The Gentle Axe Paperback (29 page)

Osip Maximovich dropped his hand hastily. “I wish I knew what you were talking about.”

“And it’s also written in Goryanchikov’s text. You are the founder of the Athene imprint. You could be said to be the father of Athene—or Minerva, to give her Roman name. According to Goryanchikov, in a reference to Jupiter’s bastards, the father of Minerva is also the father of Fides. A name we might translate in Russian as Vera.”

“Really, this is the worst kind of argument, made from piling speculation on top of speculation. You take one away, and the whole edifice tumbles.”

“It’s interesting coincidence though, isn’t it, that the name on Lilya’s prostitution license is Semenova. Very similar to your family name of Simonov. Perhaps she considered herself in some way to be almost your wife, a kind of bastard wife with a bastardized name. It was you who had taken her virginity.”

“Or perhaps it was simply her name, and as you say, it is a coincidence.”

“I have learned not to trust coincidences.”

“Instead you put your faith in wild guesswork! Even if all this is true, which I by no means admit, you can’t prove a word of it. What is supposed to be my motive in all this?”

“To maintain your respectability, which became acute once you had conceived the plan to marry Anna Alexandrovna.”

“What a strange way to put it! A plan indeed!”

“Yes, a plan. Because you had a hidden purpose in wanting to marry Anna Alexandrovna. You’re marrying her not because you love her but because she has something you covet.”

“I don’t need her money!”

“I’m not talking about her money. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Goryanchikov found out about your relationship to Lilya from Lilya herself. He was a client of hers. He came to you and confronted you with it. Perhaps he even demanded that you make amends to Lilya. That would be typical of a freethinking liberal, full of all the modern ideas, one perhaps with an especially heightened sense of society’s injustice, given his own personal circumstances. Perhaps Goryanchikov threatened to tell Anna Alexandrovna everything. That you had raped Lilya—or would you rather I used the word
seduced?
At any rate you abandoned her. She was pregnant. You denied that it was anything to do with you. Her family cast her off. Were you engaged to her? Did you break off the engagement when you learned of her condition? No one could blame you. You had been promised a virgin. But look at the hussy. Of course no one listened to Lilya’s side of the story, if she had the courage to voice it. So you had to imagine Anna Alexandrovna hearing all this from Stepan Sergeyevich. It didn’t bear thinking about. It couldn’t be allowed to happen. Not to mention the fact that you are a pornographer, although I admit that rather pales into insignificance next to your other crimes. If Anna Alexandrovna knew the truth about you, if she were able to see your character in its true light, I wonder if she would be as willing to marry you? And if she called off the marriage, that would be an immense disappointment to you, wouldn’t it, Osip Maximovich?”

“What are you talking about? I mean, yes, of course I would be disappointed. But why do you say it in that obnoxious way?”

“You’re not marrying Anna Alexandrovna for herself. You’re marrying her for her daughter. That’s why Goryanchikov wrote, ‘The father of Faith will be the destroyer of Wisdom.’ Faith is a translation of Fides, which we have already identified as Vera, Lilya’s daughter, your daughter. And as for Wisdom—well, the meaning of the name Sofiya is of course ‘wisdom.’ Goryanchikov is clearly indicating that you are a threat to Sofiya. You have a taste for young girls, don’t you, Osip Maximovich? And that taste has dictated the photographs that Govorov produced for you. You even had him photograph Lilya, even after all that had happened. Though I expect that by then she had already lost her charms as far as you were concerned.”

Osip Maximovich said nothing.

“But you’re right,” said Porfiry. “I can’t prove any of this. This is just a conversation between two former seminarians. I’ve let myself get carried away. I’ve indulged in wild surmises. So I must leave you a free man. And besides, we already have a killer. A conveniently dead one, we are led to believe. So you are lucky—if indeed anything that I have said is true. Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky has written a suicide note, which, if genuine, appears to be a confession of guilt. A bottle of laudanum, similar to bottles found in his room, was found at the scene of the latest crime. He was even seen to have blood on his hands. It was clever of you to change your method, by the way, to switch to the axe for these final murders. Not the weapon of a gentleman. But the weapon of peasants—and deranged students, as you once hinted to me. The fact is, however, that anyone can buy an axe at a hardware store. The note spoke of his intention to kill himself by throwing himself under a
troika.
And someone more or less answering his description has been killed in that way. It seems to be a closed case. The possession of his soul by Goryanchikov also provides a motive there. Virginsky may say he doesn’t believe in the soul, but we shouldn’t forget he is a Russian.”

