"Pyotr Stepanovich, you know, Lyamshin's sure to denounce us!"
"No, he'll come to his senses and realize that if he denounces us, he'll be the first to go to Siberia. Nobody will denounce us now. You won't either."
"And you?"
"No question, I'll have you all tucked away the minute you make a move to betray, and you know it. But you won't betray anything. Is that why you ran more than a mile after me?"
"Pyotr Stepanovich, Pyotr Stepanovich, you know, we may never see each other again!"
"What gives you that idea?"
"Tell me just one thing."
"Well, what? I wish you'd clear off, though."
"One answer, but the right one: are we the only fivesome in the world, or is it true that there are several hundred fivesomes? I'm asking in a lofty sense, Pyotr Stepanovich."
"I can see that by your frenzy. And do you know that you are more dangerous than Lyamshin, Liputin?"
"I know, I know, but—the answer, your answer!"
"What a foolish man you are! One would think it should make no difference now—one fivesome, or a thousand."
"So it's one! I just knew it!" Liputin cried out. "I knew all along it was one, right up to this very moment..."
And without waiting for any other reply, he turned and quickly vanished into the darkness.
Pyotr Stepanovich pondered a little.
"No, no one will denounce us," he said resolutely, "but—the crew must remain a crew and obey, otherwise I'll... What trash these people are, though!"
II
He first stopped at his place and neatly, unhurriedly, packed his suitcase. The express train was leaving at six o'clock in the morning. This early express train came only once a week and had been scheduled very recently, just as a trial for the time being. Though Pyotr Stepanovich had warned our people that he was supposedly going to the district capital, his intentions, as it turned out later, were quite different. After finishing with the suitcase, he settled accounts with the landlady, whom he had notified ahead of time, and moved in a hired carriage to Erkel's place, which was near the station. And only after that, at approximately one o'clock in the morning, did he go to Kirillov's, where he again penetrated through Fedka's secret passage. The state of Pyotr Stepanovich's mind was terrible. Apart from other discontents quite important for him (he was still unable to find out anything about Stavrogin), he had, it seems—for I cannot confirm it with certainty—received during the course of the day, from somewhere (most likely Petersburg), secret notification of a certain danger awaiting him in the near future. Of course, there are now a great many legends going around town about that time; but even if something is known with certainty, it is known only to those who ought to know of it. And I simply suppose, in my own opinion, that Pyotr Stepanovich might have had doings elsewhere than in our town, so that he might indeed have received notifications. I am even convinced, contrary to Liputin's cynical and desperate doubt, that he could indeed have had two or three fivesomes besides ours, in the capitals, for instance; or, if not fivesomes, then connections and relations—perhaps even very curious ones. No more than three days after his departure, an order from the capital was received in our town for his immediate arrest—for what actual doings, ours or some others, I do not know. The order arrived just in time to increase the staggering, almost mystical sense of fear that took possession of our authorities and our hitherto stubbornly frivolous society on the discovery of the mysterious and highly portentous murder of the student Shatov—a murder that filled the measure of our absurdities—and of the extremely enigmatic circumstances that accompanied this event. But the order came too late: Pyotr Stepanovich was already in Petersburg by then, under an assumed name, and from there, having sniffed out what was going on, he instantly slipped abroad... But I am getting terribly far ahead of myself.
He entered Kirillov's room with a spiteful and provocative look. As if he wished, along with the main business, also to work off something personal on Kirillov, to vent something on him. Kirillov seemed glad he had come; it was obvious that he had been waiting for him terribly long, and with morbid impatience. His face was paler than usual, the expression of his black eyes heavy and fixed.
"I thought you wouldn't come," he said heavily from the corner of the sofa, though not stirring to greet him. Pyotr Stepanovich stood in front of him and, before saying a word, peered closely into his face.
"So everything's in order, and we're not going back on our intention. Good boy!" he smiled an offensively patronizing smile. "Well, so what," he added with vile jocularity, "if I'm late, it's not for you to complain: you got a gift of three hours."
"I don't want any extra hours from you, and you can't give me gifts—fool!"
"What?" Pyotr Stepanovich jumped, but instantly controlled himself. "How touchy! We're in a rage, eh?" he rapped out with the same air of offensive superciliousness. "At such a moment one rather needs to be calm. Best of all is to regard yourself as Columbus and look at me as a mouse and not be offended at me. I recommended that yesterday."
"I don't want to look at you as a mouse."
"What's that, a compliment? Anyhow, the tea is cold, too—so everything's upside down. No, something untrustworthy is going on here. Hah! What's this I see on the windowsill, on a plate" (he went over to the window). "Oho, a boiled chicken with rice! ... But why hasn't it been touched yet? So we were in such a state of mind that even a chicken ..."
"I ate, and it's none of your business; keep still!"
"Oh, certainly, and besides it makes no difference. But it does make a difference to me: imagine, I had hardly any dinner at all, so if this chicken is now, as I suppose, no longer needed... eh?"
"Eat, if you can."
"Much obliged, and tea to follow."
He instantly settled down to the table at the other end of the sofa and with extraordinary greediness fell upon the food; but at the same time he observed his victim every moment. Kirillov, with spiteful loathing, looked fixedly at him, as if unable to tear himself away.
"However," Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly heaved himself up, continuing to eat, "however, about this business? We're not going to back out, eh? And the little note?"
"I determined tonight that it makes no difference to me. I'll write it. About the tracts?"
"Yes, also about the tracts. Anyhow, I'll dictate it. It really makes no difference to you. Can you possibly worry about the contents at such a moment?"
"None of your business."
"Of course not. Anyhow, just a few lines: that you and Shatov distributed the tracts—with the help of Fedka, incidentally, who was hiding out in your apartment. This last point about Fedka and the apartment is quite important, even the most important. You see, I'm being completely frank with you."
"And Shatov? Why Shatov? Not Shatov, not for anything."
"Come on, what is it to you? You can't harm him now."
"His wife came to him. She woke up and sent to ask me where he is."
"She sent to find out where he is from you? Hm, that's not good. She might send again; no one must know I'm here..."
Pyotr Stepanovich became worried.
"She won't find out, she's asleep again; the midwife is with her, Arina Virginsky."
"That's just... and she won't hear, I suppose? You know, why don't we lock the front door?"
"She won't hear anything. And if Shatov comes, I'll hide you in that room."
"Shatov won't come; and you are going to write that you quarreled over his betrayal and denunciation... this night. . . and the cause of his death."
"He died!" Kirillov cried out, jumping up from the sofa.
"Today, between seven and eight in the evening, or, rather, yesterday between seven and eight in the evening, since it's now past midnight."
"You killed him! ... And I foresaw it yesterday!"
"How could you not foresee it! With this revolver" (he pulled out the revolver, ostensibly to show it, after which he did not put it away again, but went on holding it in his right hand, as if in readiness). "You, however, are a strange man, Kirillov, you yourself knew it would have to end this way with that foolish man. What else was there to foresee? I chewed it all over for you several times. Shatov was preparing a denunciation: I was watching him; there was no way to let it go at that. And you, too, had instructions to watch him; you told me so yourself three weeks ago..."