Read A Vengeful Longing Online
Authors: R. N. Morris
A Vengeful Longing (9 page)
‘Yes.’
‘Full name.’
‘Anatoly Denisovich Masloboyev.’
‘You associate with scoundrels, Anatoly Denisovich. Isn’t that so?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘Do you want another slap, boy?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then answer the question.’
‘I . . . what was the question, sir?’
‘Do you associate with scoundrels?’
‘No, sir.’
Without warning, Salytov planted another smack on the same side of the youth’s face.
‘Try again.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I have seen your friends and they looked like scoundrels to me. Are they scoundrels?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Are you a scoundrel, Anatoly Denisovich?’
‘No, sir!’
‘You look like a scoundrel to me.’
‘No, sir! It’s not true.’
‘You have the eyes of a scoundrel. Stop blubbering, boy. It will not help you.’
Tolya wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his coat and sniffed loudly.
‘Where are you from, Anatoly Denisovich?’
‘The village of Ulyanka, Your Honour.’
‘Ulyanka?’ Salytov’s eyes narrowed coldly. ‘We all know what Ulyanka is famous for. The house at the eleventh verst.’
‘I was never in that place,’ said the boy quickly, emphatically.
Salytov looked at Tolya assessingly. He did not seem to like what he saw. His lip curled almost cruelly. ‘You’re lying.’
‘No, sir, Your Honour. Never. Never set foot in it!’
‘Your passport?’
‘I do not have it with me, Your Honour. It is at my lodgings.’
‘No passport? It is all the more likely that you are a refugee from the house at the eleventh verst then.’
‘I do have a passport, as I explained, Your Honour. I do not have it on me, that’s all. And, believe me, I was never in that place. Not on my own account. It was my mother -’
‘Your mother is a lunatic?’
‘No, sir, there were lies told about her. My father’s family was cruel. She is dead now, Your Honour. They drove her to it.’
‘A suicide?’
‘They drove her to it!’
‘Let me see your hands.’ The suddenness of Salytov’s request took Tolya off guard. He held out his arms. His hands were surprisingly clean. Salytov slipped the handcuffs on him with the practised deftness of a conjuror. He grasped Tolya firmly under the arm. ‘A suicide and a lunatic for a mother. No passport. These are sufficient grounds for taking you in. Now you,’ Salytov addressed the German woman, ‘get your master out here now. I wish to speak to the owner of this place.’
She disappeared back into the workshop, shaking her head and shouting in German.
While he waited, Salytov turned to look at the young man in the window, who had stopped reading his newspaper and was watching events unfold with some trepidation. ‘As for you - you finish your coffee and leave. This place is closing until further notice.’
A moment later, Salytov was sharing this information with the proprietor of Ballet’s, whose agitated protestations, and over-groomed moustache, only served to strengthen the police officer’s resolve that his decision, taken admittedly without consultation, was nevertheless the right one.
Lieutenant Salytov shifted uneasily as he heard the lock turn. The flimsy pamphlets in his hands were damp with sweat. The door to the interview room creaked open. Porfiry Petrovich came out, quickly followed by Virginsky, on whose face Salytov detected a mocking leer. Salytov felt his teeth clench with rage. Really, it was too much to bear. The last time he had seen that insolent puppy, he had been the suspect in a murder investigation. Outraged, Salytov searched Porfiry Petrovich’s face. The magistrate’s expression was pained. He avoided Salytov’s eye.
The
politseisky
who had let them out locked the door behind them.
politseisky
who had let them out locked the door behind them.
‘Release him,’ drawled Porfiry Petrovich wearily.
Salytov bristled. ‘Are you serious?’
‘We have no grounds on which to hold him. Indeed, I am puzzled as to why you arrested him in the first place, Ilya Petrovich.’
‘He had no passport.’
‘He says that it is at his lodgings. Did you send anyone round to look for it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘We found it.’
‘And is it in order?’
‘Yes. However, we also found these.’ Salytov handed Porfiry Petrovich the pamphlets, crudely printed on thin, almost transparent, paper. Porfiry glanced at them with indifference, before passing them on to Virginsky. ‘You cannot ignore these,’ insisted Salytov hotly.
‘Such pamphlets are widely circulated, I believe,’ said Porfiry Petrovich. ‘Is that not so, Pavel Pavlovich?’
Virginsky didn’t answer.
‘They are subversive. They express opinions critical of our government. Possession of such material is an offence,’ insisted Salytov.
‘Then we will confiscate them.’ Porfiry made a sweeping gesture with one hand.
‘That is no solution. The fact is, the boy is an insurrectionist.’
‘The boy,’ countered Porfiry Petrovich impatiently, ‘is a boy.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I grant you, we could come down heavily on him, Ilya Petrovich. We could even turn him over to the Third Section. We could grind him under the heel of our boot, so to speak, as a blind man tramples a flower.’
‘He is no flower.’
Porfiry opened his eyes to look at Salytov. ‘In all respects, he is more than a flower. He is a youth. A Russian youth. Our youth. He is as yet unformed. If we respond to him with brutality, we may very well turn him into an enemy of the state. If we show him tolerance and understanding - forgiveness, even, of his youthful folly - is it not then more likely that he will grow up to respect rather than hate the rule of law?’
‘The rule of law is not ours to bend as the whim takes us.’
‘Not as whim, but as wisdom dictates. It is my job to decide if there is sufficient evidence to warrant a prosecution. I have decided that there is not. However, in the light of the new evidence that you have just now presented, you have my authority to issue him with a stern warning, so that he understands both our leniency in this instance and our determination to prosecute should he ever again be found in possession of such material. And then you may release him.’
