“Would you be able to tell us where we can find this Govorov? We are very interested in speaking to him. We think he may have information relating to the disappearance of your friend.”
“I can’t help you. Other than to provide you with this photograph.”
“What of Virginsky? The student Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky? Do you know him?”
Prince Bykov’s face remained blank.
“Ratazyayev’s name was found on a document pertaining to Virginsky.”
“I have never heard of a Virginsky.”
Porfiry shook the photograph distractedly. “Thank you for this. It will help, I’m sure.” But his shoulders sagged in disappointment, and he was already looking past Prince Bykov.
"Alexei Spiridonovich Ratazyayev, the missing actor,” said Porfiry as he laid the photograph on Nikodim Fomich’s desk.
The chief superintendent took up the photograph. “I believe I may have seen him in something. Many years ago.”
“I have the prokuror’s permission to investigate his disappearance.”
Nikodim Fomich nodded.
“I would like one of your officers to take the picture around the taverns in the Haymarket area. Ratazyayev signed a document that was drawn up in a drinking dive near the Haymarket, according to Virginsky. Whoever is assigned should start from the Haymarket and move out.”
“It sounds like a job for Salytov.”
Porfiry fluttered his eyelids and gave the slightest bow. “He could mention the name Govorov too, when he is making his inquiries.”
“Very well.” Nikodim Fomich nodded back, then pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Speaking of Virginsky,” he said at last, “he is demanding to be released, you know.”
“He is a strange, unpredictable youth,” said Porfiry, as he lit a cigarette.
“It’s not so strange to want your freedom.”
“But what is his freedom? The freedom to starve? He is fed here, isn’t he?”
“He is a law student. It seems he has attended enough lectures in his time to know that he has rights. You have not charged him. Indeed, there is nothing, technically, to charge him with. As far as the disappearance of Ratazyayev is concerned, you don’t need me to tell you, Porfiry Petrovich, that you have not established a crime. And if you are holding him in connection with the affair of the dwarf, it’s my understanding that that case is closed.”
“I want him close to me,” said Porfiry abruptly. He frowned at the cigarette burning down between his fingers.
“If Prokuror Liputin-”
“Please don’t bring Prokuror Liputin into this. I will speak to Virginsky.”
Nikodim Fomich noticed the strain in his friend’s voice. He saw too the dark patches beneath Porfiry’s eyes. “You’re smoking too much,” he said.
Porfiry held the smoke in his lungs. His eyelids quivered closed. He was light-headed, near to swooning. Finally, he let the smoke out in a sudden, noisy gasp and looked Nikodim Fomich in the eye. “It helps me think.”
YOU CAN’T KEEP me here.”
Porfiry sighed and looked down at Virginsky. The student was stretched out on the pallet bed of his cell. His eyes were closed complacently, arms folded behind his head. His cheeks had filled out and picked up color. He had evidently put on weight.
“That’s true,” agreed Porfiry. “I have come to tell you that you are free to go whenever you wish.”
This seemed to disturb Virginsky, who looked up doubtfully. “Very well,” he said at last and sat up.
“I want to believe that you are innocent,” continued Porfiry. “So let us proceed on the basis that you are. If you leave here, you may be putting yourself in danger. The person who killed Borya and Goryanchikov is still at large.”
“I thought the official story was that Borya killed Goryanchikov and then killed himself.”
“That is the official story. I say again, the person who killed Borya and Goryanchikov is still at large. This is a dangerous individual. He may kill again. At least while you are here, you are safe.”
“But why should they kill me?”
Porfiry gave a vague shrug. “Let me put it another way. While you are held here, as our chief suspect, the real murderer will believe himself to be in the clear. He may drop his guard. He may even reveal himself through some careless mistake. If we release you, he will feel himself to be under suspicion once more. It is natural, the natural neurosis of a criminal. He will begin to wonder what you have said, or what you could say. He will look for connections. He will wrack his brain, running over every conversation he has ever had with you, until he remembers the one time when, perhaps, he let slip that one incriminating detail.”
“And what if I don’t know the fellow?”
“Oh, be under no illusions, my friend. The murderer is someone known to you. Someone you know, someone who knows you.”
“You can’t be certain of that.”
“I feel it very strongly.”
“What would you have me do?”
“I am asking you to remain here a while longer. Voluntarily, you understand. We will make your stay as pleasant as we can.”
“Why should I?”
“It would help me. It would help me find the murderer of Goryanchikov and Borya. There will perhaps come a time when I will ask you to undertake a more dangerous commission.”
“What would that be?”
“To leave here. In so doing, you may help us bring the murderer out into the open. But you could also be putting yourself at risk. That is something you will have to face, but it is not necessary that you face it yet.”
Virginsky touched the fingertips of both hands to his forehead, then pushed them back through his hair. He looked up at Porfiry. “No,” said the student at last. “I would rather die a free man than live forever as a prisoner. Besides, there are things I need to attend to.”
Porfiry’s nod was unsurprised.
Back in his own chambers, Porfiry placed the box that he had taken from Borya’s shed on his desk. The box was made from burled birch, most likely Karelian, wonderfully smooth to the touch, and honey-gold. The hinges and lock were brass. There was a brass emblem in the shape of an eagle inlaid into the lid.
He tried the key that Zoya had given him, the key she had found on Borya. It turned easily in the lock, and the box opened. Inside he found a single crisply folded sheet of ivory-colored writing paper.
Porfiry lifted the sheet to his nose without unfolding it and breathed a scent he recognized. He opened the paper to read a short handwritten note:
Do you remember the summer? Do you remember the day we met in Petrovsky Park this summer gone? Do you remember the place near the boating lake, the dip in the land surrounded by birch? How could you forget it? I will hate you if you have forgotten. But you will not have forgotten. I saw from your eyes that you would never forget. It is there, recorded in the map of your heart. I saw so much from your eyes. I saw your goodness. I saw your fear. But do not be afraid. Trust in your goodness. Meet me there tonight at midnight. There is a way forward in all this. If you love me, which I have never doubted, you will come.
The note was signed: “A.A.” He held the paper to his nose again. The scent, he was sure, was Anna Alexandrovna’s. Despite its wholesome freshness, he found the effect of it was not conducive to thought. But he had no desire to swap it for one of his cigarettes.
He was suddenly aware of high-pitched shouting coming from the station. With hurried guilt, he placed the note back in the box, closed the lid, and locked it. The shouting continued. It was getting louder, approaching his chambers. Porfiry looked up to see his door burst open and Katya-Anna Alexandrovna’s maid-come in, holding by the ear a very dirty-faced boy of about nine or ten, dressed in grubby livery. The boy was screaming in protest: “You’re killing me! Let go!”
“This is him! Here he is!” cried Katya, and all the determination of her character seemed to be expressed in that grimly triumphant cry. “The boy!” She gave a vicious twist of the hand holding his ear, screwing the boy’s head down. The boy tipped forward and squealed in pain.