R. Morris - A Razor Wrapped in Silk

‘I am Porfiry Petrovich, the investigating magistrate in this murder enquiry. If I find that your master has bribed one of my policemen, be assured that I will not hesitate to bring the full force of the law down on him. That is how things are done now.’

‘There is a possibility that he may not have left, after all,’ said Velchaninov. ‘I will see if I can find him.’ He ran from the room.

‘What do you make of that?’ Porfiry demanded of Virginsky.

Virginsky pursed his lips. ‘The rich and powerful have long considered themselves above the law in this country. It is a difficult habit to break. It will take more than a few judicial reforms. And, of course, they always have their lackeys.’

‘Would he do whatever his master asked of him, do you think?’

Virginsky raised his eyebrows, acknowledging the peculiar significance of the question. ‘I do not believe that Bakhmutov has left already. He was testing the waters, I think. If you had gone along with his little proposal he would have taken himself off. Young Velchaninov will be able to produce him in surprisingly quick time, I dare say.’

A second knock at the door proved the perspicacity of Virginsky’s words. Porfiry treated him to a wryly appreciative smirk. ‘Come in.’ He winked at Virginsky as he snapped out the command.

Porfiry turned his attention on the man who had entered. He gave no sign of being at all contrite, but strode in with his head high and his lavish white mane falling back on his shoulders. Though his hair was long, his beard was precisely groomed in the style of Napoleon III. It was the decisive finishing point on a compelling face: its sharpness complemented that of his aquiline nose and somewhat disguised the unusual fleshiness of his lips. He met Porfiry’s gaze with an unflinching directness.

‘So you are Ivan Iakovich Bakhmutov? How good of you to condescend to see us.’

‘It is my pleasure, I’m sure.’ His voice was a resonant bass. ‘One’s duty is always a pleasure when one is a loyal subject.’

‘Please be so good as to sit down. This need take no longer than it will,’ said Porfiry.

‘I beg your pardon? I didn’t quite follow what you just said.’ Bakhmutov’s mask of absolute confidence slipped momentarily. He regarded Porfiry with a look that suggested he did not know whether to make of him a fool or a rogue.

‘It was really quite simple. Sit down. There is a seat. Sit on it. Unless … you have a problem with haemorrhoids? I have suffered from them myself in the past, so I do sympathise.’

‘No, I do not have that problem, I am happy to say.’ Bakhmutov pulled out a chair hesitantly.

‘Then you are very lucky. A man of your age must be prone to any number of inconvenient ailments. There is your legendary tiredness, for example.’

Bakhmutov was still standing, his hands on the back of his seat. ‘Did you call me here solely to make a fool of me?’

‘Please don’t ask such tempting questions. I called you here because I am conducting a murder enquiry. I urge you to sit down. I have some questions to ask you.’

‘I have already given a statement to him.’ Bakhmutov nodded slowly towards Virginsky as he took his seat.

‘Yes, I have read that statement, and still find I have some questions to ask you. This is not unusual. It happens from time to time. One might even say frequently.’

‘It is very tiresome for those concerned.’

‘One becomes accustomed to it.’

‘I was thinking of myself.’

‘Ah, yes, of course. That is only natural.’ Porifiry Petrovich lit a cigarette and considered Bakhmutov’s face. There was something sealed-off, almost steely, to his bearing. A contained power lurked behind the slackening skin, still blotched with summer colour; and yet, at the same time, there was no doubt that the source of that power was shaken.

Porfiry blinked, then looked down and re-opened Virginsky’s notebook. ‘You said in your statement that you saw Konstantin Denisevich Mizinchikov, an officer in the Preobrazhensky Guards …’ He made a show of reading from the statement in front of him: ‘ … running away . Those were your words. Running away.’

‘Yes.’

‘How is it possible to tell that a man is running away, as opposed to simply running? Could he not just as plausibly have been running towards something as running away from something else? Perhaps he was running to get help.’

‘If he was running for help, why did he push past me and ignore my urgent enquiries?’

‘Ah, forgive me. That information is not in your statement. Pavel Pavlovich, did you fail to take down everything this gentleman said?’

Virginsky rippled his brows over the sudden sharpness in Porfiry’s tone but did not answer.

Turning to Bakhmutov once more, his tone softer again, Porfiry continued: ‘Would you care to add it now? I understand how these things can be forgotten, or overlooked. Here …’ Porfiry pushed the notebook across the desk towards Bakhmutov. He uncapped a reservoir pen, which he offered to the other man. ‘You can write it underneath the main statement and initial it. There is space.’ Bakhmutov made no move to take the pen. ‘Have you not used a reservoir pen before?’

‘I … Lena is dead. Do you not understand?’

‘Did you know the deceased?’

‘Lena … Yes.’

‘In what capacity?’

Bakhmutov pursed his lips before replying: ‘We were friends.’

‘I see. Well then, it is a terrible shock. I understand. I am not a monster.’ There was a strange stifled noise from Virginsky which drew questioning glances from both Porfiry and Bakhmutov. Porfiry blinked out his surprise and continued. ‘I will write it for you if you prefer — but you must tell me what to write, and initial it yourself, of course.’

‘Lena is dead, damn you. Why are you wasting time with all this talk of pens and writing?’

‘These things are important, I assure you. Such details may be crucial. In any trial, the existence of an accurate written testimony, taken near the time of the crime, may decide the case. May I write that Mizinchikov pushed past you?’

Bakhmutov grunted his consent.

‘And ignored your urgent enquiries?’

Bakhmutov formed a fist and held it to his lips. He hooded his eyes and nodded.

‘Thank you. Now, if you would be so good as to …’

Bakhmutov signed the addendum with a deep sigh.

Porfiry snapped the notebook to, as if closing a trap, and pocketed the pen. ‘Did you know Mizinchikov?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I’m sorry, did I not speak clearly? I asked whether you knew Mizinchikov. I mean, was he known to you before tonight? Perhaps that is what you didn’t understand.’

‘I do not … understand … your tone.’

‘My tone?’

‘Your tone is impertinent.’

‘Forgive me. I too am tired. You see, you are not the only one who can be tired. I am merely trying to get through this as quickly as possible so that you may go home. So that we may all go home.’

‘But this is not necessary. As I have said, I have already given my statement to your colleague.’

‘Which, regrettably — as we have discovered — contains some omissions.’ Porfiry stabbed the black leather cover of Virginsky’s notebook with his index finger repeatedly.

‘The main point is clear enough,’ insisted Bakhmutov, calmly, almost complacently. ‘He had blood all over his tunic.’

‘Ah yes, the blood. Tell me, did you notice whether Captain Mizinchikov was carrying anything?’

‘Such as?’

‘I don’t want to suggest what he might or might not have been carrying. Suffice it to say that I have in mind a reasonably noticeable article.’

‘No, I saw nothing. Just the blood on his tunic.’