R. Morris - The Gentle Axe

Virginsky touched the fingertips of both hands to his forehead, then pushed them back through his hair. He looked up at Porfiry. “No,” said the student at last. “I would rather die a free man than live forever as a prisoner. Besides, there are things I need to attend to.”

Porfiry’s nod was unsurprised.

Back in his own chambers, Porfiry placed the box that he had taken from Borya’s shed on his desk. The box was made from burled birch, most likely Karelian, wonderfully smooth to the touch, and honey-gold. The hinges and lock were brass. There was a brass emblem in the shape of an eagle inlaid into the lid.

He tried the key that Zoya had given him, the key she had found on Borya. It turned easily in the lock, and the box opened. Inside he found a single crisply folded sheet of ivory-colored writing paper.

Porfiry lifted the sheet to his nose without unfolding it and breathed a scent he recognized. He opened the paper to read a short handwritten note:

Do you remember the summer? Do you remember the day we met in Petrovsky Park this summer gone? Do you remember the place near the boating lake, the dip in the land surrounded by birch? How could you forget it? I will hate you if you have forgotten. But you will not have forgotten. I saw from your eyes that you would never forget. It is there, recorded in the map of your heart. I saw so much from your eyes. I saw your goodness. I saw your fear. But do not be afraid. Trust in your goodness. Meet me there tonight at midnight. There is a way forward in all this. If you love me, which I have never doubted, you will come.

The note was signed: “A.A.” He held the paper to his nose again. The scent, he was sure, was Anna Alexandrovna’s. Despite its wholesome freshness, he found the effect of it was not conducive to thought. But he had no desire to swap it for one of his cigarettes.

He was suddenly aware of high-pitched shouting coming from the station. With hurried guilt, he placed the note back in the box, closed the lid, and locked it. The shouting continued. It was getting louder, approaching his chambers. Porfiry looked up to see his door burst open and Katya-Anna Alexandrovna’s maid-come in, holding by the ear a very dirty-faced boy of about nine or ten, dressed in grubby livery. The boy was screaming in protest: “You’re killing me! Let go!”

“This is him! Here he is!” cried Katya, and all the determination of her character seemed to be expressed in that grimly triumphant cry. “The boy!” She gave a vicious twist of the hand holding his ear, screwing the boy’s head down. The boy tipped forward and squealed in pain.

“Ah!” said Porfiry, rising from his chair. “You mean the boy who came to visit Goryanchikov?”

“He came back. I caught him spying on the house.”

The boy’s shrill screams had not let up: “You’re pulling my ear off!”

“Could you not let go of his ear? You appear to be hurting him.”

“If I let go, he’ll run off. You watch. I brought him all the way here like this.”

“Good heavens. I really would like you to let him go. Testimony obtained under duress is not admissible in the new law courts.” Porfiry crossed to the door and locked it. “There, now,” he said, dropping the key into the hip pocket of his frock coat. He nodded sternly to Katya. She frowned uncertainly, still reluctant to let go.

“You don’t know this one,” she said.

“The door is locked. He can’t escape.”

Finally she released the ear. It seemed, from her wary dismay, that she believed he would vanish the moment he was out of her grip. But also there was the sense that she had relinquished the source of her own confidence and momentary power. She seemed to find herself superfluous now that she had let him go. Noticing this, Porfiry bowed and thanked her. “I beg you to stay while I question him,” he said. The boy stood up straight, rubbed his ear, and regarded Katya with a look of vindicated innocence.

“You’re not out of here yet,” she warned him.

“So, boy, tell me, what is your name?” asked Porfiry.

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” the boy answered.

“No one is accusing you of anything. But it is possible that you may be able to help us in a murder investigation.”

The boy’s eyes widened in his coal-smudged face. “Murder!”

“Yes.”

“Is there a reward?”

“You will have the satisfaction of knowing that you have done your duty as a loyal subject of the tsar.”

“That’s not much of a reward.”

“Perhaps I should explain to you how the legal system works. It is not so much a question of rewards for doing your duty as penalties for not. If you do not provide me with the information I require, I can have you locked up.”

“And flogged,” added Katya, with a threatening nod.

“That may not be necessary,” corrected Porfiry. “The loss of liberty in itself is considered to be a sufficient deterrent. Of course, if I feel that you have rendered us exceptional help, I can recommend that your services be recognized. There is the possibility of a citation or even a medal.”

“What’s a citation?”

“It’s a piece of paper with your name on it, outlining the extent of your contribution.”

“What use is a piece of paper?”

“It will be sent to the tsar.”

“And what will the tsar do with it?”

“He will be gratified.”

“Will he give me money for it?”

“He will not lock you up and have you flogged,” said Porfiry, rather wearying of these negotiations. “And he may recommend that you be given a gold medallion. But it all depends on how much you help us. Of course, nothing can happen if you don’t tell us your name. We can’t write the citation if we don’t have your name.”

“Dmitri.”

“Very good, Dmitri. At least that can go on the citation. And where do you live?”

Dmitri narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“So that the tsar knows where to send the gold medallion, should he decide to award it.”

“The Hotel Adrianopole. I am the bellboy there.”

“Very good. And where is the Hotel Adrianopole?”

“On the Bolshoi Prospect. Vasilevsky Island.”

“Thank you. Now, please, Dmitri, could you tell me why you were spying on the house of the Widow Ivolgina, in Bolshaya Morskaya Street?”

“I wasn’t spying.”

“He was,” insisted Katya.

“I was waiting for the dwarf.”

Porfiry exchanged a significant glance with Katya and nodded minutely to Dmitri. “I see. The dwarf. Why were you waiting for him?”

“I wanted to ask him how he did it.”

“How he did what?”

“The trick.”

“Perhaps you had better start at the beginning. You admit that you have met Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov-the dwarf, as you call him-before?”

Dmitri seemed unsure how to answer. He looked mistrustfully between Porfiry and Katya.

“This lady says you came to the house, the house where Goryanchikov-the dwarf-lived, and visited him.”

“All right, it’s true.”

“Why did you go there?”

“A gentleman sent me.”

“What gentleman?”

The boy shrugged.

“How did you know him?”

“He was at the hotel.”

“A guest?”

“Yeah.”

“Why did he send you there, to the house?”

“He had a message.”

“For the dwarf?”

The boy nodded.

“And so you delivered the message?”

He nodded again.

“And?”

“And what?”

“Well, I’m trying to establish why you came back to spy on the house. The trick you mentioned. Can you tell me more about that?”

The boy frowned uncertainly. “Well, he came to the hotel.”

“Who did?”

“The dwarf.”

“I see. The message that you delivered was an invitation then? So what happened when he came to the hotel?”