‘What is it, Pavel Pavlovich?’
Virginsky handed Porfiry a slip of paper.
It is my duty to inform you that General Denis Nikolaevich Mizinchikov, father of the fugitive Captain Konstantin Denisevich Mizinchikov, was today found dead at the Polzunkov apartment building in Gorokhovaya St. Dr I. P. Predposylov, the medical examiner for the Kazanskaya District, noted the presence of a contusion to the skull consistent with a blow or fall. In addition, both the deceased’s wrists were broken. The cranial contusion is not held to be sufficiently severe to be fatal in and of itself, therefore the cause of death is entered as heart failure.
Lieutenant Trusotsky
Gorokhovaya Street Police Bureau
‘Do you remember what you said, Porfiry Petrovich? Here is a murder waiting to happen.’
‘Did I? But there is nothing to suggest foul play in the report. He may simply have suffered a heart attack and fallen. Or perhaps he fell first, and that induced the heart attack. That would explain his broken wrists. His hands went out to break his fall. Old people have brittle bones, easily broken.’
‘But what if a blow was struck, and it was the blow that brought on the heart attack? Would that not be murder?’
‘Whom do you suspect of striking this blow?’
‘Captain Mizinchikov, of course.’
‘There is nothing here to place him at the scene.’
‘Neighbours reported seeing a disreputable-looking tramp force his way into the deceased’s apartment.’
‘This is not in the report.’
‘I managed to extract the information from the clerk who delivered it.’
Porfiry cast a passing glance at his own clerk, Zamyotov, who was following the discussion with interest. ‘Yes, police clerks are often a source of interesting supplementary details. Some would call it gossip.’
Zamyotov responded with a suitably indignant pout.
‘There were sounds of argument,’ continued Virginsky. ‘Shouting. Doors slamming. Soon after, the tramp was seen to leave precipitously. The dead man was discovered by his neighbours, on the landing of a flight of stairs outside his apartment. By the time the alarm was raised, the tramp was nowhere to be seen.’
‘And you believe this tramp to be Captain Mizinchikov?’
‘I think it highly likely.’
‘General Mizinchikov may simply have fallen. He was elderly and infirm. Falls at his age can prove fatal.’
‘Or he was pushed.’
‘Equally possibly, he may have been pursuing his fleeing son, and in his haste he tripped and fell, being unsteady on his feet.’
‘Is that really what you think happened, Porfiry Petrovich?’
‘Sometimes people just die. Especially when they are old and sick. We need not always be looking for a murderer.’
‘But the tramp was there!’
‘If the tramp was indeed Captain Mizinchikov, then it must be admitted that his appearance at this moment is unfortunate — for Captain Mizinchikov, that is. It may be true that he in some way contributed to his father’s death, whether deliberately or inadvertently we cannot know. It makes it more pressing than ever that we talk to him. I can only hope that this latest tragedy will operate on his conscience in such a way as to persuade him to present himself to the authorities. It is, after all, one thing to flee from a dead mistress. Parricide is quite another category of transgression.’
‘And so you will simply wait for him to hand himself in?’
‘You may be surprised, Pavel Pavlovich, how often the conscience of a criminal has proven to be my ally in the fight against crime.’ Porfiry at last opened the door to his chambers. ‘Now, I have a very important call to make. Perhaps you would care to accompany me? I am going-’
But before Porfiry could reveal his intended destination, a shout cut through the hubbub of the main halclass="underline" ‘Where is he? Where is the magistrate?’
Porfiry turned towards the source of the commotion. He saw a dark-haired man with a matted beard, dressed in a dirty overcoat that was more an accretion of rags and strips of cloth. Beside him, with one hand on his shoulder as if to impel him forward, was an altogether smarter young man, dressed in a plaid travelling cape hung with tassels, and wearing something like a student’s cap on his head, though he was too old to be a student. The tramp stared straight at Porfiry as he fell to his knees. ‘I am Mizinchikov. I have come to confess.’ He bowed his head low, until he was able to kiss the floor.
