R. Morris - The Gentle Axe

“Filthy whore,” commented Tolkachenko, with a heavy swallow. “And to think, all this has been going on above my head. Wait till I see Govorov.”

“Say nothing. Do not arouse his suspicions. Do you understand? He may well be dangerous. This is a murder investigation. The moment he returns, send word to me. I am Lieutenant Ilya Petrovich Salytov of the Haymarket District Police Bureau. The Stolyarny Lane station.”

“I know it. Not that I have ever been in trouble with the police,” added Tolkachenko quickly.

“What hours does he keep, this Govorov?”

“It is hard to say. He is not what you would call a regular gentleman. Sometimes he sleeps all day. Sometimes he is out all night.”

Salytov crossed to the shelf of books. The volumes were all roughly the same size and shape, all in the same maroon cloth binding. He scanned the titles: Hareem Tales, The Adventures of a Rake, Pandora’s Awakening, White Slaves, A Sojourn in Sodom, The Gentleman’s Privilege, The Whip and the Whipped, The Pleasure of Purple (Being a Sequel to The Whip and the Whipped), Flesh and Blood, She Gave Herself to Gypsies, One Thousand and One Maidenheads, The Monk and the Virgins. Each one bore the imprint Priapos.

Salytov gave an emphatic nod of triumph. It was not for the benefit of the caretaker, to whom he had nothing to prove, and whose presence he had anyway forgotten. He was imagining that he was showing the books to Porfiry Petrovich.

The drozhki sped north across the Neva over the Dvortsovy Bridge. The driver stood to whip the horse, a bay stallion. The beast’s neck arched and writhed. Its back rippled beneath glistening skin. Steam rose from its flanks. It turned its face sideways into the sharp oncoming air. Under the driver’s cries, the horse’s snorts, and the constant jangle of the harness bells, Porfiry Petrovich could hear the hiss of the runners over the smooth ice. He folded down his fur collar so that the moisture from his breath would not dampen it.

It was good to be sitting in an open drozhki wrapped in furs, hurtling into the coldest, clearest day of the winter so far.

“Fools,” muttered Salytov.

Porfiry turned to see what had provoked the remark. Salytov’s gaze was locked onto a wooden sledding hill built on the frozen river. It was Saturday morning, and the thrill-seekers rushed four abreast up the steps of the great tower. Their shrieks as they came down the other side hung high in the emptied air. It was mostly boys and young men, but there were some girls there too, their faces flushed and intent on excitement. Porfiry smiled. He felt vicariously the stomach lurch and the soul’s vertiginous untethering.

He did not feel inclined to push Salytov for the source of his misanthropy. “You did well, Ilya Petrovich,” he commented instead, shouting over the noises of transit. The sledding hill was behind them now, though the yelps of pleasure and fear could still be heard.

Salytov did not reply. His expression was hidden from Porfiry.

“Finding Govorov’s lodging was a breakthrough.”

“It was nothing but methodical old-fashioned police work. A lead was bound to come eventually. It came sooner rather than later. I was lucky.” Salytov did not face Porfiry as he shouted his reply. The investigator had to strain to catch his words.

“You know as well as I do, you make your own luck in this game.”

Salytov grunted.

“Of course, the question raised by your discovery is, why should a man who has permanent lodgings in Spassky Lane take a hotel room on the Bolshoi Prospect?”

Salytov’s refusal to face Porfiry became pointed.

Porfiry frowned. “Ilya Petrovich, if I have offended you in any way…”

Salytov half-turned in Porfiry’s direction. But he could not bring himself to look the other man in the eye. “You have not offended me,” he said in a stiff tone.

“I’m glad to hear it. Then may I ask-” Porfiry broke off. “But no, I may be mistaken.” Porfiry’s reticence failed to elicit the openness he had hoped for from Salytov. He watched the other man closely before pressing: “Do I detect a certain antagonism in your demeanor, Ilya Petrovich?”

Salytov sighed deeply, making sure it could be heard, then faced Porfiry at last. A fierce and undisguised bitterness showed in his eyes. “I know my place. I am a simple police officer. I do whatever is required of me by the office of the investigating magistrate. If you have any complaints concerning the way I have fulfilled my duties, I suggest you take them up with my superior, Nikodim Fomich.”

“I have no complaints, Ilya Petrovich. I merely wonder why you dislike me so much.” Porfiry’s throat felt tight from shouting. His voice sounded hoarse.

“It is not necessary for me to like you. Or for you to like me.”

“Of course, but what I think you do not realize is that I have enormous respect for you. I specifically requested you to be assigned to this case so that we could work together.” Salytov’s expression was suddenly outraged, as if Porfiry had insulted him. “What have I said now?” demanded Porfiry.

“You do not know?”

“No.” Porfiry’s eyes pleaded.

“You insist that I tell you?” Salytov’s demand received a nod from Porfiry. “Very well. I know that you make fun of me. I know that you send me off on fools’ errands. You intrigue to get me the worst jobs. And here you have the boldness, the effrontery to say that you respect me!”

“You are wrong, Ilya Petrovich.”

“No, Porfiry Petrovich. I am right. I know that you are not to be trusted. You use the same tricks and techniques on your colleagues as you do on the criminals you interview. With me, it is flattery and disingenuousness. No doubt you would call it psychology.”

“Is that really fair, Ilya Petrovich?”

“You cannot even be straightforward with me now, when you have demanded honesty from me.”

Porfiry exhaled audibly through his nostrils. “Perhaps you’re right. It is interesting to see myself illuminated by your perception. Not a very flattering portrait you paint.”

“ I do not flatter.”

“I know, I know. That is my method. Forgive me then. I will own up to everything you accuse me of. Obviously, I am not as subtle as I like to think.”

Salytov regarded Porfiry’s ingratiating smile coldly. He then leaned toward Porfiry, so that their bodies were pressed together. “You have never forgiven me,” he murmured, though he was close enough for it to be heard.

“Forgiven you? What is there to forgive?” Porfiry too spoke more quietly now.

“That it was to me that he confessed,” Salytov hissed with intimate antagonism.

“I really have no idea-”

“That student. Raskolnikov. He sought me out and confessed to me!”

“But I was pleased that it was so, Ilya Petrovich. I was glad that he was able to confess at all. It does not matter to whom. The important thing is he confessed.”

“Hypocritical nonsense! It was a blow to your vanity. Admit it. Have the decency to admit it.”

“I see that I will not be able to persuade you of something you’re so determined not to believe.”

“You cannot persuade me of your sincerity, if that’s what you mean.”

“Hmm.” Porfiry pulled away and flexed his brow. “I’m sorry you feel this way. It is painful to me.”

Salytov shrugged.

“We must simply agree to ignore our differences and concentrate our efforts on the case,” said Porfiry, as brightly as he could.

Salytov closed the gap between them again. “But will you be honest with me even in that?” His challenge had a pleading edge to it. “Will you honestly share with me all that you have discovered? Or will you-hold something back?”