The Cleansing Flames (23 page)

Porfiry ignored the question. ‘I have not yet finished interviewing Rakitin.’

‘No matter.’

‘No matter?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ expanded Verkhotsev with a wink. ‘To me.’

‘Please don’t start winking at me.’

‘
You
cannot criticise
me
for
winking
!’

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘Come now, Porfiry Petrovich, let us not argue about such nonsense. The time has come to hand over Rakitin. You will see that the necessary documentation is all in order, signed and countersigned by the appropriate authorities.’

‘Of course the paperwork will be in order. The Third Section is always scrupulous about its paperwork.’

Verkhotsev beamed delightedly. ‘Ah! A savage attack disguised as a compliment! We are scrupulous in paperwork, but not in
other
matters. The barb was not lost on me, Porfiry Petrovich.’

‘Tell me, how is your daughter, Maria Petrovna?’

‘She is very well. Busy with her school, as always. And shows no sign of marrying. I shall tell her that you asked after her.’

‘Do more than that. Convey to her my deepest affection. Please let her know that I wish her every happiness. And I hope to hear news of a betrothal before too long.’

‘With pleasure. Now, is there anything else you wish to say to me before we take away the witness?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I know what you’re doing. You’re seeking to delay me while your man – what’s his name? Virginsky, isn’t it? – continues to question the witness in there. You know, I could have just burst in and snatched him away.’

‘That is effectively what you are doing.’

‘Enough, Porfiry Petrovich. Deliver up Rakitin.’

‘And what is to become of my case? Pseldonimov.’

‘Consider yourself relieved of it. I have already supplied your clerk with instructions concerning the files, which will be delivered to Fontanka, 16 forthwith.’

‘Very well. I wasn’t getting anywhere with it anyhow. I will be glad to be rid of it.’

‘That’s a blatant lie, Porfiry Petrovich. If I know you, you were very close to solving it. It is not as difficult a case as some you have successfully concluded.’

‘Ah, but as I have had occasion to say to you before, Pyotr Afanasevich, the moment the Third Section becomes interested in a case is the moment it ceases to interest me.’

‘Then you will not object to me taking your witness?’

‘Finally, you admit that he is my witness! But only when you sense that there is no danger of my contesting your appropriation of him. No matter, you may have him.’ Porfiry gestured to the open cell door.

Verkhotsev gave one last contemplative twirl of his waxed moustache as he bowed to Porfiry. ‘Might I suggest that you go in first and explain to him what is happening? We don’t want to alarm him, do we?’

Porfiry blinked in ironic astonishment at Verkhotsev’s apparent solicitude.

The rings around Rakitin’s eyes were darker than ever: it looked as though he had rubbed them with inky knuckles.

Porfiry sighed despondently. ‘I’m afraid matters have been taken out of my hands. You are to be handed over to another department.’

‘What other department?’

‘You have heard of the Third Section of His Imperial Majesty’s Chancellery?’

Rakitin shifted back on the bench. He reminded Porfiry of a nervous animal scuttling for safety. ‘No! Please! Don’t let them take me!’

‘There is nothing I can do to prevent it.’

‘You said I could go, once I’d told you what I know. I’ll tell you everything.’

‘You mean there is something you have held back?’

‘Call off the Third Section and I will tell you everything.’

‘I’m afraid that’s impossible. Besides which, I don’t have any use for your information. I myself am no longer investigating Pseldonimov’s murder.’

‘But what about the dead? You speak for the dead, that’s what you said. You ask questions on their behalf. And don’t stop until you have the answers that will satisfy them. That’s what you said,’ insisted Rakitin.

‘Yes, but I have been removed from the case. There are some men outside. They have come to take you with them.’

‘Don’t let them take me. I’ll stay here with you. I’ll tell you everything!’

‘I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.’

‘Do you know what they will do to me?’

Porfiry held a clenched fist over his mouth, as if to prevent an answer inadvertently escaping.

The cell door creaked. The two officers Verkhotsev had brought with him came in.

‘You must go with them,’ said Porfiry quietly.

‘No! No-o! I would rather die! Kill me! Kill me now!’ Rakitin leapt to his feet but did not try to escape. Instead, he began fumbling with the belt of his trousers.