“So why did you come here?” asked Osip Maximovich in genuine bewilderment.

“Because I can’t accept that Virginsky is a murderer. I can’t allow it.”

“But why should he confess to the killing if he isn’t the killer?”

“That’s precisely the question I asked myself,” said Porfiry. “Perhaps he’s trying to protect someone.”

“Who?”

“You.”

Osip Maximovich looked at Porfiry for a moment, as if to confirm that he was serious. When he saw that he was, he began laughing. His laughter was loud and harsh and stopped as abruptly as it had started. “Why on earth would he be trying to protect me?”

“So that we won’t arrest you. So that you will remain free. So that he can track you down and kill you. He went to Lilya’s apartment. He found her as she was dying. He held her bloody head in his hands and tried to make her comfortable. She named her killer. According to this hypothesis, Virginsky isn’t dead. The body that has turned up belongs to someone else.”

“Ratazyayev perhaps?” suggested Osip Maximovich archly.

“I have no reason to believe that,” said Porfiry. He didn’t smile. “It could be anyone. There are a lot of emaciated students in St. Petersburg. Virginsky simply wants us to think he is dead.”

“What do you intend to do about it?” For the first time in the interview, Osip Maximovich seemed genuinely shaken.

“Nothing,” said Porfiry. “There is nothing I can do, even if I wanted to. It’s all speculation. I have no proof of anything. The only way we will find out for sure is if you are killed.” Porfiry got to his feet.

The emotion on Osip Maximovich’s face took a step up to fear. “You’re leaving me to my death,” he said, his voice rising in startled outrage.

Suddenly, to the surprise of both men, the door to the adjoining room slowly opened. Vadim Vasilyevich came in. His face was more than usually pale, almost glowing. A strange excitement showed in his eyes, which were fixed on Osip Maximovich. His lips were tightly clamped. Porfiry saw that he was holding the gold box he had carried out of Lyamshin’s.

“Hypocrite!” He whispered the word. But the force of his anger carried.

“Calm yourself, Vadim Vasilyevich.”

“Did you think this would save you?” The artificial baritone was gone. Vadim Vasilyevich’s natural voice was thin and reedy. He spoke quickly, breathlessly.

“What
are
you talking about?” Osip Maximovich attempted an amiable smile. But his eyes flashed hatred at Porfiry.

“Don’t lie. It’s too late for lying. I heard it all.”

“You heard nothing. Now please give me the box. It doesn’t belong to you. I thank you for retrieving it. But it’s mine.”

“I believed in you. You betrayed me. You betrayed yourself.”

“On the contrary. I found a way to be true to myself.”

Vadim Vasilyevich opened the lid of the little box and took out a folded piece of paper. He threw the box down. It fell apart as it hit the floor. “Did you really think this would save you?” He waved the paper in the air.

“Give it to me.”

Vadim Vasilyevich began to laugh. “You really do believe in this, don’t you? But God isn’t a lawyer. It’s the devil who’s the lawyer, you fool!”

“No matter. I will negotiate with the devil then.” Osip Maximovich rose from his seat and stalked toward his secretary. Vadim Vasilyevich was far taller than Osip Maximovich. He held the paper tauntingly over his head, at arm’s length. The shorter man jumped comically but failed to reach it.

“I ought to—” Vadim Vasilyevich’s face suddenly lit up with malign pleasure. “I know what I ought to do.” He turned his back on Osip Maximovich and ran back into the adjoining room, slamming the door behind him. He evidently locked it, or blocked it in some way, as Osip Maximovich turned the handle uselessly.

A moment later the door opened, and Vadim Vasilyevich came back in. He was still holding the paper above his head, but it was alight. Jags of lambent orange leaped from his hand.

