The Gentle Axe Paperback (28 page)

At the bottom of the coat, two brown, worn boots, cracked uppers and gaping soles advertising their antiquity, projected at impossible angles.

Porfiry’s heart began to pound. But then he felt a guilty sickness at his own jubilant excitement. Here was a man driven to death by poverty and despair, or possibly in an alcoholic stupor, which amounted to the same thing. He deserved better than Porfiry’s selfish relief.

Suddenly, from a clear sky, it began to snow.

Porfiry turned his back on the dead man and broke into a brisk walk away from the bridge. This time it was Salytov who had to hurry to keep up.

T
HE BRIGHTLY PAINTED
facades of the wine cellars and delicatessens on the Nevsky Prospect beckoned cheerily. Porfiry felt a fleeting, childish wonder at the oversize representations of grapes, charcuterie, and caviar. All he wanted to do was go inside one of those shops and never come out.

Instead he went into the three-story office building on the corner of the Nevsky Prospect and Bolshaya Konyushennaya Street, across from the Lutheran church.

He declined the wiry commissionaire’s offer to escort him to the office of Athene Publishing.

He didn’t wait for his single, sharp knuckle rap to be answered but went straight in, signaling to Salytov to wait outside. Osip Maximovich Simonov, seated at his desk, looked up over his spectacles. Their lenses shone, veiling his eyes with a film of silver. There was not a speck on his black frock coat. His beard had a sculptural perfection to it, and his long hair presented a helmetlike solidity. His neatness went deep.

“May I sit down?” Porfiry bowed from the waist as he made the request.

The other man nodded guardedly.

Porfiry took a seat on the other side of the desk and fixed Osip Maximovich steadily. “I’d like to get to know you better, Osip Maximovich. I feel we have a lot in common.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I was educated at a seminary as well, you know.”

“Indeed? I didn’t know.”

“Couldn’t you tell?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“I will never forget the monks who taught me.”

“Of course.”

“I sometimes wonder if they would remember me.”

Osip Maximovich seemed to shrug.

“I like to think they would,” continued Porfiry.

“I’m sure you were a memorable youth.”

“Yes, but I’m a man now, am I not? The thing is, would they think of the child now when they saw the man?”

“Possibly. Possibly not. Porfiry Petrovich, I hate to—”

“I will never forget what they taught me too.”

“Then your education wasn’t wasted.”

“I was thinking more of my moral education.”

“I too.” Osip Maximovich’s smile revealed his straining patience.

“Do you believe in the soul, Osip Maximovich?”

“You already know that I am a believer.”

“Then I am afraid for you.”

“Please don’t be.”

“My friend Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky claims he doesn’t believe in the soul.”

“I’m surprised to hear you describe such a fellow as your friend.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Oh, I know all about Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky,” said Osip Maximovich quickly. “I know all about his addiction to laudanum. And his habit of stealing other people’s possessions to pawn them. I also know about that blasphemous contract he drew up with Goryanchikov.”

“You do?”

“Yes, Goryanchikov showed it to me.”

“An interesting document, wouldn’t you say?”

“Such a man is capable of anything.”

“Why?”

“Because he has no soul. He has surrendered it to another.”

“But if you don’t believe in the soul—as Virginsky did not—it follows that you don’t believe in the contract,” said Porfiry. “Such a document is meaningless. In fact, it only makes sense if you are a believer.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“How is Anna Alexandrovna?” asked Porfiry abruptly.

“She’s very well.” Osip Maximovich took off his spectacles. A small twinge of a smile quivered on his lips. “We are to be married, you know. Our engagement will be announced on New Year’s Eve.”

“Ah,” said Porfiry. “Now I know you did it. I know you did it all. You killed all of them. Starting with Goryanchikov. Then Borya. Then Govorov. Then Lilya, Vera, and Zoya. You killed them all, Osip Maximovich. I only needed your motive, and now you have given it to me.”

Osip Maximovich didn’t seem surprised. He didn’t even attempt to feign surprise. He simply said, “Nonsense,” then put his spectacles back on. “But tell me, how have you worked all this out?” There was mockery in his tone.

“Let’s start with Borya.”

“Why start with him?”

