Porfiry mirrored her expression, screwing his eyes up thoughtfully as he met her gaze. A knock at the door interrupted their silent consideration of each other. Zamyotov came in, breathless with excitement. ‘You are to go to Izmailovsky Prospekt. There has been a murder. A retired colonel has been shot. It is a terrible scandal. A respectable gentleman did it. Lieutenant Salytov is already there.’
‘Good heavens, if they know who did it and Lieutenant Salytov is there, why on earth am I required?’ Porfiry still had his eyes on Polina, for whom he wrinkled his eyes and winked. ‘Thank you, my dear. You have given me much to think about. Now, if you will forgive me, it seems that another case demands my attention.’
‘A strange coincidence, is it not?’ said Porfiry, affecting a casual-ness that he did not quite pull off. ‘Is this not the very building from which emerged the couple you spoke to? You remember, we were coming back from interviewing Bezmygin. You stopped the driver and ran back. An older gentleman and a young, rather pretty, lady.’
Virginsky looked up at the apartment building they were about to enter. ‘Mmm, it may have been,’ he said dubiously.
‘Who were they?’
Virginsky hesitated, his mouth open, a protest frozen on his lips. ‘My father,’ he said with dull finality. ‘And his wife.’
‘Ah! I wondered if it were so. There was a certain resemblance, you see, between you and the gentleman.’ Porfiry thought for a moment and then added: ‘I wonder if they knew our dead man?’
Virginsky shrugged, as if he were trying to shake off the suggestion. ‘Is it always like this? You have not finished one case and you must begin another?’
‘I’m afraid the criminals of St Petersburg have altogether too little regard for those who must investigate them. They do not adhere to any almanac. Nor do they wait for all pending crimes to be solved before perpetrating their own. They are very bad.’ Porfiry held the door for Virginsky, his face deadpan.
They climbed the stairs in silence. A
politseisky
guarding one of the doors on the fourth-storey landing indicated their destination.
The door was opened by Lieutenant Salytov. The summer did not suit Salytov. With fiery-hair and whiskers, as well as being fair-skinned, the slightest increase in temperature turned his face as red and steaming as a bowl of borscht. He turned his back on them without a word of welcome.
‘So Ilya Petrovich,’ Porfiry called after him. ‘What do we have?’
‘It seems a clear-cut case.’ Salytov shouted out the words with his usual antagonism. He was used to Porfiry’s habit of overturning all obvious assumptions, and resented it, just as he seemed to resent his role in having to state them. ‘One Vakhramev was admitted earlier this afternoon - no precise time given, but the butler thinks somewhere around three. He was seen to argue with Colonel Setochkin. There was talk of a duel, according to the butler. Vakhramev was demanding satisfaction. Called Setochkin a villain. Threatened him with forfeiture of rights, or some such, according to the butler. Something to do with Vakhramev’s daughter. The two men went alone into Setochkin’s study. About ten minutes later, a shot was heard. Setochkin dead, Vakhramev holding the gun. The local doctor has had a look at him. He has given the cause of death as a single gunshot wound to the heart, subject to a full medical examination, of course.’
‘Whose gun?’
‘The gun has been identified as belonging to Colonel Setochkin. One of a pair of duelling pistols. The other was still in the case.’
‘Where was the case kept?’
‘In the same room, Setochkin’s study.’
‘In open view?’
‘The case was on the colonel’s desk.’
‘So Vakhramev could easily have taken the pistol from it. What is Vakhramev’s version of events?’
‘You can ask him yourself. I’m sure you will. He’s in here.’ Salytov had his hand on the handle of one of the doors.
‘But for now I am asking you.’
Salytov sighed heavily. ‘He says he didn’t do it.’
‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’ said Porfiry.
Salytov seemed taken aback by the response, and then annoyed, as though he felt he had let Porfiry get the better of him once again.
Vakhramev was being held in the study, where Setochkin’s body still lay on the rug, a large stain, with a dark flowering of matter at its centre, on his chest. Porfiry’s quick scan of the room took in its inhabitant’s tastes.
The walls were hung with Caucasian rugs over
chinois
wallpaper, the latter influence echoed in the Chinese peasant figures on the three-panelled
shirmochka
screen; two Moorish busts, one male, one female, confronted one another from opposite walls, across a Turkish ottoman, an Empire chaise longue and a number of wicker chairs. An interest in Old Muscovy and a fondness for folk art was apparent in a number of the decorations. There was a cluster of icons mounted in the holy corner. A large canvas-covered trunk with wooden ribbing increased the sense of clutter. The lid was thrown open. A melee of random objects - books, map rolls, bundled correspondence, a cavalry officer’s cap, a sabre in its scabbard, a number of stuffed birds - seemed to be frozen in the act of clambering to get out. Porfiry was affected by a strong desire to close the lid on this glimpse of a disordered life.
Porfiry’s impression, to which the presence of a dead body only contributed, was that the room was over-furnished for its size. At Colonel Setochkin’s feet, a large baize-covered desk was crowded in beneath the window in the far wall. A glass-panelled door next to the window suggested a balcony.
Vakhramev was seated in one of the wicker armchairs, a
politseisky
positioned next to him. He looked up as Porfiry and Virginsky came in with Salytov. His expression was naturally pensive, although he seemed to will defiance into his features.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Porfiry, taking one of the other chairs. He braced himself as he settled but, seeming to experience no discomfort, breathed out his relief. ‘I have to be careful,’ he said by way of explanation to Vakhramev. ‘You will understand, I think. A gentleman of your age.’ Porfiry cast an accusatory glance at Virginsky. ‘These young ones do not.’ He nodded for Virginsky to sit down too. ‘You are Vakhramev?’
