The Gentle Axe

The Perfumed Letter

The Peter and Paul Fortress cannon signaled midday with an irrefutable boom. As though to escape the impact of the distant shot, Porfiry hurried his step as he pushed open the door to the building in Stolyarny Lane, shivering in from the cold. The Haymarket District Police Bureau was on the fourth floor. Cooking smells came from the open doors of the flats he passed on the way up. The stairs were steep. He paused at the landing of the second floor to light a cigarette. The smoke thickened the gloom of the stairwell. It was narrow here, and he had to stand to one side to let porters and police officers go by in both directions. These purposeful men regarded him with suspicion. But he took his time. He needed to feel the tobacco smoke’s stimulating influence spread throughout his body before he could go on. When he did finally move, it was as if he were borne up on the swirling wisps.

As he entered the bureau, he caught the look of avid expectancy in Prince Bykov’s eyes, and his heart sank. The young nobleman ran toward him with quick, clipping steps. “Porfiry Petrovich!”

“Prince Bykov. How delightful to see you again.”

“Porfiry Petrovich, I have something that I believe will be useful to you in your investigation. Alexander Grigorevich said it would be all right for me to wait.”

“Alexander Grigorevich?” repeated Porfiry, with a quick, arch glance to Zamyotov. “I did not realize you two…gentlemen were on such terms.” The clerk’s answering glare was characteristically insolent. Porfiry bowed and clicked his heels as he took the photograph that Prince Bykov was holding out to him. It was a studio portrait of a striking man of about forty years of age. His face possessed traces of the masculine beauty that had once defined it: the strong, flaring nose, the heroic chin and sculptural cheekbones. Somehow these were what came out to the viewer and not the slackened flesh around them. Yes, he was running to fat and, it could fairly be said, had his best years behind him. The hair was receding, but its blond glow and defiant length signaled a former glory, and the angle of the forehead that was increasingly exposed was finely determined. More than anything, there was a compelling intensity to his eyes. They glared out of the picture and fixed the observer with an unflinching openness that combined power and vulnerability. The man’s pose was artificial, theatrical even, but some quality of amused intelligence in his face seemed to acknowledge this. Beneath the superficial artifice, Porfiry detected the hint of a deeper honesty. He was not a man to be trusted, a man capable of lying, certainly. But neither was he a man who lied to himself. He must be lively company, was Porfiry’s thought.

“This is Ratazyayev,” said Porfiry.

“Yes,” confirmed Prince Bykov.

“He’s older than I imagined.” Porfiry lifted his head and watched the prince thoughtfully. He was thinking of the bond between the young prince and the aging actor.

“How is the investigation going?” demanded Prince Bykov abruptly.

“Makar Alexeyevich.” Porfiry Petrovich used the time it took to say the name and patronymic to consider the many responses available to him. Finally, he settled for: “It is making progress.”

“But you have not found Ratazyayev?”

“Does the name Konstantin Kirillovich Govorov mean anything to you?”

“Govorov? I have heard the name, I think.”

“He is a known associate of your friend Ratazyayev’s.”

The prince blushed. “Alexei Spiridonovich has many friends. I have not been introduced to them all.”

“Would you be able to tell us where we can find this Govorov? We are very interested in speaking to him. We think he may have information relating to the disappearance of your friend.”

“I can’t help you. Other than to provide you with this photograph.”

“What of Virginsky? The student Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky? Do you know him?”

Prince Bykov’s face remained blank.

“Ratazyayev’s name was found on a document pertaining to Virginsky.”

“I have never heard of a Virginsky.”

Porfiry shook the photograph distractedly. “Thank you for this. It will help, I’m sure.” But his shoulders sagged in disappointment, and he was already looking past Prince Bykov.

"Alexei Spiridonovich Ratazyayev, the missing actor,” said Porfiry as he laid the photograph on Nikodim Fomich’s desk.

The chief superintendent took up the photograph. “I believe I may have seen him in something. Many years ago.”

“I have the prokuror’s permission to investigate his disappearance.”

Nikodim Fomich nodded.