Porfiry allowed himself a faint smile of satisfaction, which Virginsky received as if it were a body blow.
*
‘So.’ Porfiry drew deep on his cigarette as he viewed the man sitting on the other side of his desk. It really was true what they said about the men of the Preobrazhensky Regiment. Captain Mizinchikov was a most ill-favoured individual. His eyes bulged, his nostrils flared, his teeth were as irregular as the tombstones in a neglected graveyard. In addition to that, he had no discernible chin and his forehead sloped back at a sharp angle to the bridge of his protuberant nose. Admittedly, the fact that he was filthy and exhausted after weeks of living rough did nothing to improve his looks. The dirt ended in a sharp black arc below his hairline, the tide mark of his sweat. Even allowing for the ravages of his life as a fugitive, it was clear that he would never be regarded as handsome, even scrubbed and groomed. Yet there was something unassailable about him that fascinated and held Porfiry’s gaze: an energy, or integrity perhaps. ‘You have come to confess. We are only wondering, my colleague and I, to what you wish to confess. Shall we start with the murder of Yelena Filippovna Polenova?’
‘I did not kill Lena.’
‘Good. I’m glad to hear you say it. If you had confessed to that, I would not have believed you.’
‘I killed my father.’
‘Did you really? That’s rather serious, you know. How did you do it?’
‘I … we argued.’
‘I supposed he was frail, but I had no idea to what extent.’
‘It was a violent argument.’
‘Ah, you struck him?’
‘No blows were struck. I would not hit an old man, whoever he might be. However, I did lay hands upon him.’
‘In what way?’
‘I took hold of him.’
‘With what purpose in mind?’
‘He would not look at me. I wanted to make him look at me. I am his son.’
‘How did you take hold of him?’
‘I put my hands on his shoulders … I lifted him … I turned him bodily towards me.’
‘I see. And then?’
‘Still he would not look at me. He turned his head away.’
‘And so?’
‘And so I threw him away from me.’
‘Threw him?’ Porfiry’s emphasis was sceptical.
‘Pushed him, then.’
‘Where was this?’
‘In the drawing room.’
‘In the drawing room of his apartment?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you do next?’
‘I ran. He was on the floor, not moving. I panicked. As I was leaving I ran into my cousin, Alyosha, who had just arrived from Moscow to see my father. He went into the apartment and confirmed that my father was dead. He then prevailed upon me to give myself up to the authorities, for the good of my soul. In truth, it was my own heartfelt desire.’
‘Your cousin was the gentleman who brought you here?’
‘Yes. He had come of his own volition to see my father. It was about the will. I was to be cut out, in Alyosha’s favour. Alyosha sought to dissuade my father on my behalf.’
‘And has the will been changed yet?’
‘Alyosha says not.’
Porfiry and Virginsky met each other’s gaze thoughtfully.
‘I did not kill my father for his money, if that’s what you’re thinking. I did not mean to kill him at all. I wanted to be reconciled with him. I just wanted him to acknowledge me as his son. I needed my father’s love. I had nowhere else to turn.’ Mizinchikov looked desperately from Virginsky to Porfiry, his eyes moist with exhausted emotion. His voice was imploring. ‘I could not go to my friends. I have no friends. Other than my cousin, but he was in Moscow. I tried Bakhmutov. I went to him to ask for money so that I could get to Moscow, but he set his lackeys on me. Would not even admit me. Since that night at the Naryskin Palace, I have been sleeping rough, living on scraps. I couldn’t take it any longer. I wanted to talk to my father, to ask him what I should do. But even he would not look at me. You don’t know what it has been like, all these weeks! I have felt such … despair. Such loneliness. And when my father would not look at me … Everything, every insult and humiliation, every bitter emotion welled up inside me. I saw a red mist, that’s all I can say.’