R. Morris - A Vengeful Longing

‘The pipe was at the rear of the room. It would come out somewhere around there, I think,’ said Porfiry pointing to the far corner of the room. ‘Somewhat near that leg of the bed.’

Virginsky put a hand on the bed and gave it a testing push. It moved with a protesting wail and a slight tug of resistance. A curve of the black hose, which appeared to be rammed deep inside the end of the hollow leg, came snaking out of a knot hole in the floor. The bed settled unevenly, tipped up at one corner by the tough hose.

‘What on earth?’ cried Virginsky.

‘The voices,’ said Porfiry, startled by his own conclusion.

‘Who? Who is he?’ Back in his chambers, Porfiry lit a cigarette and stared wonderingly at Virginsky. ‘We must have missed something, Pavel Pavlovich. I can feel him. I have the quite desperate sensation that I have encountered him. That I have stared him in the face and even spoken to him. That’s how real he seems to me.’

There was a knock at the door. Zamyotov peered in. ‘ This has come for you.’ His tone was ironically excited; he waved a letter tantalisingly through the gap in the door. Porfiry nodded to Virginsky, who rose and snatched it from him. ‘Temper!’ chided Zamyotov, before disappearing.

‘It’s from the owners of Gorokhovaya 97, following our enquiry concerning the letting arrangements of the room next to Rostanev’s.’

‘Don’t tell me — Nikolai Nobody,’ said Porfiry despondently.

‘No. According to this, both rooms were let to Rostanev.’

‘But that’s impossible,’ cried Porfiry. ‘As well as insane. I mean, on his salary it’s a miracle he could afford the rent on one room, let alone two. And if he did rent two, why would he choose to live in the smaller one? No, this is a screen.’ Porfiry applied himself to smoking intently for several moments. ‘Someone. . paid his rent for him. . and used the vacant room for his own purposes. Who would do such a thing?’ Porfiry Petrovich took one final deep draw on his cigarette, so deep that he fell into a coughing fit. When at last it died down, his eyes running with tears, he was able to gasp: ‘Pavel Pavlovich, give me that school list again.’

Virginsky crossed to Porfiry’s desk with the paper. Porfiry scanned the names eagerly. ‘We have him,’ he said quietly, his voice hoarse from the recent paroxysm.

‘What is this concerning?’

Porfiry looked at the man who had just spoken — a man of average height and nondescript appearance, possessing the kind of face, clean-shaven in the civil service style, that seemed instantly familiar and yet was difficult to remember, a kind of blankness — and knew he had his murderer. He noted the control with which the other held his face, and therefore his emotions, in check. He must be in turmoil beneath that blank mask , thought Porfiry. He watched the corner of the man’s mouth closely, waiting for it to pinch up in minuscule betrayal of what he must be feeling. But Collegiate Registrar Yefimov gave nothing away.

Behind Yefimov, the banks of copyists and clerks looked up, regarding Virginsky and Porfiry with evident trepidation. The jerry-built towers of files and papers had been reconstructed higher than ever. The men twitched protectively, bound to their stools by their duties, but desperate to throw themselves between the unwelcome visitors and their treasured documents. Only Yefimov seemed unconcerned at the magistrates’ return.

‘We wish to talk to you about Rostanev,’ said Porfiry.

‘Of course.’ Yefimov bowed.

‘His name came up in connection with a murder victim called Yemelyan Antonovich Ferfichkin.’ Porfiry paused to study Yefimov’s face at the mention of Ferfichkin’s name. He noticed the man’s eyes veer to the side and up, once, quickly. ‘It was over a debt to do with the sewing of a fur collar on to an overcoat. Rostanev could afford the collar but not the cost of having it attached. Ironic, is it not?’

‘A tragedy. It is such small, insignificant tragedies that make up the lives of men like Rostanev.’

‘How could he afford the collar, I wonder?’

‘I gave him an advance on his salary.’

‘How very generous of you.’

‘I know what it is like. I understand how important such a thing can be to a man.’

‘A man who has been humiliated and insulted all his life?’

‘To any man,’ said Yefimov. ‘But yes, particularly to the sort of man you describe, a man like Rostanev.’

‘And you?’

‘As I said, I understood what he was feeling. It was not just a question of a collar. The collar stood for something.’

‘What did the collar stand for, I wonder?’

‘Honour. Status.’

‘Really? It was not just a collar then? Not just a collar to keep the wind from his neck?’ Porfiry smiled. Yefimov did not. ‘So the money was advanced?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was it ever repaid?’

‘I am sure Axenty Ivanovich intended to repay the debt.’

‘But didn’t the department require that the money be repaid?’

‘I advanced the money out of my own pocket.’

‘You are a veritable benefactor. Of course, this placed Axenty Ivanovich in your debt.’

‘It was not a question of that.’

Porfiry nodded absently, barely acknowledging Yefimov’s comment. ‘I wondered, the last time I met you, where we had met before. And now I remember. It was you, that time in the Haymarket District Police Bureau, it was you I encountered in the corridor. I asked you to stand aside and you would not. You demanded that I give way. I would not. There was nonsensical talk of honour then. Finally, you pretended to have an attack of vertigo and fell in a swoon against the wall. Do you remember what I said?’

‘I do not remember the incident at all.’

‘On the contrary, you remember every slight and insult that you have ever suffered. And you remember very well what I said, don’t you?’ As Porfiry said the words, he watched Yefimov’s lips twitch as he shadowed them: ‘ They are always hypochondriacs. Do you remember?’

‘I do not.’

‘But you were at the bureau that day. You came to investigate the noxious smell from the Ditch. I wonder, would I have been the next on your list?’

‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

‘Of course you don’t. However, humour me for a moment, if you would be so good. I have been trying to work out how you are connected to Ferfichkin, other than through Rostanev’s fur collar. I’m sure it was you, anyhow, who recommended Ferfichkin’s tailoring skills to your subordinate — was it not? You don’t have to answer that yet. It can wait. But something must have connected you directly to Ferfichkin. There had to be some reason why he was on your list. And then it came to me, the complaint Ferfichkin made against his former master. The nobleman who had his name expunged from the record. That was you, wasn’t it?’

‘This is ridiculous !’

‘It is something we will be able to check. If Ferfichkin lived with you as your servant, he will have been listed at the same address as you at the Address Bureau. There is little point denying it, if it is true.’

‘Very well. But it means nothing.’

‘Oh, it means something. These things always mean something.’

‘Besides, the whole thing was a joke.’ A strange, high-pitched laugh came from Yefimov. His face for an instant distorted into the antithesis of the controlled mask it had presented until then: a leering gargoyle’s features took him over. ‘It was my idea. I commanded him to do it!’

‘Indeed? I find that hard to believe. Besides, if it was a joke, it was one that wasted police time, and could have got you into a lot of trouble.’