Sister Pelagia and the White Bulldog (29 page)

“Get out, at the double!” barked Lagrange. “Why on earth did you have to bring her with you?”

Matvei Bentsionovich nodded imperceptibly to Pelagia and took the chief of police by the elbow.

“I’ll tell you what we need to do. Praying, of course, is a waste of time, but it would not be a bad idea to arrange a confrontation, as a kind of investigative experiment. We’ll gather together everyone who was here yesterday, on the pretext of establishing who was where at any given moment, and who said—”

“Excellent!” exclaimed Felix Stanislavovich, catching on to the idea. “You have a genuine talent for criminology! And we must bring in Telianova. The mere sight of her will send all these gamecocks into a frenzy, and the killer is bound to give himself away. After all, it’s perfectly obvious that this is no cold-blooded killing, it’s a crime of passion. How will a man in the grip of passion be able to restrain himself? We’ll gather them together this very evening. And in the meantime I’ll check the alibis of everyone involved.”

“And make sure Bubentsov comes; he has to be here.”

“You are destroying me, Matvei Bentsionovich; do you wish to ruin your most devoted servant?” Lagrange complained bitterly. “What if Vladimir Lvovich gets angry at me?”

“Better take care that
I
don’t get angry at you,” was Berdichevsky’s quiet reply.

EVERYTHING WAS ARRANGED precisely as it had been during the ill-starred soirée, even with hors d’oeuvres and wine (although not, of course, champagne, because that would have been excessive). The hostess, Olympiada Savelievna, had conceived the happy thought of transforming the humiliating police procedure into a memorial evening for Arkadii Sergeevich, and now she felt even more like the hostess at her own name-day party than she had the previous day. That is to say, in the morning, when she heard about the murder, she had been frightened at first, and her woman’s heart had even ached with pity for poor Poggio. She had cried a little, but sometime later, when it emerged that the scandalous fame of the soirée had exceeded her very wildest hopes and that even more sensational events might still be to come, the postmaster’s wife had completely shaken off her dejection and spent the entire second half of the day refurbishing a black shot-silk dress that had been lying in mothballs in the cupboard since the last funeral.

For this new soirée the list of participants—on this occasion summoned rather than invited—was almost identical with that for the first. For obvious reasons, Arkadii Sergeevich was absent, but his vengeful spirit was represented by the assistant prosecutor and the chief of police. In addition, in contrast with the previous day, Naina Georgievna was present from the very beginning, for, having been officially notified of the investigative experiment, she arrived promptly at the appointed time of nine o’clock, although Felix Stanislavovich had expected that she would have to be brought under armed escort.

Once she arrived, the party responsible for this calamity (for that was how the majority of those present regarded her) instantly eclipsed their hostess, relegating her to the background. Today Naina Georgievna was more beautiful than ever. She looked quite exceptionally good in the lilac mourning dress and long black gloves that emphasized the elegant lines of her arms, and her black velvet eyes glowed with a special, mysterious light. There was not a trace of embarrassment in her manner; quite the contrary, she carried herself like a genuine queen, the guest of honor for whom this entire funeral feast had been convened.

The prime suspect was quiet, taciturn, and quite different from the way he had been the previous day. Polina Andreevna was surprised to note that, in total contrast with yesterday, his face bore an expression of appeasement, even contentment.

Pyotr Georgievich, however, was as prickly as a hedgehog, repeatedly making impertinent remarks to the representatives of authority, proclaiming in stentorian tones that it was disgraceful to arrange such a show, and demonstratively turning his back on his sister to indicate that he did not wish to have anything to do her.

Among the other participants, Krasnov attracted attention to himself by sobbing interminably and blowing his nose into a truly immense handkerchief. At the beginning of the evening he expressed a desire to recite an ode dedicated to the dead man’s memory, and had read the first two verses before Berdichevksy called a halt to the recital as inappropriate. The two verses were as follows:

He perished in his very prime,

This sorcerer of lens and light.

