by R. N. Morris
Vakhramev took the letter. Bewilderment changed to amazement. ‘How extraordinary! It could have been written by the same hand.’
‘Very likely it was,’ said Porfiry. ‘What about the content? Would you say it is broadly similar in tenor?’
‘Well, it was equally nasty, if that’s what you mean.’
‘As you can see, the letter I have shown you makes reference to a licensed brothel on Sadovaya Street. Madam Josephine’s. In an attempt to establish a further connection between the two letters, I am desirous to know whether you ever visited that establishment. ’
‘But sir, I am a respectable married man.’
‘Before you were married, perhaps?’
‘Well, before one was married, one did many things.’
‘Exactly.’ Porfiry smiled encouragingly.
‘Are you married, sir?’
The smile died on Porfiry’s lips. ‘No.’
‘Then how do you solve the problem of needs? I presume you are subject to them. You are a man, after all. You are human?’
‘Indeed.’
‘So?’
Porfiry sensed an anticipatory shifting from Virginsky beside him. He did not deign to turn towards it. ‘We are not here to talk about me,’ he said at last.
‘Humbug. I will not be judged by a hypocritical prig.’
‘I’m not here to judge you,’ said Porfiry. He kept his eyes closed, tensely, as he turned in Vakhramev’s direction. Finally his eyelids fluttered open and he met Vakhramev’s gaze. ‘I have visited an establishment similar to that mentioned in the letter. It is also on Sadovaya Street as it happens, beneath a milliner’s shop. The madam is a German woman, Fräulein Keller. Perhaps you know it?’
‘No sir, I do not,’ Vakhramev answered crisply.
‘Well, then. I have made my confession to you. We are men of the world. We are subject to needs. We can talk openly about these things.’
Porfiry thought that he detected disappointment in Virginsky’s restlessness now.
‘It will go no further?’ Vakhramev leant in.
‘I see no reason why it should. That is to say, I cannot promise. But I will do my best.’
‘It was all a long time ago, you understand.’
‘Of course.’
‘I have mended my ways.’
‘Yes.’
‘That man, the man who visited these places, is a stranger to me now. I do not recognise him. I pity those who still have need of such a recourse.’ Vakhramev looked at Porfiry pointedly.
‘Please, all this is understood.’
‘No, I’m not sure that you do understand, sir. I have repented, my God, how I have repented. I have atoned. It has not been something trivial, this atoning. It has not been something I put on like a cloak. It has been an upheaval, sir, a veritable upheaval of the soul. I bared my face to my God. I lay prostrate, my face in the dirt. I told my wife everything too. Everything. I kept a journal, you see, when I was a bachelor. A journal in which every sordid encounter was inscribed. I gave it to her to read — no, I insisted she read it. Before we were married, you understand. To give her one final chance. . to walk away. So that she could know the beast, the unworthy, worthless monster that I was, and escape from me. She was repelled. Disgusted. She hated me. But she — angel! — forgave me. Can you imagine such magnanimity of soul? Can your understanding encompass it? You have never married. I am sorry for you. How can you know of what I speak? She forgave me! But, there was one condition. We were never to speak of it again. I promised, I swore, to destroy the diary. And I would never mention it to another living soul.’
‘Ah, I see. Pity — that you destroyed it.’
Vakhramev looked down at the table, his face quivering with emotion.
‘And you were married. . when?’
Vakhramev lifted his gaze proudly. ‘Nastasya Petrovna and I were married on March the twenty-first, eighteen forty-eight.’
‘So we are twenty years too late to read it.’ Porfiry smiled but watched Vakhramev closely, who once again looked down. ‘My interest in the diary has nothing to do with prurience, you understand, ’ continued Porfiry. ‘It’s just that it might have contained a significant name or two. This Madam Josephine, for instance.’
‘I believe I did go there once,’ said Vakhramev quickly, still not looking at Porfiry.
Porfiry lifted the cover of the folder again and took out the photograph of Raisa Ivanovna Meyer from many years ago that Virginsky had recovered from the dacha. He passed it across the table to Vakhramev. ‘Do you remember ever seeing this woman there?’
