R. Morris - The Cleansing Flames

‘You acted on his behalf as an agent for certain of his journalistic endeavours, did you not?’

‘So, you know about that.’

‘We know that he was K. We also know that you acted in a similar capacity on behalf of the author known as D. Who is D.?’

Prince Dolgoruky shrugged, his face contemptuous.

‘You will not tell me?’

‘Perhaps I do not know.’

Porfiry reached into his pocket and took out a bundle of papers. He found the sheet he was looking for and handed it to Prince Dolgoruky. ‘We found this in Mr Kozodavlev’s drawer at the office of Affair . Do you recognise it?’

‘Yes. I wrote it.’

‘You are the D. in this note?’

‘I am.’

‘What did you mean? “I don’t give a damn what you do. Do you think I have ever cared?”’

‘The words are clear enough, I think.’

‘You had quarrelled with Mr Kozodavlev?’

‘It’s not a question of a quarrel. It is simply a statement of the — how shall I put it? — of the factual basis of our relationship. From time to time, Kozodavlev had to be reminded.’

‘You were never on friendly terms with him?’

‘I have never been on friendly terms with anyone. It is the first article in the code of conduct by which I live my life.’

‘Are you the author of Swine ?’

‘Ah, you are very clever, I see, Mr Magistrate,’ mocked Prince Dolgoruky. ‘We shall have to be careful with you. Was it the letter D that alerted you? But are there not other names that begin with the letter D? Some of them, I believe, belong to more noted literary gentlemen than I.’

‘The plot of Swine concerns a revolutionary grouping. A closed cell, I believe it is called.’

‘I have heard the term.’

‘I’m sure you have. In Swine , one member of the cell is suspected of being an informer, and is for that reason murdered by the other members.’

‘I am sure the author will be gratified to know that you have read the novel.’

‘To be honest, I have not finished reading it. However, I am familiar enough with the novel and the circumstances surrounding its publication. It is rumoured that the author once belonged to such a group and in fact participated in a similar crime.’

‘It is not a rumour. It is the truth.’

‘You do not deny it?’

‘Why should I?’

‘Because you must see that your action places you in a difficult position vis-a-vis the law. If you are the author — ’

‘ If! ’

‘Even if you are not, by concealing the identity of the author, you are concealing the identity of a criminal.’

‘And if you have in fact read the novel, you will know that the author distances himself from the act of his fellows — whom he sees as swine. Hence the title. It is out of moral disgust that he decided to write his account.’

‘He would have done better to inform the authorities, supplying the real names and addresses of those involved.’

‘But he is not an informer ,’ said Prince Dolgoruky with disgust. ‘That would make him worse than those you would have him inform against.’

‘To inform is a greater crime than murder?’

‘Of course.’

‘I believe that Mr Kozodavlev had made up his mind to inform the authorities of something. Given certain hints that he put in a letter he wrote to me, it would seem reasonable to speculate that it concerned political — one may say revolutionary — crimes. He expressed the fear that this would place him in mortal danger.’

‘If that is so, then he was right to be afraid.’

‘If Kozodavlev is the author of Swine — ’

‘What on earth makes you suggest that?’ cried Dolgoruky.

‘Let us for the moment imagine that he is. There would be those who would object to the fact that he had written the book in the first place. If they found out for certain that Kozodavlev was the author, they might have decided to punish him. For that betrayal, the only fit punishment would be death. Of course, it would have required someone to have pointed the finger.’ Porfiry gave Prince Dolgoruky a meaningful look.

‘But you are assuming that D. is Kozodavlev! I have by no means confirmed that he is.’

‘You would save us a lot of trouble if you simply told us who the author is.’

‘I do not exist to save you trouble.’

‘I can have you arrested.’

‘I would welcome it. I am not afraid of the Fortress. I hear one is well looked after there.’

‘Is it true that you wrote and had printed a manifesto in which you accused yourself of a number of crimes?’

‘Have you seen it?’ asked Prince Dolgoruky brightly.

‘No.’

‘Would you like to?’

‘Is there any truth in it?’

The contempt evaporated from Prince Dolgoruky’s expression. He seemed surprised by Porfiry’s question.

‘Marfa Timofyevna claims to believe that it is all lies,’ explained Porfiry.

‘She is a dear sweet girl. I regret deeply what happened between us.’

‘What did happen between you?’

‘Nothing. That is what I regret.’

‘You are quite the Russian Byron, aren’t you? And yet, why is it I feel this is all a pose with you?’

‘That is an insult. I have killed men for less.’

‘Then certainly I should have you locked up.’

‘Do you wish to see my manifesto?’

‘Are you really so eager to show it to me?’

‘Unfortunately, I have destroyed all copies of it.’

‘Then I will have to imagine what it said. I think I can, easily enough.’

‘I doubt your imagination will be up to the task.’

‘You forget, my imagination is fuelled by a lifetime of investigating the crimes of men.’

‘But you will not have encountered crimes as black as mine.’

Porfiry sighed wearily. ‘You are a veritable genius of crime, I’m sure. And, as such, the true Hero of our Time.’

‘Again you insult me?’ Prince Dolgoruky’s questioning tone betrayed his uncertainty. It seemed he did not know what to make of Porfiry. ‘You are not interested in my crimes? Is it not your duty to be interested in my crimes?’

‘I find that I am not very interested in you , Prince Dolgoruky. You bore me.’

Prince Dolgoruky was visibly shaken. ‘I cannot bore you. Dolgoruky does not bore anyone.’

‘You bore me, and I suspect you bore yourself. And that is your tragedy, to the extent that you may be said to have a tragedy. But I am not sure that you can be said to have a tragedy. If you are allowed to have a tragedy, there is the danger of your becoming slightly interesting.’

‘You are not serious?’

‘One last thing before I leave you to your. .’ Porfiry glanced at the curtain. His smile was strangely mocking. ‘ Crimes . I would like you to look at a photograph. Please try to ignore the white patches on the man’s face.’ He nodded to Virginsky to show the poster of the body from the Winter Canal.

‘My God, what has happened to him?’

‘His face, in life, would not have been like that. It is likely to have been deeply pockmarked all over. I will draw your attention also to his eyes, which are quite small, I think.’

‘Piggy eyes. The eyes of a swine!’

‘Do you recognise him?’

‘Recognise that ? It is a monstrosity. If I had ever seen such a face, it would haunt my nightmares for ever!’

‘Do you have nightmares, Konstantin Arsenevich?’

‘Yes. Every night, the same one. I dream that the Devil has come to fetch me. I know he is the Devil, though I never see his face.’ Prince Dolgoruky’s voice trembled weakly, all hint of hauteur gone. His face appeared shockingly vulnerable, even afraid. He looked down at the photograph on the poster. ‘Perhaps I have seen it now.’