The Gentle Axe Paperback (26 page)

T
HE SUDDEN INTRUSION
of green on the snow-covered pavement startled Porfiry. Perhaps he was the only man in St. Petersburg who had forgotten what time of the year it was. But the depth of the green and the darkness of it shocked him into remembering.

Christmas trees of various sizes tumbled out from the Gostinny Dvor indoor market. The trees came from Finland. Some of them were still unadorned, others already decked with ribbons and painted baubles. The traders walked between them, hawking for business.

Porfiry tapped the driver’s shoulder. “Here.” To Salytov, he added, “Give me a moment. It’s important.”

He jumped down from the
drozhki.
It was half an hour before he returned. He was carrying a small package wrapped in gaudy paper.

“I wanted to get something for the child. She has a child, you know. A daughter.”

“The whore?” answered Lieutenant Salytov sullenly, looking straight ahead as the driver’s whip snapped the air.

A slight smile showed on Porfiry’s lips.

“What a temper you were in that morning, Ilya Petrovich!” Porfiry cast a wary glance toward Salytov. The lieutenant’s face was already pink from the cold air. It darkened at Porfiry’s words, clashing violently with his orange whiskers. Porfiry saw and continued: “We could hear your shouting throughout the headquarters. If only you hadn’t let Govorov get away, perhaps we would have solved the case by now.”

Salytov brought his fur-sheathed fist down on the edge of the
drozhki.
“I didn’t
let
him get away! It wasn’t a question of letting him get away. He wasn’t in custody. He was the aggrieved party. The one pressing charges. No one expected him to go missing like that. And besides, we didn’t know he was Govorov then. We didn’t know who he was at all.” Salytov caught Porfiry’s smile out of the corner of his eye. “Damn you, Porfiry Petrovich!”

“I’m sorry. I was being mischievous, I admit. But with a purpose. I want you to frighten her—Lilya Ivanovna—the whore, as you called her. I want you to bully her as you have never bullied anyone. Then, when I tell you, I want you to leave her to me.” Porfiry held up the present he had bought for Lilya’s daughter. “I shall take over.”

“Does it ever occur to you, Porfiry Petrovich, that your methods may one day backfire on you?”

Porfiry’s answering smile was unperturbed.

P
ORFIRY RAPPED BRIGHTLY
on the door, holding the gift he had bought for Vera in his other hand. He was still smiling as he said to Salytov, “Remember, be severe.”

“Do you really feel the need to prompt me?” answered Salytov, and then blushed.

“My goodness, Ilya Petrovich! Is that a joke? A joke at your own expense?”

“Have the good grace not to—” Salytov broke off, flustered. A kind of flinching shudder gripped him. He looked away from Porfiry and continued to flex his neck in the aftermath of his convulsion.

“No jokes when we’re inside, please. Leave that to me.”

“If we ever get inside.” Salytov pounded on the door with a clenched hand. The silence that followed seemed enlarged by the violence of the blows.

“Perhaps they’ve moved,” wondered Porfiry aloud, after a moment.

Salytov tried the handle, which turned. The door opened inward but soon came up against something.

Salytov leaned his shoulder into the door and pushed hard. The unseen obstacle yielded with a sigh as it was moved along the floor.

“My God. My Christ,” murmured Porfiry, closing his eyes. His fingers tightened around the little present. He followed Salytov into the room.

“This has just happened,” said Salytov, his own eyes greedy for the havoc. “The blood is fresh.”

“No!” cried Porfiry. “Don’t say it.”

“If we had come straight here—”

“How did this happen? How could this happen?”

The child, Vera, lay on the bed. Her body was in the typical pose of a sleeping child, the disposition of her hands angled by dreams. On her face, they wanted to see an innocent pout, perhaps a shadow of childhood anxieties, or even a hint of willful petulance. Anything but the bloody pulp, the mess of blood and bone and tissue, that confronted them. It seemed that someone had deliberately and laboriously obliterated her face.