“I would like one of your officers to take the picture around the taverns in the Haymarket area. Ratazyayev signed a document that was drawn up in a drinking dive near the Haymarket, according to Virginsky. Whoever is assigned should start from the Haymarket and move out.”

“It sounds like a job for Salytov.”

Porfiry fluttered his eyelids and gave the slightest bow. “He could mention the name Govorov too, when he is making his inquiries.”

“Very well.” Nikodim Fomich nodded back, then pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Speaking of Virginsky,” he said at last, “he is demanding to be released, you know.”

“He is a strange, unpredictable youth,” said Porfiry, as he lit a cigarette.

“It’s not so strange to want your freedom.”

“But what is his freedom? The freedom to starve? He is fed here, isn’t he?”

“He is a law student. It seems he has attended enough lectures in his time to know that he has rights. You have not charged him. Indeed, there is nothing, technically, to charge him with. As far as the disappearance of Ratazyayev is concerned, you don’t need me to tell you, Porfiry Petrovich, that you have not established a crime. And if you are holding him in connection with the affair of the dwarf, it’s my understanding that that case is closed.”

“I want him close to me,” said Porfiry abruptly. He frowned at the cigarette burning down between his fingers.

“If Prokuror Liputin-”

“Please don’t bring Prokuror Liputin into this. I will speak to Virginsky.”

Nikodim Fomich noticed the strain in his friend’s voice. He saw too the dark patches beneath Porfiry’s eyes. “You’re smoking too much,” he said.

Porfiry held the smoke in his lungs. His eyelids quivered closed. He was light-headed, near to swooning. Finally, he let the smoke out in a sudden, noisy gasp and looked Nikodim Fomich in the eye. “It helps me think.”

YOU CAN’T KEEP me here.”

Porfiry sighed and looked down at Virginsky. The student was stretched out on the pallet bed of his cell. His eyes were closed complacently, arms folded behind his head. His cheeks had filled out and picked up color. He had evidently put on weight.

“That’s true,” agreed Porfiry. “I have come to tell you that you are free to go whenever you wish.”

This seemed to disturb Virginsky, who looked up doubtfully. “Very well,” he said at last and sat up.

“I want to believe that you are innocent,” continued Porfiry. “So let us proceed on the basis that you are. If you leave here, you may be putting yourself in danger. The person who killed Borya and Goryanchikov is still at large.”

“I thought the official story was that Borya killed Goryanchikov and then killed himself.”

“That is the official story. I say again, the person who killed Borya and Goryanchikov is still at large. This is a dangerous individual. He may kill again. At least while you are here, you are safe.”

“But why should they kill me?”

Porfiry gave a vague shrug. “Let me put it another way. While you are held here, as our chief suspect, the real murderer will believe himself to be in the clear. He may drop his guard. He may even reveal himself through some careless mistake. If we release you, he will feel himself to be under suspicion once more. It is natural, the natural neurosis of a criminal. He will begin to wonder what you have said, or what you could say. He will look for connections. He will wrack his brain, running over every conversation he has ever had with you, until he remembers the one time when, perhaps, he let slip that one incriminating detail.”

“And what if I don’t know the fellow?”

“Oh, be under no illusions, my friend. The murderer is someone known to you. Someone you know, someone who knows you.”

“You can’t be certain of that.”

“I feel it very strongly.”

“What would you have me do?”

“I am asking you to remain here a while longer. Voluntarily, you understand. We will make your stay as pleasant as we can.”

“Why should I?”

“It would help me. It would help me find the murderer of Goryanchikov and Borya. There will perhaps come a time when I will ask you to undertake a more dangerous commission.”

“What would that be?”

“To leave here. In so doing, you may help us bring the murderer out into the open. But you could also be putting yourself at risk. That is something you will have to face, but it is not necessary that you face it yet.”

Virginsky touched the fingertips of both hands to his forehead, then pushed them back through his hair. He looked up at Porfiry. “No,” said the student at last. “I would rather die a free man than live forever as a prisoner. Besides, there are things I need to attend to.”

