The Gentle Axe Paperback (25 page)

“Daddy!” protested Lana.

“Your generosity has not gone unnoticed. But perhaps there are others in greater spiritual need. There is so little time left. He can’t see everyone.”

“He will see me,” said Yevgeny Nikolaevich Ulitin abruptly.

Brother Innokentiy looked Ulitin up and down thoroughly. “Perhaps he will,” he said at last, quietly, and left.

He is not simpleminded after all,
thought Ulitin.

The stout landowner took hold of Ulitin’s arm. He had seen something in the young monk’s look. “Make him see my Lana, before it’s too late,” he pleaded.

F
OR A MOMENT
Ulitin thought the man on the bed was already dead. His long white hair lay haloed about his head. The skin on his face was drawn back skeletally. His body was motionless, a minimal disruption in the blankets. It was hard to believe there really was a body under them. His eyes were open, but they didn’t seem to see anyone in the room. They were fixed on a point beyond the ceiling.

The small bedroom was filled with monks, all of them standing. Some were dressed imposingly in robes embroidered with scriptural passages. Every one of them was reciting from the gospel, their gentle murmurs lapping over the dying man, like a kind of final baptism of voices before death.

“He has moments of remarkable lucidity and long spells when he is lost to us,” explained Brother Innokentiy in an excited whisper. “The Lord is already calling to him. I was able to tell him about you. That an important magistrate has come on official business.”

“I am not important,” said Ulitin, and blushed. It was the last thing he would have thought he was going to say.

It is false,
he thought.
That’s why I blushed. Because it was false. I have been affected by all of this.

“But still he wouldn’t see you,” went on Brother Innokentiy gleefully. “It was only when I told him that you were a nonbeliever that he asked for you to be brought.”

“How do you know I’m a nonbeliever?”

“It’s in your eyes.” Brother Innokentiy smiled provokingly. “You must kneel beside his bed and wait for him to notice you. Do not speak until he speaks to you. If he closes his eyes, you must go.”

Ulitin did as he was directed. At the same time Brother Innokentiy leaned intimately close to the old monk’s face, as if he would kiss him, but instead whispered something in his ear. Brother Innokentiy moved away. Ulitin almost thought he winked at him.

Close to the dying man, Ulitin remembered how he had felt the day before when Nikita had left him alone on the sleigh, his rationalist certainties battered by the storm.

The old man’s eyes rolled heavily toward Ulitin. The expression was infinitely pleading. “What do you want to ask me?” The voice seemed to come from far away, and as the monk’s lips barely moved, it was tempting to believe that someone else was speaking for him.

Ulitin felt suddenly ashamed. “I am sorry to trouble you at this time,” he said uselessly.

Father Amvrosy closed his eyes. Ulitin’s heart sank. He did not want the audience to end, even though it was not important to him to ask the questions anymore. It was the privilege of the moment that he wanted to hold on to. He was about to get up when Father Amvrosy opened his eyes again.

“So you do not believe in God?”

“Not in God, not in the soul, not in eternal life.”

Ulitin thought he saw a gentle smile form beneath the monk’s massive beard. Perhaps it was a mild twinge of pain. “So why does it matter to you?”

“What?”

“Your investigation. If you don’t believe in God, what does it matter?”

“Because there must be laws. A legal framework. Men must respect one another’s rights. The right to life, for example. It is a question of social order. It is quite rational.” Ulitin paused and added, “But it is not
my
investigation. I’m under instruction from a magistrate in St. Petersburg.”

“A higher authority?”

“Yes.”

“What does he want to know, this higher authority of yours?”

“He wants to know if one Osip Maximovich Simonov was here at Optina Pustyn from the twenty-ninth of November to the eleventh of December.”

“You could have asked Brother Innokentiy that. It was he who looked after the gentleman. He took him his food every day and talked to him.”

“I was ordered to ask you.”

The elder’s eyes rolled away from Ulitin, it seemed in disappointment. Ulitin feared he had pushed the monk too far. “Someone by that name was here.”

“Between those dates?”

The old monk gave a barely perceptible nod. “The convent register will confirm it.”

“Thank you.” Ulitin made to rise. The eyes came back to hold him. These little movements of the eyes seemed to require every last calorie of energy the dying man possessed. They had to be important to him. Any one might be his last.

“Is there nothing else you wish to ask me?”

Ulitin hesitated. “Why did you agree to see me?”

