R. Morris - A Razor Wrapped in Silk

‘That is hardly the most effective method of disposing of it, as it only succeeds in drawing unwanted attention to him.’

‘True, but we have to accept that the murderer was under intense pressure at this time. He may not have been thinking rationally. Individuals in these situations often improvise from one panic-stricken moment to the next. This is fortunate for the investigator, for it is while they are acting in this way that criminals make mistakes. At any rate, I fear that we will not be able to draw any definite conclusions just now.’

Porfiry was once again staring at the wound on Yelena Filippovna’s throat. It drew his face towards it, as if it exercised a peculiar magnetism.

‘Porfiry Petrovich!’

Virginsky’s sharp warning brought him upright. ‘What is it?’ Porfiry’s voice was thickened with tiredness.

‘Are you all right? It seemed as though you were about to pass out.’

‘I was looking into the wound. You have to look into the wounds, you know.’ Porfiry Petrovich held an arm out towards Virginsky. The younger man pulled him to his feet. ‘You will kindly enquire of Prince Naryskin if there is a room that may be put at our disposal.’

They were shown into a cork-lined study with a highly polished parquet floor. A massive ornate mantelpiece carved from beech towered over them; on either side of it shutters, also made of beech, inlaid in the same herringbone pattern as the floor, were spread like giant wings across two great windows. The furniture was all of a darker wood. A heavy circular table in the centre of the room had four empire chairs placed around it. There was a wooden easel bearing a Japanese sketch of a woman washing her feet.

The door closed on them with a discreet clash of wood. They were left alone with the smell of beeswax.

‘It’s like being shut up inside a marquetry box,’ said Virginsky.

‘Or a beautiful coffin,’ said Porfiry. ‘I think it will serve our purposes adequately.’

*

Porfiry Petrovich looked up suddenly from Virginsky’s notebook. ‘Prince Bykov! The play they were performing was by Prince Bykov!’

‘What of it?’

‘I have met Prince Bykov. He was involved in the case which first brought you and I together, Pavel Pavlovich. But you would not have met him.’

‘No, I would not. Being confined in a police cell, I met very few people, other than my guards and interrogator.’

‘ The Vanished Lover . My goodness! How very bold of him.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘A very special friend of the prince’s vanished in real life.’

‘I see. The play is autobiographical.’

‘Only up to a point, I imagine. I see that the part of the vanished lover was to have been played by Yelena Filippovna. The prince’s vanished friend could not have been played by her, or any woman.’ Porfiry paused, then added with a heavy, almost comical wink: ‘Prince Bykov was educated at the Cadet Corps , you understand.’

‘He is a homosexual? The friend was another man? Is that what you are saying?’

‘Good grief, Pavel Pavlovich, since when did you develop such a lamentable taste for the explicit? Is it not enough to say that he was educated at the Cadet Corps and leave it at that?’

‘Are you suggesting that everyone who comes out of the Cadet Corps engages in the kind of degenerate practices you refer to?’

‘Not at all. But if I say educated at the Cadet Corps with an unusual emphasis, whilst winking significantly, surely it is enough for you to pick up the hint?’

‘But you wink so often that it is hard to say when it is done significantly and when it simply occurs as the result of some neurological spasm.’

‘Neurological spasm? I do not suffer from spasms, neurological or otherwise. However, I cannot help it if I am beset by an excess of significance in my professional life, which necessitates a higher than average rate of winking.’

‘And blinking.’

‘Ah now, the blinking is something different. The blinking is an involuntary physiological function. We all do it, even you, Pavel Pavlovich. I have no control over that.’

‘You have control over everything you do, Porfiry Petrovich.’

‘My, how you do exaggerate my abilities, Pavel Pavlovich.’

‘Do you wish to interview this Prince Bykov?’

‘Not formally. I may have a friendly word with him if the occasion arises. I am interested to know how he has fared in the years since last I saw him.’

Virginsky fixed Porfiry with a stare that bristled with astonishment.

‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘Do you think it wise to be seen on friendly terms with such a man?’

‘Why would it not be?’

‘You have admitted that you know him to be a homosexual.’

‘What are you suggesting? That I am in some way imperilling myself? I am sure that Prince Bykov will be able to control himself in my presence.’

‘Do not make jokes about this, Porfiry Petrovich. Consider your position as a magistrate. Homosexuality is against the law, as you well know. By consorting with a known homosexual, you are in effect consorting with a criminal.’

‘I won’t be consorting with anyone!’

Virginsky’s head rocked backwards, as if buffeted by a wave of incredulity.

‘I am surprised at you, Pavel Pavlovich,’ continued Porfiry. ‘As one of the new men, as a man of the future. Does the golden future you envisage hold no place for men such as Prince Bykov?’

Virginsky did not answer. Porfiry went back to studying the statements. ‘I will talk to this Bakhmutov first. Will you kindly arrange it, Pavel Pavlovich?’

‘I will send a politseisky to fetch him.’

*

‘Ivan Iakovich Bakhmutov?’ said Porfiry dubiously. The young man with ruddy cheeks and blond hair whom Virginsky had just admitted was not at all what Porfiry had expected from the notes.

‘Ah — no. I am his private secretary, Ardalion Gavrilovich Velchaninov.’

Porfiry glared at Virginsky in bemusement.

Virginsky addressed Velchaninov sharply: ‘My orders were for Ivan Iakovich to come here himself. The magistrate needs to talk to him in person.’

‘Yes, yes indeed. But he sent me to find out what you need to know. If I could take a list of your questions to him, Ivan Iakovich would be very happy to supply you with all the answers at his soonest convenience. By tomorrow lunchtime at the latest. Ivan Iakovich feels it would be a better way to proceed. He really is ready to go home now, and does not feel that any purpose would be served by your interviewing him tonight. He really is most, most tired .’ Velchaninov shook his head to emphasise his point. ‘It has been a shattering experience.’

‘No no no!’ cried Porfiry, slapping both hands down on the table. ‘That is not how things are done. You may be at his beck and call, but we are not. Bring him here.’

‘I fear he may already have left.’

‘ Im- possible! I gave orders that no one was to leave.’

‘Yes, but, as I’m sure you understand, Ivan Iakovich is a very important person. Your orders, I’m sure, were not intended to include everyone.’

Porfiry’s mouth gaped in disbelief. He turned to Virginsky. ‘Pavel Pavlovich, what are we to make of this?’

Virginsky shrugged.

‘How could he have left?’ Porfiry’s incredulous rage closed down suddenly into a look of vicarious cunning. ‘Unless … he bribed someone?’

‘I …’ Velchaninov thought for a moment before replying: ‘I cannot comment on that accusation, except to say that I am sure Ivan Iakovich will deny it in the strongest possible terms. Furthermore, unless you have evidence to back it up, sir, whoever you are, I suggest you retract it.’ Velchaninov spoke without looking at Porfiry, almost swallowing back his words as he uttered them, so little conviction did he have in them.