R. Morris: The Gentle Axe

“Your honor, allow me the privilege of introducing myself. I am Titular Councilor Ivan Filimonovich Lebedyev. Your honor,” he repeated, “allow me the honor-ah!” He broke off disconsolately. He bowed momentarily and clenched his face into a pained rictus. He recovered with a flashing smile, marred only by the lack of teeth. “Too many honors! Your honor, what can I do?”

“You may sit down if you wish, sir.”

“No sir, I do not wish.” This was said with quick, haughty defiance, as if he were rebutting a slur against his character.

“How may I help you, Ivan Filimonovich?” asked Porfiry gently.

“You will allow me to address my wife?”

“Of course.”

“Yekaterina Romanovna, come home with me.”

Without ceasing her lament, Yekaterina Romanovna rose obediently from her seat and crossed to her husband. He signaled his approval with a delayed nod and turned to Porfiry seeking release.

“There is just one thing, sir,” said Porfiry, with an air of reluctance. “Something your wife said. About your daughter.”

“My wife is ill, sir. You may have noticed. She is not”-he paused and bowed and grimaced, as he had done before-“herself.” He smiled again.

“But your daughter is quite well, I trust?”

“We have no daughter, your honor.” Lebedyev bowed with an air of finality, then began leading his wife out.

Porfiry rose and followed them. In the receiving hall, he caught Zamyotov’s eager eye as he passed him.

“It seems she has put on a similar performance in every police bureau in Petersburg,” the chief clerk informed him.

“And the story of the daughter?” asked Porfiry.

“It has been looked into. There is nothing in it. I talked to Rogozhin, who transferred here from the Central District. He knows all about it. It is all a fantasy of the woman’s disordered brain.”

Porfiry watched the couple cross the hall toward the exit. Lebedyev had his arm around his wife’s shoulder. It struck Porfiry that the gesture was not so much to protect her as to close her off from further interest and inquiry.

Lieutenant Salytov stood at the eastern end of Petrovsky Island, his back to the Tuchkov Bridge. It felt like the lowest point of the city; he had a sense of Petersburg rising up behind him as if it would bear down and crush him. A feeling of oppression was never far away from Salytov. Ptitsyn, the young polizyeisky who had been allocated to him, stood about twenty sazheni to his right, within sight, awaiting the signal. Salytov looked toward the frozen, snow-covered park and was overcome by a sudden blank hopelessness. His characteristic defense against such intolerable emotions was rage, and he gave in to it now.

They had sent him on a fool’s errand. They! There was no “they” about it. He well knew who was behind this. Porfiry Petrovich. And what a position he had been put in when he had announced himself and his mission at the Shestaya Street police station in the Petersburgsky District. With what contempt they had greeted him! No wonder. Wouldn’t he have reacted in a similar way if an officer from another district had turned up in his bureau, making similar demands, based on as little evidence?

The corporal on duty had raised his bushy gray eyebrows in an expression of mock alarm. Salytov recognized him as one of those officers of long-standing low rank, in whom a lack of ambition had instilled the habit of sarcasm and the vice of sloth. The man was not, however, devoid of envy, which he directed against all those who had the power to control his actions and curtail his ease. Superior officers, in other words, particularly those who came from other bureaus making demands. He vented his envy by being as obstructive as possible, without risking open insubordination. “A report of murder, you say?” He had narrowed his eyes, as if struggling to understand. Feigning stupidity was evidently one of his favorite techniques. “What kind of a report?”

“A tip-off,” Salytov had spat. He had realized what he was up against, yet still could not prevent himself from rising to the bait.

“From a reliable source, I take it?”

Salytov could have struck the fellow for that. How dare he question him, Salytov, and in that tone! Of course, what galled Salytov was the knowledge that the source was far from reliable. He regarded the corporal with hatred. “The top brass are taking it seriously. They want me to take some of your men and conduct a thorough search.” It was a great strain on Salytov’s patience to have to explain all this.

“We can’t spare men to go gallivanting off in the park.”

“You must have some men available.”

“But if we are to commit resources, we must know on what basis. You must share your information with us. Besides, I will have to talk to my chief. And there is the usual paperwork.”

It was ridiculous, the whole thing was ridiculous. To be put in such a position! To be made to wait! And after all that waiting to be given Ptitsyn, a mere boy!

Salytov scowled at the youth, who looked back with an expression of good-natured expectancy that was too much to bear.

“What are you waiting for, you fool?” shouted Salytov. Ptitsyn placidly waved one gloved hand, and both men began walking.

SIR, LOOK!Lieutenant Salytov, sir!”

“Yes, I see it.”

The two of them broke into a high-stepping run through the deep snow, converging toward the body that was hanging from the giant bow of the bent tree.

“Is this what we are looking for, sir?” gasped Ptitsyn, breathless and rosy-cheeked, as excited as a schoolboy.

Salytov did not answer. The note he had been shown had spoken of murder, not suicide.

“Is he dead, sir?”

“Of course he’s dead, idiot.” There was ice in the man’s beard, snow on his cap and shoulders.

“Shall we get him down?”

“No! Leave him there, do you hear? Don’t touch him! Don’t touch a thing.”

“Who is he, sir?”

Again Salytov ignored the question.

“I’ve never seen a dead one before, sir.” Ptitsyn looked wonderingly up into the staring eyes.

Noticing a bulge in the corpse’s greatcoat, Salytov stepped up and teased it open. “So. It seems there is murder here after all,” he commented on seeing the bloody axe tucked in the man’s belt.

“Sir,” said Ptitsyn, a frown of confusion giving his voice a querulous note. “How did he do it?”

“What are you talking about, boy?”

“I mean, how did he hang himself? You see the rope is tied around the trunk of the tree, sir. I can see how he could have thrown the rope around the tree, tied a loop, and pulled it tight. But how did he string himself up?”

There was something in what the boy said. Salytov looked up into the tree, at the point where the rope was tethered to the trunk, just below a small vertical nick in the bark. He then examined the flimsy birch branches. His eye was caught by a slip of grayish paper snagged on a twig. He beckoned Ptitsyn over.

“What is it, sir?”

“I want you to lift me onto your shoulders.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Get down and lift me on your shoulders.”

Ptitsyn looked momentarily bewildered, then lowered himself to a crouch so that Salytov could straddle his shoulders.

“Up!”

Ptitsyn rose shakily, crying out under the strain. As Salytov reached up to grab the slip of paper, Ptitsyn’s center of gravity was thrown. It seemed for a moment as though they would fall. But by a heroic readjustment of his stance, Ptitsyn was able to right himself. Making no allowances, Salytov cursed and kicked the man beneath him with his heels as if he were spurring a horse. “Get closer to the tree, damn you!”

Ptitsyn bellowed his response and lurched a step higher up the incline. Salytov was able to grasp his prize.