Father Amvrosy swallowed epically. “I wanted to be sure,” he said at last, when the swallowing was finally done. “I wanted to look an atheist in the eye one last time.” As he spoke, the elder was staring fixedly into Ulitin’s eyes. His gaze was as tender and consoling as a lover’s.

“What do you see?” asked Ulitin, hardly daring to breathe.

“Fear,” said Father Amvrosy. With that he closed his eyes. After a moment he murmured something that sounded like “I’m not afraid.”

Ulitin felt himself raised and led from the bedroom. “But I am a believer!” he cried in sudden protest, and the outburst did not seem to surprise anyone.

B
ACK IN THE
room with the wealthy devout, Ulitin guiltily avoided the eyes of the girl in the wheelchair. He felt as though there was something between them, and he had betrayed her.

Her father accosted him. “Did you mention Lana to the elder? Did you tell him he has to see her?”

Ulitin shook his head.

Brother Innokentiy came in. The smile that occupied his lips now transcended all the others Ulitin had seen there. “Father Amvrosy is at peace,” he called, his voice cracking with emotion.

All around Ulitin people fell to their knees and began praying. Yevgeny Nikolaevich Ulitin did the same. The girl in the wheelchair was weeping.

I
S IT TRUE?
” Nikodim Fomich closed the door to Porfiry’s chambers but seemed unwilling to advance into the room. He was waiting on Porfiry’s reply.

Porfiry blew out a funnel of smoke and flicked the ash from his cigarette. “Is what true?” He looked up from the papers he was studying and hyperblinked.

“Liputin’s latest insanity?”

Porfiry handed the chief superintendent a letter bearing the crest of the
prokuror
’s office. “I’m to hand over the file relating to the deaths under suspicious circumstances of Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov, Boris Borisovich Kutuzov, and Konstantin Kirillovich Govorov to Prokuror Yaroslav Nikolaevich Liputin. He will take over the handling of the case personally. I am expecting his high excellency at any moment.”

Nikodim Fomich read the note and threw it down on Porfiry’s desk. “But this is absurd. ‘Serious procedural irregularities.’ ‘Misinterpretation and misreporting of medical evidence.’ You told him exactly what Pervoyedov had found. He chose to ignore it.”

“The office of the
prokuror
is never wrong.”

“But the man’s an idiot. He doesn’t stand a chance of solving the case.”

“I think he believes that I have already solved it.”

“And have you?”

Porfiry shrugged. “I have some theories. I have narrowed down the field of suspects.”

“To how many?”

Porfiry’s eyes rolled upward as he counted in his head. “About six.”

“That’s hardly narrowing the field, Porfiry Petrovich.”

“Or seven.”

“Well, I must say, you seem to be taking it very calmly.” Nikodim Fomich was indignant.

“What can I do about it?”

“You can appeal.”

Porfiry smiled weakly. “I must accept my fate. That’s the Russian way, is it not?”

“No, it isn’t,” objected Nikodim Fomich petulantly. “I don’t believe stoicism is a true Russian trait at all. I deplore it!”

“I must do all I can to help Prokuror Liputin uncover the identity of the murderer. That’s the important thing now. My own personal disappointment is irrelevant.” After a moment, Porfiry added, “Whoever is responsible for these deaths is certainly capable of killing again.”

“Exactly! That’s why you must stay on the case until it’s solved.”

The door opened suddenly. “Prokuror Liputin is here to see you,” said the chief clerk, Zamyotov. He made no attempt to mask his pleasure.

Now the
prokuror
himself strode into the room. Liputin didn’t acknowledge Nikodim Fomich and dismissed Zamyotov with a curt nod. “Porfiry Petrovich, you have the file I requested?” He held out a hand.

“Of course, your excellency.” Porfiry gathered together the papers on his desk and placed them in a cardboard wallet that he handed to Liputin.

“You will wait until I have studied these papers, then you will answer any questions I put to you. Then you will consider yourself suspended until further notice.”

“Yaroslav Nikolaevich!” cried Nikodim Fomich. “I really must protest. This is hardly just—or sensible.”

Liputin still refused to look in Nikodim Fomich’s direction. His head was bowed as he scanned the contents of the file. “Good day, Nikodim Fomich. Your presence is not required here. I trust you have police matters to attend to.”

“I shall be entering a formal appeal on Porfiry Petrovich’s behalf.”

“Which I shall look forward to processing.” The corner of Liputin’s mouth went into spasm.