Porfiry’s nod was unsurprised.

Back in his own chambers, Porfiry placed the box that he had taken from Borya’s shed on his desk. The box was made from burled birch, most likely Karelian, wonderfully smooth to the touch, and honey-gold. The hinges and lock were brass. There was a brass emblem in the shape of an eagle inlaid into the lid.

He tried the key that Zoya had given him, the key she had found on Borya. It turned easily in the lock, and the box opened. Inside he found a single crisply folded sheet of ivory-colored writing paper.

Porfiry lifted the sheet to his nose without unfolding it and breathed a scent he recognized. He opened the paper to read a short handwritten note:

Do you remember the summer? Do you remember the day we met in Petrovsky Park this summer gone? Do you remember the place near the boating lake, the dip in the land surrounded by birch? How could you forget it? I will hate you if you have forgotten. But you will not have forgotten. I saw from your eyes that you would never forget. It is there, recorded in the map of your heart. I saw so much from your eyes. I saw your goodness. I saw your fear. But do not be afraid. Trust in your goodness. Meet me there tonight at midnight. There is a way forward in all this. If you love me, which I have never doubted, you will come.

The note was signed: “A.A.” He held the paper to his nose again. The scent, he was sure, was Anna Alexandrovna’s. Despite its wholesome freshness, he found the effect of it was not conducive to thought. But he had no desire to swap it for one of his cigarettes.

He was suddenly aware of high-pitched shouting coming from the station. With hurried guilt, he placed the note back in the box, closed the lid, and locked it. The shouting continued. It was getting louder, approaching his chambers. Porfiry looked up to see his door burst open and Katya-Anna Alexandrovna’s maid-come in, holding by the ear a very dirty-faced boy of about nine or ten, dressed in grubby livery. The boy was screaming in protest: “You’re killing me! Let go!”

“This is him! Here he is!” cried Katya, and all the determination of her character seemed to be expressed in that grimly triumphant cry. “The boy!” She gave a vicious twist of the hand holding his ear, screwing the boy’s head down. The boy tipped forward and squealed in pain.

“Ah!” said Porfiry, rising from his chair. “You mean the boy who came to visit Goryanchikov?”

“He came back. I caught him spying on the house.”

The boy’s shrill screams had not let up: “You’re pulling my ear off!”

“Could you not let go of his ear? You appear to be hurting him.”

“If I let go, he’ll run off. You watch. I brought him all the way here like this.”

“Good heavens. I really would like you to let him go. Testimony obtained under duress is not admissible in the new law courts.” Porfiry crossed to the door and locked it. “There, now,” he said, dropping the key into the hip pocket of his frock coat. He nodded sternly to Katya. She frowned uncertainly, still reluctant to let go.

“You don’t know this one,” she said.

“The door is locked. He can’t escape.”

Finally she released the ear. It seemed, from her wary dismay, that she believed he would vanish the moment he was out of her grip. But also there was the sense that she had relinquished the source of her own confidence and momentary power. She seemed to find herself superfluous now that she had let him go. Noticing this, Porfiry bowed and thanked her. “I beg you to stay while I question him,” he said. The boy stood up straight, rubbed his ear, and regarded Katya with a look of vindicated innocence.

“You’re not out of here yet,” she warned him.

“So, boy, tell me, what is your name?” asked Porfiry.

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” the boy answered.

“No one is accusing you of anything. But it is possible that you may be able to help us in a murder investigation.”

The boy’s eyes widened in his coal-smudged face. “Murder!”

“Yes.”

“Is there a reward?”

“You will have the satisfaction of knowing that you have done your duty as a loyal subject of the tsar.”

“That’s not much of a reward.”

“Perhaps I should explain to you how the legal system works. It is not so much a question of rewards for doing your duty as penalties for not. If you do not provide me with the information I require, I can have you locked up.”

“And flogged,” added Katya, with a threatening nod.

“That may not be necessary,” corrected Porfiry. “The loss of liberty in itself is considered to be a sufficient deterrent. Of course, if I feel that you have rendered us exceptional help, I can recommend that your services be recognized. There is the possibility of a citation or even a medal.”

