‘I’m disturbing you again!’ he began, smiling and gingerly sitting down. ‘For heaven’s sake, forgive me! Well? What’s the verdict on my manuscript?’
‘Guilty, but recommended for mercy,’ I said.
Kamyshev burst out laughing and blew his nose on a scented handkerchief. ‘So that means banishment to the flames of the fireplace?’ he asked.
‘No, why so severe? It does not deserve any punitive measures – we shall employ corrective ones.’
‘So, it needs correcting?’ he asked.
‘Yes, there’s one or two things… by mutual consent.’
We said nothing for a quarter of an hour. My heart was pounding and my temples throbbed. But it wasn’t part of my strategy to show alarm.
‘By mutual consent,’ I repeated. ‘Last time you told me that you took a real event for the plot of your novel.’
‘Yes – and now I’m ready to say it again. If you had read my novel… then… I have the honour to introduce myself: Zinovyev.’
‘So, you were best man at Olga Nikolayevna’s wedding?’
‘Best man and friend of the family. Don’t I appear in a good light in this novel?’ Kamyshev laughed, stroking his knee and blushing. ‘A really nice chap, eh? I should have been flogged, but there was no one to do it.’
‘Exactly… Well, I like your story. It’s better and more interesting than the vast majority of crime novels these days. However, you and I, by mutual consent, will need to make some substantial changes in it.’
‘That’s possible. What do you think needs changing, for example?’
‘The very habitus57 of the novel, its physiognomy. In common with most crime novels it has everything: a crime, evidence, investigations – even fifteen years’ hard labour as a titbit. But the most essential thing’s missing.’
‘And what precisely is that?’
‘There’s no real villain in it.’
Kamyshev opened his eyes wide and stood up.
‘Frankly, I don’t understand you,’ he said after a brief pause. ‘If you don’t consider the man who did the stabbing and strangling the true culprit then… I really don’t know who should be considered guilty. Of course, criminals are products of society – and society is guilty. But if you take a more elevated point of view, one should give up writing novels and compile reports.’
‘What have “elevated points of view” to do with it? It wasn’t Urbenin who committed the murder!!’
‘What did you say?’ Kamyshev asked, moving closer to me.
‘It wasn’t Urbenin!’
‘That may well be… humanum est errare58 – and investigators aren’t perfect. Judicial errors are quite common under the moon. So, you think I was mistaken?’
‘No, you were not mistaken, but you wanted to be.’
‘I’m sorry, but again I don’t follow,’ Kamyshev laughed. ‘If you find that the investigation led to an error and even an intentional mistake – if I understand you right – it would be interesting to have your views on the matter. In your opinion, who was the murderer?’
‘You!!’
Kamyshev looked at me in astonishment, almost in terror, flushed and took a step backwards. Then he turned away, went to the window and started laughing.
‘Now, here’s a pretty kettle of fish!’ he muttered, breathing on the window pane and nervously tracing patterns on it.
I watched his hand as he drew and I seemed to recognize in it that same iron, muscular hand that alone could have throttled the sleeping Kuzma or lacerated Olga’s frail body at one attempt. The thought that I was looking at the murderer filled me with an unusual feeling of horror and dread – not for myself – no! but for him, for that handsome and graceful giant… for mankind in general.
‘You were the murderer!’ I repeated.
‘If this isn’t a joke, then I congratulate you on the discovery!’
laughed Kamyshev, still not looking at me. ‘However, judging from your trembling voice and your pale face, it’s difficult to conclude that you’re joking. Heavens, you’re so jumpy!’
Kamyshev turned his burning face to me and tried to force a smile.
‘I’m curious to know,’ he continued, ‘how such ideas could have entered your head. Did I write anything of the sort in my novel? By God, this is really interesting! Please tell me! Once in a lifetime it’s worth experiencing the sensation of being looked upon as a murderer…’
‘You’re the murderer,’ I said, ‘and you can’t even conceal the fact. In your novel you gave yourself away and now you’re putting on a pathetic act.’
‘That’s really quite fascinating – I’d be interested to hear – word of honour!’
‘If it’s interesting, then listen!’
I jumped up and walked excitedly around the room. Kamyshev looked behind the door and made sure it was properly shut. By this precaution he gave himself away.
‘What are you afraid of?’ I asked.
Kamyshev gave an embarrassed cough and waved his arm.
‘I’m not afraid of anything, I was just looking around the door. What do you want from me now? Come on, tell me.’
‘Allow me to question you.’
‘As much as you like.’
‘I’m warning you that I’m no investigating magistrate and no expert in cross-examination. Don’t expect any method or system, but please don’t try and confuse and muddle me. Firstly, please tell me where you disappeared to after you left the edge of the forest, where you were boozing after the shoot.’
‘It says in the story – I went home.’
‘In the story the description of the path you took is carefully crossed out. Didn’t you go through the forest?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Therefore you could have met Olga there?’
‘Yes, I could,’ Kamyshev laughed.
‘And you did meet her.’
‘No, I didn’t meet her.’
‘At the inquiry you forgot to mention one very important witness, namely yourself. Did you hear the victim’s shrieks?’
‘No… now look here, old chap, you haven’t a clue about cross-examining.’
This overfamiliar ‘old chap’ really jarred on me. It was quite out of keeping with the apologies and embarrassment with which the conversation had begun. I soon noticed that Kamyshev was looking at me condescendingly, arrogantly and was almost revelling in my inability to disentangle myself from the mass of questions that were plaguing me.
‘Let’s assume that you didn’t meet Olga in the forest,’ I continued, ‘although in fact it was harder for Urbenin to meet Olga than for you, since Urbenin didn’t know she was in the forest. Therefore he wasn’t looking for her. But since you were drunk and in a mad frenzy, you couldn’t fail to look for her. And look for her you certainly did, otherwise why did you have to go home through the forest and not along the main road? But let’s suppose you didn’t see her. In that case how can one explain your grim, almost demented state of mind on the evening of that fateful day? What prompted you to kill the parrot that kept squawking about the husband who murdered his wife? I think that it reminded you of your evil deed. That night you were summoned to the Count’s house and instead of getting down to business right away, you delayed things until the police arrived almost a whole twenty-four hours later and you probably weren’t even aware of it. Only investigators who already know the identity of the criminal delay like that. He was known to you… Further, Olga didn’t reveal the murderer’s name because he was dear to her. If her husband had been the murderer she would have named him. Had she been in a position to denounce him to her lover-Count, then she would have lost nothing by accusing him of murder. She did not love him and he wasn’t in the least dear to her. She loved you, it was you who were dear to her. Also, permit me to ask why you took your time asking her questions that were to the point when she momentarily regained consciousness? Why did you ask her completely irrelevant questions? Let’s suppose that you did all this as a delaying tactic, to prevent her from naming you. Meanwhile Olga was dying. In your novel you haven’t written one word about the effect of her death on you. There I can detect caution: you don’t forget to mention the number of glasses you managed to empty, but an important event such as the death of the “girl in red” vanishes without trace in the novel. Why?’