Perhaps it stands as a metaphor for something peculiarly Russian.’ He pointed up at a fourth-floor balconied window in which one pane was open. ‘That must be his.’ There was a balcony on the window next to it, and balconies on the two windows above them, but none beneath.
‘What are we looking for?’
‘It is important to get the lie of the land, to consider every means of access to and from a murder scene.’
‘But the balcony door was locked from the inside. Surely that rules out the possibility of the murderer escaping through it?’
Porfiry did not answer immediately. ‘Oh, incontestably,’ he replied at last. He shook his head despondently when he turned back to Virginsky. ‘We have no choice but to take him in. Of all the imaginable explanations, it is the least impossible.’
4
‘Congratulations!’ Chief Superintendent Nikodim Fomich Maximov gave his face an ironic smile as he poked it around the door to Porfiry’s chambers.
‘For what?’ Porfiry looked up from behind his desk with an expression of genuine confusion.
‘For solving two murder cases in as many days.’
‘For one thing, it has been longer than two days. And for another, I am not convinced they are solved.’
Nikodim Fomich’s ironic smile widened into a beaming grin. ‘I knew I could count on you.’
‘What are you implying, Nikodim Fomich?’
The policeman looked over his shoulder gleefully then came into the room, closing the door behind him. His open, amiable face registered good-natured surprise when he saw Virginsky on Porfiry’s fake leather sofa. ‘Good morning to you, Pavel Pavlovich. I heard you had joined the service. A case of poacher turned gamekeeper, is it?’
‘I cannot imagine what you mean. Your jest makes it sound as if I was once a criminal. I was never charged with any crime, merely suspected. And wrongly arrested.’
‘Of course, of course. A very important distinction, I’m sure,’ said Nikodim Fomich, winking at Porfiry. ‘One can always count on you, Porfiry Petrovich, to eschew the obvious in preference for the obscure.’
‘On the contrary, as I have explained to my young colleague here, the obvious should never be overlooked. I would be perfectly happy to accept both Dr Meyer and Ruslan Vladimirovich Vakhramev as the culprits in their respective cases were it not for a rather singular coincidence. As you know, I do not believe in coincidence. That which appears to be a coincidence very often turns out to be a connection.’
‘And what is the coincidence linking these two cases?’
‘Each of the suspects was sent an anonymous letter maligning their victim.’
‘But you found no such letter in Setochkin’s study,’ Nikodim Fomich pointed out. His tone was blithe, untouched by any real perplexity. ‘Are we not forced to conclude that Vakhramev invented this detail?’
‘Why should he?’ objected Porfiry. ‘And besides, even if it is invented, it is still a coincidence — that he should choose to invent the existence of an anonymous letter.’
‘But if there was a letter, how was it removed from the room? That is the heart of the mystery, is it not?’
‘I have no theory as to that,’ Porfiry answered forlornly. ‘I expect that there will turn out to be some perfectly simple and even prosaic explanation. Of course, it could still be in the room. It is simply that your officers have not found it.’
‘If it is there, I feel sure Lieutenant Salytov will uncover it. Whatever else one may say about the Firecracker, he is a first-rate man to have on a crime scene.’
‘I grant you that. However, sometimes, the hardest objects to find are those that are hidden in the open.’
‘Did you not look for it yourself?’ Nikodim Fomich asked disingenuously.
‘I preferred to leave it to the police officers on the scene. There were enough of them, after all.’
‘Someone took it then. That is the obvious inference. But who? The manservant?’
‘It is possible,’ conceded Porfiry doubtfully. ‘If he killed Setochkin, he would naturally want to incriminate Vakhramev. The removal of the letter casts doubt on Vakhramev’s testimony. He cannot be believed about the letter, because there plainly is no letter. Therefore he cannot be believed about anything, including his denial of murder.’
‘So it was the manservant?’
‘I sincerely doubt it. He was in the kitchen with the cook when the gun was fired.’
‘Ah, but there could be a conspiracy here.’ Nikodim Fomich’s eyes narrowed with cunning.
‘I agree, they do seem rather close. However, I am not convinced. ’
‘Well, at least you found a letter at the Meyers’,’ said Nikodim Fomich brightly. ‘Or rather, young Ptitsyn found it.’
‘He was lucky,’ said Virginsky.
‘I hear he is very often lucky. It is a useful talent for a policeman — or an investigating magistrate — to cultivate. Any news on the substance that was found with it?’
‘According to Dr Pervoyedov, the bottle contained morphine. It was as I thought,’ said Porfiry.
‘Pity. It would have been more helpful had it turned out to be aconite.’ Nikodim Fomich’s expression remained cheerful as he expressed his disappointment.
‘There was never any aconite in the doctor’s study,’ said Porfiry forcefully. ‘I do not believe Dr Meyer needed to kill his wife. He had already shut his marriage up in a drawer. I am not sure his wife existed for him any more. Perhaps the same could also be said for his son.’
‘You and your psychology, Porfiry Petrovich. So it was that Bezmygin fellow who killed them?’
‘No!’ cried Porfiry in despair. ‘That is to say, I don’t know. We must probe the connections.’
Nikodim Fomich was no longer paying attention. A new thought was distracting him. ‘Ah, but what about that French woman? Naked, I hear, apart from a counterpane. That will provide a colourful detail for your memoirs, Porfiry Petrovich.’
‘I will not be writing any memoirs.’
‘I wish I had seen old Firecracker’s face,’ said Nikodim Fomich delightedly. ‘What a picture that must have made.’
Porfiry let out a heavy, despondent sigh.
‘Well, my friend, I’m sure you will work it all out. There’s nothing you like so much as an impenetrable mystery. I have every faith in you.’
Porfiry said nothing. Instead he startled the room by bringing his open palm down heavily on his desk. He turned his hand over slowly, peering into the widening gap. At last he lifted his hand and held it suspended in front of his face, studying the empty palm for a further minute or two. He gave Nikodim Fomich and Virginsky a challenging look but offered no explanation.
Ruslan Vladimirovich Vakhramev sat up straight in the chair. His clothes were remarkably unruffled for a man who had spent the night in a police cell, as were his hair and beard, both freshly and deeply combed. Porfiry noticed the cleanliness of his hands, particularly his fingernails. He seemed to have slept well.
Porfiry laid a bulging file on the deal table of the interview room and sat down opposite Vakhramev. He lit a cigarette as Virginsky took the seat next to him. Porfiry smoked in silence, watching Vakhramev closely all the time. Vakhramev met his gaze with a variety of expressions, as older people often respond to inquisitive but silent children. But when this produced no effect, Vakhramev allowed himself the one face that expressed his genuine sentiment, a deep and devastating rage. His face flushed with colour. He stared at Porfiry with hatred, for what he had brought him to.
‘Have you ever visited prostitutes?’ said Porfiry at last, keeping his tone neutral. He did not look at Vakharamev as he asked the question, but at the cigarette that he was grinding into the tin ashtray.
Vakhramev’s rage shot him to his feet, the chair scraping back on the floor. ‘What kind of despicable question is that?’