The Gentle Axe Paperback (12 page)

“I believe there is a gentleman of that name who visited from time to time.”

“Did he visit on the day of Goryanchikov’s disappearance?”

“No. However, it’s strange you mentioned it…He called to visit Stepan Sergeyevich yesterday.”

“Yesterday? What time was this?”

“It was late. Very late. Anna Alexandrovna and her daughter had both gone to bed. He knocked the whole house up.”

“And he asked to see Stepan Sergeyevich?”

“He demanded to be admitted to his room.”

Porfiry fumbled in his pockets for his enameled cigarette case. A severe frown from Katya deterred him from opening it. Nonetheless, in this instance, he found the touch of it stimulating enough.

O
UTSIDE
, Porfiry finally lit the cigarette he craved. The blizzard he had seen massing from Goryanchikov’s room had blown itself out. But the courtyard had already been cleared. Porfiry felt sorry for Borya, whose death had been so quickly and easily compensated for, as if erased beneath a snowfall.

Inside the yardkeeper’s shed it was as if the objects of his life were shaping themselves around the fact of his death, around his physical absence. There was an old paint-spattered wooden chair, its seat worn and polished by many sittings. It was crammed in next to a folding card table, the baize threadbare and stained. The samovar on it seemed to possess an air of mournful disappointment. Chipped cups milled around it without purpose. The sawdust had settled on the floor, around an assortment of bricks and logs. The bottom of a barrel was propped up against one of the shed’s sides. Life continued only in the cobwebs that grew heedless over the tools and tins of his occupation.

Porfiry backhanded a line in the air, a conjurer’s gesture, as he checked off the row of hanging axes. But of course, he did not need to do this. He could see perfectly well where the missing axe should be. He could judge too, from its position in the hierarchy of axes, that its size matched that of the bloodied axe found on Borya.

He stared at the gap and wondered at the mind that had chosen this axe over the three others hanging there. The second-smallest axe had been taken. The chances were that it was snatched in haste. But even so, some exercise of intent must have been involved, whether conscious or unconscious. Why, for example, was the smallest axe not taken, which would surely have been more convenient? The axe, or rather the absence of this particular axe, had to point at something. It was in precisely such a detail that the killer would betray himself.

Porfiry brought his hand back and in the air drew a vertical line up and then back down the gap formed by the missing axe. He realized that he had crossed himself. His hand came to rest on a small birch box that lay on the shelf beneath the axes. He picked up the box and discovered that it was locked.

I
N AN UPSTAIRS APARTMENT
, seated alone at a card table, Marfa

Denisovna looked down at hands disfigured by warts. She laid out the cards for a game of solitaire. She accepted the fall of the cards in the same way as she had accepted her warts, and all the other things sent by God. Without pleasure or complaint.

Marfa Denisovna was sixty-six, as old as the century. It was a convenient coincidence, because if she ever forgot her age, she only had to ask the year.

Deep peach-stone whorls lined her face. She lacked lips entirely and showed as little as possible of her eyes. Her body was wiry and compact. There was not much to her physically, but she was far from frail. The passage of time had worn away all softness from her, leaving a human kernel. Her shoulders were draped in an enormous black shawl. A delicate lace bonnet seemed out of place on her tightly pinned-up, almost metallically hard gray hair.

She did not look up as Anna Alexandrovna came in.

“Has he gone?”

“Yes.”

“Who was he?”

“An investigator.”

“What did he want?”

“They have found Stepan Sergeyevich and Borya.”

Marfa Denisovna moved the ace of spades up.

“Dead. They are both dead.” Anna Alexandrovna’s voice was distant and empty.

Marfa Denisovna moved the seven of hearts across, placing it on the eight of clubs.

“Marfa Denisovna? Did you hear me?” Now there was an edge of panic to the younger woman’s voice.

“I heard you.”

“He asked about the argument.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him what I had to.”

“So. Stepanushka is dead. Poor Stepanushka. Ah well, it was meant to be. God did not look favorably on his life. His deformity was a punishment.”

“But why should he have been punished? It was not his sin.”

“He was not the only one punished.” Marfa Denisovna laid down the cards and spread out her fingers. There was not one that was without a wart. In places the clusters of nodules distorted the shape of the finger. It had not escaped Marfa Denisovna’s notice that her affliction made it harder for her to place her hands together in prayer. She picked up the cards again and dealt out the next three.