“God help us. God help us. God help us.” Porfiry felt his knees begin to buckle. He lurched backward. A flailing arm struck the door. It swung to. He fell back against it. “This is not right,” he groaned.

“Let us hope she was asleep,” said Salytov grimly.

“Why would anyone do this?”

“It is the act of a madman.”

Porfiry shook his head. “No. There is reason behind this. Cold reason.

Did you see what he has done to her face? Why does he not want us to see her face?”

And now they saw the girl’s mother. Lilya Ivanovna was lying on the floor near the stove, her head pooled in blood, her hair clotted in dark, damp ringlets. Her eyes and mouth were open. As if she had seen and named her attacker at the same moment. Her wound was not immediately evident.

Salytov crossed the floor and dropped to one knee beside Lilya’s body, examining her head where it touched the blood-drenched floor. “She must have been struck in the back of the head,” he said. “And then turned over post-mortem. Or perhaps she turned herself over before dying. There is blood all over the stove. And on the walls. The little girl was asleep. She must have been asleep. Let’s say she was asleep. Let’s pray she was. The mother turned her back for a moment and was struck down. Suggesting her assailant was someone known to her. The murderer then turned his attention to the girl.” Salytov looked back, tracing the murderer’s movements. He gasped and reared back and pointed. He was pointing at the floor next to Porfiry.

Porfiry looked down. Now that the door was closed, they could see what had been blocking it: Zoya Nikolaevna, in a silver fox fur coat that was stained with her own blood at the shoulders and down one side. That side of her head was glistening and red and wrong.

All around, the painted saints and the beautiful gilded Christs averted their gaze. But this turning away had not saved them from defilement. Streaks and spots of blood added a new garishness to their colors.

“He killed the mother while the girl slept,” Salytov insisted. “Then he killed the girl. Then the old woman came back. And he killed her as soon as she stepped inside. No time even to scream.”

“God, no!” said Porfiry. He stood and tottered and fell back against the door. He looked down again at the package in his hand. “This is my fault. This is all my fault. If we hadn’t stopped—”

“You weren’t to know,” said Salytov unconvincingly.

“Who has done this?” Porfiry’s stricken gaze demanded the answer of Salytov.

The policeman’s expression seemed almost insolent. He held his back and neck very straight. “Pull yourself together, Porfiry Petrovich.” Salytov nodded sharply, as if in approval of his own words. Then he suddenly seemed at a loss.

Porfiry pushed himself away from the door and staggered like a drunk toward Salytov. Salytov watched him in horror, unsure whether he was coming to throttle or embrace him. At the very end Porfiry veered to one side and stooped sharply, as if he would throw himself headlong onto the floor. One arm shot out in front of him and clutched at something. He somehow managed to keep his balance and stand up.

“What have you there?” said Salytov. He could not make his voice sound natural.

Porfiry held toward him the hand that contained the present for Vera.

“I meant the other hand.”

“Don’t you want to know what I got for her? I chose it very carefully.”

Salytov didn’t answer.

“Look! Look at it!”

Salytov stood up to open the package. It contained a pair of painted wooden figures, a hussar and his lady, with crudely carved but cheerful faces. “What’s in your other hand?” demanded Salytov, without commenting on the toys.

Porfiry opened his palm to reveal a small glass vial. The label said
LAUDANUM
.

T
HE CABINETMAKER KEZEL’S
wife opened the door. Her face was bruised and swollen. Her nose had become a broad glistening mound of purple and yellow.

Salytov pushed past her. “Where’s Virginsky?” He possessed the apartment with his straight posture and searching glance. The place was immaculately clean, the furniture simple but new, solid and well made. “No sign of blood,” said Salytov to no one.

Porfiry came in more hesitantly. He looked into the woman’s eyes for a long time, finding something there that he almost understood.

“He isn’t here.” Her voice was empty.

“Why does your husband beat you?” Porfiry asked. He sounded startled by his own words.

