Read A Vengeful Longing Online
Authors: R. N. Morris
A Vengeful Longing (38 page)
‘Sir!’ cried Porfiry. ‘If you please!’
The other man tottered to a halt as if he had been hurtling towards Porfiry at breakneck speed. His eyebrows bristled menacingly, with sinister abundance. He glared at Porfiry as if he believed him to be a dangerous lunatic.
‘What is it?’ His voice was edged with a panicked impatience.
‘Could you direct us to the Department of Public Health?’
‘The Department of Public Health?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll take you there.’ The old man began his tortuously slow step again, a gait in which neither foot ever once completely extended beyond the other. They waited for him to get ahead of them before following, at a funereal pace.
‘It really is not necessary,’ said Porfiry. ‘If you could simply give us the directions . . .’
‘It’s no trouble.’ The old man began to wheeze heavily.
‘We are in rather a hurry.’
‘Yes,’ said the old man. ‘This way is quicker.’
Porfiry sighed. The old man had led them to the first flight of stairs; he paused for a moment at the bottom before ascending to the first step. Not before he had both feet planted on it did he attempt to scale the second.
He led them down a corridor, lined on both sides with mountains of files. These seemed to have grown out like crystal formations from the rooms along the corridor. Moving at their guide’s pace, Porfiry had ample opportunity to peer into some of these rooms, at least before the occupants, noticing his attention, closed a door in his face. The rooms were all of different sizes, some as dark and cramped as a cupboard, others extending beyond the reach of his gaze into shadowed edges. Sometimes he glimpsed rows of men sitting on high stools at ledger desks. In other rooms he saw no one clearly, but had the sense of a presence in there: perhaps he saw a vague shape move or heard the fall of a footstep, the riffle of paper or something scuttling out of sight; the door would inevitably be closed by an unseen hand.
The old man led them at last to a pair of closed double doors. He pointed with a crooked finger at the words ‘Department of Public Health’ etched on a small brass plaque, then continued on his way without a word, almost without pausing. Porfiry widened his eyes as he put a hand on the door handle.
The doors opened on to a large room, which even so felt cramped and stuffy. Piles of papers laid out in rows acted as screens, dividing it into smaller cells. In these, men - either individually or in groups of two, three or four - sat stooped over desks. Porfiry, Virginsky and Salytov were presented with a sea of rounded backs, which seemed to be bent under the oppressive menace of the room’s disproportionately low ceiling. There was a soft sound, a susurration mixed with an amplified scratching, the accumulated mouthings and pen pushings of this army of copyists and clerks. A hundred quills swished the air at once in a hypnotic dance that quivered with promised meaning. One man was moving between the desks. He looked across the room towards them as they came in and after a moment’s frowning hesitation approached them with an armful of files.
Porfiry had the vaguest sense that he recognised the man.
One sees a thousand such faces in St Petersburg
, he thought.
One sees a thousand such faces in St Petersburg
, he thought.
The man placed his burden of files on top of an already teetering paper tower and came up to them. ‘Yes?’
‘How do they do it?’ asked Porfiry, looking past the man at the seated clerks behind him. ‘How do they remain seated all day - every day? I know that I for one could not.’ Porfiry looked the other up and down significantly. ‘I imagine it is an occupational hazard here too? Haemorrhoids, I mean.’
‘I . . . that is to say . . .’
‘You need say no more. I understand. You have my sympathy. And now, to the matter in hand. We are looking for one Rostanev, Axenty Ivanovich. The writer of this letter.’ Porfiry handed the civil servant the letter about the Ditch.
‘But this is highly irregular.’ He scowled at the paper and shook his head. ‘I shall have to have a word with Rostanev about this. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.’ His tone was curt, however, and devoid of any real gratitude.
‘You misunderstand,’ said Porfiry. ‘I am Porfiry Petrovich, an investigating magistrate. This gentleman’ - Porfiry indicated Salytov - ‘is a police lieutenant. We are here to interview Rostanev on police business.’
The man touched the back of one hand to his forehead, a gesture that provoked an elusive sense of déjà vu, and a keen impatience, in Porfiry. ‘Is it really necessary?’ The man’s tone was whining. ‘I agree that he should not have written the letter. He has no authority to sign letters from the Department of Public Health. He is a mere scribe. However, I dare say that the details of the letter are correct. It is one I would have signed myself had it been put in front of me. Surely it will suffice if he is subjected to internal disciplinary procedures? Knowing Rostanev as I do, I feel that an official reprimand will certainly have the desired effect of discouraging him from ever committing such a foolish act again.’
‘It is not to do with the letter - not this letter at any rate. We wish to talk to Rostanev in connection with a murder investigation. I wonder, however, could you tell me to whom I have the honour of speaking?’
‘I am . . . Yefimov.’ The man’s startled diffidence, followed by the defiance with which he finally offered his name, betrayed an inner tension. The superficial hostility that was his shield against the world seemed to change into something more particular, directed at Porfiry alone. ‘Collegiate Registrar Yefimov.’
‘You are Rostanev’s superior?’
‘Yes.’ The answer was given emphatically.
‘Your face seems familiar to me. And indeed your name.’ Porfiry smiled with vague and hopeful affability. Seeming to remember himself, he handed Yefimov the anonymous letter sent to Dr Meyer. ‘We have reasons to believe that he is the author of this letter also.’
