Dowd Siobhan - The London Eye Mystery 12 page

this jewel! Guess the price, Rodya, what do you suppose I paid for it,

Nastasya!" he said, turning to her, seeing that Raskolnikov did not

speak.

"Twenty copecks, no more, I dare say," answered Nastasya.

"Twenty copecks, silly!" he cried, offended. "Why, nowadays you would

cost more than that--eighty copecks! And that only because it has been

worn. And it's bought on condition that when's it's worn out, they will

give you another next year. Yes, on my word! Well, now let us pass to

the United States of America, as they called them at school. I assure

you I am proud of these breeches," and he exhibited to Raskolnikov a

pair of light, summer trousers of grey woollen material. "No holes, no

spots, and quite respectable, although a little worn; and a waistcoat

to match, quite in the fashion. And its being worn really is an

improvement, it's softer, smoother.... You see, Rodya, to my thinking,

the great thing for getting on in the world is always to keep to the

seasons; if you don't insist on having asparagus in January, you keep

your money in your purse; and it's the same with this purchase. It's

summer now, so I've been buying summer things--warmer materials will be

wanted for autumn, so you will have to throw these away in any case...

especially as they will be done for by then from their own lack of

coherence if not your higher standard of luxury. Come, price them! What

do you say? Two roubles twenty-five copecks! And remember the condition:

if you wear these out, you will have another suit for nothing! They only

do business on that system at Fedyaev's; if you've bought a thing once,

you are satisfied for life, for you will never go there again of your

own free will. Now for the boots. What do you say? You see that they are

a bit worn, but they'll last a couple of months, for it's foreign work

and foreign leather; the secretary of the English Embassy sold them last

week--he had only worn them six days, but he was very short of cash.

Price--a rouble and a half. A bargain?"

"But perhaps they won't fit," observed Nastasya.

"Not fit? Just look!" and he pulled out of his pocket Raskolnikov's

old, broken boot, stiffly coated with dry mud. "I did not go

empty-handed--they took the size from this monster. We all did our best.

And as to your linen, your landlady has seen to that. Here, to begin

with are three shirts, hempen but with a fashionable front.... Well

now then, eighty copecks the cap, two roubles twenty-five copecks the

suit--together three roubles five copecks--a rouble and a half for the

boots--for, you see, they are very good--and that makes four roubles

fifty-five copecks; five roubles for the underclothes--they were

bought in the lo--which makes exactly nine roubles fifty-five copecks.

Forty-five copecks change in coppers. Will you take it? And so, Rodya,

you are set up with a complete new rig-out, for your overcoat will

serve, and even has a style of its own. That comes from getting one's

clothes from Sharmer's! As for your socks and other things, I leave them

to you; we've twenty-five roubles left. And as for Pashenka and paying

for your lodging, don't you worry. I tell you she'll trust you for

anything. And now, brother, let me change your linen, for I daresay you

will throw off your illness with your shirt."

"Let me be! I don't want to!" Raskolnikov waved him off. He had listened

with disgust to Razumihin's efforts to be playful about his purchases.

"Come, brother, don't tell me I've been trudging around for nothing,"

Razumihin insisted. "Nastasya, don't be bashful, but help me--that's

it," and in spite of Raskolnikov's resistance he changed his linen. The

latter sank back on the pillows and for a minute or two said nothing.

"It will be long before I get rid of them," he thought. "What money was

all that bought with?" he asked at last, gazing at the wall.

"Money? Why, your own, what the messenger brought from Vahrushin, your

mother sent it. Have you forgotten that, too?"

"I remember now," said Raskolnikov after a long, sullen silence.

Razumihin looked at him, frowning and uneasy.

The door opened and a tall, stout man whose appearance seemed familiar

to Raskolnikov came in.

CHAPTER IV

Zossimov was a tall, fat man with a puffy, colourless, clean-shaven face

and straight flaxen hair. He wore spectacles, and a big gold ring on

his fat finger. He was twenty-seven. He had on a light grey fashionable

loose coat, light summer trousers, and everything about him loose,

fashionable and spick and span; his linen was irreproachable, his

watch-chain was massive. In manner he was slow and, as it were,

nonchalant, and at the same time studiously free and easy; he made

efforts to conceal his self-importance, but it was apparent at every

instant. All his acquaintances found him tedious, but said he was clever

at his work.

"I've been to you twice to-day, brother. You see, he's come to himself,"

cried Razumihin.