‘Are you not interested in finding out how he came by the pamphlets? ’
‘I have a murder case to investigate. As the proverb goes, if you run after two hares, you will catch neither. Good day, Ilya Petrovich.’
Porfiry Petrovich half-bowed and moved away, followed by Virginsky, still clutching the pamphlets. Salytov watched them go then nodded for the door to be opened.
6
One Bezmygin, a musician
Shestaya Street, where Meyer was being held, was on the Peterburgsky side, off Bolshoi Prospekt: across the wide Neva and into a different St Petersburg, one built more of wood than stone. The buildings were lower, flimsier, more provisional, staging posts to a future that might never arrive. The Shestaya Street Bureau itself was one of the exceptions: it dominated its jerry-built neighbours with its precise and ruthless geometry, by the power of masonry.
‘He has been asking for you,’ said Ptitsyn as he led the way to an interview room. ‘He started asking for you this morning. Apparently he has remembered something that can only be divulged to Your Excellency’s ears.’
‘I thought his memory would improve if we allowed him to stew for a couple of days.’ Porfiry turned to Virginsky, who was beside him, and smiled. ‘You have kept him alone?’ The question was for Ptitsyn, though Porfiry continued to fix Virginsky with a steady gaze.
‘As Your Excellency requested.’
‘How does he appear to you?’
The young
politseisky
stopped walking. He turned to face the magistrates, his expression one of concern. ‘He is in a bad way.’
politseisky
stopped walking. He turned to face the magistrates, his expression one of concern. ‘He is in a bad way.’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Porfiry.
Ptitsyn shook his head gravely. ‘Some kind of sickness, I think. In my view, a doctor should have been called. I have made my opinion known, but my superiors have seen fit to ignore it.’
‘They are acting under my instructions.’
‘But Your Excellency! I fear that he is very ill.’
‘I believe it is a disease that will cure itself if we leave him be. You will continue, please.’ Porfiry gestured ahead.
Ptitsyn bowed slightly and began walking again, without speaking now, however.
‘What have the symptoms been?’ asked Virginsky.
‘Alternating fits of indolence and raving. Instability of mood. Loss of appetite. The sweats. Fever. Agonising stomach cramps. Constipation.’ It was Porfiry who had answered.
‘That’s correct,’ Ptitsyn confirmed over his shoulder, somewhat surprised.
‘He is withdrawing from a morphine addiction,’ said Porfiry. ‘Why else do you think the maid had such trouble rousing him the day his wife and son died?’
A pungent smell came off Dr Meyer, which was more than simply the odour of a man who had not washed for a few days. It was as if he had sweated something vile and rotten out from his core, and the rancid exudate had soaked into his clothes. He was sitting at a flimsy painted table, the surface of which was pitted and scratched, in a small room with chipped plaster walls. A batch of brilliant sky, disrupted by silhouetted bars, cast a beam of light on to the back of Meyer’s head. When he looked up as the door opened, it seemed that he had aged since they had last seen him, though it was only a little over a week ago. His face was haggard, heavily stubbled, his eyes dazed and adrift.
As soon as he saw them he sprang to his feet, his eyes now blazing with a sudden fervour. ‘Thank God you’ve come! You must let me out. This is all a terrible mistake. I can explain everything. There was a man. How could I have not mentioned it before!’ Meyer struck his forehead in a mime of acknowledged stupidity. ‘I thought nothing of it at the time. Annoying, yes. But . . . uh . . . my mind . . . you have to understand, I had a lot on my mind.’
‘Please sit down, Dr Meyer,’ said Porfiry. The manic light in Meyer’s eyes died as suddenly as it had sparked. His expression became utterly crestfallen. At those few neutral words from Porfiry, he had lost all hope. He sank back shakily into his seat.
There were two other chairs. Virginsky took one of them; Porfiry ignored the other and instead began to pace the room. Ptitsyn stood by the door. Meyer winced at the sound of the key turning as it was locked from the outside.
‘How are you, Dr Meyer?’ began Porfiry cheerfully, wrinkling his face into a smile.
‘How do you think I am?’ Meyer twisted his head to follow Porfiry’s restless movement.
‘Yes, yes, of course. This is a very bad situation for you. Your wife and son are dead and . . .’
‘And I stand accused of their murder.’
Porfiry seemed surprised by the force of Meyer’s bitterness. ‘I’m afraid so. I presume you maintain that you are not responsible for their deaths?’
‘Of course! I’m not a monster.’ Meyer stared desperately. ‘Anyhow, I can explain it all. I know what happened.’
Porfiry stopped pacing and pulled back the seat next to Virginsky, as if he intended to take it. He did not, however, and by remaining standing he introduced a strange tension into the interview. ‘I am very interested to hear what you have to say.’ Porfiry continued to stand over the doctor, fixing him with an expectant gaze. At last he let go of the chair and began pacing again. ‘Forgive me. At the moment I find it uncomfortable to sit down for long periods. It is better for me to remain on my feet. It makes me rather restless, I confess. I’m sure as a doctor you will understand. Perhaps you will say the exercise is good for me. By the way, you are aware that your friend, Dr Pervoyedov of the Obukhovsky Hospital, has confirmed that Raisa and Grisha were killed by a poison administered via the chocolates you gave her? It was you who gave her the chocolates, was it not? You bought them from Ballet’s that day, I believe.’
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