions monitored. One substance produced manifestations which corresponded exactly to the results provided by the remaining Ballet’s chocolate, stomach contents and vomit: aconite. It is the opinion, therefore, of this medical examiner that the deaths of Raisa Ivanovna Meyer and Grigory Martinovich Meyer were caused by aconite poisoning, administered by means of a contaminated box of chocolates. The full scientific reasons for this opinion are given in the enclosed report.
I would like, if I may, to add one personal note. I have known Martin Meyer for a number of years, both in a professional and personal capacity. I will only say that I do not believe him capable of murdering his wife and son. This belief, and indeed my declared association with Martin Meyer, is not pertinent to my medical opinion, and should have no bearing on it.
Your humble servant,
Dr P. P. Pervoyedov.
‘The idiot!’ Porfiry threw the letter down, disturbing two flies that were crawling on his desk.
Virginsky snatched the note and scanned it.
Still standing over his desk, Porfiry riffled through the pages of the report impatiently. ‘This is useless. A clever defence lawyer will argue it is inadmissible, because of Pervoyedov’s relationship with Meyer.’
‘But I don’t understand. His findings incriminate Meyer,’ said Virginsky as he finished reading. ‘So, as he says, the friendship is irrelevant. It can be disregarded, surely? Or at least separated off. It is perfectly possible, theoretically, that Pervoyedov could appear as an expert witness for the prosecution and a character witness for the defence.’
‘And in which capacity do you think he would be more likely to carry the jury?’
‘It would have been helpful if he had told you, perhaps,’ said Virginsky, returning the note to Porfiry.
‘Really, these clever men can sometimes be so. . naive. Or perhaps it is not naive at all. Perhaps it is a deliberate attempt to undermine his own findings and so help his friend. The connection alone is enough to ruin everything.’
‘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.