"I see, I see; and how do we feel now, eh?" said Zossimov to

Raskolnikov, watching him carefully and, sitting down at the foot of the

sofa, he settled himself as comfortably as he could.

"He is still depressed," Razumihin went on. "We've just changed his

linen and he almost cried."

"That's very natural; you might have put it off if he did not wish

it.... His pulse is first-rate. Is your head still aching, eh?"

"I am well, I am perfectly well!" Raskolnikov declared positively

and irritably. He raised himself on the sofa and looked at them with

glittering eyes, but sank back on to the pillow at once and turned to

the wall. Zossimov watched him intently.

"Very good.... Going on all right," he said lazily. "Has he eaten

anything?"

They told him, and asked what he might have.

"He may have anything... soup, tea... mushrooms and cucumbers, of

course, you must not give him; he'd better not have meat either, and...

but no need to tell you that!" Razumihin and he looked at each

other. "No more medicine or anything. I'll look at him again to-morrow.

Perhaps, to-day even... but never mind..."

"To-morrow evening I shall take him for a walk," said Razumihin. "We are

going to the Yusupov garden and then to the Palais de Crystal."

"I would not disturb him to-morrow at all, but I don't know... a little,

maybe... but we'll see."

"Ach, what a nuisance! I've got a house-warming party to-night; it's

only a step from here. Couldn't he come? He could lie on the sofa. You

are coming?" Razumihin said to Zossimov. "Don't forget, you promised."

"All right, only rather later. What are you going to do?"

"Oh, nothing--tea, vodka, herrings. There will be a pie... just our

friends."

"And who?"

"All neighbours here, almost all new friends, except my old uncle, and

he is new too--he only arrived in Petersburg yesterday to see to some

business of his. We meet once in five years."

"What is he?"

"He's been stagnating all his life as a district postmaster; gets a

little pension. He is sixty-five--not worth talking about.... But I

am fond of him. Porfiry Petrovitch, the head of the Investigation

Department here... But you know him."

"Is he a relation of yours, too?"

"A very distant one. But why are you scowling? Because you quarrelled

once, won't you come then?"

"I don't care a damn for him."

"So much the better. Well, there will be some students, a teacher, a

government clerk, a musician, an officer and Zametov."

"Do tell me, please, what you or he"--Zossimov nodded at

Raskolnikov--"can have in common with this Zametov?"

"Oh, you particular gentleman! Principles! You are worked by principles,

as it were by springs; you won't venture to turn round on your own

account. If a man is a nice fellow, that's the only principle I go upon.

Zametov is a delightful person."

"Though he does take bribes."

"Well, he does! and what of it? I don't care if he does take bribes,"

Razumihin cried with unnatural irritability. "I don't praise him for

taking bribes. I only say he is a nice man in his own way! But if one

looks at men in all ways--are there many good ones left? Why, I am sure

I shouldn't be worth a baked onion myself... perhaps with you thrown

in."

"That's too little; I'd give two for you."

"And I wouldn't give more than one for you. No more of your jokes!

Zametov is no more than a boy. I can pull his hair and one must draw him

not repel him. You'll never improve a man by repelling him, especially

a boy. One has to be twice as careful with a boy. Oh, you progressive

dullards! You don't understand. You harm yourselves running another man

down.... But if you want to know, we really have something in common."

"I should like to know what."

"Why, it's all about a house-painter.... We are getting him out of

a mess! Though indeed there's nothing to fear now. The matter is

absolutely self-evident. We only put on steam."

"A painter?"

"Why, haven't I told you about it? I only told you the beginning then

about the murder of the old pawnbroker-woman. Well, the painter is mixed

up in it..."

"Oh, I heard about that murder before and was rather interested in it...

partly... for one reason.... I read about it in the papers, too...."

"Lizaveta was murdered, too," Nastasya blurted out, suddenly addressing

Raskolnikov. She remained in the room all the time, standing by the door

listening.

"Lizaveta," murmured Raskolnikov hardly audibly.

"Lizaveta, who sold old clothes. Didn't you know her? She used to come

here. She mended a shirt for you, too."

Raskolnikov turned to the wall where in the dirty, yellow paper he

picked out one clumsy, white flower with brown lines on it and began

examining how many petals there were in it, how many scallops in the

petals and how many lines on them. He felt his arms and legs as lifeless

as though they had been cut off. He did not attempt to move, but stared

obstinately at the flower.

