R. Morris - The Gentle Axe

“ I bought a hat here once,” said Virginsky, putting as much defiance as he could into the claim.

The shopman disdained to comment but pivoted backward at the waist, as though reeling from the words.

“My father is a landowner,” blurted Virginsky. He bowed his head and left the shop, burning with a hotter, deeper shame than he had ever known.

Dmitri led them down the dingy corridor. It was so narrow, they were forced to proceed in single file. Uninvited, the ragged porter brought up the rear. There was a watchful stupidity to his expression. His heavy-lipped mouth hung open. He evidently didn’t want to miss anything.

It was hardly a room at all, just an odd bit of space left over after the construction of the rest of the hotel, an airless cell crammed into the last corner beneath the stairs. The door had a corner cut out of it to accommodate the sloping ceiling. Dmitri’s candle showed up the grime that lay over everything. The wallpaper was yellowish, though it seemed more likely that it owed its color to age than to any printing process. There seemed to have once been a pattern to it. The single bed almost filled the floor space. Next to it a wooden stool doubled up as a bedside table. There were more candles on a dark, oversize chest. Dmitri lit them from his own candle.

“Who’ll pay for those?” demanded the porter.

“You may present me with a bill. I will pass it on to the chief of police for approval,” answered Porfiry.

“The chief of police!” scoffed the porter excitedly. But seeing the seriousness of the others, including the boy, he became discouraged and sullen.

Porfiry handed a candlestick to Salytov and took one himself. The two of them examined the room closely. Porfiry looked under the bed, where, unsurprisingly, he found a thick drift of dust. In places, it seemed, the dust had adhered into heavy clumps. Porfiry removed one glove and tested one of these clumps with a fingertip. It was not dust after all.

Porfiry rose to his feet stiffly, with a pinch of the substance between his thumb and forefinger.

“What is it?” asked Salytov.

Porfiry sniffed it. “I can’t say for certain, but I think it’s horsehair.”

“Horsehair?”

“Yes.”

Salytov sank down onto his knees to take a look beneath the bed himself. Porfiry turned to Dmitri. “Is there anything you can remember, any detail at all, that struck you as odd, from the time that Govorov was staying in this room? Did you hear any cries, for instance?”

Dmitri shook his head.

“Did Govorov ask for anything? Did he eat? Did you bring food to his room?”

“Yes, he ate. Of course he ate.”

“What did he eat? Can you remember?”

“Veal. Hors d’oeuvres. Tea.”

“Did he ask for anything else?”

Dmitri thought for a while. “He didn’t want vodka. I asked him if he wanted vodka, and he said no.”

“That’s interesting,” said Porfiry. He gave Salytov, who was now back on his feet, an inquiring glance.

Salytov nodded pensively. “Yes, I would not have had our Govorov down as an abstemious gentleman,” he confirmed.

“Perhaps he brought his own vodka?” suggested Porfiry. “Let’s see,” he began to recap. “He declined the vodka but accepted the veal-even though this would have been within the Christmas fast, would it not?”

Dmitri nodded.

Porfiry continued: “Obviously not a strict observer of the Faith.”

“Who is these days?” said Salytov. “Besides, I am surprised you expect a murderer to observe the fasts.”

“We don’t know he is a murderer,” said Porfiry with a provocative smile.

“It’s all we have,” said Dmitri abruptly. “If you don’t eat veal, you don’t eat here.”

“We’ve never had any complaints,” said the porter aggressively.

“And there was nothing else?” pressed Porfiry.

“Only veal and hors d’oeuvres,” said Dmitri.

“I meant anything else at all out of the usual.”

“Well,” said Dmitri, letting out a huge sigh and frowning thoughtfully. “He did ask for a needle and thread. And a pair of scissors too.”

“Ah!” cried Porfiry. “That is interesting. Was this after Goryanchikov had joined him or before?”

Dmitri’s expression was blank.

“The dwarf,” prompted Porfiry.

“Oh, the dwarf was here. It was because the dwarf needed a patch in his suit.”

“Really?”

“That’s what he said. He said, my friend needs to patch his suit.”

“So it was Govorov who made the request? Did you see Goryanchikov-the dwarf-at this point?”

“No. He was inside the room. The gentleman came out to speak to me. He kept the door closed behind him.”

“That is very interesting. And it could be significant. Ilya Petrovich, do you remember a patch on Goryanchikov’s suit?” Porfiry asked.

Salytov shook his head.

“Neither do I. Let us look at the bed, for a moment,” continued Porfiry. He pulled off the coarse blanket and gray sheets and threw them on the floor.

“Do you mind!” objected the porter.

Porfiry ran a finger along the seam of the mattress. “It’s been sewn up,” he said. “Rather badly, by the looks of it.” He picked at the large stitches with his nails. They unraveled easily. Salytov, Dmitri, and the porter, each holding a candle, pressed in at his shoulders, craning to see what he was doing.

“Please be careful not to set fire to the bed,” pleaded Porfiry drily. “You may destroy vital evidence.”

Porfiry pulled out a length of thread and folded back the corner of the mattress covering. There was a chorus of gasps behind him.

Inside the mattress, lying flat on top of the horsehair wadding, was a small fur coat suitable for a child. The arms were folded over neatly, reminiscent of a corpse laid out in a coffin.

Porfiry opened his cigarette case. He took one out and put it in his mouth. There were eight left. These he gave to Dmitri.

Porfiry saw Prince Bykov before Prince Bykov saw him.

The young nobleman was sitting on one of the chairs outside Porfiry’s chambers. His expression was pained but patient, self-consciously stoical. With one hand he fondled his fur-covered top hat as if it were a lapdog.

Why is he here? thought Porfiry. But the desperate neediness in the prince’s eyes was clear, even from a distance. He came to the police station because he was compelled to. It was the last link he had with his vanished friend.

Porfiry experienced a mild spasm of guilt, the kind that comes when one is reminded of a duty deliberately ignored. But there was a kind of arrogance to his presence too, an aristocratic failure of imagination. Such a man was evidently incapable of understanding that Porfiry had anything better to do than investigate the causes of his unhappiness.

Porfiry was about to turn on his heels when he heard his name called out.

The clerk Zamyotov had seen him. At his loud, piercing “Porfiry Petrovich!” Prince Bykov looked up.

Porfiry blinked several times and squeezed his lips into a smile.

The prince rose to his feet, his hat in one hand, the other extended vaguely as if to grasp something.

“My dear prince,” said Porfiry, walking briskly over to him as if he could not be more delighted to see the prince. “How opportune it is that you should present yourself here! There is an important question I must ask you.”

Prince Bykov tossed his head so that the dark tight curls at his collar shook. Confusion, and the effort of thinking it through, gave his face an antagonistic edge.

“Please.” Porfiry held open the door to his chambers for the prince. “We have been pursuing a very significant lead.”