It took Porfiry a moment to realise what he was doing. In that moment, Rakitin had drawn his belt through the air, looped its tongue through the buckle and thrown this improvised halter around his own neck. He now pulled the belt tight. The two gendarmes rushed forwards and wrestled his hands away from the belt. Rakitin sagged forwards. The gendarmes caught him under the armpits and dragged him towards the door. For the most part, Rakitin was passive in their hands, defeated.

Just as they got him to the door, his torso shook violently and he managed to turn himself enough to face Porfiry. His eyes seemed, briefly, brilliantly white.

Zamyotov intercepted Porfiry just outside his chambers. The clerk’s expression was unusually contrite. ‘I really didn’t know what to do for the best, Porfiry Petrovich.’

‘That’s quite alright, Alexander Grigorevich. You did what you had to do. You have sent off the file, I trust?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’

‘You’re not angry?’

Porfiry shrugged and shook his head. He laid a hand reassuringly on Zamyotov’s arm.

‘Porfiry Petrovich, they threatened me, those men.’

‘What’s this?’

‘They took me into your chambers and threatened me. They said they knew all about me. About my . . . inclinations.’

‘Alexander Grigorevich, I –!’

‘I have tried to fight them, Porfiry Petrovich, but sometimes it is too much. I have to give in. I know I am vile and worthless. But the Third Section – they must have been spying on me. Or they have spoken to . . . my friends. They said they would expose me and prosecute me unless I co-operated.’

‘This is an outrage!’

‘So I had to tell them, Porfiry Petrovich.’

‘My dear Alexander Grigorevich, what did you have to tell them?’

‘The name of the victim. Pseldonimov. That’s right, isn’t it? I overheard Lieutenant Salytov tell you. I was not eavesdropping but you were standing right in front of me at the time.’

‘You mean, they didn’t know?’

‘They didn’t seem to know. Indeed they were most eager to find out.’

‘I see.’ Porfiry stood for a moment, giving himself over entirely to the act of blinking. ‘The sly old fox.’ He suddenly roused himself and bowed to Zamyotov. ‘Thank you, Alexander Grigorevich. There is no need to worry. I shall see to it that nothing comes of this.’

‘Thank you, Porfiry Petrovich.’ Zamyotov gave a broad smile of relief. Then suddenly remembering something, he rushed back to his desk. ‘Oh, and there is one more thing. This just came in. I didn’t know what to do with it now that the file is closed. Should I send it on to Major Verkhotsev?’

Porfiry glanced down at the official slip. ‘No need,’ he said cheerfully.

*

‘A long and eventful day,’ sighed Porfiry, staring down at his empty desk. ‘I suggest we hasten its end. There is nothing more for us to do, after all.’

‘You are content to surrender the case to those . . . vipers?’

‘I have no choice, Pavel Pavlovich.’

‘I am surprised to find you so . . . passive. You are no Oblomov, after all.’

‘You once, not so long ago, took great delight in comparing me to that exemplar of lethargy.’

‘You remember that?’

‘It wounded me.’ Porfiry gave a pout.

‘Well, I was wrong.’ Virginsky’s brows drew together in thought. ‘He told me the address, you know. Rakitin. Of the workshop.’

‘Oh, Pavel Pavlovich. What are we to do?’

‘Should we not at least go there?’

‘But what would be the point? No. What we
should
do is forward this information to Major Verkhotsev immediately, so that he can decide what action to take.’

‘You cannot be serious?’

Porfiry considered briefly. ‘You’re right. If it turned out to be a false lead, then we would have merely wasted Major Verkhotsev’s valuable time. It would be better, I think, to look into the matter ourselves, on our own time, and if we find anything we consider pertinent, only then need we trouble the Major. I’m sure he will appreciate our discretion. It can do no harm if you tell me where the print shop is, I suppose. If it is not out of our way, we will pay a visit. If it is too inconvenient, we will not trouble ourselves.’

‘What if Major Verkhotsev finds out you are continuing in the case?’

‘I’m
not
,’ said Porfiry, ironically insistent. ‘Do you not remember the hash the Imperial State Print Works made of the latest commission with which we entrusted them? It is possibly time for us to investigate other suppliers. Many government departments employ private print shops, I believe.’

Virginsky smiled and shook his head admiringly. ‘Do you really think he will be taken in by that?’

‘It is the truth! That is to say, it is one truth. We do need to look into sourcing new printers. Tomorrow is Saturday. We shall visit Pseldonimov’s print shop, as prospective clients, in the morning.’