Porfiry Petrovich released his friend from the room with a gentle smile.

T
HE
prokuror
TOOK
over Porfiry’s desk. Every now and then, for instance when he was studying the pornographic photographs found in Govorov’s apartment, he would look across disapprovingly at Porfiry, as if he were responsible. Porfiry was sitting on the brown fake-leather sofa, chain-smoking. Occasionally the
prokuror
seemed about to say something but always thought better of it. At last he placed the final piece of paper, the line written by Anna Alexandrovna, back into the file and sat back in Porfiry’s chair.

His eyes were fixed on Porfiry, who sat up expectantly and stubbed out the cigarette he was smoking in the crystal ashtray that was resting on the arm of the sofa.

“So, Porfiry Petrovich,” began Liputin, “you think that Anna Alexandrovna is the murderer? Is that really likely? A woman? And a woman of her class too? Do you not think she would be restrained by modesty and a sense of shame?”

“She could equally be motivated by them. Or rather by a false modesty and a distorted sense of shame. To keep certain things secret. Poison is a notoriously female weapon.”

“But she would have to have had a man working with her. If only to string up the yardkeeper.”

Porfiry shrugged. “I have my theories about that. More of a problem is the fact that her hand does not match the note I found in the box in Borya’s shed. I believe it was that note that led him to his death.”

“It does not match?” asked Liputin, somewhat surprised. He searched quickly through the file to produce the two sheets of paper. “The paper is different, of course. But that means nothing.”

“The paper is different. And that means nothing, as you say. But there are differences in the handwriting. Anna Alexandrovna’s is more rounded and, I would say, feminine. I believe the other note was written by a man attempting to copy her hand.”

“You can’t possibly be sure of that!”

“You’re right. I can’t be sure it was a man. But I am sure it is a forgery.”

“But you did identify the scent on the paper as hers?”

“Yes. However, anyone can buy a bottle of scent.”

“It would have to be someone who knows what scent she uses.”

Porfiry Petrovich nodded.

“For instance, her maid,” suggested Liputin.

Porfiry Petrovich pursed his lips, as if impressed. “When I called at the Widow Ivolgina’s house the other day, I noticed a particularly unpleasant taste in the air. I had just extinguished a cigarette. It is known that smoking cigarettes in the proximity of prussic acid can lead to such a reaction. I asked the maid about it, and she said that they had been fumigating mattresses. Fumigation is one of the domestic uses of prussic acid. She certainly would have had access to the substance.”

“So it is the maid?”

Now Porfiry raised his eyebrows doubtfully. “But then again, anyone in the house would have had the same access. The old nursemaid, Marfa Denisovna, for example. Or the cook, Lizaveta. Then there are the two gentlemen who lodge there. Osip Maximovich and his secretary, Vadim Vasilyevich. We know that Goryanchikov did work for Osip Maximovich’s publishing firm.”

“Yes, but I see that Osip Maximovich’s alibi is vouched for by the late Father Amvrosy of Optina Pustyn. The telegram from that fellow in Kaluga confirms it.”

“It would appear so.” Porfiry read from Ulitin’s telegram: “‘Someone by that name was here,’ were the elder’s exact words.”

“There you have it,” said Liputin carelessly.

“An interesting choice of words, do you not think?”

“The reverend father was dying. I don’t think we can read too much into his exact choice of words. We were fortunate to get a testimony out of him at all. And besides, there was the convent register.”

“A simple yes or no would have answered the magistrate’s question more decisively, without expending undue energy.”

“These old mystics like to talk in riddles,” said Liputin conclusively. “So where are we? What of Vadim Vasilyevich? He has no alibi.”

“And no motive, as far as we can ascertain.”

“Oh, really, Porfiry Petrovich! You are really most infuriating! Will you not simply tell me who the murderer is?”

“Please be assured that if I knew, I would not hesitate to tell you.”

Liputin leafed through the documents of the file. “You released the student Virginsky.”

“Yes.”

“So you have at least discounted him?”

“To some extent, I had discounted him, insofar as I had discounted anyone. You will know from the report that I had him tailed. And that he was seen to enter Friedlander’s the apothecary. This was the day before Govorov’s death.”

“You questioned the apothecary?”

“Lieutenant Salytov did.”