"But what about the painter?" Zossimov interrupted Nastasya's chatter

with marked displeasure. She sighed and was silent.

"Why, he was accused of the murder," Razumihin went on hotly.

"Was there evidence against him then?"

"Evidence, indeed! Evidence that was no evidence, and that's what we

have to prove. It was just as they pitched on those fellows, Koch and

Pestryakov, at first. Foo! how stupidly it's all done, it makes one

sick, though it's not one's business! Pestryakov may be coming

to-night.... By the way, Rodya, you've heard about the business already;

it happened before you were ill, the day before you fainted at the

police office while they were talking about it."

Zossimov looked curiously at Raskolnikov. He did not stir.

"But I say, Razumihin, I wonder at you. What a busybody you are!"

Zossimov observed.

"Maybe I am, but we will get him off anyway," shouted Razumihin,

bringing his fist down on the table. "What's the most offensive is not

their lying--one can always forgive lying--lying is a delightful thing,

for it leads to truth--what is offensive is that they lie and worship

their own lying.... I respect Porfiry, but... What threw them out at

first? The door was locked, and when they came back with the porter

it was open. So it followed that Koch and Pestryakov were the

murderers--that was their logic!"

"But don't excite yourself; they simply detained them, they could not

help that.... And, by the way, I've met that man Koch. He used to buy

unredeemed pledges from the old woman? Eh?"

"Yes, he is a swindler. He buys up bad debts, too. He makes a profession

of it. But enough of him! Do you know what makes me angry? It's their

sickening rotten, petrified routine.... And this case might be the means

of introducing a new method. One can show from the psychological data

alone how to get on the track of the real man. 'We have facts,' they

say. But facts are not everything--at least half the business lies in

how you interpret them!"

"Can you interpret them, then?"

"Anyway, one can't hold one's tongue when one has a feeling, a tangible

feeling, that one might be a help if only.... Eh! Do you know the

details of the case?"

"I am waiting to hear about the painter."

"Oh, yes! Well, here's the story. Early on the third day after the

murder, when they were still dandling Koch and Pestryakov--though they

accounted for every step they took and it was as plain as a pikestaff-an

unexpected fact turned up. A peasant called Dushkin, who keeps a

dram-shop facing the house, brought to the police office a jeweller's

case containing some gold ear-rings, and told a long rigamarole. 'The

day before yesterday, just after eight o'clock'--mark the day and the

hour!--'a journeyman house-painter, Nikolay, who had been in to see me

already that day, brought me this box of gold ear-rings and stones, and

asked me to give him two roubles for them. When I asked him where he got

them, he said that he picked them up in the street. I did not ask him

anything more.' I am telling you Dushkin's story. 'I gave him a note'--a

rouble that is--'for I thought if he did not pawn it with me he would

with another. It would all come to the same thing--he'd spend it on

drink, so the thing had better be with me. The further you hide it

the quicker you will find it, and if anything turns up, if I hear any

rumours, I'll take it to the police.' Of course, that's all taradiddle;

he lies like a horse, for I know this Dushkin, he is a pawnbroker and

a receiver of stolen goods, and he did not cheat Nikolay out of a

thirty-rouble trinket in order to give it to the police. He was simply

afraid. But no matter, to return to Dushkin's story. 'I've known

this peasant, Nikolay Dementyev, from a child; he comes from the same

province and district of Zaraisk, we are both Ryazan men. And though

Nikolay is not a drunkard, he drinks, and I knew he had a job in that

house, painting work with Dmitri, who comes from the same village, too.

As soon as he got the rouble he changed it, had a couple of glasses,

took his change and went out. But I did not see Dmitri with him then.

And the next day I heard that someone had murdered Alyona Ivanovna and

her sister, Lizaveta Ivanovna, with an axe. I knew them, and I felt

suspicious about the ear-rings at once, for I knew the murdered woman

lent money on pledges. I went to the house, and began to make careful

inquiries without saying a word to anyone. First of all I asked, "Is

Nikolay here?" Dmitri told me that Nikolay had gone off on the spree; he

had come home at daybreak drunk, stayed in the house about ten minutes,

and went out again. Dmitri didn't see him again and is finishing the

job alone. And their job is on the same staircase as the murder, on

the second floor. When I heard all that I did not say a word to

anyone'--that's Dushkin's tale--'but I found out what I could about

the murder, and went home feeling as suspicious as ever. And at eight

o'clock this morning'--that was the third day, you understand--'I saw

Nikolay coming in, not sober, though not to say very drunk--he could

understand what was said to him. He sat down on the bench and did not

speak. There was only one stranger in the bar and a man I knew asleep

on a bench and our two boys. "Have you seen Dmitri?" said I. "No, I

haven't," said he. "And you've not been here either?" "Not since the day

before yesterday," said he. "And where did you sleep last night?"