‘Provided it is not too inconvenient to do so,’ reminded Virginsky, mischievously.

‘I trust it is not.’

‘It is on Voznesensky Prospect. Close to where it crosses the Fontanka.’

‘It is practically on our doorstep.’

Virginsky’s smile broadened. But a shadow of doubt – or perhaps even fear – chased it away. ‘And in the meantime, tonight, there is no time to waste . . .’ He was aware of a heavy, fateful timbre in his own voice. The kick of his heart was suddenly stern, an inner alarm rousing him to a state of nervous expectancy.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I must meet with my contact, the
pétroleur
. It must be tonight. I will tell him that Rakitin is in the hands of the Third Section.’

Porfiry said nothing.

‘It is a piece of information of immense significance, and must be urgently communicated to him. He will know that Rakitin will talk. A man like Rakitin will not be able to hold out for long against the Third Section. You saw that in the terror of his reaction. His pathetic attempt to strangle himself. Of what do you think he was so afraid? Simply that he would betray his associates. That he would not be able to help himself. He
will
name names. And then, it will not be long before the Third Section closes in on those he betrays. Therefore, my contact will appreciate this information, because it enables the central committee to steal a march, to disperse . . .’

‘And then what good would be served? We will lose them.’

‘No. By then, I will have gained his trust. I will be on the inside.’

‘But what if Rakitin is what he says he is? That is to say, a man without any real connections to any revolutionary grouping – the information will be of no interest or significance at all. You will be exposing yourself to unnecessary risk.’

‘Yes, there is a risk. But there is always a risk. Even if I do nothing. Better to take the bull by the horns. Besides, I do not see another way for us to move forward in this case.’

‘But there is no case anymore. Or have you forgotten?’

‘We cannot simply allow these hoodlums to sidestep the judicial process,’ cried Virginsky. ‘Who knows what they will do to Rakitin, or if he will ever be seen again alive? One day they will be held to account.’

‘I wonder, Pavel Pavlovich, whom you are intent on investigating: Pseldonimov’s murderers or the Third Section of His Imperial Majesty’s Chancellery?’

‘It is not beyond the bounds of possibility that they are one and the same.’

‘We have no evidence to suggest that.’

‘And nor will we ever, unless I meet with my contact again. Tonight.’

Porfiry’s expression grew pained. ‘If anything happened to you, I would never forgive myself.’

‘I take responsibility for my own actions, Porfiry Petrovich.’

‘That suggests that even if I do not give my consent, you will go through with this. That – of course – would make you a revolutionary spy, you know, feeding secret information to the state’s enemies.’

‘Then you had better give your consent.’

Porfiry shook his head in forlorn protest. ‘I thought you didn’t gamble, Pavel Pavlovich. And yet this . . . this is far worse than any monetary wager. Here the stake you are playing for is your life.’

Virginsky clicked his tongue dismissively. He looked down at the floor, away from Porfiry’s warning, to await his eventual acquiescence. He heard the cigarette case click open again. This time it was followed by the scrape and sulphurous whiff of a match igniting. When Virginsky at last looked at his superior, he saw him exhale a long cone of smoke. At the same time, he gave an upward tilt of his head, fixing Virginsky with a gaze that was for once utterly unblinking.

*

Virginsky stepped out onto Stolyarny Lane and thought of food. It was night. The lamps were lit. For its size, Stolyarny Lane was well illuminated: the presence of a police bureau counted for something. He felt a strange reluctance to take himself outside the protective glow. No harm could come to him, he felt, for so long as he could be seen. He sensed a voracious darkness lurking beyond the lamps’ soft auras.

His stomach grumbled angrily. The claw of pain in his head dug in its nails. It had been clutching his brain all day, but now that he was released from duty, it tightened its grip for one last stab of torture. He knew that he was in no fit state to undertake the mission that he had so rashly, and perhaps feverishly, proposed. Equally, he also knew that it had to be done tonight, if it was to be done at all.

It was hard to believe it was only the night before that he had met the hatchet-headed man in the tavern on Haymarket Square. It seemed a lifetime ago. He realised, with a dawning sense of his own stupidity, that he had been in such a state of intoxication at the time that he had no clear memory of which tavern the encounter had taken place in. However, he distinctly remembered the man’s last words to him: ‘If you can’t find me, I know where to find you.’

