R. Morris: The Gentle Axe

Porfiry took her in with a glance as he finished his cigarette. “She carries the yellow ticket?” he asked Salytov.

“Yes.”

“And it is in order?”

“That’s not the issue.”

“But it is in order?”

“Yes.” Salytov almost spat out the word. His face became the battleground for contesting emotions: hatred and anger on one side, the desire not to be shown a fool on the other. It was always the same when he had dealings with Porfiry Petrovich. “She stands accused of stealing one hundred rubles from a gentleman. A search by the arresting constable discovered a banknote to that denomination on her person.”

“I see. And where did this alleged crime take place?”

“Alleged! Really, Porfiry Petrovich!”

“But where?”

“On Sadovaya Street.”

“I see. And when?”

“In the early hours of the morning.”

“Do we not know the precise time?”

“It was about four A.M., sir,” put in the uniformed officer.

“I see. Is there a reason why it has taken so long to process the incident?”

“The gentleman making the charge went missing,” the head clerk supplied, his tone sarcastic and amused, making clear that it was nothing to do with him.

“How unfortunate. Has he turned up now?”

“We are still looking for him,” said Salytov quickly, flashing hatred at the clerk.

“Do we know his name?”

“She”-Salytov signaled the prostitute with a terse nod-“claims he was one Konstantin Kirillovich.”

Porfiry turned his attention to the girl. “So this man was known to you?”

“I had met him once before, your honor.” Her voice was that of a child. It was also polite-the voice of a well-brought-up child.

“Under what circumstances?”

The girl blushed and stared at Porfiry’s feet. Then she escaped into another of her shivering fits.

“He was a client of yours?”

The convulsion calmed. She met his gaze. “No. Not that.”

“A pimp then?”

The girl shook her head but would say no more.

“Do you know where he lives, this Konstantin Kirillovich?”

“No, sir.”

“And how did you come to have the hundred rubles that were found on you?”

“He gave them to me.”

“He gave you a hundred rubles? Why?”

“I didn’t want to take it, sir. He forced it on me.”

“He forced you to take a hundred rubles off him and then called a policeman to accuse you of stealing it? It beggars belief, does it not, child?”

“I can’t explain it, sir.”

“Did he want you to go with him when he gave you the money?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And did you go with him?”

“No, sir.”

“You refused?”

“I suppose so.”

“And yet you kept the money that he gave you. Perhaps that’s why he called the policeman?”

“I tried to give the money back to him. He wouldn’t take it.”

“Do you normally charge a hundred rubles for your favors?”

The girl made a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh. There was outrage in it and suffering, yet acceptance.

“Forgive me. But let us face the facts. You are a prostitute. You don’t deny that?”

“I am legal. I have a license.”

She produced the yellow passport that was her license to whore herself. Porfiry read the name: Lilya Ivanovna Semenova. She was registered as working at a brothel called Keller’s at an address on Sadovaya Street.

“Of course. There is nothing to worry about as far as that is concerned. A man gives you a hundred rubles. You refuse the money and refuse to go with him. Was he very ugly?”

“It wasn’t that. That has nothing to do with it, after all.”

“So why wouldn’t you go with him? Why didn’t you want his money?”

“It was too much.”

“You are a strange prostitute, to have qualms on that front.”

“I was afraid of what he would expect in return.”

“Ah! There are limits then? Is that it?”

“Not in the way you think.”

“Please, tell me, in what way then?”

“He didn’t want me for himself.”

“I see. He was an agent in the transaction. And who-on whose behalf was he acting?”

“He didn’t say.” Her pupils, for a moment, oscillated wildly from side to side. Porfiry tilted his head to study her, a feminine gesture.

“But still it doesn’t make sense. Why wouldn’t you go with him? And why, on your refusal, wouldn’t he simply demand the money back? Why call a policeman? Why accuse you of theft? And why, then, run off?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“What has happened to the money now?”

“We’re holding it as evidence,” answered Salytov.

“Evidence of what? There is no complainant. We can’t charge her. We can’t hold her. Regarding her license, everything is in order. I suggest, therefore, that we release the girl. It is my opinion, also, that we must return the hundred rubles to her.”

“But she stole it!”

“So says a man who isn’t here. She says he gave it to her. There is no one to contradict that story. Perhaps it was a gift. Or we might refer to it as payment in advance for a service that hasn’t yet been rendered. We can’t give it back to him because he’s not here and we don’t know his address. There’s nothing to justify confiscating this poor girl’s earnings.”

“But she did nothing to earn it, even if you accept her version of events,” insisted Salytov.

“True. But who are we to make judgments on that account? We’re here to uphold the law, not our own notions of morality. I would like very much to talk to this Konstantin Kirillovich. My dear, you don’t know his family name, by any chance?”

“No, sir. I know him only as Konstantin Kirillovich.”

“Ah, well. But perhaps he has reasons of his own for not wishing to talk to us. I consider it very careless of you to have let him escape, Ilya Petrovich.”

“But I had no idea he would make off like that!”

“My dear fellow, can’t you recognize when you’re being teased? Of course I don’t blame you. After all, one normally only has to confine the accused.” Porfiry now turned to the head clerk. “Alexander Grigorevich, if you would be so kind as to get the money belonging to this young lady.”

Alexander Grigorevich treated Porfiry to a look of open incredulity; nonetheless he slipped from his stool and sauntered into a room behind the main desk.

A moment later he returned with a brightly colored one-hundred-ruble note. The girl, Lilya Ivanovna Semenova, protested, “I don’t want it. I don’t want his money. You keep it.” There was fear as well as disgust in her expression.

“It doesn’t belong to us,” explained Porfiry.

“But I don’t want it. I never wanted it.”

“Very well, Lilya Ivanovna. We can’t force you to take it. Officer, you may release the prisoner.”

The polizyeisky unlocked the handcuffs. Lilya Ivanovna’s face was lit up by amazement. Then she frowned at Porfiry, as though he were a puzzle she couldn’t solve, before turning to plunge herself into the loose crowd milling through the bureau. In her wake, she left a scent in the air.

“What do you want me to do with this?” asked Alexander Grigorevich, holding the banknote distastefully between the tips of his thumb and forefinger.

“Give it to the orphans,” said Porfiry, without looking at him.

Lilya shivered again as she came out into a freezing fog.

Restless splinters of ice penetrated her clothes and skin. Her feet were wet and numb with the cold. For a moment she had not the faintest idea where she was or how she came to be there. All she could remember was leaving Fräulein Keller’s basement. And everything that had happened since seemed to have happened in a dream.