"In Peski, with the Kolomensky men." "And where did you get those

ear-rings?" I asked. "I found them in the street," and the way he said

it was a bit queer; he did not look at me. "Did you hear what happened

that very evening, at that very hour, on that same staircase?" said I.

"No," said he, "I had not heard," and all the while he was listening,

his eyes were staring out of his head and he turned as white as chalk. I

told him all about it and he took his hat and began getting up. I wanted

to keep him. "Wait a bit, Nikolay," said I, "won't you have a drink?"

And I signed to the boy to hold the door, and I came out from behind the

bar; but he darted out and down the street to the turning at a run.

I have not seen him since. Then my doubts were at an end--it was his

doing, as clear as could be....'"

"I should think so," said Zossimov.

"Wait! Hear the end. Of course they sought high and low for Nikolay;

they detained Dushkin and searched his house; Dmitri, too, was arrested;

the Kolomensky men also were turned inside out. And the day before

yesterday they arrested Nikolay in a tavern at the end of the town. He

had gone there, taken the silver cross off his neck and asked for a dram

for it. They gave it to him. A few minutes afterwards the woman went

to the cowshed, and through a crack in the wall she saw in the stable

adjoining he had made a noose of his sash from the beam, stood on a

block of wood, and was trying to put his neck in the noose. The woman

screeched her hardest; people ran in. 'So that's what you are up to!'

'Take me,' he says, 'to such-and-such a police officer; I'll confess

everything.' Well, they took him to that police station--that is

here--with a suitable escort. So they asked him this and that, how old

he is, 'twenty-two,' and so on. At the question, 'When you were working

with Dmitri, didn't you see anyone on the staircase at such-and-such a

time?'--answer: 'To be sure folks may have gone up and down, but I did

not notice them.' 'And didn't you hear anything, any noise, and so on?'

'We heard nothing special.' 'And did you hear, Nikolay, that on the same

day Widow So-and-so and her sister were murdered and robbed?' 'I

never knew a thing about it. The first I heard of it was from Afanasy

Pavlovitch the day before yesterday.' 'And where did you find the

ear-rings?' 'I found them on the pavement.' 'Why didn't you go to work

with Dmitri the other day?' 'Because I was drinking.' 'And where were

you drinking?' 'Oh, in such-and-such a place.' 'Why did you run away

from Dushkin's?' 'Because I was awfully frightened.' 'What were

you frightened of?' 'That I should be accused.' 'How could you be

frightened, if you felt free from guilt?' Now, Zossimov, you may not

believe me, that question was put literally in those words. I know it

for a fact, it was repeated to me exactly! What do you say to that?"

"Well, anyway, there's the evidence."

"I am not talking of the evidence now, I am talking about that question,

of their own idea of themselves. Well, so they squeezed and squeezed

him and he confessed: 'I did not find it in the street, but in the flat

where I was painting with Dmitri.' 'And how was that?' 'Why, Dmitri and

I were painting there all day, and we were just getting ready to go, and

Dmitri took a brush and painted my face, and he ran off and I after him.

I ran after him, shouting my hardest, and at the bottom of the stairs I

ran right against the porter and some gentlemen--and how many gentlemen

were there I don't remember. And the porter swore at me, and the other

porter swore, too, and the porter's wife came out, and swore at us, too;

and a gentleman came into the entry with a lady, and he swore at us,

too, for Dmitri and I lay right across the way. I got hold of Dmitri's

hair and knocked him down and began beating him. And Dmitri, too, caught

me by the hair and began beating me. But we did it all not for temper

but in a friendly way, for sport. And then Dmitri escaped and ran into

the street, and I ran after him; but I did not catch him, and went back

to the flat alone; I had to clear up my things. I began putting them

together, expecting Dmitri to come, and there in the passage, in the

corner by the door, I stepped on the box. I saw it lying there wrapped

up in paper. I took off the paper, saw some little hooks, undid them,

and in the box were the ear-rings....'"

