R. Morris - A Razor Wrapped in Silk

‘Porfiry Petrovich?’ interrupted Virginsky questioningly. ‘Dr Pervoyedov wears a plaid coat. Indeed, many people wear plaid. Will you accuse them all of being nihilists and murderers?’

‘We are not discussing Dr Pervoyedov. We are not discussing other people. Furthermore, no one detail is to be taken in isolation. Everything must be considered together. This may be considered a clever, opportunistic, but essentially altruistic crime — inasmuch as the perpetrator did not directly benefit from its commission, but someone else did. A selfless crime, if you like. Someone who dons the trappings of the radical youth, and is present at the scene of the crime, must come under strong suspicion.’

‘But you cannot prove any of this. Is it not equally possible that the old man simply fell?’

‘Oh yes,’ agreed Porfiry with delight. ‘Equally, eminently possible.’ Noting Alexei Ivanovich’s confusion, Porfiry went on: ‘I’m not interested in proving anything. Only you know what happened. And if I am right, you know what you must do. If I am right, you have this crime, this sin on your soul. It should be you who falls to his knees and kisses the ground, preferably in front of a church.’

‘But I am a nihilist! Or so you claim. What do I care about my soul?’

‘You may not care, Alexei Ivanovich, but I do.’

‘Well, if you are right, and I murdered my own uncle, a man who intended to make me the heir of his fortune, does that not make me a rather dangerous individual? Can you permit me to remain at large, free to commit other crimes?’

‘Are you now urging me to arrest you?’

‘I don’t know.’ After an uncertain pause, Alexei Ivanovich added: ‘I admit nothing.’

‘But you are a little afraid of yourself now, aren’t you? And more than a little afraid of the world you have created by this act.’

‘I admit nothing.’

‘Of course you don’t. But that is not the same as saying you did not do it. Forgive me, Alexei Ivanovich. I do not usually conduct my investigations so directly, so bluntly, you might say. But we are in the middle of several other investigations here and General Mizinchikov’s death comes as something of a distraction. It’s rather inconvenient, if I may be frank. Naturally, I am pleased that it has led to Captain Mizinchikov’s surrender, and I am grateful to you for engineering that. I trust that you will consider what we have discussed and do whatever you consider necessary.’

‘I am free to go?’

‘Do you wish to go?’

‘I don’t understand. This is not what I expected.’

‘If you are innocent, none of this need trouble you. If you are guilty, I am sure we will meet again. Perhaps soon. I would only say, please don’t kill anyone else. I would consider it rather bad form if you did.’

‘This is some kind of magistrate’s technique — a trick of yours!’ Alexei Ivanovich’s face was suddenly shadowed with anxiety and suspicion.

‘No. It is simply that I am in a hurry and there are some questions I must put to your cousin. I have not the time to interrogate you properly now. Therefore I am enlisting your conscience in my service.’ Porfiry stressed the word, as if to emphasise how much he was relying on this faculty. ‘I am sure it will not let me down.’

‘Alyosha …’ Captain Mizinchikov’s intervention was mild and almost wistful, but nonetheless powerful. There was the gentlest note of reproach in his voice. ‘If you did this thing, if you did it for me, you must see, I cannot accept the money. I cannot benefit from this act. And I urge you, as you urged me, I urge you, to bare your soul. To confess.’

‘He fell, that’s all. I did not push him, I simply … let go.’

‘You let go.’ Porfiry carefully kept any note of interrogation out of his voice. He reassured rather than questioned.

‘He was unsteady, unbalanced. I was holding him up at the top of the stairs. He shouted something … something disgusting, hateful, inhuman. It was the act of a moment — I let go. He fell. I did not push him. I don’t think I pushed him. Might I have?’

‘Please sit down, my friend.’ Porfiry gestured to the sofa. ‘Perhaps you would like to put your feet up and rest a while? Such exertions as this are invariably tiring.’

‘Yes, thank you. I will.’

Alexei Ivanovich staggered over to the brown sofa upholstered in artificial leather — American leather, as it was called. He fell onto it and drew his knees up, turning his back on the other men in the room. He was heard to mutter, ‘I admit nothing.’ Seconds after, he had dozed off.

‘What will happen to him?’ asked Captain Mizinchikov in an awed whisper. He stared in bewilderment at his slumbering cousin.

‘Don’t worry about him.’

Mizinchikov turned a fearful gaze on Porfiry. ‘Can you make anyone confess to anything?’

‘No.’ Porfiry smiled reassuringly. After a moment, he began afresh, adopting a crisp, almost officious tone that belied his denial: ‘I would like to ask you about the events at the Naryskin Palace on the night of Yelena Filippovna’s death. You must know that we have wanted to speak to you for a long time. It is to be regretted that you did not come forward before now, especially if, as you say, you are innocent of her murder.’

Mizinchikov glanced back nervously at his cousin.

‘ Please don’t worry about him. He will sleep until he is ready to face the consequences of his act. I wish to talk about you now.’

‘I had her blood all over my uniform.’

‘Ah yes, the blood. Can you explain how it got there?’

‘No, I cannot. One minute it was not there, the next it was.’

‘Can you describe precisely what happened? Where were you when you noticed the blood on your tunic?’

‘I was in Lena’s dressing room.’

‘Tell me what you saw when you entered the room.’

‘Lena … lying on the carpet. There was blood everywhere. Aglaia Filippovna must have come into the room behind me. I turned round and she was there. Her face was frozen in horror. She was pointing at me. She looked as though she was screaming but nothing … no sound came out. I looked down at where she was pointing … to see fresh blood all over my tunic.’

‘How close to you was she standing?’

‘I don’t remember. The details are vague now.’

‘It is a small room. She must have been very close, if you were both in the room.’

‘Yes, I suppose she was.’

Porfiry rose from his chair and walked around the desk to join Captain Mizinchikov. ‘Would you care to stand up?’

The captain got to his feet falteringly.

‘I shall be Aglaia Filippovna,’ said Porfiry. ‘Pavel Pavlovich, would you take the part of Yelena Filippovna?’

Virginsky came forward from the corner of the room where he had been standing, an amused expression on his face. It seemed that he was enjoying his work this afternoon. ‘If you insist.’

‘I do. Lie down on the floor there, if you please.’

Virginsky lay on his back with his arms crossed over his chest.

‘No, no, no. That’s not right. She didn’t have her arms like that.’

Virginsky turned half on his side and disposed his limbs about him in an approximation of the cork-screwed sprawl of Yelena Filippovna’s body.

‘And you, Captain Mizinchikov, can you remember where you were standing in relation to the body?’

Mizinchikov stepped around Virginsky to stand on his right.

‘And so, you had your back to the door, which for the purposes of our reconstruction we shall imagine to be here.’ Porfiry described a rectangle in the air and stepped through it. ‘I am in the room now, with you. And I am pointing at you. Is this how it was?’