“Because he was where my suspicions started. Borya didn’t hang himself. Someone else did that for him. There was oil on the collar of his greatcoat. How did the oil get there? It was when I came to see you here that it came to me. I noticed the shop selling mechanical devices on the ground floor of this building. Of course! He must have been hoisted up by a block and tackle. You tied a length of rope around the bough of the tree, high up, with a loop hanging off it. Through the loop you threaded the rope that was tied around Borya’s midriff, which was attached at the other end to the block and tackle, itself secured to one of the other trees. At this point he was still alive, just, though he was rapidly dying from the poisoned vodka you had given him. We know he was alive because of the bruising we found around the middle of his body. You probably already had a halter loosely in place around his neck. When he was high enough, you tied this rope around the bough. You then untied the rope around Borya’s middle and used Borya’s axe to cut down the rope with the loop. It left the nick in the bark, which I admit puzzled us for some time. Now Borya was hanging by his neck, but he was already dead. The blood had ceased to circulate. That’s why there was no bruising around his throat.”

“But you haven’t explained why I should want poor Borya dead.”

“It wasn’t Borya you wanted dead so much as Goryanchikov. Borya was simply there to take the blame. He wouldn’t do it willingly, of course. So you staged his suicide to make it look like he had been overcome by guilt after murdering Stepan Sergeyevich for the six thousand rubles you stuffed into his pocket.”

“An interesting theory. I admit to being a collector of interesting theories. I find them entertaining. So I will hear you out. And then I shall refute you.”

Porfiry nodded. “You wanted Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov dead because he knew your secret; or rather, secrets. The first secret is that you, Osip Maximovich, are the publisher of both the Athene and the Priapos imprints. That is to say, a publisher of both reputable philosophy texts and disgusting obscenities. Goryanchikov knew this because he worked for you in both capacities. That was the meaning of one of the quotes in the extraneous passage of the translation. ‘Did not Alcibiades sleep with Socrates, under the same cloak, and wrap his sinful arms around a spiritual man?’ Alcibiades was the pen name Goryanchikov used when translating pornography. ‘Socrates’ refers simply to the philosophical content of the Athene books.”

“Now I really have had enough of this tiresome nonsense. The fact is, Porfiry Petrovich, I can’t have been Borya’s murderer, or Goryanchikov’s. I was a thousand versts away in Optina Pustyn. If you had taken the trouble to check my alibi, you would have saved yourself the embarrassment of making these preposterous and quite unfounded charges.”

“I did check your alibi. I am always suspicious of people who are at pains to produce an alibi before they have been accused of anything, as you did. So I had the deputy investigating magistrate of Kaluga speak to Father Amvrosy in person. Fortunately he was granted an audience with the saintly man shortly before he died.”

“There was no need to do that. You could have simply looked in the convent records.”

“But I wanted, so to speak, to hear it from Father Amvrosy. Father Amvrosy was, after all, your old teacher from the seminary.”

“And?” The word came out bullishly impatient.

“Fortunately, the young gentleman whom I directed to gather this information was very thorough. He sent me a transcript of Father Amvrosy’s exact words.”

“Which were?”

“He said, ‘Someone by that name was here.’”

“There you are.”

“But don’t you think it’s a revealing choice of words? It suggests to me he was expecting a different Osip Maximovich Simonov from the one he received. Certainly, these are not exactly the words you would expect an old teacher to use of a former pupil.”

“But I took the train to Moscow. Vadim Vasilyevich saw me off.”

“To begin a journey is not the same thing as to complete it. I believe you did take the train to Moscow, in the first stage of a journey to Optina Pustyn. But you got off at Tosno. The first station on the route. In the meantime, you had exchanged luggage with an actor called Ratazyayev. Who then went on to Optina Pustyn and impersonated you.”

“Why should this fellow do this for me?”

“Because you had a hold over him. Your knowledge of his homosexuality. The crime of sodomy carries a sentence of exile, hard labor, and complete loss of civic rights. Of course, between consenting adults and behind closed doors, the legal prohibition of this act is difficult to enforce. The only successful prosecutions come as a result of denunciation. You threatened him with this.”

“Where is he now? Has he confirmed this? If so, he is a liar.”

“As yet we haven’t found Ratazyayev.”

“That is both convenient and inconvenient for you. Convenient, because it allows you to fit him into this jigsaw puzzle of accusations, in whatever way suits your purposes. Inconvenient, because you can’t prove anything.”

