R. Morris - The Gentle Axe

“Thank you. That is very helpful.”

“Are you sure you want nothing more of me? Fräulein Keller says I am to do whatever you ask.”

“Is it not a relief to you?”

“It makes no difference to me. It’s why I am here, after all.”

“Are you really so indifferent?”

She reached out and lifted one of his hands to her face again. He pulled it away. Her reaction was as if he had struck her.

“Please, there’s no need.”

Her habitually cowed expression changed into one of cunning. “Why did you come here?” she asked again.

“I’m looking for Lilya.”

“Lilya is the only one who can please you.”

“Not in the way you think. I merely wish to speak to her.”

“I don’t believe you. You’re a man. And I know why you won’t sleep with me. It’s because you want my gratitude.”

“It makes no difference to me.” There was something pointed in the way his intonation, as well as his words, matched hers. To soften this, he added, “I would prefer it if you’re not grateful. You have nothing to be grateful for, after all.”

“Will you go now?” she asked, as if his presence made her uncomfortable.

He came close to telling her that she hadn’t the right to dismiss him. Instead he said, “What are you frightened of, Raya?”

The question took her aback. “The same as everyone,” she answered after a beat. “Getting old. Losing my looks. Not being able to work.”

“It frightens you that you will one day be free of this place?”

“Hunger isn’t freedom.”

Porfiry lit another cigarette and smoked it through completely in silence. “You’re an intelligent girl,” he said at last. Then he looked into the blue of her eyes and left.

The following morning, as he had promised, Porfiry Petrovich called for Virginsky. He brought with him a pair of laborer’s boots. They were not brand-new but they were in good condition.

Virginsky sat on the edge of his bed and looked down at the boots between his feet. His toes poked out of threadbare stockings. The nails were overgrown and yellow. The skin in places burned an angry red.

“Why have you brought me these?”

“You are in need of a stout pair of boots.”

“I am in need of many things. Do you consider it your duty to provide me with it all?”

“I need your help. I want you to come with me to the house in Bolshaya Morskaya Street.”

“I told you enough to find it, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but I think it will be interesting for you to come.”

“Is this part of your investigative technique?”

“You’re very suspicious. Are you studying law, by any chance?”

“I was. I hope one day to resume my studies. When my finances allow it.”

“And have you considered what you will do when you’ve graduated?”

“I imagine I will be a lawyer. An advocate in the new courts.”

“So you believe in the rule of law?”

“I believe I will be able to exonerate the guilty as well as the next fool.”

“You’re not so cynical as all that.”

“What else is one to do with a law degree?”

“You could be a magistrate. An investigating magistrate.”

“In that case I’ll be performing the opposite function. Incriminating the innocent.”

Porfiry smiled indulgently. “I take it back. You are a cynic.”

Virginsky put one foot tentatively into a boot. “It’s too loose.”

“You could put extra stockings on.”

“Do you have extra stockings with you too?”

“Of course not. Surely you…?”

“I am wearing all the clothes I own.”

“It’s not necessary for you to live in this way.”

Virginsky ignored the remark and tried the other foot. “Where did you get these boots from?”

“Where do you think?”

“I think they came from a dead man.”

Porfiry pursed his lips with amusement.

“They’re not too bad after all,” said Virginsky, standing.

They walked north along Gorokhovaya Street. The Admiralty spire glinted ahead of them, a fine gold blade piercing the bright sky, like the memory of an inescapable crime in the city’s heart. The great thoroughfare glistened and smoked. Huge apartment buildings squatted on either side, presenting rows and rows of windows diminishing into the distance. Porfiry had a sense of all the lives lived out behind those blank panes. For some, such vistas brought to mind a theater backdrop. But for Porfiry, the city’s uniform facades were more like an impenetrable stone curtain. The tragedies took place behind rather than in front of them.

Virginsky smirked with private amusement as his boots pushed firmly through the recent layer of snow.

“What is it?” asked Porfiry.

“Oh, nothing. Except you have bought me for a pair of boots. That is how cheaply I have bartered my soul. Not that I have a soul.”

“You don’t believe in the soul?”

“I didn’t say that. I just said I didn’t have one. But no, seeing as you asked, I don’t believe in the soul. Or in God. Or the devil. Or any of that superstitious rot. Just as well really. If Mephistopheles himself were to come before me with an offer, I don’t reckon much for my chances of holding out.”

“So you compare me to Mephistopheles? But it’s not a question of selling your soul. You want to find out who killed your friends, don’t you? And you talk of becoming a lawyer. Really, you can’t be both a nihilist and a practitioner of law. Your position is fraught with contradictions.”

“Yes. Which is another reason why I despise myself.”

“Do you like your boots?” asked Porfiry after they had walked another few paces.

“I like the fact that they don’t let in the snow.”

“That is a perfectly reasonable position.”

“Tell me,” began Virginsky with some diffidence.

“Yes?”

“Am I not a suspect?”

Porfiry thought for a moment, then replied, “I don’t have a suspect yet.”

“Let’s say I am a suspect. Does it not complicate the issue, involving me in the investigation like this?”

“Let’s say you are a suspect. I will learn something from watching you react to the people in the house where Goryanchikov and Borya lived.”

“So I am a suspect?”

Porfiry gave his pursed smile again.

“This is a game to you,” said Virginsky accusingly.

“But let’s say you’re not a suspect. I much prefer to say you’re not a suspect. Even so, both victims were known to you. It is possible that the murderer is also someone known to you, perhaps someone who lives in the house, who may be there this morning. Your presence may provoke an interesting revelation. Oh, by the way, I may as well ask you this. It could save me a lot of trouble. Do you have any idea who could have killed them?”

“Do you think I would have kept it to myself if I knew?”

“Of course not. But you once said Goryanchikov had many enemies. How about Borya?”

“The only enemy Borya had was Goryanchikov. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“Not really. Whoever killed them wanted to make it look like Borya had killed Goryanchikov and then killed himself. I expect I shall hear much about how the two men hated each other.”

“It’s true, though.”

“Last night I went to Fräulein Keller’s,” said Porfiry abruptly. Virginsky faltered in his step. Porfiry watched him. “The boots?” asked Porfiry blandly.

“They’re still a little loose.”

“Your friend Lilya wasn’t there. It’s Fräulein Keller’s opinion that she’s found herself a rich protector.”

“Is that how it is?”

“If you believe Fräulein Keller.”

“Why are you so sure that Lilya has something to do with this?”