‘Ruslan Vladimirovich Vakhramev.’ Vakhramev’s expression was slightly startled. His chair creaked as he drew himself up proudly.
Porfiry bowed. ‘I am Porfiry Petrovich, the investigating magistrate.I would be grateful to you, sir, if you could tell me what happened here this afternoon. Please take your time. Try not to overlook any detail. It may turn out to be significant.’
‘I have already given a statement.’
‘Yes, yes, I know. It’s tiresome. But it’s important to me that I hear it directly from you. You may think of something that you missed last time. Of course, I apologise for any inconvenience to
you
.’ Porfiry looked down at the corpse distractedly. He then turned a startled face on Vakhramev, as if the sight of the dead body had reminded him why he was there.
Vakhramev nodded. ‘The mood I was in, I would not have been very surprised if I had killed him. But I did not. You have my word, as a gentleman.’
Porfiry raised a questioning eyebrow. He offered Vakhramev a cigarette, which was declined. Lighting one for himself, he said: ‘Forgive me for asking such a blunt question - sometimes I find it is easier for all concerned if one gets straight to the point - but what was your intention in coming here?’ Porfiry’s face tensed into a smile.
Vakhramev was flustered by the question. ‘I had a right to confront him. I wanted him to know what I thought of him.’
‘And what did you think of him?’
Vakhramev considered his words. ‘I did not think much of him.’
‘So it wasn’t your intention to challenge him to a duel?’
‘The thought had crossed my mind.’
‘Of course. I find all sorts of thoughts cross my mind. Some of them most unwelcome. One cannot control one’s thoughts. But, tell me, please, just to clear things up, did you act on this particular thought?’
‘In the event, I saw that he was not worth it.’
Porfiry nodded in satisfaction. ‘The butler admitted you, I believe. And were you shown here, directly to the study?’
‘No, Setochkin came out of another room. We . . . talked in the hall. Then we came in here.’
‘And what happened then?’
‘I showed him the letter.’
‘Excuse me. What letter is this?’
‘I received a letter informing me of Setochkin’s behaviour.’
Porfiry flashed a glance in Virginsky’s direction. ‘Good heavens. Who was it from?’
‘I don’t know. It wasn’t signed. But the contents seem to have been well informed. He didn’t deny it.’
‘And where is it now, this letter? I would very much like to see it.’
‘I gave it to him. Or rather, I threw it at him. Screwed it up and threw it in his face. It landed on the floor somewhere.’
All eyes shot downwards at the same time.
‘We have searched the room. There was no sign of any such letter, ’ said Salytov.
‘How strange. But we will come back to that later,’ said Porfiry. ‘Please, Ruslan Vladimirovich, would you tell me what happened after you confronted Colonel Setochkin with the letter.’
‘If there ever was a letter,’ put in Salytov.
Vakhramev gave him a stern glance. ‘I left. That is to say, I went out of the room with the intention of leaving the apartment. However, I had taken but three paces when I heard the gun discharge. I ran back immediately. He was lying where you see him now. The gun was on the floor nearby. For some reason I cannot explain, I picked it up. A moment later, Setochkin’s man came in.’
‘It would, you know, be helpful if you could explain why you picked it up.’
‘I couldn’t help myself. I hated him. And, yes, wished him dead. But now that he was, I couldn’t quite believe it. I needed to handle the gun to believe it. I can see it would have been so much better if I hadn’t picked it up.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that,’ said Porfiry, with a thin smile. He blew out smoke and stood up, beginning to search around the room distractedly. ‘There is always this problem of ashtrays.’
‘Filthy habit,’ said Vakhramev.
‘Ah, but I find it essential to thought,’ said Porfiry, stepping over the body to find an ashtray at last on the desk. He took the opportunity to try the door to the balcony. It was locked, the key still in the lock on the inside. ‘And I must think.’ He said the words to himself, gazing deep in thought out of the window, one pane of which was open. The view was of an empty courtyard. He wrinkled his nose at the pungent stink of the soil barrels. After a moment his gaze dropped down to the desk and settled on a nondescript birch-wood case. ‘What happened to the pistol that was fired?’
‘We have it,’ said Salytov.
Porfiry opened the wooden box and looked down at the one remaining pistol, surrounded by the polished accoutrements of charge and discharge, two ramrods, a wooden mallet, bullet mould, brass powder flask, various screws and implements, including an elaborate pair of pincers, all compartmentalised in velvet. Lead spheres, the bullets themselves, nestled like eggs of death. The gun had a rounded walnut butt with a carved grip and damascened trimmings, from which the barrel, with its severely hexagonal cross-section, projected brutally. The inscription inside the hinged lid announced the maker as Alexei Babyakin of Tula. Porfiry thought of this Babyakin, and of the evident care - the craftsman’s love of his craft - that had gone into the making of this handsome and highly covetable object. He wondered if any thought of its ultimate purpose had distracted Babyakin, or whether he had looked upon it purely as a beautiful mechanism. Porfiry closed the box again and turned back to Vakhramev. ‘And so, who shot him, if not you? I imagine you have given it some thought.’
‘Why, I should have thought that was obvious,’ said Vakhramev. ‘He shot himself. Our conversation, and the letter, the irrefutable evidence of his worthlessness, provoked feelings of shame and remorse that overwhelmed him.’