R. Morris - A Razor Wrapped in Silk

‘How unfortunate. I hope you were able to extract a reference from him before the ultimate moment?’

‘The disease took several years to run its course. I was prepared.’

‘I confess, I am almost afraid to take you on, Slava. I fear what may become of me. Do you have any former employers who are still with us?’

‘Before Prince Shch, I was a waiter. At a well known restaurant near Nevsky Prospekt. It is still in business, I believe, though no one will remember me there now. It was…’

‘A long time ago, I know,’ said Porfiry. ‘Now then, do you have any questions of me?’

‘Are you any nearer finding Yelena Filippovna’s murderer?’

‘I meant regarding your employment. I see you are a devoted reader of the St Petersburg Gazette .’

‘Of course.’

‘That aspect of my life will be of no interest to you. You will work for me in a private capacity. Mostly in my apartment, though at times you will be called upon to serve me here in my chambers.’

‘I am to be employed, then?’

‘It is not yet decided. I thank you for your time. You will be informed of my decision by letter.’

‘He said the position was mine, if I wanted it.’

‘He?’

‘The other one.’ Slava repeated the vague hand gesture that went with this designation for Zamyotov.

‘We will have to see about that,’ said Porfiry dismissively.

Slava made one last effort to win the magistrate round. ‘I have some theories of my own, you know,’ he said abruptly. At Porfiry’s flash of interest, he added enticingly: ‘Regarding Yelena Filippovna.’

Porfiry again began to unbind the dressing on his hand. ‘How interesting. Perhaps you would share them with us.’

‘Porfiry Petrovich!’ The objection came from Virginsky. ‘This is hardly appropriate.’

Slava crossed to Porfiry. He took the loose end of the bandage from him and pulled it tight. ‘In cases like this, one always has to ask, who stands to benefit?’

‘ Cui bono ? But who could possibly benefit from the death of a young girl?’ Porfiry watched the wrapping take shape around his hand with satisfaction.

‘It is well known that the financier Bakhmutov wanted her out of the way. He was prepared to pay his secretary Velchaninov a small fortune to take her off his hands. That fell through because of her quite reasonable scruples. Needless to say, Bakhmutov saw them as unreasonable, and highly inconvenient.’

‘But that doesn’t make sense. Prince Naryskin was about to marry her. Voluntarily, I believe.’

‘Was he?’

‘Their engagement had been announced.’

‘Yelena Filippovna Polenova was a notoriously fickle woman. Only a few days before her engagement to Prince Naryskin she had broken off an engagement to the Guards officer Mizinchikov.’

‘You seem to know an extraordinary amount about the life of Yelena Filippovna.’

‘I take a natural interest in all these cases. That is why I could be especially useful to you.’ There was a ripping sound as Slava pulled at the end of the bandage to split it. He tied the two halves firmly around Porfiry’s hand. ‘There would be no need for any extra consideration.’

‘You are an intriguing individual, I will grant you that,’ said Porfiry, examining the tightly bound dressing.

‘You cannot seriously be intending to employ him!’

Porfiry turned his gaze on Virginsky with some surprise.

‘You cannot allow your servant to become involved in official investigations.’

Slava pursed his lips, in an admirable display of self-restraint.

‘And besides,’ continued Virginsky, ‘his theory is patently absurd. It is the typically convoluted theory of an amateur. It ignores the obvious. Mizinchikov’s flight. The blood on his tunic. The letters. The razor found with the letters.’

‘The razor? Yes,’ said Slava. ‘They mentioned that …’

‘In the Gazette ?’ wondered Porfiry.

‘I have a theory about the razor,’ confided Slava.

‘Really!’ said Virginsky with exasperation.

‘Please,’ invited Porfiry.

‘I think the razor was put there,’ revealed Slava.

‘Of course. It must have been.’ Porfiry’s tone was subtly mocking.

‘By someone else, I mean.’ Slava’s answer showed that the satire was not lost on him.

‘I see. That is an interesting theory. And who, do you think, put it there?’

‘I have my suspicions,’ was all that Slava would say.

Porfiry bowed, acknowledging his delicacy.

‘Is this the blood?’ said Slava, crossing to Porfiry’s desk to examine the tunic more closely.

‘Put that down,’ snapped Virginsky. ‘You have no authority to touch that.’

Slava held on to the tunic and looked to Porfiry for direction. Porfiry nodded slightly for him to do as Virginsky had said. Only then did Slava place the tunic down.

Virginsky clicked his tongue in disgust.

Porfiry looked again at his neatly bound hand. There seemed to be a hint of despondency in his expression now, as if he regretted that he no longer had cause to meddle with the dressing. He looked uncertainly at Slava and then at Virginsky. The two men were hanging on his next words.

‘It would do us all good to have someone to keep us on our toes, I think.’

‘But Porfiry Petrovich …’

Porfiry shot Virginsky a minatory glance. ‘Now, Pavel Pavlovich, you can make yourself useful to me by delivering this tunic to Dr Pervoyedov and awaiting his findings.’

‘Am I not supposed to be working on the case of the missing boy?’

‘What case is this?’ Slava’s eager enquiry was met with an even sharper look of warning.

‘Pavel Pavlovich, what an unexpected pleasure!’ Dr Pervoyedov eyed the brown paper package under Virginsky’s arm with a covetous gleam. ‘Do you have something for me there?’

Virginsky avoided the doctor’s eye. Indeed, he avoided looking around the pathology laboratory at all, but kept his head bowed, staring fixedly at his feet like a sullen adolescent. But he could not avoid breathing in the formaldehyde-laden air. That pungent smell brought to mind the first time he had set foot in Dr Pervoyedov’s laboratory at the Obukhovsky Hospital. His feet then had been clad in the boots of a dead man, charitably supplied to him by Porfiry Petrovich.

For an instant, Virginsky felt again the vertiginous lurch to which he had succumbed on that occasion.

‘He wants you to examine this for bloodstains.’ Virginsky handed the package over to Dr Pervoyedov, who pulled at the string like a child with a Christmas present. ‘We believe it to be the tunic worn by the murderer of Yelena Filippovna. He wants to know whether it is arterial or venous blood, if indeed it is blood at all.’

‘I imagine he does.’

Dr Pervoyedov studied the stains on the front of the regimental tunic, at one point holding it close to his nose and inhaling. There was one roughly circular burst of rust colour in the middle of the double-breasted facing. It had a dense nucleus about the size of a ten kopek piece, which decayed into a wide areola made up of finer spots. A second stain, a narrow, elongated trail around eight inches in extent, also haloed with spatter, descended from the first at an angle.

‘Interesting,’ said Dr Pervoyedov. ‘Very interesting. Has Porfiry Petrovich offered any opinion regarding these stains?’

‘I believe he is confident that they will prove to be blood. For some reason, he seems to be in doubt as to whether they are arterial or venous. He wished to enter into a wager over it.’

‘A wager!’ cried Dr Pervoyedov delightedly. ‘That is very like Porfiry Petrovich, and to me it suggests that he is in no doubt at all. If I were you, I would not take him up on it.’