R. Morris - The Gentle Axe

“What do you intend to do about it?” For the first time in the interview, Osip Maximovich seemed genuinely shaken.

“Nothing,” said Porfiry. “There is nothing I can do, even if I wanted to. It’s all speculation. I have no proof of anything. The only way we will find out for sure is if you are killed.” Porfiry got to his feet.

The emotion on Osip Maximovich’s face took a step up to fear. “You’re leaving me to my death,” he said, his voice rising in startled outrage.

Suddenly, to the surprise of both men, the door to the adjoining room slowly opened. Vadim Vasilyevich came in. His face was more than usually pale, almost glowing. A strange excitement showed in his eyes, which were fixed on Osip Maximovich. His lips were tightly clamped. Porfiry saw that he was holding the gold box he had carried out of Lyamshin’s.

“Hypocrite!” He whispered the word. But the force of his anger carried.

“Calm yourself, Vadim Vasilyevich.”

“Did you think this would save you?” The artificial baritone was gone. Vadim Vasilyevich’s natural voice was thin and reedy. He spoke quickly, breathlessly.

“What are you talking about?” Osip Maximovich attempted an amiable smile. But his eyes flashed hatred at Porfiry.

“Don’t lie. It’s too late for lying. I heard it all.”

“You heard nothing. Now please give me the box. It doesn’t belong to you. I thank you for retrieving it. But it’s mine.”

“I believed in you. You betrayed me. You betrayed yourself.”

“On the contrary. I found a way to be true to myself.”

Vadim Vasilyevich opened the lid of the little box and took out a folded piece of paper. He threw the box down. It fell apart as it hit the floor. “Did you really think this would save you?” He waved the paper in the air.

“Give it to me.”

Vadim Vasilyevich began to laugh. “You really do believe in this, don’t you? But God isn’t a lawyer. It’s the devil who’s the lawyer, you fool!”

“No matter. I will negotiate with the devil then.” Osip Maximovich rose from his seat and stalked toward his secretary. Vadim Vasilyevich was far taller than Osip Maximovich. He held the paper tauntingly over his head, at arm’s length. The shorter man jumped comically but failed to reach it.

“I ought to-” Vadim Vasilyevich’s face suddenly lit up with malign pleasure. “I know what I ought to do.” He turned his back on Osip Maximovich and ran back into the adjoining room, slamming the door behind him. He evidently locked it, or blocked it in some way, as Osip Maximovich turned the handle uselessly.

A moment later the door opened, and Vadim Vasilyevich came back in. He was still holding the paper above his head, but it was alight. Jags of lambent orange leaped from his hand.

“You monster!” cried Osip Maximovich, desperately reaching for the flame-lapped document.

“What is that?” asked Porfiry Petrovich, who until now had been content to allow the scene to play out in front of him.

“It’s his soul,” cried Vadim Vasilyevich gleefully. “Or at least he thinks it is. It is a document conferring ownership of his soul to whoever is in possession of this paper. He placed his soul in the possession of the pawnbroker, the Jew Lyamshin. He believed that because he was no longer in possession of it, his soul would be untouched by his crimes.” Vadim Vasilyevich gave a cry of pain and dropped the burning paper. But he moved forward to prevent Osip Maximovich from getting close to it.

“My soul is innocent. My soul is spotless,” protested Osip Maximovich. “You saw the contract between Virginsky and Goryanchikov. We talked about it. You agreed-the logic is faultless. If a man is not in possession of his soul, his soul cannot be affected by anything he does. You yourself said it.”

“But I was-” Vadim Vasilyevich’s eyes rolled upward as he searched for the right word. “Amusing myself! I thought it was a joke. You couldn’t possibly take it seriously.” He broke into anguished sobbing laughter. “We talk about all sorts of things. That’s what we do! All the day long. Idle talk! And we publish whole books full of other men’s idle talk.”

Osip Maximovich’s eyes stared indignantly. He turned to Porfiry. “He’s destroyed a legally binding document. Pure vandalism. Can’t you arrest him?”

Porfiry turned toward the door. “Lieutenant Salytov!” he called out.

Salytov stepped into the office.

“Arrest this man,” said Porfiry, indicating Osip Maximovich.

“What!” cried Osip Maximovich, in sudden rage. “That was not our deal! You were going to leave me to face Virginsky. You were going to let Virginsky kill me. That’s what we agreed. I was willing to accept that. I wanted that. You cheated me.”

“I don’t care a jot about your soul,” said Porfiry. “But I do care about Virginsky’s.”

Porfiry Petrovich looked up from his desk as he heard the door to his chambers open. He stubbed out a half-smoked cigarette and rose slowly from his seat. “Pavel Pavlovich!” Porfiry said the name warmly. He invested it with a surprise that he did not entirely feel.

“Porfiry Petrovich.” Virginsky looked away, shamefaced.

“You gave us quite a scare.” Porfiry gave a quick moue of rebuke. “Until I saw the boots on the dead man, I was convinced it was you.”

“Ah, yes.” Virginsky flashed a tentative glance toward Porfiry. “I’m sorry about that. That note…it was stupid. Although at the time I fully intended to. I…saw the accident on the Kazansky Bridge. He looked just like me. It was like I was watching myself. That’s what I should do, I thought. That’s the answer. But I couldn’t go through with it. Perhaps I should have. I wish to God I had gone through with it. I may still.”

“Don’t talk like that!”

“I should have killed him. That was my other plan. That was the only reason to keep myself alive. But I couldn’t go through with that either.” Virginsky hung his head. “I’m a coward.”

“No.”

“Yes. I should have killed him. And when I realized I didn’t have it in me to do that, I should have killed myself. She-” Virginsky broke off and hid his face in his hands.

“What is it, Pavel Pavlovich?”

“She asked me to pray for his soul.” Virginsky dropped his hands, revealing the appalled confusion on his face. “For Osip Maximovich’s soul.”

Porfiry blinked his agitation. “And can you?”

“Can you?”

“I am a believer,” said Porfiry. “And yet I find it difficult to think of troubling God with that prayer.”

“I’ve tried. For her sake.” Virginsky lapsed into thought. He suddenly remembered something. “She gave me this.” Virginsky handed Porfiry a sealed envelope, addressed to one Yekaterina Romanovna Lebedyeva. The name seemed familiar to Porfiry, though he could not think from where. “It’s a letter to her mother that she has never sent.”

“This woman is her mother?” Porfiry’s voice sounded startled. He thought perhaps he could place the name after all.

“Apparently. Lilya carried the letter about with her always. She was holding it when he killed her. Perhaps it gave her strength, or hope…or something. She asked me to deliver it. I can’t. I can’t conceive of looking that woman in the eye.”

“I will take it,” said Porfiry, noting the address. “What will you do now?”

“I don’t know. I’ve written to my father. A different letter. Not the one you found.”

Porfiry nodded his approval. “Do you wish me to destroy that?”

Virginsky nodded.

Porfiry came out from behind his desk and held out his hand. Pavel Pavlovich took it. “This is a hard time,” said Porfiry. “A terrible time.