R. Morris - A Razor Wrapped in Silk

The kitchen door gave directly on to the factory yard. Now, suddenly, as that door was thrown open, the harsh world of industry clamoured to make itself felt. The day’s activity was in full flow. Haulage carts drawn by teams of colossal drays rattled across the cobbles. Creaking gantries unloaded and loaded the raw materials and finished products that represented the mighty respiration of the plant. In came palettes of coke, ore, sand, limestone and paint. Out went machine parts, pipes, gates, chains, sheet metal, not to mention mysterious unmarked crates, the contents of which could only be guessed at. But this was only a fraction of the goods processed. On the other side of the main factory building was the River Neva, where barges were loaded and unloaded, ferrying goods to and from every corner of the empire. It was here that several years ago Ludwig Nobel’s brother Alfred had discharged a canister containing a chemical formulation of his devising, which had resulted in the displacement of several tons of icy water and the deaths of countless fish.

To Porfiry, there was something vital and energising about all this teeming activity, something also profoundly human.

At the entrance to the office block, the maid left them in the hands of a middle-aged clerk in a black frock coat. His face was unpromisingly lean and officious-looking, and his neck raw from the abrasion of his stiff winged collar; nonetheless, he had the intelligence to grasp the urgency of the situation immediately and hurried off to fetch Ludwig Nobel himself.

‘We are wasting time,’ hissed Virginsky, as they waited for the arrival of that gentleman.

‘You have seen the scale of the factory, Pavel Pavlovich,’ said Porfiry calmly. ‘We cannot possibly guess where Perkhotin might be without help from someone who knows the place well. And who knows it better than the man who built it? Furthermore, if we attempt to search the premises without the owner’s co-operation we will be challenged at every turn. A few words to Ludwig Nobel will save us vital time in the long run, I am confident.’

The clerk returned, accompanied by a man of about forty years of age, with dark hair parted low on one side and full mutton-chop sideburns. His expression was careworn around his eyes, but one eyebrow was kinked wryly. The line of his mouth was grim, though not without an angle of scepticism or reservation.

‘What is all this about?’

‘You are Ludwig Nobel?’

‘I am. And you?’

‘I am Porfiry Petrovich, investigating magistrate. This is my colleague, Pavel Pavlovich. We are here because we believe your factory may be in imminent danger. Tell me, if one wanted to wreak the maximum damage through an incendiary attack, where would one launch it?’

Nobel’s features contracted into a frown. He did not seem alarmed, rather he was an engineer engaged in calculating an interesting but essentially abstract problem. ‘I would suggest the munitions storeroom. We store a quantity of gunpowder there, amongst other combustible and highly volatile materials. However, it is practically impregnable.’

‘But if someone were to find a way to ignite it, the damage would be widespread?’

‘It is built to reduce the impact of any unfortunate accident. However, the sheer quantity of material stored there would be sufficient to inflict damage on adjoining sectors of the factory.’

‘I would be very grateful if you could take us there immediately.’

Nobel nodded decisively. ‘This way, gentlemen.’

They crossed a vast warehouse which led to a locomotive and rolling stock workshop. They witnessed the slow rotation of a skeletal engine on a massive turntable in the centre of the floor.

‘I must say, I am impressed by the diversity of your factory’s output,’ said Porfiry as he hurried to keep up with Nobel.

‘It is the way we have always done business. The world is so rapidly changing that one cannot afford to tether one’s self to any one technology or endeavour, in case it is supplanted. We are always looking for new channels of diversification. It is the way to the future.’

‘And armaments are an important part of your business?’

‘The Russian army is a good customer of ours. Which leads me to wonder why there is no military presence here with you, to safeguard this important source of supply.’

‘There has been no time for that.’

‘Are you confident that the two of you alone will be sufficient to frustrate this attack?’

Virginsky’s frown echoed the uncertainty of Nobel’s question. Porfiry answered both with a wince. They continued in silence.

Eventually, they entered a room in which the temperature noticeably increased. It was soon clear why: all around flames licked up from the floor. The air was thick with noxious fumes, each breath a chemical punch into the lungs. It seemed to Porfiry that they had entered someone’s vision of hell. He remembered Perkhotin’s words to Father Anfim.

Porfiry saw that the flames, which never exceeded knee-height, only emerged from certain points. Covered channels ran across the floor; fissures in the coverings released the flames. The heat now was oppressive.

Workmen in heavy protective clothing wielded long rods to handle a massive vat suspended on a chain. An incandescent stream of molten iron was released from a chute and flowed sluggishly into the vat. The workmen jabbed at it as if they were goading a bear. The men swung the laden vat along a gantry and then tipped it, so that the blinding surface spilled out into a heavily encrusted receptacle.

‘They are skimming off the impurities,’ said Nobel. ‘They will use what remains to cast cannonballs.’

‘Cannonballs,’ repeated Porfiry, vacuously.

The engineer’s frown betrayed something of the contempt a practical man feels for a theorist.

Nobel opened a door and led them outside once more. The cold wind was a relief after the heat and poisonous air of the workshop. Across a narrow passageway was a low, brick-built outhouse, entirely lacking in windows, and sealed with a single door of steel.

‘As you can see, we keep the munitions storeroom heavily secured, and, for obvious reasons, at some distance from the foundry. There is no way in or out, other than through that door, which is kept locked at all times. Do you wish to go in?’

‘Who has a key?’ asked Porfiry.

‘Myself, of course. And the director and several of the foremen of the munitions section.’

‘Are they all trustworthy individuals?’

‘I believe so.’

Porfiry looked anxiously over his shoulder. ‘If we open the door, we may provide him with the opportunity for launching his attack. My only fear is that he is inside already.’

‘Impossible,’ asserted Nobel.

‘You would like to think so but we are dealing with a ruthless and resourceful individual here. We have every reason to believe that he has been planning this attack for some time. He may already have gained the confidence of one of the keyholders. Apollon Mikhailovich Perkhotin can be a very persuasive man.’

‘Apollon Mikhailovich?’

‘Do you know him?’

‘I have engaged the services of one Apollon Mikhailovich Perkhotin to teach a series of evening classes here. I met him through my philanthropic activities. I have always encouraged my workers in their efforts at self-improvement.’

‘That is commendable. But now we see how it all begins to fit together. To your knowledge, did any of the munitions foremen attend his classes?’

Nobel nodded hopelessly. Suddenly the careworn slackness around his eyes spread to the rest of his face. ‘Fedya Vasilevich.’

‘What do we do?’ The question, strained to the point of panic, came from Virginsky.

‘I am consoled by the fact that he has not yet blown up the storeroom,’ said Porfiry. ‘However, I fear that if we go in now we may precipitate the very event we are anxious to prevent. At the same time, we must ask ourselves for what is he waiting? For an audience, no doubt.’