Vakhramev studied the photograph. His lips pursed slightly as he did so. And then the hand holding the photograph began to shake. ‘It was a long time ago. I only went there once.’
‘Really?’
‘I swear.’
‘But did you see her there?’
‘I cannot be expected to remember their faces,’ said Vakhramev. His own face became sealed off from further enquiry, as he laid the photograph face down on the table.
‘Is there, do you think, a specifically Russian type of hypocrite? And if so, who would stand as our exemplum of it?’ Porfiry was again looking out of the window, down at the Yekaterininsky Canal, as he had been the morning Virginsky first presented himself at his chambers twelve days ago. He was smoking now, as then.
Virginsky did not answer. It was clear that the questions were asked rhetorically.
‘Ruslan Vladimirovich Vakhramev?’ Porfiry’s voice seemed to come from far away. He turned to face Virginsky, as if he did want an answer after all. He had finished his cigarette.
‘But Vakhramev has confessed to visiting prostitutes. A true hypocrite would not be able to do that, I feel,’ said Virginsky.
‘Yes. He even wrote it all down in a diary for his wife to read. What a charming wedding present that must have made.’
‘I admire him for doing that.’
‘Do not admire him too much. You see, he did not destroy his bachelor diary as he promised her.’
‘How can you know that?’
Porfiry shrugged. ‘How could he have borne to do so? He would have been destroying part of himself.’
‘But what if it was a part of himself he wished to destroy?’
‘Hmm. That is certainly the impression he wished to give to his angelic wife.’
‘I am beginning to wonder, Porfiry Petrovich, whether the only qualification one needs to be an investigating magistrate is a mind as filthy as your hated Ditch out there. That and an ability to suspect everyone of the vilest acts.’
Porfiry half-turned, almost wistfully, back towards the window. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps the only reason I don’t like the Ditch is because it reminds me of myself.’
‘You certainly spend long enough staring at it. But why can’t you take Vakhramev’s word that he destroyed the diary?’
‘Because he did not give me his word. He did not say that he had destroyed it at all. He merely said that he had promised his fiancée that he would destroy it. And when I deliberately chose to assume that this meant the diary was destroyed, he became quite embarrassed, and yet did not correct the misapprehension.’
Virginsky angled his head, almost conceding the point, but allowing himself to retain some scepticism. ‘But perhaps there was no misapprehension?’
‘No, no, no,’ said Porfiry shortly. ‘When you have worked in this job as long as I have you will learn to pay especial regard to the precise form of words people choose, particularly suspects.’
‘So you do suspect him of killing Setochkin?’
‘I suspect him of something. I suspect him of lying to his wife. I suspect him of not destroying the diary. I suspect him of continuing to visit prostitutes after his marriage. Despite his deep atonement and repentance. Yes, he continued in that — how shall I describe it? — practice for at least six and possibly seven years after he had abased himself with his face in the mud.’
‘Again, how can you know that?’
‘Because he recognised the photograph of Raisa Ivanovna. From what Meyer said of Raisa Ivanovna’s history, she cannot have worked at Madam Josephine’s for long. A year, possibly two at most. Raisa Ivanovna was already pregnant with Grigory when Martin Meyer married her. Grigory was thirteen at the time of his death. Let us say, then, that Raisa Ivanovna was at Madam Josephine’s fourteen years ago — which is indeed the timescale given in the malicious letter sent to Meyer. The photograph I showed Vakhramev must have been taken soon after then. And yet Vakhramev has been married to his angel for twenty years.’
Virginsky was silent for some time, during which Porfiry lit and began smoking another cigarette. ‘Do they help, the cigarettes, really?’
Porfiry held the case out towards Virginsky, who nodded once and took one. He coughed three times as Porfiry lit it for him, then held the cigarette away from his face and studied the burning tip. ‘You said you were not here to judge him, but that is what you have done. Despite the fact that you yourself have confessed to identical peccadilloes.’
‘What peccadilloes have I confessed to?’ Porfiry narrowed his eyes.
‘To visiting brothels. You said that you have visited brothels.’
