R. Morris - The Gentle Axe

“Alexander Grigorevich?” repeated Porfiry, with a quick, arch glance to Zamyotov. “I did not realize you two… gentlemen were on such terms.” The clerk’s answering glare was characteristically insolent. Porfiry bowed and clicked his heels as he took the photograph that Prince Bykov was holding out to him. It was a studio portrait of a striking man of about forty years of age. His face possessed traces of the masculine beauty that had once defined it: the strong, flaring nose, the heroic chin and sculptural cheekbones. Somehow these were what came out to the viewer and not the slackened flesh around them. Yes, he was running to fat and, it could fairly be said, had his best years behind him. The hair was receding, but its blond glow and defiant length signaled a former glory, and the angle of the forehead that was increasingly exposed was finely determined. More than anything, there was a compelling intensity to his eyes. They glared out of the picture and fixed the observer with an unflinching openness that combined power and vulnerability. The man’s pose was artificial, theatrical even, but some quality of amused intelligence in his face seemed to acknowledge this. Beneath the superficial artifice, Porfiry detected the hint of a deeper honesty. He was not a man to be trusted, a man capable of lying, certainly. But neither was he a man who lied to himself. He must be lively company, was Porfiry’s thought.

“This is Ratazyayev,” said Porfiry.

“Yes,” confirmed Prince Bykov.

“He’s older than I imagined.” Porfiry lifted his head and watched the prince thoughtfully. He was thinking of the bond between the young prince and the aging actor.

“How is the investigation going?” demanded Prince Bykov abruptly.

“Makar Alexeyevich.” Porfiry Petrovich used the time it took to say the name and patronymic to consider the many responses available to him. Finally, he settled for: “It is making progress.”

“But you have not found Ratazyayev?”

“Does the name Konstantin Kirillovich Govorov mean anything to you?”

“Govorov? I have heard the name, I think.”

“He is a known associate of your friend Ratazyayev’s.”

The prince blushed. “Alexei Spiridonovich has many friends. I have not been introduced to them all.”

“Would you be able to tell us where we can find this Govorov? We are very interested in speaking to him. We think he may have information relating to the disappearance of your friend.”

“I can’t help you. Other than to provide you with this photograph.”

“What of Virginsky? The student Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky? Do you know him?”

Prince Bykov’s face remained blank.

“Ratazyayev’s name was found on a document pertaining to Virginsky.”

“I have never heard of a Virginsky.”

Porfiry shook the photograph distractedly. “Thank you for this. It will help, I’m sure.” But his shoulders sagged in disappointment, and he was already looking past Prince Bykov.

"Alexei Spiridonovich Ratazyayev, the missing actor,” said Porfiry as he laid the photograph on Nikodim Fomich’s desk.

The chief superintendent took up the photograph. “I believe I may have seen him in something. Many years ago.”

“I have the prokuror ’s permission to investigate his disappearance.”

Nikodim Fomich nodded.

“I would like one of your officers to take the picture around the taverns in the Haymarket area. Ratazyayev signed a document that was drawn up in a drinking dive near the Haymarket, according to Virginsky. Whoever is assigned should start from the Haymarket and move out.”

“It sounds like a job for Salytov.”

Porfiry fluttered his eyelids and gave the slightest bow. “He could mention the name Govorov too, when he is making his inquiries.”

“Very well.” Nikodim Fomich nodded back, then pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Speaking of Virginsky,” he said at last, “he is demanding to be released, you know.”

“He is a strange, unpredictable youth,” said Porfiry, as he lit a cigarette.

“It’s not so strange to want your freedom.”

“But what is his freedom? The freedom to starve? He is fed here, isn’t he?”

“He is a law student. It seems he has attended enough lectures in his time to know that he has rights. You have not charged him. Indeed, there is nothing, technically, to charge him with. As far as the disappearance of Ratazyayev is concerned, you don’t need me to tell you, Porfiry Petrovich, that you have not established a crime. And if you are holding him in connection with the affair of the dwarf, it’s my understanding that that case is closed.”

“I want him close to me,” said Porfiry abruptly. He frowned at the cigarette burning down between his fingers.

“If Prokuror Liputin-”

“Please don’t bring Prokuror Liputin into this. I will speak to Virginsky.”

Nikodim Fomich noticed the strain in his friend’s voice. He saw too the dark patches beneath Porfiry’s eyes. “You’re smoking too much,” he said.

Porfiry held the smoke in his lungs. His eyelids quivered closed. He was light-headed, near to swooning. Finally, he let the smoke out in a sudden, noisy gasp and looked Nikodim Fomich in the eye. “It helps me think.”

YOU CAN’T KEEPme here.”

Porfiry sighed and looked down at Virginsky. The student was stretched out on the pallet bed of his cell. His eyes were closed complacently, arms folded behind his head. His cheeks had filled out and picked up color. He had evidently put on weight.

“That’s true,” agreed Porfiry. “I have come to tell you that you are free to go whenever you wish.”

This seemed to disturb Virginsky, who looked up doubtfully. “Very well,” he said at last and sat up.

“I want to believe that you are innocent,” continued Porfiry. “So let us proceed on the basis that you are. If you leave here, you may be putting yourself in danger. The person who killed Borya and Goryanchikov is still at large.”

“I thought the official story was that Borya killed Goryanchikov and then killed himself.”

“That is the official story. I say again, the person who killed Borya and Goryanchikov is still at large. This is a dangerous individual. He may kill again. At least while you are here, you are safe.”

“But why should they kill me?”

Porfiry gave a vague shrug. “Let me put it another way. While you are held here, as our chief suspect, the real murderer will believe himself to be in the clear. He may drop his guard. He may even reveal himself through some careless mistake. If we release you, he will feel himself to be under suspicion once more. It is natural, the natural neurosis of a criminal. He will begin to wonder what you have said, or what you could say. He will look for connections. He will wrack his brain, running over every conversation he has ever had with you, until he remembers the one time when, perhaps, he let slip that one incriminating detail.”

“And what if I don’t know the fellow?”

“Oh, be under no illusions, my friend. The murderer is someone known to you. Someone you know, someone who knows you.”

“You can’t be certain of that.”

“I feel it very strongly.”

“What would you have me do?”

“I am asking you to remain here a while longer. Voluntarily, you understand. We will make your stay as pleasant as we can.”

“Why should I?”

“It would help me. It would help me find the murderer of Goryanchikov and Borya. There will perhaps come a time when I will ask you to undertake a more dangerous commission.”

“What would that be?”

“To leave here. In so doing, you may help us bring the murderer out into the open. But you could also be putting yourself at risk. That is something you will have to face, but it is not necessary that you face it yet.”