R. Morris - The Cleansing Flames

The conflicting hesitancy and energy that Porfiry discerned in Grigory Elampievich’s face was also evident in his gait. He came into the room as though he expected to be beaten back, and yet was ready to resist the onslaught.

‘You were asking after Kozodavlev?’

‘Yes.’

‘You do not know?’

‘Evidently not.’

‘He is dead. That is to say, we believe he is dead. There was a fire at his building the night before last. He was due in the office for a meeting yesterday but did not appear. We became concerned. Kozodavlev is normally extremely reliable. He would always send word if he was unable to make an appointment. We were especially concerned when we heard about the fire. It appears that it was centred on his floor. His apartment was thoroughly destroyed. You may have read about it. A number of people died. Six, in fact. Five of the unfortunates were children. We believe he was the one adult. We have yet to receive any official confirmation, however.’

Porfiry found himself unable to speak.

‘We are hoping that our fears may prove groundless,’ continued the elder radical. ‘But each day that goes by increases the likelihood of his death. We did not see him again today. I have been round to his apartment building. His floor is completely closed off. If he is still alive, he would have approached one of us, his comrades, for somewhere to stay. Naturally, we have made enquiries with the authorities, as journalists as well as friends. It seems that a body was recovered from Kozodavlev’s apartment.’

‘I did read about the fire,’ said Porfiry at last. ‘I did not know that it was Mr Kozodavlev’s building.’

‘You are friends of his? I do not believe we have ever met. I am Grigory Elampievich Blagosvetlov.’ The editor of Affair held out his hand.

‘I have never met him,’ admitted Porfiry. ‘He once wrote about me — I think in favourable terms. The day before yesterday I believe he wrote to me anonymously, requesting a meeting. If it was him, he did not keep our appointment — with good reason, it would seem.’

‘Forgive me,’ said Blagosvetlov. ‘I do not quite understand. How do you know the letter was from him if it was anonymous? And why should Demyan Antonovich have written anything anonymously? Demyan Antonovich Kozodavlev is not a man to write anonymously. He would put his name to whatever he wrote, even if it resulted in him spending the rest of his days in the Peter and Paul Fortress.’

‘I am a magistrate,’ said Porfiry. ‘An investigating magistrate. Demyan Antonovich claimed to have information pertaining to a case I am investigating.’

‘Demyan Antonovich? An informant? Impossible. You are mistaken. This letter was not from him.’

‘You are familiar with Demyan Antonovich’s handwriting?’

Blagosvetlov reluctantly conceded that he was.

Porfiry took out the letter and handed it to him.

As he read, the fiery energy of his eyes prevailed, flooding out in a rush of colour over his cheeks. He thrust the note back at Porfiry in disgust.

‘Do you recognise the handwriting? Is it Mr Kozodavlev’s?’

It was a question that Blagosvetlov declined to answer.

‘Do you know anything about the body recovered from the Winter Canal two days ago?’ wondered Porfiry.

‘Only what I have read in the newspapers.’

Porfiry turned to Virginsky. ‘Pavel Pavlovich, will you kindly show Grigory Elamievich the copy of the poster?’

Virginsky took out and unfolded the erroneous Wanted poster.

‘Please ignore the wording. There was a misunderstanding over the text. However, that is the body in question.’

‘My God,’ murmured Blagosvetlov. ‘It’s. . grotesque!’

‘Yes, well, the water has reacted with the tissue in certain places. But you will note the heavy pockmarking of the face, and the distinctively small eyes. Oh yes, and he appears to have been a Jew. Does that description, coupled with the photograph, bring to mind anyone — any associates of Mr Kozodavlev’s, for example?’

‘He does not look human.’

‘Be assured, he was. . human.’

Blagosvetlov shook his head. ‘I don’t know all Kozodavlev’s friends.’

Porfiry smiled. ‘Of course not. You are not his keeper, after all. Neither his brother nor his keeper.’ Porfiry signalled to Virginsky to retrieve the poster then turned back to Blagosvetlov. ‘Tell me, do you have any theories about these fires? My colleague here, Pavel Pavlovich — I am Porfiry Petrovich, by the way — Pavel Pavlovich is of the view that the fires may not have been started by disaffected students and radical elements, as many commentators are suggesting, but they may rather be due to the general combustibility of our city. Do I have that right, Pavel Pavlovich?’

Virginsky merely frowned.

‘He is of the opinion, I believe, that the blame must be laid at the door of the regime. In short, it is all the Tsar’s fault. That’s Pavel Pavlovich’s theory, anyway. Do you have one?’

Blagosvetlov regarded Virginsky with interest. ‘You are an investigating magistrate also?’

‘Yes,’ confirmed Virginsky with a slight nod, possibly constrained by embarrassment.

‘Oh, we have radicals in the department too, you know,’ continued Porfiry brightly. ‘So, what do you think, sir? About the fires, if I may press you.’

‘You may discover my opinions easily enough,’ said Blagosvetlov. ‘By subscribing to our journal.’

‘Ah! Very good! I like that! Never miss the opportunity to recruit a new subscriber, and why not. I dare say Pavel Pavlovich subscribes already. Perhaps he will bring some of his back copies into the department. Will you, Pavel Pavlovich?’

‘If you wish.’

‘Well then, I look forward to reading your views,’ said Porfiry with a smile that suggested he was happy to let the matter drop. ‘I wonder, does Mr Kozodavlev have a desk here in the office?’

‘We all share desks.’

‘Of course. That’s precisely what I would expect!’ cried Porfiry delightedly. ‘You share desks. But each person must have somewhere to keep their own papers, the material they are working on from day to day? Did Mr Kozodavlev keep any papers here?’

Blagosvetlov bristled. The fire came back to his eyes.

‘I understand your reluctance to co-operate with the authorities,’ began Porfiry, speaking apparently to Blagosvetlov but in reality addressing them all. ‘But I would ask you to bear in mind that I have come here today openly, in good faith, asking honest questions. I have not engaged in subterfuge or any of the filthy tricks to which other departments resort. I come in my service uniform, not in disguise. I have not sent spies or agents provocateurs. It is not my wish, or my intention, to close down your journal. On the contrary, I personally believe that the open airing of all shades of opinion is vital if Russia is to progress — as she must. I may not share your opinions, but I wish to hear them, and I wish others to hear them too. In short, I am not here to suppress you. I am here solely in my capacity as an investigating magistrate looking into the death of an unidentified man. I believe that your friend Kozodavlev knew something about that man. I believe also that he wished to share that knowledge with me. You may now condemn him as a police informant, and consider him a discredited comrade. However, before you do so, I ask you to remember the Kozodavlev you knew, to remember his principles and integrity, and ask yourself, would he have written this note unless he had good reason? I can only assume that what was a good reason for Kozodavlev will be a good reason for you too.’

The plea was met with silence, their faces sealed off in resentful misery.

‘We were talking about the fires,’ resumed Porfiry. ‘Well, here is a theory for you. The fire in Kozodavlev’s building was started deliberately with the sole purpose of killing Kozodavlev — or perhaps of incinerating his already-dead body. The other five victims were merely incidental. Collateral damage, we might say. The murderer’s sole intention was to prevent Kozodavlev from going to the authorities with what he knew about the dead man in the Winter Canal. In which case, if that theory is true, then I am here investigating not only the death of the unknown man retrieved from the Winter Canal but also that of Demyan Antonovich Kozodavlev, your friend, your colleague. Your comrade. Please, I beg you, look deep into your heart before you wilfully obstruct me.’