"Behind the door? Lying behind the door? Behind the door?" Raskolnikov

cried suddenly, staring with a blank look of terror at Razumihin, and he

slowly sat up on the sofa, leaning on his hand.

"Yes... why? What's the matter? What's wrong?" Razumihin, too, got up

from his seat.

"Nothing," Raskolnikov answered faintly, turning to the wall. All were

silent for a while.

"He must have waked from a dream," Razumihin said at last, looking

inquiringly at Zossimov. The latter slightly shook his head.

"Well, go on," said Zossimov. "What next?"

"What next? As soon as he saw the ear-rings, forgetting Dmitri and

everything, he took up his cap and ran to Dushkin and, as we know, got

a rouble from him. He told a lie saying he found them in the street, and

went off drinking. He keeps repeating his old story about the murder:

'I know nothing of it, never heard of it till the day before yesterday.'

'And why didn't you come to the police till now?' 'I was frightened.'

'And why did you try to hang yourself?' 'From anxiety.' 'What anxiety?'

'That I should be accused of it.' Well, that's the whole story. And now

what do you suppose they deduced from that?"

"Why, there's no supposing. There's a clue, such as it is, a fact. You

wouldn't have your painter set free?"

"Now they've simply taken him for the murderer. They haven't a shadow of

doubt."

"That's nonsense. You are excited. But what about the ear-rings? You

must admit that, if on the very same day and hour ear-rings from the old

woman's box have come into Nikolay's hands, they must have come there

somehow. That's a good deal in such a case."

"How did they get there? How did they get there?" cried Razumihin.

"How can you, a doctor, whose duty it is to study man and who has more

opportunity than anyone else for studying human nature--how can you fail

to see the character of the man in the whole story? Don't you see at

once that the answers he has given in the examination are the holy

truth? They came into his hand precisely as he has told us--he stepped

on the box and picked it up."

"The holy truth! But didn't he own himself that he told a lie at first?"

"Listen to me, listen attentively. The porter and Koch and Pestryakov

and the other porter and the wife of the first porter and the woman who

was sitting in the porter's lodge and the man Kryukov, who had just got

out of a cab at that minute and went in at the entry with a lady on his

arm, that is eight or ten witnesses, agree that Nikolay had Dmitri on

the ground, was lying on him beating him, while Dmitri hung on to his

hair, beating him, too. They lay right across the way, blocking the

thoroughfare. They were sworn at on all sides while they 'like children'

(the very words of the witnesses) were falling over one another,

squealing, fighting and laughing with the funniest faces, and, chasing

one another like children, they ran into the street. Now take careful

note. The bodies upstairs were warm, you understand, warm when they

found them! If they, or Nikolay alone, had murdered them and broken open

the boxes, or simply taken part in the robbery, allow me to ask you one

question: do their state of mind, their squeals and giggles and childish

scuffling at the gate fit in with axes, bloodshed, fiendish cunning,

robbery? They'd just killed them, not five or ten minutes before, for

the bodies were still warm, and at once, leaving the flat open, knowing

that people would go there at once, flinging away their booty, they

rolled about like children, laughing and attracting general attention.

And there are a dozen witnesses to swear to that!"

"Of course it is strange! It's impossible, indeed, but..."

"No, brother, no _buts_. And if the ear-rings being found in Nikolay's

hands at the very day and hour of the murder constitutes an important

piece of circumstantial evidence against him--although the explanation

given by him accounts for it, and therefore it does not tell seriously

against him--one must take into consideration the facts which prove him

innocent, especially as they are facts that _cannot be denied_. And

do you suppose, from the character of our legal system, that they will

accept, or that they are in a position to accept, this fact--resting

simply on a psychological impossibility--as irrefutable and conclusively

breaking down the circumstantial evidence for the prosecution? No, they

won't accept it, they certainly won't, because they found the jewel-case

and the man tried to hang himself, 'which he could not have done if he

hadn't felt guilty.' That's the point, that's what excites me, you must

understand!"

"Oh, I see you are excited! Wait a bit. I forgot to ask you; what proof

is there that the box came from the old woman?"

"That's been proved," said Razumihin with apparent reluctance, frowning.

"Koch recognised the jewel-case and gave the name of the owner, who

proved conclusively that it was his."

"That's bad. Now another point. Did anyone see Nikolay at the time

that Koch and Pestryakov were going upstairs at first, and is there no

evidence about that?"

"Nobody did see him," Razumihin answered with vexation. "That's the

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