R. Morris - The Gentle Axe

Porfiry backhanded a line in the air, a conjurer’s gesture, as he checked off the row of hanging axes. But of course, he did not need to do this. He could see perfectly well where the missing axe should be. He could judge too, from its position in the hierarchy of axes, that its size matched that of the bloodied axe found on Borya.

He stared at the gap and wondered at the mind that had chosen this axe over the three others hanging there. The second-smallest axe had been taken. The chances were that it was snatched in haste. But even so, some exercise of intent must have been involved, whether conscious or unconscious. Why, for example, was the smallest axe not taken, which would surely have been more convenient? The axe, or rather the absence of this particular axe, had to point at something. It was in precisely such a detail that the killer would betray himself.

Porfiry brought his hand back and in the air drew a vertical line up and then back down the gap formed by the missing axe. He realized that he had crossed himself. His hand came to rest on a small birch box that lay on the shelf beneath the axes. He picked up the box and discovered that it was locked.

In an upstairs apartment, seated alone at a card table, Marfa Denisovna looked down at hands disfigured by warts. She laid out the cards for a game of solitaire. She accepted the fall of the cards in the same way as she had accepted her warts, and all the other things sent by God. Without pleasure or complaint.

Marfa Denisovna was sixty-six, as old as the century. It was a convenient coincidence, because if she ever forgot her age, she only had to ask the year.

Deep peach-stone whorls lined her face. She lacked lips entirely and showed as little as possible of her eyes. Her body was wiry and compact. There was not much to her physically, but she was far from frail. The passage of time had worn away all softness from her, leaving a human kernel. Her shoulders were draped in an enormous black shawl. A delicate lace bonnet seemed out of place on her tightly pinned-up, almost metallically hard gray hair.

She did not look up as Anna Alexandrovna came in.

“Has he gone?”

“Yes.”

“Who was he?”

“An investigator.”

“What did he want?”

“They have found Stepan Sergeyevich and Borya.”

Marfa Denisovna moved the ace of spades up.

“Dead. They are both dead.” Anna Alexandrovna’s voice was distant and empty.

Marfa Denisovna moved the seven of hearts across, placing it on the eight of clubs.

“Marfa Denisovna? Did you hear me?” Now there was an edge of panic to the younger woman’s voice.

“I heard you.”

“He asked about the argument.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him what I had to.”

“So. Stepanushka is dead. Poor Stepanushka. Ah well, it was meant to be. God did not look favorably on his life. His deformity was a punishment.”

“But why should he have been punished? It was not his sin.”

“He was not the only one punished.” Marfa Denisovna laid down the cards and spread out her fingers. There was not one that was without a wart. In places the clusters of nodules distorted the shape of the finger. It had not escaped Marfa Denisovna’s notice that her affliction made it harder for her to place her hands together in prayer. She picked up the cards again and dealt out the next three.

“They will be back. The authorities. A policeman will come to take statements from us all,” said Anna Alexandrovna hurriedly.

Marfa Denisovna at last looked up at Anna Alexandrovna, though with eyes that were barely visible. “I have always taken good care of this family. You need not be afraid on my account.”

“I’m not afraid.”

Marfa Denisovna continued playing in silence. At last she said, “I took care of things before, didn’t I? And I will take care of things again. God’s will be done.”

"Of course, you must have expected it,” said Chief Superintendent Nikodim Fomich.

“I expected nothing of the sort,” answered Porfiry.

“Porfiry Petrovich.” Nikodim Fomich spread the fingers of both hands out on his desk as if he were taking precautions against its levitating. He pressed down firmly once and then sat back. “The prokuror has decided-”

“The prokuror is an arrogant fool.”

“In his opinion, the case is closed. The dwarf was murdered by the yardkeeper. The yardkeeper committed suicide. Your own investigations have uncovered several independent testimonies alluding to a violent argument between the men. Lieutenant Salytov has now interviewed all the residents of the house. A number of them have testified to the fact that the yardkeeper was heard to threaten the life of the dwarf.”

“But the medical evidence-”

“In the prokuror ’s opinion, the medical evidence is flawed. ‘Suspect,’ I believe, was the word he used.”

“Dr. Pervoyedov said that he had never seen a clearer case of poisoning by prussic acid.”

“Those were the words he used?”

“Something like that,” answered Porfiry uncertainly.

“The prokuror is not impressed by Dr. Pervoyedov.”

“But that’s outrageous.”

“Another doctor, a doctor appointed by the prokuror, is of the opinion that the prussic acid traces were due to a contamination. Dr. Pervoyedov has been very overworked at the hospital. It is unlikely that the prokuror will allow you to call on his services again. He feels that Dr. Pervoyedov should be fined for incompetence, due to the contamination that has occurred. The facts of the case, as the prokuror understands them, are not consistent with poisoning by prussic acid.”

“No, no, no, no, no! That’s insane!” protested Porfiry.

“Be careful, Porfiry Petrovich. This is not like you.”

“But you must see the illogicality of the statement you just made.”

“Porfiry. This is Russia. We are governed not by logic but by authority. You know that as well as I. In fact, your friend Dr. Pervoyedov is getting off lightly. The prokuror was at first of the opinion that he had falsified the results deliberately to further his career. I managed to persuade him that that was not the case.”

Porfiry slumped in his seat. He could not speak for some time. At last he murmured, “What do I do now?”

“You must let it drop.”

“But the dead men? What of the dead men?” He saw in his mind an image of Goryanchikov and Borya transformed into masonry figures bearing the upper stories of an imaginary building. But unlike the real atlantes and caryatids of St. Petersburg, they writhed and groaned under the strain.

“They are dead. In the opinion of the prokuror, they should not be allowed to disrupt the smooth running of the judicial system.”

“Why didn’t he tell me this himself? I report to him, not to you.”

“Shall I tell you what I believe? I believe he is afraid of you. You’re cleverer than he, you see, Porfiry. All he has is his ambition and his power. You have more. You have cleverness and compassion.”

The compliments depressed Porfiry. “I’m surprised to hear you say I have compassion. Dr. Pervoyedov would not agree with that, I think.”

“But if you didn’t, you wouldn’t care who killed these men.”

“It’s not compassion that makes me care who killed them. I don’t have compassion for the dead. It’s no use to them. What are they going to do with my compassion?”

“I know what drives you, Porfiry. I know for whom you have compassion.”

“If so, you know more than I do.”

“The perpetrators. The poor, miserable sinners.”

Porfiry clasped his hands together and placed the knuckles of his thumbs against his lips. The gesture was prompted by agitation, but it looked a little like he was praying. “You’re thinking of that boy.” There was a note of denial in his voice. He would not look at Nikodim Fomich.