Fate’s bloody sword cut short his time,

A murderous blow struck in the night.

His flame of heavenly inspiration

No longer now lights up the room.

In disarray and consternation

The world is plunged in deepest gloom.

Vladimir Lvovich again arrived later than everyone else and again dispensed with all apologies—why indeed should he bother when Lagrange was showering him with verbose justifications and begging forgiveness for distracting a busy man from state business?

“No matter, you are doing your duty,” Bubentsov commented drily, taking a file of documents from his secretary and settling himself in an armchair. “I only hope that this will not last long.”

“For that yesterday I did speak unto you and suddenly the terrible hour of death came upon me, for all of us do disappear, all of us do die, both kings and princes, both rich and poor and the whole of humankind,” Tikhon Ieremeevich declaimed with feeling, and following these doleful words the experiment began in earnest.

Felix Stanislavovich immediately took center stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please come into the salon,” he said, pushing open the double doors that led into the adjoining room.

Just as on the previous day, the guests left the drawing room and moved into the exhibition hall. Of course, there were no pictures this time; all that was left were the lonely little strips of paper with the titles of the works that had been irretrievably lost.

The chief of police halted beside the title “On the Curving Shore.”

“I hope that everyone remembers the three pictures showing a certain lady in the nude that were hanging here, here, and here,” he began, jabbing his finger three times at the empty wallpaper.

The only response was silence.

“I know that the model’s face was not fully visible in any of the photographs, but I would like us to make a concerted effort to restore certain features. It is extremely important for the investigation to establish the identity of this woman. Or perhaps someone here present already knows it?”

The chief of police glared hard at Princess Telianova, but she failed to notice his piercing glance because she was not even looking at the speaker, but at Bubentsov. He was standing slightly apart from everyone else, closely studying a sheet of paper.

“Very well, ladies and gentlemen,” Lagrange drawled ominously. “Then we shall follow a slow and indelicate route. We shall establish the identity of the model one part at a time and, moreover, by those parts that are usually concealed under clothing, for we are hardly going to learn much about the face. But we shall in any case start with the head. What color was the hair of the lady in question?

“Light, with a golden shimmer to it,” said the marshal’s wife. “Very thick and slightly wavy.”

“Excellent,” said the chief of police with a nod. “Thank you, Evgenia Anatolievna. More or less like this?” He pointed to the coils of hair dangling from under Naina Georgievna’s hat.

“Very possibly,” the countess stammered, blushing.

“And the neck? What can you tell me about the neck?” Felix Stanislavovich asked, sighing with the air of a man whose patience is almost exhausted. “And then we shall discuss in the greatest possible detail the shoulders, the back, the bust, the stomach, the legs. And other parts of the body, including the thighs and the buttocks—we shall certainly have to do that.”

Lagrange’s tone of voice had become threatening, and he pronounced the awkward word “buttocks” with especial emphasis, almost chanting it.

“Or perhaps we might just be able to manage without that?” he asked, this time addressing Naina Georgievna directly.

She smiled calmly, evidently enjoying all the glances directed at her and the general embarrassment. She did not betray the slightest sign of the offended modesty that had almost reduced her to tears the day before.

“Well, let us suppose that you can define the breasts and the buttocks,” she said with a shrug. “What then? Are you going to strip all the female inhabitants of the province naked and hold a parade?”

“Why all of them?” Felix Stanislavovich hissed through his teeth. “Only those who are under suspicion. And no parade will be required; what would we want with a scandal like that? It will be quite sufficient to verify certain specific features. I am actually conducting this interrogation to maintain formal procedure and for the sake of later record-keeping, but in actual fact I have already spoken with some of those now present. I know, specifically, that the lady in whom we are interested has two noticeable moles on her right buttock and that just below her breasts she has a light-colored birthmark the size of a fifty-kopek piece. You have no idea, princess, how attentive the male eye is to small details of that kind.”