“Allow me to continue. Disembarking from the train at Tosno, where incidentally you were seen by Ratazyayev’s—by his dear friend, Prince Bykov, you were able to return incognito to St. Petersburg on the first available train heading back. You took a room at the Hotel Adrianopole, under the name of Govorov. This Govorov was an agent of yours, known to Goryanchikov. You then sent a note via the bellboy to Goryanchikov, tricking him into coming to the hotel to see Govorov. You charged the bellboy with a second delivery, a forged billet-doux to Borya, supposedly from Anna Alexandrovna, enticing him to Petrovsky Park that same night. In your room at the Hotel Adrianopole you overpowered Goryanchikov and suffocated him with a pillow. You put his body in Ratazyayev’s case, having had the foresight to tell him to leave it empty. You couldn’t close the case with Goryanchikov wearing his fur
shuba,
so you removed that garment and concealed it in the mattress. You simply told the hotel that Goryanchikov was taking over your room, paying them in advance, to buy a little time before they went snooping. Something they would not be overly inclined to do anyway, although you had piqued the curiosity of the bellboy. You took the case to Petrovsky Park for your midnight rendezvous with Borya. Of course, Borya was expecting to meet Anna Alexandrovna. Instead, you were there. He must have been surprised, to say the least. How did the conversation go? Something like this, I imagine. ‘Where is Anna Alexandrovna?’ To which you reply: ‘She couldn’t come herself. She sent me in her stead.’ ‘She sent
you
? To this place?’”

“Please!” cut in Osip Maximovich.

“Was it not like that?”

“This is a farce.”

“At some point, you looked Borya straight in the eye and said, ‘Anna Alexandrovna has need of your help.’ To which he replied something along the lines of, ‘I will do anything for Anna Alexandrovna.’”

Osip Maximovich looked away sharply.

“Perhaps I am on the right lines after all,” said Porfiry.

Now Osip Maximovich faced him and shook his head.

“At that point, perhaps,” continued Porfiry, “or at some point soon after, you showed him the contents of the suitcase. That is to say, the dead body of Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov. You told him about the filthy advances the dwarf had made toward his beloved Anna Alexandrovna, a lustful attention that was now being transferred to Sofiya Sergeyevna. And now you revealed the terrible act you claimed Anna Alexandrovna had been driven to commit in order to prevent an even worse crime. In absolute terror, Borya swears that he will do whatever you ask of him. ‘We must make it look like suicide,’ you say. ‘Help me tie this rope around this tree. Lift me up. That’s right. Put me on your shoulders. That’s right. That’s good. I just have to tie this. Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. You can put me down now. My goodness, you’re shaking, Borya. Here, have some vodka, I’ve brought some vodka.’ And when he offered your flask back to you, you naturally declined. ‘One of us must keep a clear head,’ you say. Was it something like that, Osip Maximovich?”

“What? All because I am supposed to have published a few smutty novels?”

“No. Not all because of that. I’m getting to the real reason. Would you like me to continue?”

“You can’t prove any of this.” Osip Maximovich seemed almost saddened to have to point this out to Porfiry.

“After Borya was strung up and dead, you used his axe to smash in Goryanchikov’s head. You then slipped the axe into the yardkeeper’s belt. While all this was going on, you had the real Konstantin Kirillovich Govorov incriminate Lilya. Why? In order to get her out of the way. Deportation to Siberia with her daughter. Isn’t that what you wanted? Unhappily for Lilya and Vera, unhappily for Zoya too, Govorov failed.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Who is this Lilya?”

“A prostitute, now. But she had not always been. Once she was the daughter of a respectable family. But I’ll come to that. You killed Govorov because he was your creature. Not just the distribution agent for your pornographic publications. It was he who found you Ratazyayev. It was he you had entrusted to get rid of Lilya. Like all servants, he knew too much about his master. He knew enough to ruin you. Perhaps he was beginning to blackmail you. Or perhaps you had simply lost patience with him because he’d failed you. It no doubt irked you that you were forced to take matters into your own hands concerning Lilya and the child. You were forced to destroy all the evidence of your earlier crime, the rape of Lilya. You killed Lilya. And you killed her daughter, little Vera—your daughter too.”

Osip Maximovich held his index finger vertically over his lips, as if to silence Porfiry. The side of his finger touched the tip of his nose and nestled momentarily in the indentation there.

“Yes. You are her father. You may deny it, but it’s written in your features, and it was written in hers too. Her nose, in particular, it has the distinctive cleft that is evident on your own. Or rather I should say, it had. There is nothing left of her nose now.”