R. Morris - The Gentle Axe

“I’m not. But Lilya herself presented me with a small mystery. The mysterious Konstantin Kirillovich.” Again Porfiry watched Virginsky closely. “It is a coincidence that Lilya should come to our notice the night before an anonymous note was received alerting us to the two bodies in Petrovsky Park. A coincidence that I should see Lilya at Lippevechsel’s Tenements when I came over to see you yesterday. As an investigator, one learns to mistrust coincidences. I discover she is known to you. And you, I’m afraid, are the only person I have so far whom I can link to the two dead men. So Lilya is also linked.”

“But it’s all nonsense. It means nothing. It could lead you nowhere.”

“Yes. But so far it’s all I have to go on.”

“Besides, there are lots of other people who knew them both. It’s just you haven’t met them yet.”

“Today I hope to rectify that,” said Porfiry, as he came to a halt. They had reached Bolshaya Morskaya Street. “Now then. Seven, seventeen, or seventy? Which is it? I wonder.”

“It’s that one,” said Virginsky. He pointed out a pink house in a three-story terrace on the other side of the street. The building was recently built, within the last twenty years. It was highly ornamented with lion’s-head relief panels set into the stonework, ionic pilasters on the second story, and even caryatids-massive female sculpted figures-framing the passageways that led to the courtyards behind.

“An elegant building,” commented Porfiry, though his voice lacked the warmth of approval. “Who would have thought it was home to two victims of murder? Perhaps the caryatids provide a clue. I always think of murder victims when I see the stone inhabitants of Petersburg.”

“That’s very fanciful of you.”

“No doubt. It must be something to do with my occupation. Too many unsolved cases, I’m afraid. I seem to see the dead appealing for justice everywhere I look. And yet their faces seem strangely calm, do you not think? As if they are reconciled to their fate.”

“Who could be reconciled to such a burden?”

“You mean the burden of supporting the upper stories?” asked Porfiry with a smile.

“I mean the burden of being a woman. They are women, aren’t they?”

“These ones are. One does see men, of course. Technically, the male figures are atlantes. Shall we go in?”

Looking from the house to Virginsky, Porfiry noticed that the student’s face showed signs of sudden agitation.

“You can’t force me to.” His eyes were fixed on the pink house, but his head was leaning backward as if subject to a force of repulsion.

“My dear friend, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Well then, I won’t do it. I’ve brought you here. I’ve pointed it out. That’s enough.” The force of repulsion acted now on his whole body. He began to edge away from Porfiry. The next moment he turned on his heels and broke into a wide-paced run. Without slowing his step, he called over his shoulder, “Boots! Excellent!”

Porfiry had the impression he was grinning.

The number of the house turned out to be 17. An additional sign indicated that the house belonged to the widow of State Councilor S. P. Ivolgin.

The door, which was to the left of the central caryatid-framed passageway, gave directly onto the street. The maid who opened it was dressed in a neat gray dress with a well-starched apron over it. Her hair was tied up inside a clean white cap. She had an attractive, intelligent face. Porfiry sensed a spirited independence that he could imagine crossing over into pride or even impertinence. Her eyes were questioning without being suspicious. There was a slight impatience in her demeanor that suggested he had dragged her away from some important work. He guessed her age at around thirty.

“Good day,” began Porfiry. “Is this the home of Goryanchikov, the student?”

“Yes?”

“May I speak to Goryanchikov?”

“He’s not here. He hasn’t been here for several days.”

“Have you any idea where he is?”

Porfiry felt himself subject to her scrutinizing gaze.

“I’m Porfiry Petrovich, an investigating magistrate. It is to do with a serious criminal matter.” Porfiry looked away down the street, then back into her undaunted gray eyes. “Perhaps it would be better if I came inside.”

The maid agreed without hesitation, bowing slightly as she closed the door behind him.

Porfiry looked down at a highly polished parquet floor. The hall was warm and comfortably furnished without being ostentatious. Rugs from the Caucases hung on the walls, and one lay on the floor. A faintly spicy smell pleasantly stimulated his nostrils.

“I think you had better talk to Anna Alexandrovna.”

“Your mistress? The Widow Ivolgina?”

“Yes.”

“Of course. But I would like to talk to you first. What is your name?”

“Katya.”

“When was the last time you saw Goryanchikov, Katya?”

“Stepan Sergeyevich. His name is Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov.”

“I see. So when was the last time you saw Stepan Sergeyevich?”

Katya thought carefully before answering. “Four days ago.”

“Is it normal for him not to come home for so long?”

“No. Sometimes we don’t see him for a day or two. But four days is unusual.”

“Did you think nothing of it?”

“I was beginning to think something of it.”

“What were you beginning to think?”

“He’d done a moonlight flit. He owes Anna Alexandrovna a fortune in rent.”

“I see. And what was Anna Alexandrovna’s view?”

“She thought the same. We thought we would never see him again. And that she would never see the money. What’s all this about?” Katya asked abruptly.

“I am afraid Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov is dead.”

Katya’s brows came together in a frown as she took in the news. Then an expression something like horror opened up on her face. “Borya!” she cried.

“Why do you say that?”

“Borya killed him, didn’t he? They had a row. Borya threatened him with an axe. It was shortly before Stepan Sergeyevich disappeared.” Her head was trembling perceptibly.

“What was the argument about?”

“I don’t know. What do men ever argue about?”

Before Porfiry could answer, another female voice called from a room at the back of the hall: “Katya! What is it, Katya? I need you in here.” The appeal was followed by the muted clatter of pots.

Katya gave Porfiry a quick look that seemed to have something accusing about it, as if he were to blame for bringing all this on them. That glance left him in no doubt of the depth and force of her protective feelings toward her mistress.

A moment later this lady herself came out from the kitchen, her head tilted upward, poised between inquiry and annoyance. When she saw Porfiry, her expression became guarded. She looked to Katya for some explanation. The maid returned a warning but, in contrast to her mistress, seemed unabashed.

Anna Alexandrovna was dressed simply. Her dark hair was neatly pinned. Her face was still youthful, with a flush of color at her cheeks. Hers was a soft beauty, its malleability such that every touch of experience had compromised rather than enhanced it. Looking into her eyes, which she allowed him to do only for a split second, Porfiry saw that she was older than he had first thought. He saw a glance complicated by caution and disillusion. Porfiry remembered Virginsky mentioning a daughter and wondered briefly what kind of a man State Councilor Ivolgin had been; wealthy certainly, judging from the house he had left to her. The same house also hinted at his ambition and even pretension.

“I did not realize we had a visitor,” she said, dipping her gaze below Porfiry’s face. “I was grinding cinnamon. I needed Katya’s help. I didn’t realize…” Porfiry was touched that she was flustered on his account. She brought with her another scent besides the cinnamon, the faint hint of her perfume. Porfiry was aware of how different it was, in intent and effect, from Lilya’s. It was a clean, uncomplicated fragrance.