“What’s a citation?”

“It’s a piece of paper with your name on it, outlining the extent of your contribution.”

“What use is a piece of paper?”

“It will be sent to the tsar.”

“And what will the tsar do with it?”

“He will be gratified.”

“Will he give me money for it?”

“He will not lock you up and have you flogged,” said Porfiry, rather wearying of these negotiations. “And he may recommend that you be given a gold medallion. But it all depends on how much you help us. Of course, nothing can happen if you don’t tell us your name. We can’t write the citation if we don’t have your name.”

“Dmitri.”

“Very good, Dmitri. At least that can go on the citation. And where do you live?”

Dmitri narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“So that the tsar knows where to send the gold medallion, should he decide to award it.”

“The Hotel Adrianopole. I am the bellboy there.”

“Very good. And where is the Hotel Adrianopole?”

“On the Bolshoi Prospect. Vasilevsky Island.”

“Thank you. Now, please, Dmitri, could you tell me why you were spying on the house of the Widow Ivolgina, in Bolshaya Morskaya Street?”

“I wasn’t spying.”

“He was,” insisted Katya.

“I was waiting for the dwarf.”

Porfiry exchanged a significant glance with Katya and nodded minutely to Dmitri. “I see. The dwarf. Why were you waiting for him?”

“I wanted to ask him how he did it.”

“How he did what?”

“The trick.”

“Perhaps you had better start at the beginning. You admit that you have met Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov-the dwarf, as you call him-before?”

Dmitri seemed unsure how to answer. He looked mistrustfully between Porfiry and Katya.

“This lady says you came to the house, the house where Goryanchikov-the dwarf-lived, and visited him.”

“All right, it’s true.”

“Why did you go there?”

“A gentleman sent me.”

“What gentleman?”

The boy shrugged.

“How did you know him?”

“He was at the hotel.”

“A guest?”

“Yeah.”

“Why did he send you there, to the house?”

“He had a message.”

“For the dwarf?”

The boy nodded.

“And so you delivered the message?”

He nodded again.

“And?”

“And what?”

“Well, I’m trying to establish why you came back to spy on the house. The trick you mentioned. Can you tell me more about that?”

The boy frowned uncertainly. “Well, he came to the hotel.”

“Who did?”

“The dwarf.”

“I see. The message that you delivered was an invitation then? So what happened when he came to the hotel?”

“He went into the gentleman’s room.”

“So what happened next?”

“He was such a little man. He was much smaller than me, and yet he was a man.”

“Yes. But what happened after he went into the room?”

“The gentleman quit his room. The ordinary-size gentleman, I mean.”

“And the dwarf?”

“He didn’t come out. The other man paid his bill and paid for another week in advance as well. A whole week in advance! He said the dwarf was taking over his room and would want it for another week. But this is the thing, you see. I went back to the room. To see if there was anything the dwarf wanted. I knocked on the door. No answer. I opened the door. Nobody there. The room was empty. There was no sign of him.”

“He must have gone when you were with the other gentleman.”

“I would have seen him. There’s only one way out. Down the corridor and past the reception. He hadn’t been that way, I’m telling you. I was watching all the time. I wouldn’t have missed him. Even though he was such a tiny fellow.” Dmitri became heated in his insistence.

“He must have climbed out of the window then!” said Porfiry.

“No!” shouted Dmitri, amazed at Porfiry’s stupidity. “There is no window. It’s the room under the stairs.”

“I see. Very interesting.”

“He must be some kind of goblin, don’t you think?”

“I would incline toward a more rational explanation.”

“A wizard then? Or some such.”

“Tell me, did you carry the gentleman’s luggage out for him?”

“No!” The boy cried out in remembered indignation. “He wouldn’t let me. Insisted on carrying it out himself, didn’t he? Wanted to do me out of a tip, I’m sure.”

“I believe he may have had other reasons,” began Porfiry with a pleasant flicker of his eyelids, “for holding on to the suitcase so jealously.”