Fear and perplexity rippled her face.

“You would be pretty if he didn’t beat you.”

“When was he here last? Virginsky?” Salytov barked. “Come on! Come on!”

“Just now.” She was still looking at Porfiry as she answered, as if she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. She had found something answering in his eyes.

“What state was he in? Did you notice anything unusual about him?” demanded Salytov.

The woman looked to Porfiry for an explanation.

“Was there any blood on him? Did he have to clean himself up?”

Kezel’s wife nodded numbly. “He had blood on his hands.”

“Just on his hands?” asked Porfiry. “What about his clothes? Did he have to change his clothes?”

The woman flinched, as if expecting a blow. She closed her eyes and forced out, “I don’t know.” Her voice was high and strained, on the edge of tears. “I don’t think so,” she squeezed out.

“It’s all right,” said Porfiry softly. “But tell me, why did he hit you this last time? Was it to do with Virginsky?”

Her eyes swelled with panic. “It was the samovar.”

“The samovar?”

“It went missing. Someone stole it.”

“Someone stole your samovar?” Porfiry was incredulous. He couldn’t understand how he came to be having a conversation about a stolen samovar so soon after what he had just seen. He sensed Salytov’s impatience. Meeting it with a glance, he nodded as Salytov indicated that he was going into Virginsky’s room. “He beat you because someone stole your samovar?” Porfiry welcomed the rage that he felt rushing through him. He said to himself that if Kezel came home now, he would kill the man without regret. He imagined closing his hands around the cabinetmaker’s neck.

Porfiry was suddenly disgusted by his own self-pity and self-delusion.

“Do you know who stole the samovar?” Porfiry felt a strange hilarity threatening to burst out. He had to struggle to keep his face straight.

The woman shook her head tensely.

Porfiry closed his eyes. The image of blood-splashed icons forced itself on him. “Who did your husband think had taken the samovar?” He saw Vera playing in the snow with her friends. But her face was smashed and bloody. She came toward him and tried to speak. Her nose flapped loosely every time she opened the raw gash that had been her mouth. No words came out, but she dribbled bloody mucus. Porfiry opened his eyes and studied the bruises on Madame Kezel’s face. He wanted to touch the places where her skin had ruptured.

“Pavel Pavlovich,” she answered at last.

“Virginsky,” Porfiry nodded. “And was he right?”

Kezel’s wife looked down at the floor.

“He didn’t steal it though, did he? You gave it to him. You gave it to him knowing that your husband would miss it—how could he not miss it?—and knowing that your husband would take it out on you. My dear, you love Virginsky almost as much as you hate yourself.”

“I don’t hate myself,” she answered firmly. “I hate my husband.”

“Of course. Like every good Russian, he loves his tea. What a perfect way to punish him, to give away the samovar. So tell me, what did Pavel Pavlovich want with the samovar?”

“He pawned it. He said he would get it back. He was going to get it back now. When he saw what Kezel had done to me.”

“He was going to the pawnbroker’s?”

Salytov came out of Virginsky’s room. “I found more vials of laudanum. And this.” He handed Porfiry a scribbled note.

T
HE BELL COMPLAINED
fussily as Salytov threw open the door to Lyamshin’s. Porfiry was aware that he was allowing the policeman to take the lead now. Remembering his exchange with the Jewish pawnbroker, he had an uneasy feeling.

The last time he had set foot in the shop, the objects around him had seemed enticing. He had chosen to invest them with mystery and desire. He had plunged his fingers between some of them. Even the sense of tragedy they had inspired was romantic. It moved without touching him. Now the feeling they provoked in him was more visceral and stifling. These were not neutral everyday objects; they were the forms of despair. Despair was the one raw material from which they had all been shaped, not porcelain or brass or Karelian birch. And they were imbued with a destructive malevolence.

Porfiry recognized the man behind the counter and could tell that he had been recognized. Distrust closed the man’s features.