R. Morris - The Gentle Axe

He had no definite plan. It was hard to shake off the feeling that he was wasting his time. But he had to be somewhere. It seemed to fulfill some deep consoling need that he was here. Dimly, he sensed that this surveillance exercise was not strictly rational.

An hour passed. Porfiry had gone from watching for Virginsky to simply willing him to appear. He tried to superimpose the student’s face on everyone who came into view. He began to ask himself how much longer he would give it. The tenuous sense of purpose he had felt initially had evaporated. All that kept him there now was the lethargy of depression.

He looked down at the book in his hands. The words communicated nothing to him.

When he looked up, there were tears in his eyes.

“Do you want that book, or what?” demanded the bookseller roughly. Porfiry nodded. “Fifty kopeks.”

He handed over the money, still without knowing what book he was buying. It is as senseless as any of my other acts.

He took one last look at the door to Lyamshin’s. A man of more than average height was just pushing it open. Something about this figure’s back struck Porfiry as familiar. He watched as the man cast a furtive glance over his shoulder before going inside. That quick glimpse was all that Porfiry needed. The pallor of the man’s face was unmistakable, as were his thin compressed lips and his cold gray eyes.

“Porfiry Petrovich!” Porfiry frowned to hear his name called. Lieutenant Salytov was running up to him. His shout drew the attention of more than a few passersby.

“Shhh!” Porfiry beat the air with an outstretched palm, signaling Salytov to be quiet.

Salytov stopped a pace in front of him, out of breath. “But there’s something you need to know. I came straight over to tell you. I hoped I would find you here. We’ve had a report of a student trampled to death on the Kazansky Bridge.”

“Virginsky?”

“It’s impossible to say for certain. The head was mangled by the horses’ hooves. But the rest of the victim’s appearance fits Virginsky’s description.”

Porfiry looked back at the door to the pawnbroker’s. “Nothing makes sense,” he said. “There is no logic to any of this.”

“I am going there now,” said Salytov, squinting as if into the sun. But there was no sun, of course, in the gloomy arcade. “Will you come with me?”

Porfiry heard the agitated jangle of the bell to the pawnbroker’s. “Look,” he said, indicating the tall, thin gentleman with the pinched mouth who was coming out.

“Vadim Vasilyevich,” murmured Salytov.

Porfiry nodded in confirmation.

The publisher’s secretary was holding a small and densely ornamented gold box. He sheltered it protectively in both hands, as though it were a damaged bird he had rescued.

“Vadim Vasilyevich!” Porfiry raised a hand as he called out.

The secretary looked up at his name. For a moment, he seemed to contemplate making a run for it, but the sight of Salytov bearing down on him deterred him.

“May I see what you have there?” asked Porfiry, as he strode up to him.

Vadim Vasilyevich handed the box over without a word. It was heavy in Porfiry’s hands. He tried the lid, but it was locked.

“Do you have the key?”

“I do not.” Vadim Vasilyevich’s bass voice resounded with antagonism.

“You have just redeemed this?” Porfiry turned the elaborate box in his hands.

“You spied me coming out of the pawnbroker’s, I believe.”

“Why would a gentleman like yourself have need of the services of a pawnbroker?”

Vadim Vasilyevich hesitated before answering. “I have redeemed it on behalf of a friend.”

“Osip Maximovich?”

The secretary’s silence was answer enough.

“The question is even more pertinent. Why would a gentleman like Osip Maximovich have need of the services of a pawnbroker?”

“I really do not know. Except to say, even a gentleman may find himself in pressing circumstances.”

“The business is failing?”

“No. There is no question of that. It is just, sometimes, it pleases Osip Maximovich to engage in eccentricities. I really do not know why he pawned this object. I only know that he was most desirous of having it returned to him.”

“He commissioned you to redeem it on his behalf?”

“You may put it like that, but it was not so formal.”

“What were his words to you when he asked you to undertake this commission?”

“I cannot recall.”

“Cannot? Or will not?”

“He said it was time for him to have it back. That was all.”

“I see.” Porfiry handed the box back to the secretary. “Then please, return it to him with my compliments.”

Vadim Vasilyevich looked uncertainly at Porfiry. “May I go now?”

Porfiry nodded tersely. Vadim Vasilyevich clutched the ornamental box to his chest and hurried away.

Porfiry’s gaze scoured Salytov’s bewildered face. “Lead the way,” he said at last.

There was feverish excitement in his gaze as he followed Salytov across the flea market toward the Nevsky Prospect exit.

It was a fine day, cold but clear. The city glistened in the frost-refracted sunlight, like a newly forged weapon.

Porfiry dawdled as if he wanted the short walk to the Kazansky Bridge to last forever. Salytov repeatedly had to stop and wait for him, frowning severely as he bit the inside of his cheek. Then he would nod and turn as Porfiry drew level, and walk ahead again. They did not speak.

The Kazansky Bridge rose in an angular peak over the frozen Yekaterininsky Canal. As they approached it, they could see the stooped backs of the small crowd that clustered on the incline, defying the repulsive effects of the sloping, icy pavement. A polizyeisky shouted and scowled discouragement, but the stubborn voyeurs refused to disperse. They gazed with desperate fixity at a point on the ground, beyond the sharp ridge, as yet unseen by Porfiry and Salytov. Another polizyeisky could be seen turning away traffic.

A private closed carriage, fitted with winter runners, was pulled up just in front of the bridge. The horses stamped and snorted, their eyes bulging with wild indignation. The liveried driver took a sly swig from a flask. Inside, a dark, indeterminate figure sat motionless and withdrawn.

As Porfiry stepped onto the bridge, he felt his feet slide from under him. A firm hand caught him under the armpit and prevented him from falling. It was hard to see solicitude in Salytov’s expression. He unhanded Porfiry quickly, as though with some distaste.

Now that he was in among them, Porfiry could tell that it was more than fascination that held the onlookers. A kind of profane and callous awe was evident in their faces. They were mostly poor folk, servants, seamstresses, prostitutes, ragpickers, and low-grade civil servants, shivering with grim excitement in threadbare coats. It seemed that for the moment they had found relief from their own misery by contemplating the fate of someone worse off than themselves. And yet there was a sense of community, solidarity even, in their gaze. Although the victim was in all probability a stranger to them, it seemed they took the death personally, and they directed sly, resentful glances toward the waiting carriage. At the same time, however, a flicker of triumph, which they could not suppress but dared not acknowledge, showed in their eyes. It was the triumph of the living over the dead, and for the moment that they were possessed by it, there was no room for any other feeling, not even pity.

Their shoulders, as Porfiry and Salytov pushed through them, were hard but unresisting. Salytov negotiated briskly with the polizyeisky, who seemed both relieved and embarrassed to see them. “They are like dogs, sir. Like dogs in heat,” he explained, gesturing to the crowd.