“You monster!” cried Osip Maximovich, desperately reaching for the flame-lapped document.

“What is that?” asked Porfiry Petrovich, who until now had been content to allow the scene to play out in front of him.

“It’s his soul,” cried Vadim Vasilyevich gleefully. “Or at least he thinks it is. It is a document conferring ownership of his soul to whoever is in possession of this paper. He placed his soul in the possession of the pawnbroker, the Jew Lyamshin. He believed that because he was no longer in possession of it, his soul would be untouched by his crimes.” Vadim Vasilyevich gave a cry of pain and dropped the burning paper. But he moved forward to prevent Osip Maximovich from getting close to it.

“My soul is innocent. My soul is spotless,” protested Osip Maximovich. “You saw the contract between Virginsky and Goryanchikov. We talked about it. You agreed—the logic is faultless. If a man is not in possession of his soul, his soul cannot be affected by anything he does. You yourself said it.”

“But I was—” Vadim Vasilyevich’s eyes rolled upward as he searched for the right word. “Amusing myself! I thought it was a joke. You couldn’t possibly take it seriously.” He broke into anguished sobbing laughter. “We talk about all sorts of things. That’s what we do! All the day long. Idle talk! And we publish whole books full of other men’s idle talk.”

Osip Maximovich’s eyes stared indignantly. He turned to Porfiry. “He’s destroyed a legally binding document. Pure vandalism. Can’t you arrest him?”

Porfiry turned toward the door. “Lieutenant Salytov!” he called out.

Salytov stepped into the office.

“Arrest this man,” said Porfiry, indicating Osip Maximovich.

“What!” cried Osip Maximovich, in sudden rage. “That was not our deal! You were going to leave me to face Virginsky. You were going to let Virginsky kill me. That’s what we agreed. I was willing to accept that. I wanted that. You cheated me.”

“I don’t care a jot about your soul,” said Porfiry. “But I do care about Virginsky’s.”

P
ORFIRY PET ROVICH
looked up from his desk as he heard the door to his chambers open. He stubbed out a half-smoked cigarette and rose slowly from his seat. “Pavel Pavlovich!” Porfiry said the name warmly. He invested it with a surprise that he did not entirely feel.

“Porfiry Petrovich.” Virginsky looked away, shamefaced.

“You gave us quite a scare.” Porfiry gave a quick moue of rebuke. “Until I saw the boots on the dead man, I was convinced it was you.”

“Ah, yes.” Virginsky flashed a tentative glance toward Porfiry. “I’m sorry about that. That note…it was stupid. Although at the time I fully intended to. I…saw the accident on the Kazansky Bridge. He looked just like me. It was like I was watching myself. That’s what I should do, I thought. That’s the answer. But I couldn’t go through with it. Perhaps I should have. I wish to God I had gone through with it. I may still.”

“Don’t talk like that!”

“I should have killed him. That was my other plan. That was the only reason to keep myself alive. But I couldn’t go through with that either.” Virginsky hung his head. “I’m a coward.”

“No.”

“Yes. I should have killed him. And when I realized I didn’t have it in me to do that, I should have killed myself. She—” Virginsky broke off and hid his face in his hands.

“What is it, Pavel Pavlovich?”

“She asked me to pray for his soul.” Virginsky dropped his hands, revealing the appalled confusion on his face. “For Osip Maximovich’s soul.”

Porfiry blinked his agitation. “And can you?”

“Can you?”

“I am a believer,” said Porfiry. “And yet I find it difficult to think of troubling God with that prayer.”

“I’ve tried. For her sake.” Virginsky lapsed into thought. He suddenly remembered something. “She gave me this.” Virginsky handed Porfiry a sealed envelope, addressed to one Yekaterina Romanovna Lebedyeva. The name seemed familiar to Porfiry, though he could not think from where. “It’s a letter to her mother that she has never sent.”

“This woman is her mother?” Porfiry’s voice sounded startled. He thought perhaps he could place the name after all.

“Apparently. Lilya carried the letter about with her always. She was holding it when he killed her. Perhaps it gave her strength, or hope…or something. She asked me to deliver it. I can’t. I can’t conceive of looking that woman in the eye.”

