After a moment, the editor thrust the papers back at Porfiry. ‘If Kozodavlev was not dead already, he is dead to me now.’
Men of the shadows
Back in Stolyarny Lane, Porfiry Petrovich called in on Nikodim Fomich. The chief superintendent seemed surprised to see him.
‘I will not keep you long,’ said Porfiry.
‘Please, stay as long as you like.’
Porfiry seated himself on the government-issue sofa, identical to the one in his chambers. ‘The other day we were talking about the fires, do you remember?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘It seems that the individual I was to have met at the Summer Garden may have perished in the fire at the apartment building on Monday night. The fire which claimed six dead in all.’
‘I see.’
‘Do you know who is conducting the investigation into that? Is it a police matter, or has it been handed over to other authorities?’
‘The Third Section, you mean?’
‘That is what I am wondering.’
‘I can find out for you.’
‘Thank you. Either way, I wish to see the file.’
‘If it is still under the jurisdiction of the police and an investigating magistrate, that won’t be a problem. If it has gone to the Third Section, then I am not sure I will be able to help you.’
Porfiry nodded tersely in acknowledgement.
‘Do you not have your own contacts there?’ wondered Nikodim Fomich. ‘I seem to remember you were on amicable terms with one of the officers?’
Porfiry gave a startled look. ‘You are referring to Major Verkhotsev?’
‘That’s the fellow.’
‘He is hardly to be trusted.’
‘My dear Porfiry, none of them is to be trusted.’
Porfiry’s smile as he took his leave was guarded.
*
Porfiry sorted through an array of magazines and newspapers on his desk.
‘It is hard to distinguish all these various publications, is it not, Pavel Pavlovich? We’ve had The Russian Voice, The Russian Word — there is a Russian World too, I believe. Not to mention a Russian Messenger, Russian Soil, Russian Era. . They all lay claim to speak for Russia, and yet they have such contrary things to say on her behalf! Pity the poor readers, who must find it awfully confusing.’
‘I don’t find it confusing.’ Virginsky had pulled up a chair to the opposite side of Porfiry’s desk, so that he could more easily browse the newspapers spread out there.
‘No? I suppose the trick is to ignore the Russian part of the title, which we may take for granted. So then it becomes a question of distinguishing between a Voice, a Word, a Messenger, the Soil and an Era.’
‘Russian Soil and Russian Era are essentially the same paper — they are published from one address and edited by the same Trudolyubov that Blagosvetlov mentioned. Era is a daily and Soil a monthly. Soil is little more than an omnibus, or digest, of Era. It often repeats editorials.’
‘And so Kozodavlev was reviewing Swine for the novel’s publisher? No wonder that version of his review was so favourable!’ Porfiry smiled and shook his head. ‘My, my, that’s the lowest kind of hackwork, is it not?’
‘One moment, Porfiry Petrovich. We cannot be certain that R. E. does in fact refer to Russian Era. And even if it does, we do not know that Kozodavlev truly intended to submit the article. He may have written it as an intellectual exercise. To amuse himself, or perhaps even as a piece of satire aimed against Russian Era.’
‘A curious waste of his time.’
‘But not impossible.’
‘The easiest way to resolve this would be to talk to this Mr Trudolyubov. He should know whether he was expecting a review of Swine from Kozodavlev. He may even be able to shed some light on the identity of the book’s mysterious author. I see that Russian Soil is not at all reticent about its whereabouts. It prints its address for everyone to see. Liteiny Prospect.’
‘Of course. It often serves as a mouthpiece for the Tsarevich. It is recognised as the means by which he airs his criticisms of his father’s regime.’
‘Ah.’ Porfiry placed a hand wearily over his eyes. ‘Please don’t drag me back into those troubled waters.’
‘I shall not drag you anywhere. But I cannot control where the case may take us.’
Porfiry nodded a distracted acknowledgement. He turned the pages of a copy of Russian Soil until he came to the first episode of the novel Swine. ‘Have you read it, Pavel Pavlovich?’
It was a moment before Virginsky replied. ‘Yes.’
‘There is no need to be reticent. I will not think any the less of you for reading it. Indeed, I intended to read it myself. I cannot remember now why I did not. Certainly it is a work that must be of interest to an investigating magistrate. So. . what did you think? That is to say, with which of Kozodavlev’s judgements did you concur?’
‘I judged it a poor piece of work.’
‘You think it fails, as a warning to society?’
‘I think it fails as a novel.’
‘And the author? Do you have any opinions regarding his identity?’
‘I do not see that it is at all material to the case we are investigating.’
‘The novel concerns the activities of a group of would-be revolutionaries, is that not so?’
‘Yes.’
‘It seems likely that Kozodavlev was involved in revolutionary politics. I mean actively, rather than just observing from the sidelines and occasionally cheering on in editorials. His letter to me hints at that. He was worried about spies in the department. It is not inconceivable that there may be individuals employed by the state whose true loyalties lie elsewhere, is it, Pavel Pavlovich?’
‘You are accusing me?’
‘Not at all. I know you are far too sensible to get involved with any of that.’ There was an undoubted hint of irony in Porfiry’s voice, that could only be infuriating to Virginsky. ‘To return to Kozodavlev. He went to the bridge over the Winter Canal on Monday, the day the thaw began, because he had a terrible presentiment that the body was going to come to light. He knew this because he had been present when it had been cast in the canal. We can speculate that our man from the canal was a member of a closed cell murdered by his fellows, one of whom may well have been Kozodavlev. The resurfacing of this old crime stings Kozodavlev’s conscience, which had never been easy about the murder, and he writes to me. A spy in the department sees his letter, notifies the Central Revolutionary Committee, and an assassin is sent round to torch his apartment building. In the process, killing five other innocent residents.’
‘Kozodavlev was not innocent. Not if he was an informer.’
‘You think he deserved to be killed?’
Virginsky dipped his gaze, abashed. ‘I had not meant to say that.’
‘And what of the body in the canal? If he too was an informer, he too deserved to die?’
‘We don’t know what he was, or who.’
‘These men. . these men of the shadows.’ Porfiry’s sudden rage rendered him inarticulate. He was forced to light a cigarette to calm himself. ‘Who gave them the right to take another’s life?’
‘No one. . gave it to them.’
The faltering emphasis of Virginsky’s answer implied a world of meaning that Porfiry was reluctant to explore. He looked at his junior colleague for a moment warily before inhaling deeply on his cigarette. ‘There are two things that I would like to know for certain. The first being whether Kozodavlev was the man on the bridge who watched the sailors bring up the body.’