R. Morris - A Razor Wrapped in Silk

‘Ah, but it is not flattery.’ Verkhotsev now did something that almost scandalised Porfiry: he blinked. He blinked excessively and rapidly, in a manner Porfiry could only think of as his own. And how provoking it was to see the coyly feminine gesture mirrored in another’s face! He had the distinct impression that the man was mocking him. Either that, or Verkhotsev had arrived independently at the same mannerism. It was certainly an uncomfortable spectacle to behold.

‘At any rate,’ continued Verkhotsev. ‘The article makes interesting reading. Do you really suspect Yelena Filippovna of murdering the children? She was at school with my daughter, you know.’

‘The distinctive bruises on the children’s necks are very suggestive, but not conclusive. In addition, some new evidence has come to light which rather militates against one of our theories — that Yelena Filippovna was murdered to prevent her from killing any more children.’

‘Indeed? May I see it?’

Relieved to have something to do, Porfiry retrieved the key to his desk from his pocket and unlocked the drawer. He opened the green case file and handed the anonymous note to Verkhotsev. ‘This arrived yesterday. A length of silk thread was enclosed with it.’ Porfiry rolled his thumb and index finger to lay a trail of red on to his desk, as if he were sprinkling magical powder. ‘You should know that a similar thread was found on the body of Yelena Filippovna.’

‘How interesting.’

‘If her murder was political, as the note suggests, then she was chosen as a victim purely on the basis of her status as a pampered society woman. That does not disprove she was the children’s murderer, of course, although it would be a colossal coincidence for the revolutionary assassin to have picked her, of all the women he could have picked.’

‘Unless he knew, of course.’

‘But if he knew, why not make it explicit in the note? And besides, killing the specific murderer rather undermines the political point the sender wishes to make. Such a killing has no wider societal significance. The meaning of the note, as I understand it, is that women like Yelena Filippovna, who live as parasites on the labour of children like those murdered, are guilty by their very style of living — not because they have actually strangled anyone. The sender of the note wishes to equate such a life with the most heinous of crimes.’

‘Yes. I see your point,’ said Verkhotsev. ‘But as you conceded, we cannot rule out a coincidence here. There have been no more children found since her death?’

‘Not as far as we are aware. However …’

Verkhotsev had become distracted by the open file on Porfiry’s desk. The edge of a photograph was visible. ‘What have you there?’

‘These are the photographs that show the bruises on the children’s necks.’

‘May I see them?’

‘Please.’

‘This is the mark that has aroused your interest?’

Porfiry’s chair squealed sharply as he rose from his desk to join Verkhotsev. ‘Yes. You will see that it is found in each of the photographs.’

‘And the ring? May I see the ring?’

‘Pavel Pavlovich, would you be so good as to fetch it?’

Virginsky nodded sullenly and left the room.

‘An interesting young man, your Pavel Pavlovich. Is he entirely trustworthy, do you think?’

‘Entirely,’ replied Porfiry without hesitation.

Verkhotsev raised both eyebrows sceptically and returned the photographs to the folder. ‘I am glad you have chosen to co-operate.’

‘I was not aware that I had a choice. The number of signatories on your warrant is overwhelming.’

Verkhotsev waved a hand dismissively. ‘Ah, but a person may still be obstructive. And you have chosen not to be. I am grateful to you for that. As a father.’

‘You are here as a father?’

‘In part. Of course.’

‘Did Maria Petrovna ask you to involve yourself in the case?’ Porfiry could not keep the disappointment out of his voice. Had he failed her?

‘Masha? We discussed it, naturally. I am pleased to say I have an open and trusting relationship with my daughter. It is not always the case these days between parents and their children. The next generation is a great cause for concern, do you not agree?’

‘I do not care to make sweeping generalisations about anyone. I prefer to judge individuals on an individual basis.’

‘You are quite right. However, the young are subjected to so many alarming influences. One cannot help but be frightened for them. Take this note, for example. There is a seductive logic to it, do you not think?’

‘Logic? Surely you mean false logic?’

Verkhotsev raised his palm in demurral. ‘You do not have to pick your words carefully in front of me, Porfiry Petrovich. I am not here to trip you up. Logic is pitiless. That is why we cannot build a society on logic alone. Therefore I do not indicate my approval of such a declaration by referring to its logic. Nor am I trying to entice you into doing so. Yes, it is logical. But it is also insane. Man is not an organ stop to be pushed in or pulled out for a prescribed effect. You know what I am talking about? The young are seduced by such ideas. I know. I was young once. When I think about myself as I was in my younger days — my idealism and passion — I find I am moved by a protective tenderness. That is all I am trying to do, Porfiry Petrovich. To protect the young from themselves. I am driven by compassion for them. And yet they see me as their enemy.’

‘Whereas you see yourself …?’

‘As their saviour, of course!’ Verkhotsev grinned ironically.

‘Perhaps it is your methods that they hate.’

‘And yet they would willingly throw themselves at the feet of a monster like Nechaev!’

‘True.’

‘This note. Was it written by Yelena Filippovna’s killer?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Captain Mizinchikov?’

‘I am not so sure. The only thing condemning Captain Mizinchikov is his flight from the scene of the crime. There may yet turn out to be a reasonable explanation for that.’

‘But what of the razor found at his apartment? Not to mention the bloodstains on his uniform?’

‘As for the razor, it proves nothing. A man may keep a razor. It cannot possibly have been the murder weapon. It is true that it was found in an unusual place — one does not normally keep one’s razor in a desk drawer — and that it was found together with some letters that seem to suggest a motive.’

‘So it could be significant? The newspapers certainly considered it incriminating.’

‘I do not direct my investigations according to what is printed in newspaper editorials.’

‘Quite right. But the blood?’

‘It does not appear to be her blood, as far as we are able to tell.’

‘You can tell this?’

There was a knock at the door. Now, at last, Lieutenant Salytov presented himself. Porfiry judged the impact of his entrance in Verkhotsev’s eyes, which flickered with interest as he took in the other man’s damaged face.

‘You wished to see me?’

‘Shall I wait outside?’ suggested Verkhotsev with disarming discretion.

‘No. This pertains to the case.’ Porfiry pinched the bridge of his nose as he bowed his head, before turning abruptly to Salytov: ‘On the twenty-third of September, you sold the body of a male child to the Medical-Surgical Academy on Morskaya Street. Do you deny it?’

The expression of Salytov’s melted flesh was one of perpetual surprise. But it seemed possible that he was genuinely surprised to find himself summoned to the investigating magistrate’s office to answer not questions but allegations, and in the presence of a stranger. He regarded Verkhotsev haughtily. ‘Who is this man?’