R. Morris - A Razor Wrapped in Silk

‘I see,’ said Virginsky stiffly. It was evident that such a consideration had not occurred to him.

‘It makes little difference, I suppose,’ conceded Porfiry. ‘The anguish of imagining such a prospect, which was all I sought to mitigate, is nothing compared to the horror of seeing it.’ Porfiry widened his eyes, inviting a response from Virginsky.

But Virginsky withheld his thoughts.

‘Is there no other reason for your constraint towards me?’

‘I am not aware of any.’

‘So, how do we stand now? Now that I have explained my earlier prevarication. Does my explanation satisfy?’

‘It does.’

‘And may I once again count upon your friendship, as well as your professional assistance?’

Virginsky drew breath noisily before replying: ‘Yes.’

‘A hesitation!’

‘No. That is to say … if I am honest …’

‘Why should you not be honest?’

‘That man. Slava. I confess I do not like him and I fail to understand why you have taken him into your employ. His interest in our cases strikes me as entirely inappropriate. To be frank, Porfiry Petrovich, I do not trust him.’

‘My goodness, Pavel Pavlovich! But he has the most glowing references, albeit from deceased individuals. Tell me, of what do you suspect him?’

‘I really cannot say.’ Virginsky glanced down at the disembodied heads, as if he believed them capable of eavesdropping. ‘Perhaps he is a spy.’

‘A spy?’ Porfiry’s face opened in what appeared to be genuine surprise. ‘That is an original suggestion. For whom do you suspect him of spying?’

‘You must remember your encounter with the gendarme at the Nikolaevsky Station. I told you at the time that it does not pay to cross those people. One hears of the Third Section attempting to infiltrate other arms of the state machinery, particularly the police and judiciary. There is someone in the Third Section who has every reason to take an interest in the conduct of this case in particular.’

‘You are referring to Maria Petrovna’s father, are you not?’

‘I am.’

‘But if he wishes to know details of the case, he has only to come into my chambers and ask me. There is no need for any subterfuge.’

‘You forget, Porfiry Petrovich, subterfuge is in the nature of these people. They know no other way of operating.’

‘But it is really rather subtle of you to suggest this, Pavel Pavlovich. After all, Slava gives the impression of not being at all interested in this case, but somewhat more interested in the murder of Yelena Filippovna.’

‘It is what I believe is known as misdirection. A classic trick of such people.’

‘I see.’ Porfiry blinked out a display of innocence. ‘How very cunning.’

Virginsky regarded him with narrowed eyes. ‘You knew, didn’t you? That is to say, you suspected the same thing? But why would you employ him, believing him to be an infiltrator?’

‘Let us assume you’re right. He is a spy. Now that we know he is a spy, he cannot hurt us. We are fortunate that he is a very bad spy. If I had not employed him, they would perhaps have sent along a better one. Besides, we have nothing to hide from them. Our conduct of the case will be exemplary, that is a given. It does no harm to play along. Consider it a game.’

‘I thought you employed him to keep me on my toes.’ Virginsky’s pronouncement had the cadence of a confession.

‘That is what I wanted him to think.’

Virginsky gave a reflective wince. ‘You know, Porfiry Petrovich, such misunderstandings between us would not occur if you confided in me more.’

‘I fear I do not have a confiding nature.’ Porfiry looked back at the table impatiently, as if he had been torn away from dinner with friends. ‘Now. Come. Help me. Look at these heads and tell me what strikes you.’ He made the invitation with the excited zeal of an enthusiast sharing his passion.

Virginsky approached the table. Porfiry studied his face keenly as he scanned the heads.

‘The bruising,’ said Virginsky at last.

‘Yes! Good man. The bruises around the neck. Strikingly similar, are they not, in every case?’

‘The children were all strangled.’

‘It would appear so,’ said Porfiry thoughtfully. He leaned over to peer at Mitka’s neck, pivoting backwards and forwards to find his focal point. ‘These damned eyes! Would you be so kind as to lift down one of those lanterns, Pavel Pavlovich?’

Virginsky unhooked a light from the ceiling and brought it towards the table.

‘Thank you. There is something here, I’m sure of it. Look! This mark, here just to the right of the larynx. Do you see it, or are my eyes deceiving me?’

Porfiry pointed to a small intense burst of purple almost in the centre of Mitka’s throat, a pinpoint darkening in the general discolouration at his neck. The mark was complex, though what drew the eye to it was its strange, almost perfect symmetry. It was a bifurcation of tiny hooked blobs around a central stem.

‘Yes. There is something there,’ confirmed Virginsky.

Porfiry now transferred his attention to the same area on Svetlana’s neck. ‘And it is here too, on this one.’ A quick glance at the third head confirmed his suspicion. ‘On Artur too. They all have it.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘Come here, Pavel Pavlovich.’

Virginsky took a hesitant step closer to Porfiry, his face creased with confusion.

‘If I may for a moment borrow your neck.’ Porfiry raised his hands to Virginsky’s throat and applied a gentle pressure. When he took his hands away, he kept them splayed in the shape they had attained around Virginsky’s neck. ‘Point to the part of the hand which cuts off the air supply.’

Virginsky touched a finger to the tautly stretched tendon between Porfiry’s thumb and forefinger, first of the left, then the right hand.

‘Yes. That is precisely the point that would close down the wind pipe. It would naturally touch the centre of the larynx. This mark …’ Porfiry released his hands from the strangler’s grip and gestured vaguely towards the table, … would appear to be caused by some hard protrusion, just to the right of the fatal point.’ He held up his hands again to study them. ‘It is nevertheless a point at which we would expect considerable pressure to be applied, and whatever caused this mark will have facilitated the constriction of the windpipe.’ Porfiry squeezed closed his thumbs, slowly, tensely. He then clutched the base of his left thumb with the fingertips of his right hand, rotating the hands together. ‘Something here,’ he murmured thoughtfully.

‘A thumb ring.’

The two men were silent in the aftermath of Virginsky’s idea. They seemed reluctant to meet each other’s eye, as if an exchange of looks would lend substance to their private suspicions.

Then Porfiry suddenly released his thumb, as if he did not wish to be caught holding it. When at last he spoke up, his voice was startled and distracted. ‘I will have to make sketches of these marks.’ He touched his lips and nodded. ‘And later we will send a photographer. It is essential that we have an accurate reference to work to. There can be no room for mistakes. We must be certain. We must base our conclusions on precise measurements.’

‘Is it possible though?’

The two men finally dared to look one another in the face.

‘Anything is possible, Pavel Pavlovich,’ said Porfiry, and as if to prove his point he held his stare without blinking until, in fact, Virginsky was compelled to look away.

After the night’s cold snap it did not surprise Porfiry to find ice on the inside as well as outside of his window in the morning. Through the refractive filter of the frozen layers he had an impression of whiteness and movement outside. He tipped himself up on to his toes and squinted through a patch of the window where the ice was thinnest. Snow fell with determined haste, as if it didn’t know how long it had.