R. Morris - The Gentle Axe

Porfiry blew out a funnel of smoke and flicked the ash from his cigarette. “Is what true?” He looked up from the papers he was studying and hyperblinked.

“Liputin’s latest insanity?”

Porfiry handed the chief superintendent a letter bearing the crest of the prokuror ’s office. “I’m to hand over the file relating to the deaths under suspicious circumstances of Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov, Boris Borisovich Kutuzov, and Konstantin Kirillovich Govorov to Prokuror Yaroslav Nikolaevich Liputin. He will take over the handling of the case personally. I am expecting his high excellency at any moment.”

Nikodim Fomich read the note and threw it down on Porfiry’s desk. “But this is absurd. ‘Serious procedural irregularities.’ ‘Misinterpretation and misreporting of medical evidence.’ You told him exactly what Pervoyedov had found. He chose to ignore it.”

“The office of the prokuror is never wrong.”

“But the man’s an idiot. He doesn’t stand a chance of solving the case.”

“I think he believes that I have already solved it.”

“And have you?”

Porfiry shrugged. “I have some theories. I have narrowed down the field of suspects.”

“To how many?”

Porfiry’s eyes rolled upward as he counted in his head. “About six.”

“That’s hardly narrowing the field, Porfiry Petrovich.”

“Or seven.”

“Well, I must say, you seem to be taking it very calmly.” Nikodim Fomich was indignant.

“What can I do about it?”

“You can appeal.”

Porfiry smiled weakly. “I must accept my fate. That’s the Russian way, is it not?”

“No, it isn’t,” objected Nikodim Fomich petulantly. “I don’t believe stoicism is a true Russian trait at all. I deplore it!”

“I must do all I can to help Prokuror Liputin uncover the identity of the murderer. That’s the important thing now. My own personal disappointment is irrelevant.” After a moment, Porfiry added, “Whoever is responsible for these deaths is certainly capable of killing again.”

“Exactly! That’s why you must stay on the case until it’s solved.”

The door opened suddenly. “Prokuror Liputin is here to see you,” said the chief clerk, Zamyotov. He made no attempt to mask his pleasure.

Now the prokuror himself strode into the room. Liputin didn’t acknowledge Nikodim Fomich and dismissed Zamyotov with a curt nod. “Porfiry Petrovich, you have the file I requested?” He held out a hand.

“Of course, your excellency.” Porfiry gathered together the papers on his desk and placed them in a cardboard wallet that he handed to Liputin.

“You will wait until I have studied these papers, then you will answer any questions I put to you. Then you will consider yourself suspended until further notice.”

“Yaroslav Nikolaevich!” cried Nikodim Fomich. “I really must protest. This is hardly just-or sensible.”

Liputin still refused to look in Nikodim Fomich’s direction. His head was bowed as he scanned the contents of the file. “Good day, Nikodim Fomich. Your presence is not required here. I trust you have police matters to attend to.”

“I shall be entering a formal appeal on Porfiry Petrovich’s behalf.”

“Which I shall look forward to processing.” The corner of Liputin’s mouth went into spasm.

Porfiry Petrovich released his friend from the room with a gentle smile.

The prokuror took over Porfiry’s desk. Every now and then, for instance when he was studying the pornographic photographs found in Govorov’s apartment, he would look across disapprovingly at Porfiry, as if he were responsible. Porfiry was sitting on the brown fake-leather sofa, chain-smoking. Occasionally the prokuror seemed about to say something but always thought better of it. At last he placed the final piece of paper, the line written by Anna Alexandrovna, back into the file and sat back in Porfiry’s chair.

His eyes were fixed on Porfiry, who sat up expectantly and stubbed out the cigarette he was smoking in the crystal ashtray that was resting on the arm of the sofa.

“So, Porfiry Petrovich,” began Liputin, “you think that Anna Alexandrovna is the murderer? Is that really likely? A woman? And a woman of her class too? Do you not think she would be restrained by modesty and a sense of shame?”

“She could equally be motivated by them. Or rather by a false modesty and a distorted sense of shame. To keep certain things secret. Poison is a notoriously female weapon.”

“But she would have to have had a man working with her. If only to string up the yardkeeper.”

Porfiry shrugged. “I have my theories about that. More of a problem is the fact that her hand does not match the note I found in the box in Borya’s shed. I believe it was that note that led him to his death.”

“It does not match?” asked Liputin, somewhat surprised. He searched quickly through the file to produce the two sheets of paper. “The paper is different, of course. But that means nothing.”

“The paper is different. And that means nothing, as you say. But there are differences in the handwriting. Anna Alexandrovna’s is more rounded and, I would say, feminine. I believe the other note was written by a man attempting to copy her hand.”

“You can’t possibly be sure of that!”

“You’re right. I can’t be sure it was a man. But I am sure it is a forgery.”

“But you did identify the scent on the paper as hers?”

“Yes. However, anyone can buy a bottle of scent.”

“It would have to be someone who knows what scent she uses.”

Porfiry Petrovich nodded.

“For instance, her maid,” suggested Liputin.

Porfiry Petrovich pursed his lips, as if impressed. “When I called at the Widow Ivolgina’s house the other day, I noticed a particularly unpleasant taste in the air. I had just extinguished a cigarette. It is known that smoking cigarettes in the proximity of prussic acid can lead to such a reaction. I asked the maid about it, and she said that they had been fumigating mattresses. Fumigation is one of the domestic uses of prussic acid. She certainly would have had access to the substance.”

“So it is the maid?”

Now Porfiry raised his eyebrows doubtfully. “But then again, anyone in the house would have had the same access. The old nursemaid, Marfa Denisovna, for example. Or the cook, Lizaveta. Then there are the two gentlemen who lodge there. Osip Maximovich and his secretary, Vadim Vasilyevich. We know that Goryanchikov did work for Osip Maximovich’s publishing firm.”

“Yes, but I see that Osip Maximovich’s alibi is vouched for by the late Father Amvrosy of Optina Pustyn. The telegram from that fellow in Kaluga confirms it.”

“It would appear so.” Porfiry read from Ulitin’s telegram: “‘Someone by that name was here,’ were the elder’s exact words.”

“There you have it,” said Liputin carelessly.

“An interesting choice of words, do you not think?”

“The reverend father was dying. I don’t think we can read too much into his exact choice of words. We were fortunate to get a testimony out of him at all. And besides, there was the convent register.”

“A simple yes or no would have answered the magistrate’s question more decisively, without expending undue energy.”

“These old mystics like to talk in riddles,” said Liputin conclusively. “So where are we? What of Vadim Vasilyevich? He has no alibi.”

“And no motive, as far as we can ascertain.”

“Oh, really, Porfiry Petrovich! You are really most infuriating! Will you not simply tell me who the murderer is?”

“Please be assured that if I knew, I would not hesitate to tell you.”

Liputin leafed through the documents of the file. “You released the student Virginsky.”