“I will take it,” said Porfiry, noting the address. “What will you do now?”

“I don’t know. I’ve written to my father. A different letter. Not the one you found.”

Porfiry nodded his approval. “Do you wish me to destroy that?”

Virginsky nodded.

Porfiry came out from behind his desk and held out his hand. Pavel Pavlovich took it. “This is a hard time,” said Porfiry. “A terrible time.

You need your father. You need to forgive him and to allow him to forgive you.”

Virginsky sighed deeply and looked away.

T
HE ADDRESS ON
the envelope was for an apartment building in Sadovaya Street. He tracked the Lebedyevs down to a frigid cellar. There was no door. The light seeped in through barely translucent half-windows cut off by the ceiling. There was a layer of ice on the walls.

Madame Lebedyeva lay in bed. As soon as he saw her—even before that, as soon as he heard her constant, almost mechanical keening—Porfiry knew for certain why her name had been familiar to him. This was the woman who had come to his chambers and given a statement declaring herself “guilty of everything.” Her husband, Lebedyev, sat close by. His face retained its air of protected dignity.

“Yekaterina Romanovna,” said Porfiry, aware suddenly of a dull ache in his chest. “I have something for you.” He crossed to the bed and held out the letter.

The woman did not look at him. She simply continued her endless cycle of lamentation. It rose and fell and shook her.

“It’s from Lilya,” Porfiry went on. “Your daughter.”

Yekaterina Romanovna broke off to declare, “I have no daughter.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry to say you’re right, at last. But you did have. Lilya is dead now.”

Yekaterina Romanovna struck her breast with a clenched fist.

“Dearest, dearest,” began Lebedyev. But he had nothing else to offer.

“Listen to me,” said Porfiry sternly. “Listen to the truth. It’s time you listened to the truth. She
was
murdered. As was her daughter, your granddaughter. By a man called Osip Maximovich Simonov.”

“No, sir!” protested Lebedyev, rising to his feet. He sat back down immediately. “Osip Maximovich is a gentleman. Retract that slander now, sir, or you will have to answer to me.”

“So you do know Osip Maximovich?” demanded Porfiry.

There was a sudden wail from the bed. Madame Lebedyeva began tearing at her face with her nails. Porfiry watched in horror as the blood broke through her cheeks. At last he stirred himself and lurched forward to restrain her. She was stronger than he expected. But he used his weight to wrestle her into stillness, pulling her hands away from her face. He could see from her eyes that she understood. The guilt that she had been waiting for had finally come to her.

“Osip Maximovich was to have been my son-in-law,” continued Lebedyev. “We had an arrangement. It was all decided. We were honored. And it would have been…the end of all our troubles. She had come to his attention. He—he was willing to condescend to take her hand. The hand of a foolish girl. And she—she threw it away! She, she, she…I cannot bring myself to speak of it.”

“Then allow me. She was raped by a man she trusted.”

“No! It was some boy, some filthy boy. Quite naturally Osip Maximovich broke off the engagement. Do you know how much he was going to pay us? And normally it is the bride’s family that must provide a dowry!”

“But he raped her,” insisted Porfiry.

Lebedyev shook his head violently. “Some boy, some filthy boy,” he repeated. “She was faithless. How could you expect a respectable gentleman like Osip Maximovich to marry a whore like that? She ruined this family!” raged Lebedyev, again rising from his seat only to fall back onto it. “Look what she did to her mother! Broke her poor mother’s heart! Shattered the balance of her mind! She is responsible for everything! I never touched a drop before that day. And now I have lost my position, lost everything…”

Yekaterina Romanovna’s wailing intensified. She screamed and writhed beneath Porfiry’s restraint. Eventually she calmed and looked into Porfiry’s face. Her expression was pleading but lucid. “I believed her. I always believed her. But I said nothing. That’s how I killed her. By my silence.”