“They will be back. The authorities. A policeman will come to take statements from us all,” said Anna Alexandrovna hurriedly.

Marfa Denisovna at last looked up at Anna Alexandrovna, though with eyes that were barely visible. “I have always taken good care of this family. You need not be afraid on my account.”

“I’m not afraid.”

Marfa Denisovna continued playing in silence. At last she said, “I took care of things before, didn’t I? And I will take care of things again. God’s will be done.”

O
F COURSE
, you must have expected it,” said Chief Superintendent Nikodim Fomich.

“I expected nothing of the sort,” answered Porfiry.

“Porfiry Petrovich.” Nikodim Fomich spread the fingers of both hands out on his desk as if he were taking precautions against its levitating. He pressed down firmly once and then sat back. “The
prokuror
has decided—”

“The
prokuror
is an arrogant fool.”

“In his opinion, the case is closed. The dwarf was murdered by the yardkeeper. The yardkeeper committed suicide. Your own investigations have uncovered several independent testimonies alluding to a violent argument between the men. Lieutenant Salytov has now interviewed all the residents of the house. A number of them have testified to the fact that the yardkeeper was heard to threaten the life of the dwarf.”

“But the medical evidence—”

“In the
prokuror
’s opinion, the medical evidence is flawed. ‘Suspect,’ I believe, was the word he used.”

“Dr. Pervoyedov said that he had never seen a clearer case of poisoning by prussic acid.”

“Those were the words he used?”

“Something like that,” answered Porfiry uncertainly.

“The
prokuror
is not impressed by Dr. Pervoyedov.”

“But that’s outrageous.”

“Another doctor, a doctor appointed by the
prokuror,
is of the opinion that the prussic acid traces were due to a contamination. Dr. Pervoyedov has been very overworked at the hospital. It is unlikely that the
prokuror
will allow you to call on his services again. He feels that Dr. Pervoyedov should be fined for incompetence, due to the contamination that has occurred. The facts of the case, as the
prokuror
understands them, are not consistent with poisoning by prussic acid.”

“No, no, no, no, no! That’s insane!” protested Porfiry.

“Be careful, Porfiry Petrovich. This is not like you.”

“But you must see the illogicality of the statement you just made.”

“Porfiry. This is Russia. We are governed not by logic but by authority. You know that as well as I. In fact, your friend Dr. Pervoyedov is getting off lightly. The
prokuror
was at first of the opinion that he had falsified the results deliberately to further his career. I managed to persuade him that that was not the case.”

Porfiry slumped in his seat. He could not speak for some time. At last he murmured, “What do I do now?”

“You must let it drop.”

“But the dead men? What of the dead men?” He saw in his mind an image of Goryanchikov and Borya transformed into masonry figures bearing the upper stories of an imaginary building. But unlike the real atlantes and caryatids of St. Petersburg, they writhed and groaned under the strain.

“They are dead. In the opinion of the
prokuror,
they should not be allowed to disrupt the smooth running of the judicial system.”

“Why didn’t he tell me this himself? I report to him, not to you.”

“Shall I tell you what I believe? I believe he is afraid of you. You’re cleverer than he, you see, Porfiry. All he has is his ambition and his power. You have more. You have cleverness and compassion.”

The compliments depressed Porfiry. “I’m surprised to hear you say I have compassion. Dr. Pervoyedov would not agree with that, I think.”

“But if you didn’t, you wouldn’t care who killed these men.”

“It’s not compassion that makes me care who killed them. I don’t have compassion for the dead. It’s no use to them. What are they going to do with my compassion?”

“I know what drives you, Porfiry. I know for whom you have compassion.”

“If so, you know more than I do.”

“The perpetrators. The poor, miserable sinners.”

Porfiry clasped his hands together and placed the knuckles of his thumbs against his lips. The gesture was prompted by agitation, but it looked a little like he was praying. “You’re thinking of that boy.” There was a note of denial in his voice. He would not look at Nikodim Fomich.

“Not just of him. It is for their souls, for the souls of them all, that you do it.”

“You’re talking nonsense. Why should I care about anyone’s soul but mine? I might have said such things in the past. But it was just a ruse. A technique. To get the confession. The confession is everything.”

“That’s my point!”

“But not for the reason you think. They can all go to hell for all I care. I can have no compassion for a cold-blooded murderer.”

