A Razor Wrapped in Silk (31 page)

‘It was not my decision,’ said Porfiry sourly, blinking aggressively towards Virginsky. ‘I did not authorise it.’

‘The
Gazette
speaks of a source at the Department for the Investigation of Criminal Causes. It was not you?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Then who?’

‘I cannot say.’

‘Do
you
have any suspicions, Pavel Pavlovich?’

‘I am as much at a loss as Porfiry Petrovich.’

‘I cannot believe the great Porfiry Petrovich is ever at a loss.’

‘Please, I really would prefer that you did not flatter me in this way. It is rather unnerving to be flattered by a representative of the Third Section.’

‘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?’

‘That need not concern you,’ answered Porfiry quickly, cutting off Verkhotsev before he could introduce himself. ‘Just answer the question. Do you deny that you traded in the body of a dead child?’

‘I do not deny it.’

‘By what authority?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Who authorised you to make the sale?’

‘No one. That is to say, I did not need any authorisation.’

‘Where in the police code does it say that officers are entitled to sell for their own gain whatever bodies they happen to come across?’

‘I cannot point to the specific article of the code, but the practice is widespread and allowed.’

‘Allowed? Oh no, my friend, it is not allowed! Did you not consider that you had a duty to report the body and investigate the death?’

‘What’s the point? There was no way of identifying the body. No one came forward to claim him.’

‘Did you advertise the discovery of the body?’

‘N-no,’ admitted Salytov; for the first time a note of uncertainty entered his voice.

‘Then how can you be surprised that no one came forward?’

‘No one ever does. He was a street child, most likely. Left for dead by his family. They could not care for him in life. What did they care about his death? His parents, if they are alive, and if they did not kill him themselves, were probably in a drunken stupor the night he died. Even now, I dare say, they do not realise he is missing. Or if they do, they are glad. It is one less mouth to feed. Certainly, he is more use to society dead than alive, if his body can be used to train future doctors.’

‘You knew nothing about him. Your assumptions are incorrect. He was not a street child. He was a factory worker. An orphan.’

‘Well then. There you are. No one to care. No one to grieve. And more importantly, no one to pay his funeral expenses. I certainly wasn’t going to.’

‘He was murdered. A crime had been committed. You are a policeman. You had a duty.’

‘Don’t lecture me about my duty. How do you think I got this?’ Salytov jabbed a waxy pink hand towards his glistening face. Porfiry sensed Verkhotsev flinch.

‘I know how you got that, Ilya Petrovich. But I fear that the bomb blast disfigured more than just your flesh. Was your soul, too, blackened by the flames? The Lieutenant Salytov I knew before that outrage would never have contemplated this evil trade.’

‘Wrong! You are wrong about that, Porfiry Petrovich!’ jeered Salytov.

‘But you have children of your own. Were you not moved as a father?’

‘My children are nothing to do with that sort.’

‘What do you mean by
that sort
?’

‘The poor.’

‘Are you not ashamed to hear yourself say such things? You are a Christian. You are a Russian!’

‘The poor will always be with us. So it says in the Bible.’

‘That is not a licence to profit from their deaths.’ Porfiry pushed a hand back through the colourless stubble on his scalp. ‘Where did you find him?’

‘Who?’

‘Mitka! The dead boy!’

‘I … don’t remember,’ Salytov answered evasively.

‘What is this? You don’t remember! My God, man! Is the discovery of a dead child now such an insignificant event that it fails to register on your memory? I would have thought that the circumstances would have been etched in your mind.’

Salytov considered Porfiry in silence for a moment. ‘Before you condemn me out of hand, there is something you should
know. Your friend, our esteemed chief, Nikodim Fomich … a father himself … he knows about this practice and has even, in his time, engaged in it.’

‘That is a lie! A slanderous lie!’

Salytov angled his head provokingly. Something like a smile of triumph contorted the permanently contracted muscles of his face. ‘No,’ he said calmly. ‘It is the truth. The salaries of policemen are pitifully inadequate, particularly for men like myself and Nikodim Fomich. Fathers, that is to say. It is accepted that we may exploit certain opportunities that arise in the exercise of our duties to supplement our income. It is the way things are done. It has been since time immemorial. Your good friend, the very civilised gentleman, Nikodim Fomich, is no more immune to the way things are done than I am.’

‘Nikodim Fomich is a decent man. I cannot believe …’

‘Now then, as for the boy,’ continued Salytov, with the tone of one pressing home an advantage. ‘I do not know where he was found because I did not find him. It was one of my men.’

‘I don’t understand. If that is the case, then why were your initials entered in the ledger at the Medical-Surgical Academy?’

‘All the transactions go through me.’

‘I see. A picture is
indeed
beginning to emerge.’ Porfiry gave the neutral remark a bitter emphasis.

‘I will not be judged by you.’

‘You were so eager to get your hands on your cut,’ continued Porfiry hurriedly, ‘that you did not ask even the most rudimentary questions of the man who brought you the body. You are worse than a Jew!’

‘Be careful what you say.’

‘No Jew was ever so rapacious that he would sell the body of a child.’

‘I warn you.’

‘Who was it? The
politseisky
?’

‘You will not hear his name from me.’

‘Wha-at?’

‘I take full responsibility for the disposal of that body.’

‘Don’t you understand? It is not a question of that. We are investigating a murder here. It is vital that we know where the body was found and in what state. We have only a head to work with now. The rest of the body was dismembered by students. I must talk to the policeman who found him.’

‘I will not betray one of my men.’

‘This misguided honour beggars belief! Your first loyalty is to the truth, Ilya Petrovich.’

‘And I tell you, Porfiry Petrovich, no good will come of investigating this. I advise you to drop it.’

‘I cannot drop it, even if I wanted to. It is in the newspapers now.’ Porfiry pointed to Verkhotsev, who had been following the interview with a wry expression. ‘The Third Section is involved. I would not be surprised if the Tsar himself has taken an interest in the case.’