‘I said that I had visited one establishment. Fräulein Keller’s. I went there once — no, actually, twice I think it was — in the course of the investigation during which you and I first became acquainted, Pavel Pavlovich.’
Virginsky gingerly attempted another inhalation. ‘So how do you?’
Porfiry met the question with an innocent blink.
‘Deal with the issue of needs?’
Porfiry looked at Virginsky thoughtfully but did not seem inclined to provide an answer. At any rate, there was a knock at the door and Zamyotov came in, as usual without waiting to be admitted.
‘There are some females here. .’ His emphasis was one of disapproval, outrage almost. ‘They claim to be connected with that individual Vakhramev.’
In his wake, was the sense of a commotion nearing.
5
The angel (and her daughter)
‘Ruffians! Ruffians and rogues!’
Bursting in like a cannonade of silk, the woman came to a halt before Porfiry, her eyes wrathful and seeking. ‘Where is he? Where is our Vakhramev? What have you done with him?’
She was compact, almost compressed, a little shorter than Porfiry and somewhat stouter. She moved with a top-heavy momentum. Porfiry was relieved that she had stopped short of charging him. Her mouth was pinched with determined indignation.
Following her into the room was a drifting, aloof girl of about nineteen or twenty, who looked around her from the vantage point of a long neck, seemingly without seeing, as if she did not want her vision to be demeaned by the objects it might fall upon. If she believed herself visible to those around her (for example, to Virginsky, who could not take his eyes off her), she certainly gave no indication that they were visible to her.
‘We are holding him,’ said Porfiry, ‘in a cell.’
‘Ruslan Vladimirovich Vakhramev? In a cell?’
‘I’m afraid so, madam.’
This provoked a disdainful jerk of the head from the drifting girl. Her gaze, though, refused to come anywhere near Porfiry.
‘Who, may I ask, are you?’ ventured Porfiry to the indignant woman.
‘What business is it of yours?’
‘I am Porfiry Petrovich, investigating magistrate. I am dealing with the case in which Vakhramev is implicated.’
‘Implicated? How dare you!’
‘Are you, by any chance, his wife?’
‘I am Nastasya Petrovna Vakhrameva and I have the honour to be the wife of Ruslan Vladimirovich Vakhramev. I command you to release him this instant.’
‘I’m afraid that will not be possible. A man has been murdered. Until we have eliminated Ruslan Vladimirovich from our investigations, it will be necessary to hold him in a secure place.’
‘I have never heard of anything so ridiculous in my life. You take him away without a word to his family. He is a gentleman. We have friends, you know. Friends who could crush you like a beetle. ’ The woman pulled on Porfiry’s shoulder and hissed into his ear: ‘Yaroslav Nikolayevich Liputin.’ When she pulled back, Porfiry saw that she had a gleeful smile on her face. ‘There! That’s scared him. That’s right. Yaroslav Nikolayevich Liputin. So, what are you waiting for? Release Vakhramev.’
‘I’m not sure I understand,’ said Porfiry. ‘You are friends with the prokuror?’
The woman nodded. ‘And he is not happy about Vakhramev’s arrest, let me tell you. He is on his way here now. So, if you want to avoid trouble, little man, you would do well to release Ruslan Vladimirovich immediately.’
‘As I have explained, that will not be possible. As a matter of course, Yaroslav Nikolayevich would be informed of the details of the case. He frequently visits the department.’
‘He is furious. When Vakhramev failed to come home, I naturally went straight to my good friend Yaroslav Nikolayevich. Good friend that he is, he made enquiries on our behalf. That is how we discovered that you had brought Vakhramev here. I would not like to be in your shoes when Yaroslav Nikolayevich arrives.’
‘It is always a pleasure to receive a visit from Yaroslav Nikolayevich. I’m sure today will be no exception,’ said Porfiry with a tense smile.
‘Whom did he murder?’ The question came, unexpectedly, from the drifting girl, who angled her head in the direction of the ceiling, while regarding Porfiry out of the corner of her eye.
‘The victim, I believe, is known to you, if I am correct in assuming that you are Tatyana Ruslanovna. It is Colonel Alexei Setochkin.’