“But you can, Porfiry. And you do. And that is what separates you from our esteemed
prokuror.
”

The tension flashed in Porfiry’s eyes. His expression oscillated between wounded and angry. “You’re wrong. You’re wrong about everything. It’s for the glory that I do it. I am as ambitious as the
prokuror.
” Still he would not look at Nikodim Fomich, as if he were afraid he would find confirmation in the other man’s gaze.

T
HE CLERK ZAMYOTOV
was waiting for Porfiry at the door of his chambers. Porfiry was in no mood to confront Zamyotov’s sly insubordination. However, he sensed something unwonted in the other man’s expression. Zamyotov seemed distracted, almost rattled, and this caused him to abandon any pretense. The angry impatience with which he greeted Porfiry was openly impertinent.

“Porfiry Petrovich! Where on earth have you been? How am I expected to fulfill my duties if you do not inform me of your whereabouts and movements? This gentleman—”

Porfiry frowned at a slightly built young man seated on one of the chairs reserved for witnesses and suspects waiting to see the investigating magistrate. The fellow’s eyes locked onto Porfiry’s desperately and beseechingly. His tie was fastened in a large looping bow. An overcoat trimmed with silver fox was draped over his shoulders. Beneath it he wore a mustard-colored suit and emerald waistcoat. A beaverskin top hat perched on his lap, kid gloves folded neatly on top of it. His hair lay in tight curls around his collar. He was clean shaven; in fact, Porfiry suspected his cheeks had not yet felt the razor. In the angle of his head and the needful intensity of his gaze, Porfiry saw some connection with Zamyotov’s flustered mood.

“—a personage of indisputable rank and influence.”

The young man smiled appealingly as Zamyotov spoke.

“Indeed,” said Porfiry drily. “It is not like you to be impressed by rank and influence, Alexander Grigorevich.”

Zamyotov pursed his lips as he weighed up his response. “I don’t know quite what you are implying. I know only that he will not go away until he has seen an investigating magistrate. It concerns a matter requiring the utmost sensitivity. Having acquainted myself somewhat with the essentials of the case, I felt that you, Porfiry Petrovich, would be the person best—”

“Please, Alexander Grigorevich, your flattery is making me anxious.”

Porfiry smiled as he caught the look of confusion on the clerk’s face. He felt him close on his heels as he entered his chambers.

“But what am I to tell him?” demanded Zamyotov.

Porfiry looked up from behind his government-issue desk and calmly assessed the clerk’s angry insolence.

“A matter requiring—what was it? Sensitivity? But is it a criminal matter, Alexander Grigorevich? If it is not a criminal matter, I don’t see how I may be of service.”

“I believe it is a complicated case,” said Zamyotov, frowning distractedly. It seemed that Porfiry’s tone escaped him. “Obviously, not being an investigating magistrate, I am myself not qualified to judge legal issues.”

“My goodness! Such humility, Alexander Grigorevich!”

Zamyotov’s frown sharpened into annoyance. “It is your job to decide whether a crime has been committed, not mine.”

“Quite so.”

“Will you see him or not?”

“I feel, almost, that it is my duty to see him. Please, show the gentleman in, Alexander Grigorevich.”

The young man entered with a tentative step. Hat and gloves in hand, he had something of the air of a supplicant.

“You may go now,” Porfiry said to Zamyotov, who was lingering expectantly. The clerk challenged the peremptory dismissal with a glare. He slammed the door as he left. Porfiry turned to the young man, indicating a chair. “Please.” The young man moved with deliberation, almost gingerly, as if he were afraid the seat would not support him. And yet, as Porfiry judged, there was hardly anything to him. “You are?”

The young man seemed surprised by the question. He hesitated, as though he were unsure about the wisdom or necessity of supplying his name. At last he said, “Makar Alexeyevich Bykov.” His voice was high and strained. As the name seemed to make no impression on Porfiry, the young man added in a whisper, “I am Prince Bykov.”

“
Prince
Bykov.” Porfiry’s emphasis was satirical.

“You have heard of me?”

Porfiry allowed a beat before admitting, “No.”

“It’s just that I have written some plays.”

“You are a playwright?”

“They have caused quite a stir in certain circles. Perhaps they have come to your attention in an…uh…official capacity?”

“No. I have not heard of you or your plays.” Porfiry smiled in a way that he hoped was reassuring.

The young man seemed dubious. “Of course, I do not believe there is anything seditious in them myself. My works are inspired by a profound patriotism.”