Liputin searched through the papers to find the relevant statement. “‘He attempted to purchase laudanum. And failed.’” Liputin looked up, suddenly inspired. “Perhaps he was testing the apothecary. Someone who was lax enough to sell laudanum to an undernourished student might be amenable to even more questionable transactions. Your spy lost him. He may have tried again, somewhere else, and succeeded.”

“But the murderer already had a source for prussic acid,” argued Porfiry, “as Borya’s death testifies.”

“But to purchase too much from one source would certainly arouse suspicion.” Liputin spoke as if the matter were settled.

“There is something else to consider,” said Porfiry. “Money. Virginsky never has much of it. If he wanted prussic acid, I do not believe he would ask for laudanum. It’s hardly consistent with the economics of poverty.”

“Well, the apothecary may be lying. He would hardly be likely to admit selling a deadly poison to a suspected murderer.”

“He did not know his customer was a suspected murderer. Perhaps he thought he was a butterfly collector.”

“One does not collect butterflies in December in Petersburg, Porfiry Petrovich.”

“What I mean is he could have justified the sale to himself—or to a jury.”

“Juries!” cried Liputin with heat. “Don’t talk to me about juries. Even so, we should bring Virginsky in. He has the motive. The bizarre contract conferring ownership of his soul on Goryanchikov. While we’re at it, we should bring in the apothecary too. I’m sure Lieutenant Salytov would get the truth out of them.”

Porfiry Petrovich bowed. “The investigation is in your hands now, your excellency.” Something about the way Porfiry said this seemed to give Liputin pause.

“Yes, it is,” said the
prokuror
uncertainly. “What is all this business with the philosophy translation?” he asked abruptly.

“I believe Goryanchikov knew his life to be in danger. I believe he also knew from whom. He has left clues in the text. Interposed sections that are not in the original.”

“These are the passages you have drawn attention to?”

“That’s right, your excellency. The first passage I noticed was the one that reads: ‘The father of Faith will be the destroyer of Wisdom.’ Since then I have discovered two other interpolations. One is a reference to Alcibiades and Socrates. You know who Alcibiades was?”

Liputin moved his head ambiguously. It could have been a nod or a shake of denial, or simply an involuntary tic.

“The great and, some would say, wholly immoral Athenian general,” continued Porfiry. “As famous for his debauched and sacreligious acts as for his military exploits. The reference is from Plato’s
Symposium.
The passage in Goryanchikov’s text reads, ‘Did not Alcibiades sleep with Socrates, under the same cloak, and wrap his sinful arms around a spiritual man?’”

“Yes, yes, yes, Porfiry Petrovich. I am well aware of the loathsome practices the ancient Greeks indulged in.”

“There is no such mention of Alcibiades and Socrates in Proudhon. The third interpolation…”

Liputin raised a hand to silence Porfiry while he read the final passage that Porfiry had copied out:

“So what does it mean?” asked Liputin, laying down the note and confronting Porfiry with a severe gaze.

“As yet I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Liputin’s tone was indignant.

“Do
you
know, your excellency? You have now had a chance to study all the evidence we have collected.”

“Of course I don’t know. This farrago of nonsense is no help. Good grief, Porfiry Petrovich! What have you been doing all this time?”

“I have been pursuing leads.”

“And where has it got you?”

Porfiry held his palms upward, half in supplication, half in apology.

“It’s just as well I’m taking over.”

Porfiry nodded meekly. “What will your next step be, your excellency?”

Liputin seemed to be distracted by a scratch on the corner of Porfiry’s desk. At last he threw a shy, almost abashed glance toward Porfiry. “What would
your
next step be?”

“I would go back to where the whole thing started. The girl. Lilya Ivanovna.”

“The prostitute?”

Porfiry nodded.

“You think she is the murderer?” asked Liputin uncertainly.

“No. But I think she may be the reason for the murders. If I may make one further suggestion, your excellency. I fully accept the disciplinary action that you have initiated against me. However, I would propose that you postpone my suspension.”

“That’s out of the question. I do not go back on my decisions.”

“Do you ever gamble, Yaroslav Nikolaevich?”

The
prokuror
regarded Porfiry with as much affront as if he had spat in his face.

“I propose a wager—that’s all,” pressed Porfiry. “Delay my suspension for two days. If I have not solved the case, you may suspend me, indefinitely—without pay. If I have solved the case, I ask you to take no action against me. My success will redound to your credit. My failure will give you a scapegoat.”

Prokuror Liputin pinched his lower lip pensively. “I am a Russian, Porfiry Petrovich. Of course I gamble.”