‘But the fact is, we do not know who this onlooker is — and we may never. Indeed, we don’t even know who the dead man is.’
‘Please don’t take this amiss, Pavel Pavlovich,’ began Porfiry inauspiciously. ‘But I find your attitude today strangely negative.’
Virginsky felt himself flush.
‘It’s not helpful, you know, to have this constant carping and criticism to contend with. You could be more encouraging.’
‘I am only being realistic. If I may say so, you are not normally so easily discouraged, Porfiry Petrovich. Indeed, usually, you take such challenges as a spur to do your greatest work.’
‘Flattery. You can’t fool me, Pavel Pavlovich. I have never heard you sound so insincere.’ Porfiry rapped Ptitsyn’s report impatiently with his knuckles. ‘What singular feature most strikes you about this case?’ he almost barked.
Virginsky widened his eyes as he considered the unexpected question. ‘That. . the body was dumped in the Winter Canal?’ he suggested tentatively.
‘Good! Yes! Now you’re beginning to be useful to me! The body was indubitably dumped, as you so eloquently put it. Quite deliberately. Brought, by some conveyance, to the Winter Canal and deposited in it. It is inconceivable that he was shot and weighted with rocks in such a public location, immediately prior to disposal. No — all that took place elsewhere, we can be certain. But why then bring him to the Winter Canal? That’s the question. Why go to all that trouble when there are countless other, more isolated spots in the city where one could far more conveniently dispose of a corpse?’
‘Because the killer — ’
‘Killer? You think this is the work of one man? Could one man contrive this? Would it not be more reasonable to assume some kind of conspiracy? The Winter Canal is a popular spot. A favourite haunt of lovers and suicides. People pass along it at all hours of the day and night. Would it not require some organisation, some small infrastructure, to ensure that this dumping of the body was not witnessed? A lookout positioned at either end of the canal, for example. We might also posit the existence of a driver, whip in hand, ready and waiting, should the need for a hasty retreat arise. And two individuals, at least, to manhandle the weighted body from the vehicle to the edge of the embankment. I picture it as a closed carriage.’
Virginsky nodded in agreement. ‘A plausible reconstruction.’
‘The question remains. Why?’
‘By the way you are asking the question, Porfiry Petrovich, I suspect you already have an answer in mind.’
‘Where is the Winter Canal?’
‘Between the Winter Palace and the Hermitage.’
‘In other words, right under the nose of the Tsar.’
‘What are you saying, Porfiry Petrovich? What’s this man to the Tsar?’
‘Nothing — personally. But politically. Symbolically. It’s a gesture. One that I believe is known as making a fig.’
‘You think it is a political crime?’
‘I think it may have a political aspect.’
‘Therefore, we should alert the Third Section.’
‘Ooh, I don’t think there’s any need for that. Not yet, at least. This is simply a speculative conversation between ourselves. We have no proof of anything, yet. As you yourself said, we do not even have a positive identification of the body.’ Porfiry angled his head to appraise his junior colleague. ‘I know what it is about you today, Pavel Pavlovich. You are evincing an unwonted scrupulosity.’
‘I beg your pardon!’
‘First you remind me of the need for a medical examination. Then you insist on the involvement of the Third Section. An unwonted scrupulosity. With regard to form.’
‘I am a magistrate. I must uphold the correct procedure.’
‘An unwonted scrupulosity,’ repeated Porfiry, with energetic emphasis. ‘I can’t help thinking that you must have done something exceptionally naughty last night.’
Virginsky felt the heat in his face once again, even fiercer this time. ‘But Porfiry Petrovich, that doesn’t — ’
‘It is because you were naughty last night that you wish to compensate by being unusually correct today. Am I right?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Virginsky coldly.
‘But did you hear about the fires last night? My God, the fools! What do they hope to achieve by such acts? Can you tell me that, Pavel Pavlovich?’
‘I am not a spokesman for the arsonists.’
‘Five dead.’
‘Five?’
‘Yes, a fireman, a nightwatchman and some down-and-outs who were kipping on a straw barge that was torched. How can you justify their deaths?’
‘I am not required to, as I did not cause them, and I do not defend those who did.’
‘What? Quite right. I’m sorry. I am simply venting steam. Sometimes, I mistake you — because of your youth — for someone you are not.’
Neither spoke for some time, each considering privately the implications of Porfiry’s last remark.
It was a relief to them both when the door leading to the Haymarket District Police Bureau opened and the head clerk Zamyotov burst in.
He thrust some papers in front of Porfiry. ‘Sign this. And this.’ After a moment, he added, ‘And this.’
‘Begging your pardon, Alexander Grigorevich, but what exactly am I signing?’
‘You want a poster printing up, don’t you? That’s what I understood you to say.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Then you have to sign the necessary chit. Even you are not exempt from that, Porfiry Petrovich,’ added the clerk sarcastically.
‘I appreciate that, naturally,’ said Porfiry, signing his name on the first of the sheets. ‘And this one?’
‘For a statement to be released to the newspapers. And this one is for an advertisement to be placed, calling for witnesses to come forward.’
‘There you are.’
‘You haven’t filled them in.’
‘Can’t you fill them in? I’m rather busy. I have signed them, as you requested.’
‘I don’t know the details,’ objected Zamyotov.
Porfiry’s face sagged with despondency.
‘I’ll fill them in, if you wish,’ volunteered Virginsky.
‘Thank you, Pavel Pavlovich. That would indeed be a great help.’
Zamyotov stomped from the room as if he had been cheated of something.
Yarilo
That night there were more fires. However, Virginsky did not venture out to view them.
On the way home from the department, he had called in at Gostinny Dvor and purchased the samovar he had promised himself. And so he sat up drinking strong tea into the early hours.
He found it hard to sleep, once he had turned in, and sweated more than usual in the night. Perhaps it was the constant ringing of the fire alarms, or perhaps it was the tea. He thought a lot about what Porfiry Petrovich had said to him: ‘Sometimes, I mistake you for someone you are not.’ What on earth had the old man meant by the remark?
And yet, Virginsky did not need to ask the question.
Sometimes, he mistook himself for someone he was not.
As soon as he admitted this, he was able to drift off. He fell immediately into an overwrought dream: he was running through St Petersburg away from a fire. Suddenly, he felt his progress impeded. Something was dragging at his feet. He looked down to see that the pavement was carpeted with a thick layer of handbills printed with various manifestos. With each step he took, the paper carpet increased in thickness, rising first past his ankles, then up to his knees, and rapidly reaching his waist. It was no longer a paper carpet, but a paper quagmire. He could hardly move at all now. Looking behind him, he saw that the swamp of manifestos stretched away into the distance. He saw too that it was on fire, and that the fire was racing towards him. He turned to flee the approaching flames, but became distracted by the words of a manifesto right beneath his nose. That was how high the layer of handbills had reached now.
The manifesto that caught his attention was entitled ‘Samovars for All.’ Now he was floating in a sea of lukewarm tea, and all the anxiety that the earlier phase of the dream had induced in him evaporated. He knew that he was no longer threatened by fire, but he was hot and thirsty. Whenever he wanted a drink, all he had to do was incline his head and lap from the sea of lukewarm tea.