“The old butler Elias was the bearer of bad tidings. He ran back to the edge of the forest, out of breath, and said,
‘The young lady has been killed!’
‘Which lady?’ ‘Who killed her?’ But Elias did not answer these questions.
“The second messenger was the one person whom we did not expect. This was Mr. Peter Egorovich Urbenin, my ex-manager, and Olga’s husband. First, we heard heavy footsteps in the forest, and the cracking of dry branches. We thought that perhaps a bear would emerge from the dark trees. As he appeared from the bush, he saw us; he took a step back and froze for a moment. His hair was stuck to his forehead and temples. His face, usually red, was extremely pale; his eyes were wide, and he looked a bit crazy. His lips and hands were trembling.
“Yet what caught our attention and what shocked us all were his hands: they were covered with blood. Both hands and shirt sleeves were thickly coated with blood, as if he had just washed them in a blood bath.
“After standing motionless for a long moment, Mr. Urbenin collapsed onto the grass and began to moan. Some of our dogs sensed that something was wrong, and they circled him, barking.
“Casting a dim, sidelong glance at us, Urbenin covered his face with his hands and froze again.
‘Olga, Olga, what have you done!’ he moaned.
“Suppressed sobs rushed from his throat, and his huge shoulders shook as he wept. When he dropped his hands from his face, we all saw the bloody handprints impressed on his face; his cheeks were covered with blood.”
At this point, my friend the Count stopped, shrugged, downed a shot of vodka, and continued,
“After that, I do not really remember in detail what happened next—I was so shattered by these events that I had lost the ability to think logically. I remember only that some men brought a body dressed in torn clothes completely covered with blood out of the forest, and I could not stand the sight. They put the body on a carriage and left. I did not hear the moans and the crying of the others.
“They say she was stabbed repeatedly in the chest, between the ribs, with a hunting knife. She always carried it on her; I remember I gave it to her as a gift.
“It was as blunt as the edge of this shot glass. How in the world could anyone have stabbed her with it?”
The Count stopped, poured another shot of vodka, and continued,
“Listen, shouldn’t this Urbenin stab me as well, since we were lovers?”
“How can you be sure that it was he who stabbed Olga?” I asked.
“Of course he did it! But what I do not understand is how he found her in the forest! He was not with our picnic party, so how could he have known about that particular spot, which I chose for the picnic at the last moment? How could he have known that she would be walking right there in the forest, all by herself?”
“You don’t know anything about this,” I said, “So please, if I take up this case as a local investigator, you must not give me your advice, or your ideas, but only answer my questions. Do you understand?”
I left the Count and went into the room where they had brought Olga.
A small blue lamp was lit, and it barely illuminated the faces of the people in the room. It was so dark that you could neither read nor write. Olga lay on her bed. Her breasts were naked, because they were applying ice to her wounds, trying to stop the bleeding.
Two doctors were in attendance. As I came in, the first doctor, Pavel Ivanovich, who had been in the picnic party, was listening to her heart, his eyes twinkling, his lips pursed. The second doctor, who was from the local village, looked extremely tired and sick; he sat in an armchair next to her bed, lost in his thoughts, pretending to take her pulse.
I looked in the corner—Mr. Urbenin sat there on a small stool. I hardly recognized him; he had changed so much recently. The poor man sat motionless, his head cupped in both hands, without averting his glance from the bed. His hands and his face were still covered with blood. It had not yet occurred to him to wash himself. At that moment, I realized that I could not believe Olga, when she had told me earlier that her jealous husband was capable of murder.
“Was it him or not?” I asked myself as I looked at his unhappy face. And I did not know the answer to this question, in spite of the Count’s direct accusations and the blood covering the man’s face.
“If he had killed her, he should have washed off the blood a long time ago,” I thought. I remembered a phrase that one of my colleagues, a criminal detective, had taught me: “Murderers can’t bear the sight of their victims’ blood.”
In an hour, a male nurse came from the faraway hospital and brought all the necessary things. They gave her an injection.
“It is highly unlikely that she will come to her senses,” Pavel Ivanovich said with a deep sigh. “She has lost a lot of blood, and she was hit on the head with a heavy blunt object, which has probably caused a concussion.”
I don’t know if there was a concussion or not, but she opened her eyes and said that she was thirsty. She began to speak in a muffled, weak voice, and the doctor said that she could not talk for long, just for a few more moments.
Olga was lying on the couch, with a big wound in her right side. She came to her senses and opened her eyes.
“You can ask her whatever you want now,” Pavel Ivanovich pushed my elbow. “Quickly now.”
I came to her bedside. Olga’s eyes focused on me.
“Where am I?” she asked.
“Olga,” I began. “Do you remember me?”
Olga looked at me for a second and closed her eyes.
“Yes,” she moaned, “Yes!”
“My name is Mr. Zinoviev. I am a police detective. I met you earlier, I was best man at your wedding.”
“Oh, it’s you, my dear,” she whispered.
“She is delirious,” muttered the doctor.
“My name is Zinoviev,” I repeated, “I am a police officer. I was present at the hunting party and the picnic that followed. How do you feel?”
“Get to the point.” the doctor said. “I cannot promise you that she will be conscious much longer in her condition.”
“Please, do not lecture me, dear sir,” I said. “I know what to say and what questions to ask. Olga, please try to remember the events of the preceding day. You were at a hunting party. Then a picnic. Do you remember?”
“And you … and you … killed,” she said.
“The crow?” I asked. “Yes, after I killed the crow, you were upset, left the picnic, and went for a walk in the forest. Someone attacked you there. I am asking you as a police officer, who was it?”
Olga opened her eyes and looked at me.
“There are three people in this room besides me,” I said. She negatively shook her head.
“You have to tell me his name. He will be persecuted and will be sentenced to hard labor in prison. I am waiting. Tell us the name!”
Olga smiled again but did not say a word. The rest of my interrogation did not bring any results. She did not say another word, and she did not move. At quarter to five in the morning, she died.
At seven a.m., the witnesses I had requested from the village finally arrived. It was impossible to go to the crime scene; last night’s rain was falling heavily. Little puddles had become lakes. It was of no use, because all traces of the crime, such as bloodstains, footsteps, etc., were most likely washed away by the night’s rain. Even so, I was formally required to examine the crime scene; however, I postponed the trip until the other police officers arrived.
In the meantime, I set about writing the crime report, and I interrogated other witnesses.