R. Morris - A Razor Wrapped in Silk

‘Raskolnikov,’ supplied Nikodim Fomich.

‘That’s it. It was to Salytov he confessed, was it not?’

‘Yes, but-’ began Porfiry.

‘I don’t understand you, Porfiry Petrovich. At last you have a breakthrough, and you will not push home your advantage. Imagine what the newspapers would make of this.’

‘It is not so simple.’

‘Make it simple. The fugitive has served himself up to you on a plate. I consider it perverse of you not to sharpen your knives. And tell me, who is that fellow asleep on your sofa?’

‘That is Captain Mizinchikov’s cousin.’

‘Are you in the habit of allowing suspect’s relatives to doss down in your chambers?’

‘No, no. Of course not. But he has just been through something of an ordeal. He may have pushed his uncle down stairs.’

‘I dare say that was more of an ordeal for the uncle than for him.’

‘We must not underestimate the toll such crimes take on the perpetrators.’

‘So, there are two murderers in the family?’

‘No. That is to say, I do not believe Captain Mizinchikov is a murderer.’

‘You know what they say, Porfiry Petrovich. A titmouse in the hand is better than a crane in the sky.’ Liputin nodded authoritatively to Nikodim Fomich, who mirrored the gesture with approval. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

‘To be absolutely honest, Yaroslav Nikolaevich, you do not.’

‘There is a case that can be made against this Mizinchikov. I expect you to make it.’

‘With your permission, I would like to explore one other possibility first.’

‘Which is?’

‘The possibility of bringing to justice the actual murderer.’

The screw of distaste that gripped the prokuror ’s face was tightened by another turn. ‘Do what you must. But do it quickly.’

The buoyant sway of the carriage and jaunty clip of hooves indicated that they were moving, but Virginsky could see little to confirm it. The pane of glass was a milky grey square. He had the impression that the frigid, fogged air was moving with them. He was held by the blankness of the prospect.

‘The fog is dense today,’ said Porfiry Petrovich beside him. He too was staring into a patch of incessantly renewed grey.

Virginsky gave a minimal nod of agreement, as if he resented the distraction. It was, he realised, the possibility that one might suddenly see something — and that when it came this apparition would be extraordinary — that made the fog compelling. Its monotony was laden with potential.

‘And yet, in certain matters, this vaporous blind enables us to see more clearly. Do you not agree, Pavel Pavlovich?’

At last Virginsky turned to face Porfiry. ‘You look very pleased with yourself, Porfiry Petrovich. Do you mean to suggest that you have solved the mystery, or should I say mysteries?’

Porfiry’s face sagged with hurt. ‘Your words are charged with a strange, angry sarcasm, Pavel Pavlovich, which I find mystifying. Surely, with you, I have grounds to expect more than the same old jealousy that has marred my relations with other colleagues?’

Virginsky turned sharply away, looking into the fog again.

‘Staring into the fog is a little like watching the flames of a fire,’ continued Porfiry. ‘One may project into it whatever one wishes to see. Or rather, an unacknowledged part of one’s self supplies the visions for one’s conscious mind to apprehend. That is sometimes how we see people too, is it not? The soul of another is like a swirling mist. Impenetrable. And so, rather than going to the trouble of discovering what really lies within it, we project our images on to its surface.’

‘You know I dislike such fanciful comparisons, Porfiry Petrovich. The soul of another is like whatever you want to say it is like. And besides, why must you always be dragging souls into everything? Why bring up souls at all?’

‘I am talking about you and me, Pavel Pavlovich. I fear that the unhappy antagonism which I have detected in your recent demeanour towards me is based upon some misapprehension.’

Virginsky was silent for some time. ‘What are your intentions towards Maria Petrovna?’ he blurted at last.

‘My intentions? With regard to the investigation? Do I intend to arrest her? Is that what you mean?’

‘No. I mean your … intentions . Do you intend to make a proposal?’

‘A proposal?’

‘A proposal of marriage.’

‘Good heavens! I was not aware that I had any such intention! I am astonished by your suggestion that I should. Have I given that impression? You terrify me with your intimations. She is a witness in a current investigation. It would be most improper of me to harbour … intentions.’

‘You do not find her an attractive person?’

‘Undoubtedly. But … what could she possibly see in me?’

‘That’s not the issue. You know my father’s second wife is much younger than he.’

‘I know that.’

‘He stole her from me!’

‘Perhaps she was not yours to be stolen. I only mean to say, one cannot possess people in that way.’

‘You will do the same with Maria.’

‘I was not aware that you and Maria Petrovna were on such terms.’

‘We are not.’

‘I am glad to hear it.’ Meeting Virginsky’s glare of indignation, Porfiry went on: ‘I repeat, she is a witness in an investigation. It would be as improper for you, as it is for me, to allow an affectionate relationship to develop.’

‘And after the investigation is over?’

‘That would be a different matter, of course.’

‘The field would be open to both of us.’

Porfiry’s face froze in dismay. ‘If you wish to express it in that way.’

‘So you do harbour intentions!’

‘My goodness, Pavel Pavlovich! You have certainly followed your vocation in becoming an investigator. Your persistence is fatiguing. I am bound to say you display a talent for extracting confessions that I hope we may soon put to very good use.’

*

The entrance to the Naryskin Palace was lit up by a lantern whose beam dissipated into the fog, rather than cut through it. One by one, the caryatids of the facade began to appear. Here were the extraordinary apparitions Virginsky had been waiting for.

They were admitted by a footman, who appeared startled to see them. To Virginsky’s eye, the interior splendour of the palace was strangely changed. It was almost as if its lustre had been worn away in the weeks since their last visit. When he had first come to the palace, he could not fail to be impressed by its grandeur and scale. His gaze might have been disdainful, but his was a disdain provoked by an acknowledgement of the seductive allure of money. But now, it seemed to Virginsky, the glamour was gone, and so too were the negative sentiments it had inspired. He saw it only as a cold, empty vastness. Its occupants were only to be pitied.

‘Thank you, we will find our own way,’ said Porfiry to the servant. ‘There is no need to trouble your master. We have come only to look at the room in which the unfortunate young lady was murdered.’ With that, he hurried off.

‘Have you not found,’ Porfiry confided over his shoulder to Virginsky as they descended the stairs to the basement, ‘in your experience as an extractor of confessions, that the greater the secret to be revealed, the greater the resistance to revealing it?’

‘With respect, that is an obvious enough remark,’ said Virginsky breathlessly.

‘Perhaps when applied to human subjects. But what about inanimate objects?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Do you remember the drawer in my desk, Pavel Pavlovich? How reluctantly it yielded up Yelena Filippovna’s letters.’