“Well,” said Dmitri, letting out a huge sigh and frowning thoughtfully. “He did ask for a needle and thread. And a pair of scissors too.”
“Ah!” cried Porfiry. “That is interesting. Was this after Goryanchikov had joined him or before?”
Dmitri’s expression was blank.
“The dwarf,” prompted Porfiry.
“Oh, the dwarf was here. It was because the dwarf needed a patch in his suit.”
“Really?”
“That’s what he said. He said, my friend needs to patch his suit.”
“So it was Govorov who made the request? Did you see Goryanchikov-the dwarf-at this point?”
“No. He was inside the room. The gentleman came out to speak to me. He kept the door closed behind him.”
“That is very interesting. And it could be significant. Ilya Petrovich, do you remember a patch on Goryanchikov’s suit?” Porfiry asked.
Salytov shook his head.
“Neither do I. Let us look at the bed, for a moment,” continued Porfiry. He pulled off the coarse blanket and gray sheets and threw them on the floor.
“Do you mind!” objected the porter.
Porfiry ran a finger along the seam of the mattress. “It’s been sewn up,” he said. “Rather badly, by the looks of it.” He picked at the large stitches with his nails. They unraveled easily. Salytov, Dmitri, and the porter, each holding a candle, pressed in at his shoulders, craning to see what he was doing.
“Please be careful not to set fire to the bed,” pleaded Porfiry drily. “You may destroy vital evidence.”
Porfiry pulled out a length of thread and folded back the corner of the mattress covering. There was a chorus of gasps behind him.
Inside the mattress, lying flat on top of the horsehair wadding, was a small fur coat suitable for a child. The arms were folded over neatly, reminiscent of a corpse laid out in a coffin.
Porfiry opened his cigarette case. He took one out and put it in his mouth. There were eight left. These he gave to Dmitri.
Govorov Returns
Porfiry saw Prince Bykov before Prince Bykov saw him.
The young nobleman was sitting on one of the chairs outside Porfiry’s chambers. His expression was pained but patient, self-consciously stoical. With one hand he fondled his fur-covered top hat as if it were a lapdog.
Why is he here? thought Porfiry. But the desperate neediness in the prince’s eyes was clear, even from a distance. He came to the police station because he was compelled to. It was the last link he had with his vanished friend.
Porfiry experienced a mild spasm of guilt, the kind that comes when one is reminded of a duty deliberately ignored. But there was a kind of arrogance to his presence too, an aristocratic failure of imagination. Such a man was evidently incapable of understanding that Porfiry had anything better to do than investigate the causes of his unhappiness.
Porfiry was about to turn on his heels when he heard his name called out.
The clerk Zamyotov had seen him. At his loud, piercing “Porfiry Petrovich!” Prince Bykov looked up.
Porfiry blinked several times and squeezed his lips into a smile.
The prince rose to his feet, his hat in one hand, the other extended vaguely as if to grasp something.
“My dear prince,” said Porfiry, walking briskly over to him as if he could not be more delighted to see the prince. “How opportune it is that you should present yourself here! There is an important question I must ask you.”
Prince Bykov tossed his head so that the dark tight curls at his collar shook. Confusion, and the effort of thinking it through, gave his face an antagonistic edge.
“Please.” Porfiry held open the door to his chambers for the prince. “We have been pursuing a very significant lead.”
“You have found Ratazyayev?” Now Prince Bykov’s expression shone with trusting expectation.
Not for the first time, the young man’s emotional openness embarrassed Porfiry. He gestured for the prince to sit down. “No,” he said, taking his own seat behind the desk. He averted his eyes, so as not to have to witness the disappointment that would inevitably cloud the prince’s features. “But we have tracked down Konstantin Kirillovich Govorov. Do you remember that I asked you about him?”
Prince Bykov frowned at the name. “Has he told you what happened to Ratazyayev?”
“Ah. The fact is, we haven’t actually spoken to him yet. But we know where he lives. We are hoping to speak to him very soon. The yardkeeper at his apartment is very cooperative. He will inform us the moment Govorov returns.”
“What if he doesn’t return?”
“Let us hope that he does,” said Porfiry with a strained smile. He leaned back in his seat to light a cigarette.
Prince Bykov watched him disapprovingly. “You said you wanted to ask me a question.”
Porfiry closed his eyes. “The student Virginsky described both Govorov and Ratazyayev as actors. Please think back to the circumstances in which you heard the name Govorov. I believe you once told me that you had heard the name. Is it possible that it was in connection with Ratazyayev’s acting career?”
“I really don’t know. I suppose it’s possible.”
“You will have to do better than that,” said Porfiry sharply. In truth, he was weary. “For instance, can you tell me the last professional production in which Ratazyayev performed?”
Prince Bykov seemed hurt rather than offended by Porfiry’s harsh tone. He composed himself and considered his answer. “It was hard for him to come by roles in recent years. His friends, or rather former friends, had turned against him.”
“Why was that?”
“He was thought to be unreliable. But it was…not fair. There had really only ever been one incident.”
“What incident was this?”
“But surely you know?”
Porfiry shook his head, his mouth turned down.
“He got drunk once. Very drunk. During a production. He went on stage drunk and-oh, I can’t believe you’ve never heard of the time the famous Ratazyayev…” Prince Bykov placed a pale hand over his eyes. “They have never forgiven him for it.”
“What did he do?”
“Must I say it?”
“It may be significant. It may very well be significant.”
“He relieved himself into the orchestra pit during the performance.”
“I see.”
“And then he fell off the stage. It caused a scandal. He…ran away. He was not seen or heard of for a year.”
“So he has disappeared before?”
“Yes, but this was a long time ago. Before I met him. Of course, I had heard the story-who has not?”
“I had not, until now. But tell me, what was the production in which this unfortunate incident occurred?”
“It was a revival of The Government Inspector, at the original Mariinsky Theater.”
Porfiry was silent for a moment. “In ’fifty-six?” he asked distractedly.
“So you do remember it?”
Porfiry didn’t answer the question. “That was a long time ago. Ten years. How has he managed to earn a living since then, if not through acting?”
“He has relied, to a large extent, on the goodwill of his friends. He still has friends.”
“Govorov?”
A wrinkled anguish disfigured Prince Bykov’s face. “I see, sir, that you are determined to force me to speak about that individual. Let me say first that I have never met him, that I will not meet him. I do not approve of him. I will say that he has been loyal to Ratazyayev. However, I also believe that his is a loyalty Ratazyayev would have been better off without. The loyalty of a viper is poisonous.”
“You admit that he is a friend from Ratazyayev’s acting days?”
“He was to blame! It was he who got Ratazyayev drunk! More than that, he goaded him on.”
“I see. And recently?”
Prince Bykov closed his eyes on a shudder. “Through Govorov, he became involved in certain…vile activities.”