‘Yes, quite possibly. I would not be surprised.’ He handed the letter back. An unexpected sympathy showed in his expression.
‘You have to understand that Axenty Ivanovich . . . how to put this? He is not quite right in the head, poor fellow. I myself once received a letter not dissimilar to this. The handwriting was the same. I knew it was from Rostanev. I did nothing about it, because, well, really - one cannot hold a man like Rostanev accountable. It seems strange to say this, but Rostanev himself is not malicious. He means no harm. He acts out of a compulsion. It is a disease. He deserves our pity, I would think.’
‘Yes, yes, I quite agree. And ordinarily I would be happy to leave it to you, as his superior, to exercise your discretion in disciplining him. However, I regret to say that the recipient of this letter was accused of murdering his wife because of its contents. And another man who received a similar letter was suspected of murdering his daughter’s seducer.’
‘That is unfortunate.’
‘I wonder, do you have the letter that you were sent?’
‘I destroyed it and thought no more of it. Until today, that is. He never sent me another.’
‘A pity. Nevertheless, what’s done is done. I don’t suppose you can remember the content of it?’
‘It was nonsense. The ramblings, frankly, of a madman. That is why I assumed that Rostanev had sent it.’
‘Is Rostanev in the department today?’
‘Yes.’
‘We would be grateful if you could point him out to us.’
Yefimov nodded distractedly and gnawed a thumbnail. ‘Of course. Please, come this way.’
They threaded their way between the desks. At one point, Salytov brushed one of the columns of files, causing it to totter precariously. All the heads in the room turned towards the swaying paperwork. The collective sigh of relief as it settled without toppling sounded like the wind passing through a forest. The copyists bowed once again over their work.
Yefimov took them deep into the warren of desks and stopped next to that of a short, barrel-shaped man with a squashed face and a sharply angled forehead. His civil service coat was frayed and grubby. He had very black lank hair, which he wore long. In contravention of service regulations, he was bearded. His thick black beard was twisted into four points, giving it the appearance of a dark fuzzy star. The man worked with great concentration, with his tongue stuck out and twisted to one side. The childish habit gave his expression a trusting simplicity.
‘Axenty Ivanovich,’ said Yefimov.
Rostanev looked up, mildly curious. He inspected Porfiry, Virginsky and Salytov with detached and unsuspecting interest.
‘These gentlemen wish to talk to you. They are magistrates.’ Confusion rather than concern clouded his face.
‘You are Axenty Ivanovich Rostanev?’ said Porfiry.
Rostanev nodded. One hand moved to tighten the points of his beard.
‘Your beard-,’ began Porfiry, registering his surprise.
‘You have come about my beard? I have a dispensation on health grounds.’ An uneasy look passed between Rostanev and his superior.
‘No. It is about another matter. I have a letter here that I would like you to look at.’ Porfiry handed him the letter sent to Meyer. ‘Do you recognise it?’
Rostanev read it through and nodded. ‘Oh yes. I do. I wrote it, you see.’ His smile appeared almost facetious. But Porfiry decided it most closely resembled the smile of a child who is surprised by the silliness of adults.
‘You admit that you wrote it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that you sent it to a gentleman called Dr Meyer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you also send a similar letter to Ruslan Vladimirovich Vakhramev?’
Rostanev thought for a moment, his face becoming momentarily serious. It then lit up with pleasure, as if he believed himself to be playing a game, and doing unexpectedly well at it. ‘Yes!’ The same hand went back to maintaining his whiskery prongs. He held a quill in the other hand.
‘Did you also send another letter to this gentleman, your superior, Collegiate Registrar Yefimov?’
‘Yes!’
‘But why did you write these letters?’
‘The voices told me to.’
‘I beg your pardon? The voices, did you say?’
‘Yes. At night the voices speak to me. They tell me to write the letters. If I write the letters the voices go away. But they always come back, eventually.’
‘Good heavens, how perplexing for you! Tell me though, were you once a pupil at the Chermak Private High School in Moscow?’
Rostanev let out a chuckle like a repeated high note on a muted trumpet. ‘Yes!’
Porfiry’s gaze softened and became almost pitying. ‘I must ask you to come with us, sir, to the police bureau. There are further questions I wish to ask you and it will be better if we conduct the rest of the interview in private.’
For the first time Rostanev’s expression grew anxious. His beard-tightening fingers quickened. The quill in the other hand trembled. ‘But I have work to do.’ He looked to Yefimov for confirmation.
‘You must go with them,’ said Yefimov.
‘If your hand offends you, cut it off.’ Rostanev’s tone was despairing.
‘Now now, don’t worry. Everything will be all right.’ To Porfiry, Yefimov added: ‘He can’t possibly be held responsible. The new courts will find him insane. You can see for yourself. And this talk of voices . . .’
Porfiry said nothing.
Yefimov nodded commandingly to Rostanev. The copyist laid down his quill and slipped off his high stool. Standing on the floor, he turned out to be even shorter and more rotund than Porfiry. He looked up at them all with untroubled innocence. Now he used both hands to sharpen the points of his beard.
Salytov grasped him firmly by the arm, pulling that hand away from its task. A look of shock and bewilderment descended on Rostanev, and - suddenly - fear.
‘It’s all right, Axenty Ivanovich,’ insisted Yefimov. ‘Go with the gentlemen.’ He spoke slowly, with precise enunciation. His eyes stared steadily into Rostanev’s in a way that was perhaps meant to be reassuring.
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