Even the indomitable Naina Georgievna was stung by that—she blushed and was at a loss for words.

Lisitsyna came to her aid.

“Ah, gentlemen, why do we keep talking about the same photographs all the time?” she twittered, trying to divert the conversation away from this indecorous theme. “There were so many wonderful landscapes here! Over there, for instance, there was an absolutely marvelous work—it impressed me so much that I simply can’t forget it. Don’t you remember? It was called ‘Rainy Morning.’ Such expression, such subtle play of light and shade!”

Matvei Bentsionovich gave this lady who had spoken out of turn a look of clear dissatisfaction and Lagrange even knitted his brows and frowned menacingly, intending to call the idle prattler to order, but Naina Georgievna was clearly delighted by the turn of conversation.

“Yes, indeed, if we are going to talk about anything, then it ought to be that curious picture,” she exclaimed with an evil-sounding laugh that seemed to contain a hint of mystery. “I also paid particular attention to it yesterday, although not because of its expressive qualities. The most remarkable thing about it, Mrs. Lisitsyna, was not the play of light and shade at all, but a certain interesting detail…”

“Stop that,” Felix Stanislavovich roared furiously, flushing bright red. “You will not succeed in diverting me from my line of inquiry! All this prevarication will get us nowhere; we are simply wasting our time.”

“Precisely so,” declared Spasyonny. “‘Blessed are they who do stop their ears, so that they shall not hear what they should not.’ And it is also written: ‘In the company of the unwise, guard your time well.’”

“Yes, Lagrange, you really are simply wasting time,” Bubentsov said suddenly, raising his head from his documents. “Good Lord, I have a mountain of work to do, and you’re playing out this foolish melodrama. In your report to me yesterday you said that you have a definite clue. Out with it, and the business is over and done with.”

At these words Matvei Bentsionovich, who knew nothing about any “definite clue” or the very existence of any report to Vladimir Lvovich by the chief of police, peered angrily at Lagrange. In his embarrassment at not knowing to whom he ought to apologize first, Lagrange addressed both of his superiors at the same time by conflating their names: “Vladimir Bentsionovich, I was attempting to demonstrate everything absolutely as clearly as possible, to reconstruct the entire logic of the crime. And it is also a matter of charity; I wished to give the criminal a chance to repent. I thought that now we would establish that it was Princess Telianova in the photographs, Shiryaev would explode, start defending her and confess.”

Everyone gasped and shied away from Stepan Trofimovich. But he stood there as if turned to stone, only turning his head rapidly first to the left and then to the right.

“Confess?” said Berdichevsky, pressing the chief of police. “So you have evidence against Shiryaev?”

“Matvei Bentsionovich, I had no time to report to you, or rather, it was not that I had no time,” babbled Lagrange. “I wanted to create a dramatic effect; I’m sorry.”

“What are you talking about? Get to the point!” the assistant prosecutor shouted at him.

Felix Stanislavovich mopped the sweat off his forehead.

“What can I say? Everything is quite clear. Shiryaev is in love with Telianova; he was dreaming of marrying her. And then this ladykiller from the capital appeared, Poggio. He enthralled her, turned her head, and debauched her. It’s perfectly clear that she was the one who posed for those nudes. Shiryaev had known about, or at least suspected, the relationship between Poggio and Telianova earlier, but it is one thing to picture something in your mind, while this was proof positive, and such scandalous proof as well. I won’t undertake to judge Poggio’s motives for such disgraceful behavior, because they do not have any direct connection to the crime under investigation. Yesterday in front of everyone Shiryaev attacked the culprit with his fists and he would surely have killed him there and then had he not been pulled away. So he waited until night and crept into the apartment to finish the business. And afterward, not satisfied with his revenge, he destroyed all the fruits of his sworn enemy’s work, as well as the camera with which Poggio had so mortally offended him.”