R. Morris: The Gentle Axe

“Yes.”

“So you have at least discounted him?”

“To some extent, I had discounted him, insofar as I had discounted anyone. You will know from the report that I had him tailed. And that he was seen to enter Friedlander’s the apothecary. This was the day before Govorov’s death.”

“You questioned the apothecary?”

“Lieutenant Salytov did.”

Liputin searched through the papers to find the relevant statement. “‘He attempted to purchase laudanum. And failed.’” Liputin looked up, suddenly inspired. “Perhaps he was testing the apothecary. Someone who was lax enough to sell laudanum to an undernourished student might be amenable to even more questionable transactions. Your spy lost him. He may have tried again, somewhere else, and succeeded.”

“But the murderer already had a source for prussic acid,” argued Porfiry, “as Borya’s death testifies.”

“But to purchase too much from one source would certainly arouse suspicion.” Liputin spoke as if the matter were settled.

“There is something else to consider,” said Porfiry. “Money. Virginsky never has much of it. If he wanted prussic acid, I do not believe he would ask for laudanum. It’s hardly consistent with the economics of poverty.”

“Well, the apothecary may be lying. He would hardly be likely to admit selling a deadly poison to a suspected murderer.”

“He did not know his customer was a suspected murderer. Perhaps he thought he was a butterfly collector.”

“One does not collect butterflies in December in Petersburg, Porfiry Petrovich.”

“What I mean is he could have justified the sale to himself-or to a jury.”

“Juries!” cried Liputin with heat. “Don’t talk to me about juries. Even so, we should bring Virginsky in. He has the motive. The bizarre contract conferring ownership of his soul on Goryanchikov. While we’re at it, we should bring in the apothecary too. I’m sure Lieutenant Salytov would get the truth out of them.”

Porfiry Petrovich bowed. “The investigation is in your hands now, your excellency.” Something about the way Porfiry said this seemed to give Liputin pause.

“Yes, it is,” said the prokuror uncertainly. “What is all this business with the philosophy translation?” he asked abruptly.

“I believe Goryanchikov knew his life to be in danger. I believe he also knew from whom. He has left clues in the text. Interposed sections that are not in the original.”

“These are the passages you have drawn attention to?”

“That’s right, your excellency. The first passage I noticed was the one that reads: ‘The father of Faith will be the destroyer of Wisdom.’ Since then I have discovered two other interpolations. One is a reference to Alcibiades and Socrates. You know who Alcibiades was?”

Liputin moved his head ambiguously. It could have been a nod or a shake of denial, or simply an involuntary tic.

“The great and, some would say, wholly immoral Athenian general,” continued Porfiry. “As famous for his debauched and sacreligious acts as for his military exploits. The reference is from Plato’s Symposium. The passage in Goryanchikov’s text reads, ‘Did not Alcibiades sleep with Socrates, under the same cloak, and wrap his sinful arms around a spiritual man?’”

“Yes, yes, yes, Porfiry Petrovich. I am well aware of the loathsome practices the ancient Greeks indulged in.”

“There is no such mention of Alcibiades and Socrates in Proudhon. The third interpolation…”

Liputin raised a hand to silence Porfiry while he read the final passage that Porfiry had copied out:

As everyone knows, Minerva was the daughter of Jupiter. She sprang directly from her father’s head. This miracle was achieved only after her father had devoured her pregnant mother whole. It should not surprise us that such a deity was also the father of many bastards. With an irony the ancients would have appreciated, the name of one of Jupiter’s bastards is Fides.

“So what does it mean?” asked Liputin, laying down the note and confronting Porfiry with a severe gaze.

“As yet I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Liputin’s tone was indignant.

“Do you know, your excellency? You have now had a chance to study all the evidence we have collected.”

“Of course I don’t know. This farrago of nonsense is no help. Good grief, Porfiry Petrovich! What have you been doing all this time?”

“I have been pursuing leads.”

“And where has it got you?”

Porfiry held his palms upward, half in supplication, half in apology.

“It’s just as well I’m taking over.”

Porfiry nodded meekly. “What will your next step be, your excellency?”

Liputin seemed to be distracted by a scratch on the corner of Porfiry’s desk. At last he threw a shy, almost abashed glance toward Porfiry. “What would your next step be?”

“I would go back to where the whole thing started. The girl. Lilya Ivanovna.”

“The prostitute?”

Porfiry nodded.

“You think she is the murderer?” asked Liputin uncertainly.

“No. But I think she may be the reason for the murders. If I may make one further suggestion, your excellency. I fully accept the disciplinary action that you have initiated against me. However, I would propose that you postpone my suspension.”

“That’s out of the question. I do not go back on my decisions.”

“Do you ever gamble, Yaroslav Nikolaevich?”

The prokuror regarded Porfiry with as much affront as if he had spat in his face.

“I propose a wager-that’s all,” pressed Porfiry. “Delay my suspension for two days. If I have not solved the case, you may suspend me, indefinitely-without pay. If I have solved the case, I ask you to take no action against me. My success will redound to your credit. My failure will give you a scapegoat.”

Prokuror Liputin pinched his lower lip pensively. “I am a Russian, Porfiry Petrovich. Of course I gamble.”

The sudden intrusion of green on the snow-covered pavement startled Porfiry. Perhaps he was the only man in St. Petersburg who had forgotten what time of the year it was. But the depth of the green and the darkness of it shocked him into remembering.

Christmas trees of various sizes tumbled out from the Gostinny Dvor indoor market. The trees came from Finland. Some of them were still unadorned, others already decked with ribbons and painted baubles. The traders walked between them, hawking for business.

Porfiry tapped the driver’s shoulder. “Here.” To Salytov, he added, “Give me a moment. It’s important.”

He jumped down from the drozhki. It was half an hour before he returned. He was carrying a small package wrapped in gaudy paper.

“I wanted to get something for the child. She has a child, you know. A daughter.”

“The whore?” answered Lieutenant Salytov sullenly, looking straight ahead as the driver’s whip snapped the air.

A slight smile showed on Porfiry’s lips.

“What a temper you were in that morning, Ilya Petrovich!” Porfiry cast a wary glance toward Salytov. The lieutenant’s face was already pink from the cold air. It darkened at Porfiry’s words, clashing violently with his orange whiskers. Porfiry saw and continued: “We could hear your shouting throughout the headquarters. If only you hadn’t let Govorov get away, perhaps we would have solved the case by now.”

Salytov brought his fur-sheathed fist down on the edge of the drozhki. “I didn’t let him get away! It wasn’t a question of letting him get away. He wasn’t in custody. He was the aggrieved party. The one pressing charges. No one expected him to go missing like that. And besides, we didn’t know he was Govorov then. We didn’t know who he was at all.” Salytov caught Porfiry’s smile out of the corner of his eye. “Damn you, Porfiry Petrovich!”