R. Morris - The Gentle Axe

“I am Porfiry Petrovich.”

“This gentleman is a policeman, Mamma Zoya.”

“No. I am an investigating magistrate.” Porfiry smiled. “But no matter. You could say I am a policeman.”

“What is this about?” Zoya clasped her parcel tightly, as if she were afraid he was going to snatch it off her.

“I am investigating the disappearance of a man called Alexei Spiridonovich Ratazyayev.”

Lilya seemed thrown by the announcement; Zoya, relieved. Porfiry noted that she even allowed herself a small grin.

“I don’t know anyone by that name.”

He noticed Lilya frowning at him doubtfully, as if she had suddenly lost faith in him. She seemed almost angry. He met her frown with a smile. “I believe him to be an associate of someone known to you, Lilya Ivanovna.” Alarm showed in her eyes. “Konstantin Kirillovich. Whose family name, I have discovered, is Govorov. Wasn’t it a certain Konstantin Kirillovich who accused you of stealing one hundred rubles?”

“Yes.”

“Konstantin Kirillovich Govorov. The mysterious man who accused you of theft and then ran away before charges could be brought. Why did he do that, do you suppose?”

Lilya shook her head without looking at him.

“Perhaps he believed,” continued Porfiry, “as many do, that it would be enough for a gentleman to accuse a prostitute. That the authorities would naturally take his side. That there would be no need for the formalities to be completed. If so, he is unaware of the changes wrought by our legal reforms. We have juries now, and courts. And defense advocates. It takes more than an accusation to have someone sent to Siberia, even a street girl. But then Konstantin Kirillovich is no gentleman, is he?”

“I don’t know what it means, to be a gentleman,” said Lilya, finally challenging Porfiry with her gaze.

“There are only men!” agreed Zoya Nikolaevna with a high, harsh cry. “There are no gentlemen.”

“Konstantin Kirillovich took photographs of you, didn’t he?”

“I allowed him to.” Her voice came from somewhere dead.

“But a photograph is not so terrible. At least it does not involve-”

“Oh, it involved the worst that you could imagine!” cried Lilya despairingly.

“And you were young, you were very young?” His question offered mitigation.

Lilya nodded rapidly. She dabbed tears out of her eyes and looked toward her daughter. “It was…in the beginning.”

“But you did it,” said Porfiry. His tone was flat, not accusing. It was as if he were speaking her thoughts for her.

“Yes.” The word came heavily. “I did it.” She searched his eyelashes for some sign of understanding; or more: redemption.

“This time, however,” pressed Porfiry, “was different. What was it that he asked of you this time?”

Lilya shook her head. Her eyes were red-rimmed now. She would not look at any of them. Like the faces in the icons that surrounded them, her gaze was fixed on another world. But it was not heaven that she was contemplating.

“Leave her alone!” barked Zoya Nikolaevna threateningly.

“I need to find Konstantin Kirillovich Govorov,” insisted Porfiry calmly, without apology. “Lilya, can you tell me, when he took the photographs of you, where was it?”

But Lilya was lost to him.

“You will look after her.” Porfiry’s command drew an eager nod from Zoya Nikolaevna. “Is there anything you can tell me about this man?” This time she shook her head, with equal resolution. “About the money you took…”

“I found it, fair and square.”

“On a dead man. It is a punishable offense to disturb police evidence. More important, there is the issue of to whom it belongs. There is every chance the money was stolen.”

“Yes! That’s it!” cried Zoya, startling Lilya out of her trance. “He stole it off the dwarf. That’s why he killed the dwarf, to get his money. So it doesn’t matter! The dwarf is dead. What can the dwarf want with the money now?”

“Please don’t call him that,” sobbed Lilya, suddenly. “He was a man. His name was Stepan Sergeyevich.”

“I hope to God you haven’t spent it all on these?” Porfiry threw a dismissive hand toward the edges of the room. He glared at Zoya. “What they need, what you all need, is provision in this world. If you’re worried about the next world, you can pray. Prayer is free, after all.” There was an edge of exasperation in his voice.

Zoya Nikolaevna hung her head. “But they are so beautiful.”

“If she ever has to go back to Fräulein Keller’s, I will pack you off to Siberia so fast-”

“We’ll give the money back!” cried Lilya. Zoya shook her head warningly.

“I would dearly love to know,” said Porfiry, ignoring Lilya’s interjection, “what else you found in Petrovsky Park. Was there anything, anything at all, other than the money you took?”

“There was a pack of smutty playing cards I found on the dw-” Zoya broke off and bit her bottom lip contritely. “On the little fellow.”

“Stepan Sergeyevich,” supplied Lilya.

“But I sold them,” continued Zoya. She gave a little penitent shrug and smiled at Porfiry in a way that was almost schoolgirlish.

“Anything else?”

“Just this.” She took her arm away from the child’s head and delved into her layers with one hand. A moment later she pulled out a small key.

“Where did you find it?” asked Porfiry, taking and examining it.

“On the big brute.”

Porfiry pocketed the key and took out his cigarette case. With an unlit cigarette in his mouth he regarded Zoya for some time, as if deciding what was to be done with her. He looked down at the little girl who was still clinging to her Babushka. The child’s face was taut with fear.

“Who is the child’s father?” he asked at last.

There was an anguished cry from Lilya.

“She’s never told me,” said Zoya, meeting Porfiry’s gaze steadily. “And she won’t ever tell you.”

Porfiry nodded. He bent over one of the candle flames and lit the cigarette. “Why not? Doesn’t she know?”

“She will not speak of it,” said Zoya through tightly clamped teeth, as if she were uttering a curse. “She will not speak of it.” The repeated words had the passionately felt but unthinking intonation of a liturgical chant, rising in intensity until a third, final: “She will not speak of it.”

The Peter and Paul Fortress cannon signaled midday with an irrefutable boom. As though to escape the impact of the distant shot, Porfiry hurried his step as he pushed open the door to the building in Stolyarny Lane, shivering in from the cold. The Haymarket District Police Bureau was on the fourth floor. Cooking smells came from the open doors of the flats he passed on the way up. The stairs were steep. He paused at the landing of the second floor to light a cigarette. The smoke thickened the gloom of the stairwell. It was narrow here, and he had to stand to one side to let porters and police officers go by in both directions. These purposeful men regarded him with suspicion. But he took his time. He needed to feel the tobacco smoke’s stimulating influence spread throughout his body before he could go on. When he did finally move, it was as if he were borne up on the swirling wisps.

As he entered the bureau, he caught the look of avid expectancy in Prince Bykov’s eyes, and his heart sank. The young nobleman ran toward him with quick, clipping steps. “Porfiry Petrovich!”

“Prince Bykov. How delightful to see you again.”

“Porfiry Petrovich, I have something that I believe will be useful to you in your investigation. Alexander Grigorevich said it would be all right for me to wait.”