‘Alyosha!’ There was a moment in which her disconnected gaze latched on to Porfiry hungrily. She even turned her head to face him. But then she rolled her eyes upwards in a gesture of dismissal. ‘He had no need to do that. I had finished with Alyosha.’
‘Tatyana,’ said Nastasya Petrovna darkly. ‘What is the meaning of this? Who is this Alyosha?’
‘A nobody. I’m glad he’s dead. I will congratulate Daddy.’ For the first time, the girl seemed to notice Virginsky. She looked at him with a glance that invited complicity.
‘Good grief! What has got into you?’ To Porfiry, Nastasya Petrovna added: ‘See what you have done? Yaroslav Nikolayevich will sort this out. We will do nothing until Yaroslav Nikolayevich arrives.’
‘I am afraid that will not be possible. At least not as far as I am concerned. I have my duties to attend to. I will have to ask you to wait outside, Nastasya Petrovna.’
‘Really!’
‘There are seats provided for your comfort.’
‘You expect me to rub shoulders with common criminals?’
‘Of course not.’ Porfiry turned to Zamyotov. ‘Alexander Grigorevich, would you kindly see to it that no criminals are seated next to this lady.’
‘But it is so difficult to tell these days,’ said Zamyotov airily. ‘Anyone may turn out to be a murderer.’ He fixed Virginsky with a pointed look as he said this.
‘Your sarcasm has not gone unnoticed,’ said Nastasya Petrovna to Porfiry. ‘Yaroslav Nikolayevich will be made aware of it when he arrives, rest assured. Come, Tatyana.’
‘If you please,’ put in Porfiry quickly, ‘Tatyana Ruslanovna will stay. I have a few questions I wish to put to her alone.’
‘Alone? But she is a child. I will not have you intimidating her.’
‘I am not a child. You’re worse than Daddy. He’s always treating me as a child and now look what’s happened.’
Nastasya Petrovna’s eyes enlarged significantly at this outburst.
Tatyana Ruslanovna softened her tone to her mother. ‘It’s better we do what they want. Better for Daddy.’
‘But Yaroslav Nikolayevich — ’
‘Yaroslav Nikolayevich is not coming. Yaroslav Nikolayevich thinks you are a tiresome old woman. He barely remembered you. And didn’t remember Daddy at all. He only agreed
to help us to be rid of us. We were disturbing his breakfast and he wanted us out of his sight. So he sent a man to find out what had happened. It does not greatly inconvenience Yaroslav Nikolayevich to have his man running to the police headquarters. There were probably papers that he needed picking up. Didn’t he make us wait in a shabby drawing room while he finished his breakfast? And he did not even have the grace to say goodbye in person. He left that honour to his pimply servant, who as good as escorted us off the premises. Do you not know what it is to be insulted, Mother?’
‘How can you say such things? In front of them?’
‘It is the truth. Why will you never face up to the truth? You have deluded yourself about Yaroslav Nikolayevich. You have deluded yourself about Daddy. You delude yourself about everything. ’
Nastasya Petrovna put her hands over her ears and began screaming. ‘Cruel, ungrateful child! I will not listen to another word!’
‘Then wait outside, Mother. You need not concern yourself on my behalf. I’m not afraid of these men.’ Tatyana Ruslanovna’s gaze swooped imperiously over Porfiry and Virginsky. She angled her face upwards imperiously.
‘Please sit down.’ Porfiry gestured with both hands to the sofa. Tatyana Ruslanovna viewed it suspiciously, but at last deigned to lower herself into it. ‘Please be assured’, continued Porfiry, ‘that I earnestly desire to eliminate your father from my investigation and that I will do everything in my power to bring that about as soon as possible.’
‘Don’t trouble yourself on my account. I’m sure you had your reasons for arresting Daddy.’
Porfiry froze on his way to his desk, turning his head sharply back towards her. ‘But do you really think your father capable of murder?’
‘It’s like that other man said, isn’t it? Anyone may turn out to be a murderer.’
‘I wonder, do you include yourself in that philosophy?’
‘Certainly. I have come close to it many times. I would not be surprised if one day I find myself in one of your cells.’
