R. Morris - The Gentle Axe

“Who is Goryanchikov?” asked Porfiry.

“Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov,” answered Virginsky. “The son of a whore who stole my pawn ticket. I kept it in here.”

“But why would anyone want to steal a pawn ticket? It amounts to the same thing as stealing a debt.”

“Oh, Goryanchikov would do it. Goryanchikov is capable of doing anything.” Now Virginsky picked up the books and scanned the spines. “I see they are all here,” he said, blushing as he got to One Thousand and One Maidenheads. “Thank you for returning them to me. I am grateful. You have saved me the expense of redeeming them myself.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t let you keep the books. At least not yet. They are evidence in an ongoing police investigation.”

“What investigation?”

“Perhaps you would be good enough to give me a description of this Goryanchikov.”

“Goryanchikov? Has he got himself into trouble? He’s a good fellow really, you know. All this, the pawn ticket, the books-I didn’t mean to accuse him. I’m sure it’s just one of his jests. I’ve warned him, but that’s what he’s like. He will have his jokes.”

“Please, I must press you for a description of your friend.”

“Yes, he is my friend. I know I insulted him, but he is my friend. If it’s a question of debts, I can write to my father. I wouldn’t do it on my own account, you understand, but for Goryanchikov.”

“The best way you could help him is to tell me what he looks like.”

“Well, he has dark hair and a scrawny beard. His eyes, if I remember rightly, are dark and set slightly wide in his face. You might justifiably describe his nose as prominent. He has a large mole on one of his wrists-his left, I believe.”

“And that is all?”

“Oh, no!” cried Virginsky, as if suddenly remembering. “One other thing. He is a dwarf.” Virginsky smiled, pleased with himself for the joke.

“Pavel Pavlovich, I believe I have some bad news for you. The body of such a gentleman was found in Petrovsky Park.”

“Body? What do you mean, body?”

“Circumstantial evidence would lead me to conclude that it is the body of your friend. The pawnbroker’s ticket was found on him.”

Virginsky dropped back onto the bed and sat with his head in his hands. “How?” he groaned through his hands.

“We believe he was murdered.”

“Oh no, please God, no!”

“I’m sorry.”

“I have warned him. I warned him so many times.”

“Of what did you warn him?”

“He takes pleasure-took pleasure,” Virginsky corrected himself. Then he rubbed his eyes as if to rouse himself from a dream. “He took pleasure in provoking people. Goading them. I knew it would end badly.”

“I see. He made enemies?”

“Oh, but surely no one!” Virginsky looked imploringly into Porfiry’s eyes. “God knows he has provoked me enough times. Once or twice I could have happily throttled him myself.”

“We will need someone to confirm-” Porfiry broke off.

“You revived me for this!”

“I’m sorry.”

Virginsky looked down, catching sight of the books on the bed. He picked up Büchner’s Force and Matter and stroked the cover absently. Then he dropped it on top of the others, as if it had suddenly become hot. “But these books can have nothing to do with his death, surely? It is a mere accident that he had the pawn ticket on him when he was murdered.”

Porfiry said nothing to confirm or contest this. “I have agreed with your landlady to settle your debts here. Will this cover it?” Porfiry presented the student with fifty rubles.

“Why would you do that for me?”

“Because I believe you have the potential for great good. But I fear that poverty and hunger may lead you into acts you will regret.”

“How can you know so much about me? You have only just met me.”

“But I have met someone very like you before.”

“Do you believe I killed Goryanchikov?”

“I should warn you, we found another body near where that of your friend was discovered. It may be that you can help us in identifying that person too. If it was someone known to Goryanchikov, there is a chance you knew him too.”

“Must we go now?”

“If you feel strong enough. In my experience it is better to get these things behind one as soon as possible.”

Virginsky nodded tersely and raised himself to his feet. His first attempt at a step sent him lurching forward. Porfiry was quick to catch him. With his face close to Virginsky’s, he breathed again the scent he had noticed when he first came into the room.

“How long have you known Lilya?” Porfiry murmured gently.

“Lilya?”

“She was here. Just now. She is a friend of yours?”

“Yes. Do you know her too?” There was a bitterness in Virginsky’s voice.

“Not really. Not in that way. She was brought in for questioning.”

“She is a good person.”

“I’m sure she is,” said Porfiry, picking up the books and holding them in one arm, so that he was able to support Virginsky with his other hand. He sensed a stiff resistance in the other man as they started walking.

The hunger had gone, but now it was back. The city danced around him in the falling snow. There was a sense of finality to the snow. This was how it was going to be from now on. He was light-headed. It was the hunger, he told himself. But it was something else. He felt himself to be on the brink of something. How did he come to be in this jangling drozhki, sitting next to this stranger, this strangest of strangers? The plump little fellow with the blinking eyes lit a cigarette and watched him closely.

“Porfiry Petrovich,” he heard himself say.

“Yes?” said the man next to him, exhaling smoke.

“I’m cold,” he told the man.

The man nodded and rearranged the furs that lay over his lap. “We’ll soon be there.”

“Where?”

“The Obukhovsky Hospital. Don’t you remember?”

“Am I ill?”

“Possibly you are ill. There is a doctor there who will examine you. But that is not why we are going.”

Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky shivered and tried to think. “Why are we going?” he asked at last.

“You’re going to help me. You have a duty to perform. It’s not a pleasant duty, I’m afraid.”

He realized now where it came from, this feeling of being on the brink. “The city will never look the same to me again,” he said, as they glided over the frozen Fontanka between two lines of birch trees placed there to mark the route. Beyond the trees, men were loading a sled with blocks of ice hewn from the river.

Porfiry Petrovich did not answer.

“Are you a policeman?” asked Virginsky.

“I am an investigator. A magistrate.”

“And he is really dead?”

“I believe so.”

As the drozhki slowed, he caught sight of the bronze bust of Catherine II on the side of the hospital she had founded. He had the feeling she was waiting for him.

“Porfiry Petrovich.”

“Yes?”

“I’m cold.”

PORFIRY,still with the books under one arm, led Virginsky along the crowded corridors of the men’s hospital. Some men were slumped against the walls, others lay where they had fallen on the floor. A few paced. All were dressed in ragged and dirty clothing. The Obukhovsky was a free hospital.

Occasionally, one of the men turned toward them and watched them pass with a kind of hostile expectancy that stood in place of hope.

Virginsky experienced a heightened sensitivity. The sound of coughing resonated in the joints of his bones. He was aware of the smell of his own body and how it reacted with the other smells around him. He drifted in and out of physicality.