“Yes, but I think it will be interesting for you to come.”
“Is this part of your investigative technique?”
“You’re very suspicious. Are you studying law, by any chance?”
“I was. I hope one day to resume my studies. When my finances allow it.”
“And have you considered what you will do when you’ve graduated?”
“I imagine I will be a lawyer. An advocate in the new courts.”
“So you believe in the rule of law?”
“I believe I will be able to exonerate the guilty as well as the next fool.”
“You’re not so cynical as all that.”
“What else is one to do with a law degree?”
“You could be a magistrate. An investigating magistrate.”
“In that case I’ll be performing the opposite function. Incriminating the innocent.”
Porfiry smiled indulgently. “I take it back. You are a cynic.”
Virginsky put one foot tentatively into a boot. “It’s too loose.”
“You could put extra stockings on.”
“Do you have extra stockings with you too?”
“Of course not. Surely you…?”
“I am wearing all the clothes I own.”
“It’s not necessary for you to live in this way.”
Virginsky ignored the remark and tried the other foot. “Where did you get these boots from?”
“Where do you think?”
“I think they came from a dead man.”
Porfiry pursed his lips with amusement.
“They’re not too bad after all,” said Virginsky, standing.
They walked north along Gorokhovaya Street. The Admiralty spire glinted ahead of them, a fine gold blade piercing the bright sky, like the memory of an inescapable crime in the city’s heart. The great thoroughfare glistened and smoked. Huge apartment buildings squatted on either side, presenting rows and rows of windows diminishing into the distance. Porfiry had a sense of all the lives lived out behind those blank panes. For some, such vistas brought to mind a theater backdrop. But for Porfiry, the city’s uniform facades were more like an impenetrable stone curtain. The tragedies took place behind rather than in front of them.
Virginsky smirked with private amusement as his boots pushed firmly through the recent layer of snow.
“What is it?” asked Porfiry.
“Oh, nothing. Except you have bought me for a pair of boots. That is how cheaply I have bartered my soul. Not that I have a soul.”
“You don’t believe in the soul?”
“I didn’t say that. I just said I didn’t have one. But no, seeing as you asked, I don’t believe in the soul. Or in God. Or the devil. Or any of that superstitious rot. Just as well really. If Mephistopheles himself were to come before me with an offer, I don’t reckon much for my chances of holding out.”
“So you compare me to Mephistopheles? But it’s not a question of selling your soul. You want to find out who killed your friends, don’t you? And you talk of becoming a lawyer. Really, you can’t be both a nihilist and a practitioner of law. Your position is fraught with contradictions.”
“Yes. Which is another reason why I despise myself.”
“Do you like your boots?” asked Porfiry after they had walked another few paces.
“I like the fact that they don’t let in the snow.”
“That is a perfectly reasonable position.”
“Tell me,” began Virginsky with some diffidence.
“Yes?”
“Am I not a suspect?”
Porfiry thought for a moment, then replied, “I don’t have a suspect yet.”
“Let’s say I am a suspect. Does it not complicate the issue, involving me in the investigation like this?”
“Let’s say you are a suspect. I will learn something from watching you react to the people in the house where Goryanchikov and Borya lived.”
“So I am a suspect?”
Porfiry gave his pursed smile again.
“This is a game to you,” said Virginsky accusingly.
“But let’s say you’re not a suspect. I much prefer to say you’re not a suspect. Even so, both victims were known to you. It is possible that the murderer is also someone known to you, perhaps someone who lives in the house, who may be there this morning. Your presence may provoke an interesting revelation. Oh, by the way, I may as well ask you this. It could save me a lot of trouble. Do you have any idea who could have killed them?”
“Do you think I would have kept it to myself if I knew?”
“Of course not. But you once said Goryanchikov had many enemies. How about Borya?”
“The only enemy Borya had was Goryanchikov. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“Not really. Whoever killed them wanted to make it look like Borya had killed Goryanchikov and then killed himself. I expect I shall hear much about how the two men hated each other.”
“It’s true, though.”
“Last night I went to Fräulein Keller’s,” said Porfiry abruptly. Virginsky faltered in his step. Porfiry watched him. “The boots?” asked Porfiry blandly.
“They’re still a little loose.”
“Your friend Lilya wasn’t there. It’s Fräulein Keller’s opinion that she’s found herself a rich protector.”
“Is that how it is?”
“If you believe Fräulein Keller.”
“Why are you so sure that Lilya has something to do with this?”
“I’m not. But Lilya herself presented me with a small mystery. The mysterious Konstantin Kirillovich.” Again Porfiry watched Virginsky closely. “It is a coincidence that Lilya should come to our notice the night before an anonymous note was received alerting us to the two bodies in Petrovsky Park. A coincidence that I should see Lilya at Lippevechsel’s Tenements when I came over to see you yesterday. As an investigator, one learns to mistrust coincidences. I discover she is known to you. And you, I’m afraid, are the only person I have so far whom I can link to the two dead men. So Lilya is also linked.”
“But it’s all nonsense. It means nothing. It could lead you nowhere.”
“Yes. But so far it’s all I have to go on.”
“Besides, there are lots of other people who knew them both. It’s just you haven’t met them yet.”
“Today I hope to rectify that,” said Porfiry, as he came to a halt. They had reached Bolshaya Morskaya Street. “Now then. Seven, seventeen, or seventy? Which is it? I wonder.”
“It’s that one,” said Virginsky. He pointed out a pink house in a three-story terrace on the other side of the street. The building was recently built, within the last twenty years. It was highly ornamented with lion’s-head relief panels set into the stonework, ionic pilasters on the second story, and even caryatids-massive female sculpted figures-framing the passageways that led to the courtyards behind.
“An elegant building,” commented Porfiry, though his voice lacked the warmth of approval. “Who would have thought it was home to two victims of murder? Perhaps the caryatids provide a clue. I always think of murder victims when I see the stone inhabitants of Petersburg.”
“That’s very fanciful of you.”
“No doubt. It must be something to do with my occupation. Too many unsolved cases, I’m afraid. I seem to see the dead appealing for justice everywhere I look. And yet their faces seem strangely calm, do you not think? As if they are reconciled to their fate.”
“Who could be reconciled to such a burden?”
“You mean the burden of supporting the upper stories?” asked Porfiry with a smile.
“I mean the burden of being a woman. They are women, aren’t they?”
“These ones are. One does see men, of course. Technically, the male figures are atlantes. Shall we go in?”
Looking from the house to Virginsky, Porfiry noticed that the student’s face showed signs of sudden agitation.
“You can’t force me to.” His eyes were fixed on the pink house, but his head was leaning backward as if subject to a force of repulsion.
“My dear friend, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Well then, I won’t do it. I’ve brought you here. I’ve pointed it out. That’s enough.” The force of repulsion acted now on his whole body. He began to edge away from Porfiry. The next moment he turned on his heels and broke into a wide-paced run. Without slowing his step, he called over his shoulder, “Boots! Excellent!”