Porfiry answered her with a fit of blinking. He threw the letter onto the bed and stood up. He crossed to Lebedyev and pulled him up by his lapels so that he could say into his face, which stank of vodka, “She was your daughter.” The former civil servant met this assertion with his usual mask of anaesthetized dignity. “Lilya Ivanovna. Ivanovna. Lilya Ivanovna,” continued Porfiry, stressing the patronymic. “Even if she was all that you accuse her of, she was still your daughter.” He released the man’s lapels. Lebedyev swayed but remained on his feet. “I am Titular Councilor Ivan Filimonovich Lebedyev. I have a position. I have standing. I have a reputation.”

“You have nothing,” said Porfiry.

Lebedyev frowned, as if he were struggling to understand Porfiry’s point.

Porfiry pushed him back into his seat and left. He heard Yekaterina Romanovna’s wailing begin with renewed force.

P
RINCE BYKOV ROSE
to his feet as he saw Porfiry approach, gripping the rim of his fur-covered top hat tightly. Porfiry began coughing and fumbled automatically for his cigarettes.

Zamyotov was hovering in the background. Porfiry sensed the look of angry reproach on his face and did not take out the enameled case.

“Prince Bykov,” murmured Porfiry with a bow.

“Alexander Grigorevich informs me that the case is closed.” Prince Bykov spoke stiffly.

Porfiry deepened his bow, then rose slowly.

“But you haven’t found Ratazyayev?”

Porfiry met the prince’s anguish with a carefully judged smile. He cleared his throat and spoke with deliberate clarity. “I dearly wish we had. There are many questions I would like to put to him.”

“This is Russia. A man cannot simply disappear!”

“Even in Russia. Sometimes a man doesn’t want to be found. Perhaps that is the case with your friend. He is a consummate actor, after all.” Porfiry gave the prince a long, significant look.

Prince Bykov’s tone became accusatory: “You have given up on him.”

“All the requisite agencies and bureaus have been alerted. The image that you kindly provided has been circulated. However, I have to say, it would be better for your friend if we did not find him. He is, after all, an accomplice to murder, however unwitting the part he played.”

“Exactly! You must hunt him down. He must be brought to justice. He must be made to face up to what he has done. You must find him!”

“It is a question of resources, your excellency. And priorities.”

“Are you saying Ratazyayev is not a priority?”

“We may not find him today, or tomorrow, but if he ever comes to our notice again, we will know him. Policemen have long memories.
I
have a long memory.”

Prince Bykov gulped in air, as if he had suddenly forgotten how to breathe. “What if he is dead? That man, the man who killed all those others, may have killed him.”

“We don’t know that.” Porfiry’s voice softened. His posture slumped a little, as if in defeat. “We have every right to hope that he is still alive.”

“But I will never see him again.”

“I advise you to forget about him,” said Porfiry.

“But how can I? Everywhere I go I am reminded of him.”

“Then leave St. Petersburg. Travel is often an aid to recovery in cases like this.”

“Switzerland,” murmured the prince distractedly. “We once talked of going to Switzerland together.”

“Wherever he is, I’m sure that he thinks of you—with warmth and affection.” Porfiry felt a sudden stabbing ache in his frontal lobe. “And love.” He allowed himself to blink. He couldn’t stop. He felt that he would never be able to stop.

Porfiry closed his eyes tightly and placed one hand over them. When he took his hand away and opened his eyes, he saw that the prince was gone. His fit of blinking had passed too.

He bowed again, to the empty space where the prince had stood. Without looking at Zamyotov, he went into his chambers.

Porfiry leaned his back against the closed door and finally took out his cigarette case. He busied himself in lighting a cigarette. The headache eased as quickly as it had come. He gazed across the room at the window. A low sun blinded him to the details of his chambers. All he could see was the cloud of exhaled smoke, a swirling trap for sunlight.

He tried to remember what day it was. He could not shake off the feeling that there was something he should be doing. And yet whatever it was, it was not as important to him as leaning against this door and watching the smoke from his cigarette.

The ash fell unheeded to the floor. Porfiry was absorbed in the shifting smoke, studying it as if it were a mystery that could be solved. When he had finished the cigarette, he squeezed the glowing tip, feeling its sharp heat between his thumb and forefinger, and strode away from the door. The room became visible to him, and he knew it was New Year’s Eve. Later, he would be expected at Nikodim Fomich’s house.