“That’s all right then,” said Porfiry.

“Were they ever to be performed, however, there is a danger that they might be misunderstood. Willfully misunderstood, I mean. The meaning of the plays is clear enough.”

“I would hope so.”

“Alexander Grigorevich led me to believe that you would be able to help me.”

“I can’t help you with your plays. I am a magistrate, not an impresario.”

“It is not to do with my plays that I have come to see you.”

“Ah—I misunderstood.”

Prince Bykov was overcome by a sudden turmoil of emotion. It was as if he could hold himself together no longer. His voice was breaking as he blurted out, “Ratazyayev is missing.”

“Ratazyayev?”

“Yes.” The prince nodded violently, knuckling away his sudden tears.

“Who is Ratazyayev?”

“He is”—Prince Bykov closed his eyes, steeling himself—“a very dear friend of mine.” Prince Bykov opened his eyes again to see how Porfiry had taken this declaration. His look was raw and exposed but not timid and had about it no pretense. Whatever else he was, Prince Makar Alexeyevich Bykov was an honest man and a brave man too, Porfiry decided.

“I see,” said Porfiry. At that moment he decided also that it was time to take Prince Bykov seriously. “Please,” continued Porfiry, taking and lighting a cigarette. “Please tell me how it came about that Ratazyayev went missing.”

“I blame myself. It was all my fault. We quarreled, you see.”

“What was the quarrel over?”

Prince Bykov’s expression became pained. “Ratazyayev came suddenly into some money. I was suspicious. I accused him of certain things. He said he had an engagement. An acting engagement. Ratazyayev is an actor, you see, although he has not performed on a public stage for many years. I’m afraid I didn’t believe him. I accused him of many things. The engagement was supposed to be in Tosno. It was for a week, apparently. Precisely one week. But what theater is there in Tosno, tell me that? And what kind of a run lasts for just one week? One week! What can you do in one week? Was he not required for rehearsals? But then, no, it’s not a week, it’s two weeks. It was a private acting engagement. There was to be only one performance. The two weeks included the rehearsal time. It was in honor of Prince Stroganov-Golitsyn. You know the Stroganov-Golitsyns have their estate near Tosno. It was to be held on the prince’s birthday. A special performance, arranged by his friends. Very well. What play? Well, first it was to be
A Feast During the Plague.
A very appropriate play for a birthday celebration, would you not say? So then, no, it’s not
A Feast During the Plague,
it’s
Little Snowdrop.
My goodness, Pushkin must give way to Ostrovsky? So no, it’s not
Little Snowdrop,
it’s
Boris Godunov.
The whole thing? You can have a passable production of
Boris Godunov
ready in two weeks? No, no, no. Not the whole thing. Scenes from
Boris Godunov.
Scenes, only scenes. And what part is he to play? Why, he will take the title role! But if you know Ratazyayev, you will know he would be hopelessly miscast as Boris Godunov. The whole thing was a pack of lies from beginning to end, it was obvious. But when I challenged him, he became angry. He packed his case. He was going to Tosno. I could not go with him. He would not let me carry the case out to the carriage. Would not let me even touch it. So I was not required. That is all very well. I will accept that. I will accept that Ratazyayev is a free man. If he wishes to go to Tosno, I will not stand in his way. But to lie to me! That I will not stand for! And it is a lie! What he doesn’t realize, you see, is that I was in the Cadet Corps with a cousin of Prince Stroganov-Golitsyn’s. Whom I happened to meet at the English Club. And whom I happened to ask about this marvelous theatrical birthday celebration. At which point I discover that the prince’s birthday is in the summer—in August. Surely there must be some mistake. But no. The cousin is quite certain. He went to the party for the prince’s last birthday. And there was not a theatrical performance. There were open-air tableaux. The cousin himself took part in one. A scene from the Trojan War. He was Patroclus, I believe. I decide not to confront Ratazyayev with this. I can’t bear to. I can’t bear to hear more lies. I can’t bear to see the man I—” Prince Bykov broke off. He looked at Porfiry queasily. “A man I greatly admire…humiliate himself with lies.” Prince Bykov regarded Porfiry with a genuinely tortured look. “Perhaps I should have done. Perhaps if I had confronted him, Ratazyayev would be with me today. Instead I chose, to my shame, to employ subterfuge. I spied on him. I disguised myself and followed him to the Nikolaevsky Station, where he was to take the train to Tosno.”