He wondered if the man was watching him now, hiding in the vast darkness that surrounded the small pockets of illumination. He had the sense that the true city was constructed out of darkness, with shadows for inhabitants. By keeping to the light, he was drawing attention to himself as an outsider.

He had to remind himself that he wanted the man to find him. The plan relied on their meeting again. But Virginsky was so distracted by headache and hunger that he could not be sure what the plan was anymore. It was no longer clear to him whom, or what, he was serving, or even where his loyalties lay.

To distract himself, he fell into his old habit of counting his steps:
One, two, three . . .

The first thing to do was to eat something. But that would not ease the pain in his head. For that, there was only one cure that he knew.

He counted his way to Haymarket Square.
Seventy-six, seventy-seven, seventy-eight . . .

A boisterous crowd of
muzhiks
were passing the bottle around. Virginsky shied away from them and headed for the nearest tavern. His mouth was salivating as he stumbled down the stairs to the basement.

When it came to it, he ordered vodka first. He saw that his hands were trembling as he waited for his drink. The idea of the drink was more soothing than the drink itself, which did not provide the instantaneous easing of his discomfort that he had hoped for. However, for the time being at least, it seemed to steady his hands. Certainly, the bottle did not shake as he poured the second glass.

A display of collapsed pies drew his attention. In all honesty, he had never seen anything more unappetising. Nevertheless, he picked one out and watched with a mixture of impatience and horror as the landlady plated it for him.

It was the punch of petroleum in his nostrils that alerted him to the presence at his side. He turned and saw a familiar face, with a familiar lop-sided grin fixed in place. ‘Hungry?’

‘Yes, I am, in fact.’

The hatchet-headed man looked Virginsky up and down. ‘Well, well, look at you, magistrate. Come to see me in your service uniform.’

‘I have come straight from the bureau. I have something to tell you that cannot wait.’

‘My goodness, you are an eager little magistrate. At least eat your pie first. The sound of your stomach churning is deafening. Come, there is a booth in the corner. We will be able to talk more freely there.’

They transferred to the booth, Virginsky making sure to take the vodka as well as the food with him. The table was covered in crumbs. A candle flickered, almost burnt out, the feeble flame surrounded by frozen rivulets of wax.

Virginsky took a bite of the pie, as he had been bid. He discovered it contained some kind of fish mixed with rice. It was devilishly dry. Despite his hunger, he had great difficulty swallowing the first mouthful. A swig of vodka helped to wash it down. ‘There is something you must know. I trust you will pass it on to the appropriate people.’

‘I am the appropriate people. As far as you are concerned.’

A chilling thought struck Virginsky. Suppose this man was not who he purported to be. Suppose he was simply a solitary crank, a fantasist without any connections to the revolutionary movement. The only link with Kozodavlev and Pseldonimov was the manifesto. But it was a common enough piece of trash. Even Porfiry had had a copy in his possession. Virginsky took a second bite of the pie, followed by more vodka. ‘An urgent situation has developed. The Third Section have Rakitin.’

‘Who is Rakitin?’

‘Please. Don’t insult me.’

‘Why do you think I should be interested in this information?’

‘If you do not understand the significance of it, you should pass it on to those who will.’

‘You are sweating, magistrate. What’s the matter? Is it hot in here?’

‘I suffer from a medical condition. This comes upon me without warning. And for entirely no reason.’

‘A medical condition, or a guilty conscience?’

‘No. It is . . .’ Virginsky drained his glass.

‘Doesn’t the vodka exacerbate the condition? Most of the drunks I know suffer terribly from the sweats.’

‘It’s not the sweats. It is something more . . .’ Virginsky poured another drink. The bottle rattled in the glass. His hand was shaking again.

‘Dear dear, the shakes as well. That does not bode well. We need men we can rely on, you know. Not alcoholics.’

‘You must understand,’ began Virginsky. ‘This is very difficult for me. I am putting myself at great risk. I have given you valuable secret information. And what if you are an informer? You say you need men you can rely on. But how do I know I can trust you?’

‘It is not necessary that you trust me. Simply that, when the time comes, you obey me.’

‘But how can I give obedience without trust?’

The guttering candle finally went out. The man’s features grew less distinct, his sarcastic smile lost in the shadows. ‘Blindly. That is what we require of you. Blind obedience.’ The man shook his head discouragingly. ‘Now then, my dear magistrate, this information you have given me. It is nothing. It does not help us. We will need more than this before we trust you.’