The boy’s look of indignation turned slowly to one of horror. “He was in the case! The dwarf was in the case!”

“The guest, the gentleman who sent you on your mission and whom the dw-the smaller gentleman, Goryanchikov, visited…you don’t happen to remember his name, do you?”

“Did he murder him? Did he murder the dwarf? And put him in the case?”

“It is a possibility.”

“And what if he comes back to murder me?”

“If you help me catch him, I shall make sure he cannot come back and murder you. I shall make sure he can never hurt anyone else again.”

“That’s what you say.”

“It is indeed what I say. Now, please, can you remember the guest’s name?”

“Govorov.”

Porfiry felt somehow that he had expected this. He believed he was not surprised. And yet he felt his pulse quicken at the mention of Govorov.

“Now you will write that thing for the tsar,” said Dmitri. “I should get a gold medal for this. I’ve risked my life.”

Porfiry blinked himself into concentration. “The citation? I shall be glad to. But first I have just one more question for you. After you had delivered your message to Goryanchikov, you then stopped off at the yardkeeper’s shed. Is this not true?”

Porfiry watched in amazement as the boy’s face colored and collapsed beneath an overwhelming surge of emotion. He had forgotten that this was a child he was dealing with. Thick streams of sudden tears ran from Dmitri’s eyes, clearing tracks in the dirt on his face. He howled his unhappiness: “It’s not fair. I’ve answered all your questions, then you ask me more questions. I’ve done nothing wrong. You can’t keep me here. You promised me a medal. Give me my medal.”

Porfiry cast a glance of appeal toward Katya. But she was having none of it. She scowled suspiciously. Her hand was reaching out as if to grab Dmitri’s ear again. Porfiry stepped forward and reached out to restrain her.

In that instant, Dmitri’s hand flashed into the pocket of Porfiry’s frock coat. Then, in the tail of the same instant, he was at the door and opening it. Porfiry suddenly felt the truth of Nikodim Fomich’s observation. He was rooted to the spot by age and by his tobacco-shortened breaths. The boy’s sudden move had not just taken him by surprise, it had left him winded, his body incapable of responding to the excited chemicals surging through it. His first impulse had been to light up rather than give chase.

At the door, thrown open by the fleeing Dmitri, Porfiry’s cry of “Stop him!” was smothered in a coughing fit. It turned a few puzzled, a few curious, but mostly blank faces. One elderly polizyeisky, surely long past retirement age, seemed to grasp what was going on. He saw the young, filthy urchin running full tilt toward him, away from the investigating magistrate. The polizyeisky dropped eagerly to a catching posture, spreading his feet and stretching out his arms. Something kindled in his eyes: sport and the memory of a youthful energy. Bobbing with anticipation, he possessed the narrowed space between two desks, effectively blocking Dmitri’s only escape route. But the boy did not slow his pace. If anything he accelerated, hurtling straight toward the human obstacle. Then, at the last minute, as the elderly polizyeisky reeled and readied himself for impact, groping the air and masticating nervously, the boy leaped to one side, vaulting onto one of the desks. It was a startling feat-fearless and marvelously athletic. There was no break in the fluidity of his movement. The sweep of his boots sent paper fluttering, upturning an inkpot that bled a quick puddle of black over the desk. He rose from his leap with perfect balance, head high, legs kicking. In two thundering steps he was across the desk and off the other side. The clerk behind it threw up his hands in impotent outrage, but the polizyeisky blew out his cheeks, spontaneously admiring.

In the time that it took to accomplish all this, Porfiry lit a cigarette.

“You let him get away,” accused Katya, when Porfiry turned back into his chambers. “After all the trouble I went to to bring him in. And I don’t suppose I’ll be getting a medal from the tsar.”

Porfiry licked a loose fleck of tobacco from his upper lip as he considered her antagonism. “I know where to find him,” he said nonchalantly. “I remain grateful to you, Katya. And as a representative of the state, I am confident the tsar is grateful too.” He bowed solemnly, blinking, as if he had been officially authorized to reward her with the rapid oscillation of his eyelids.