Leonka was the idol of the whole establishment, beginning with Madame,
and descending to the tiniest servant. In these places where boredom,
indolence, and cheap literature produce feverishly romantic tastes, the
extreme of adoration is lavished on thieves and detectives, because of
their heroic lives, which are full of fascinating risks, dangers and
adventures. Leonka used to appear in the most varied costumes, at times
almost made up. Sometimes he kept a meaning and mysterious silence.
Above all every one remembered very well that he often proclaimed
that the local police had an unbounded respect for him and fulfilled
his orders blindly. In one case he had said three or four words in a
mysterious jargon, and that was enough to send a few thieves who were
behaving rowdily in the house crawling into the street. Besides there
were times when he had a great deal of money. It is easy to understand
that Henrietta, whom he called Genka and with whom he had an assiduous
affair, was treated with a jealous respect.
He was a young man with a swarthy, freckled face, with black moustaches
that pointed up to his very eyes. His chin was short, firm and broad;
his eyes were dark, handsome and impudent. He was sitting on the sofa
in his shirt-sleeves, his waistcoat unbuttoned and his necktie loose.
He was small but well proportioned. His broad chest and his muscles, so
big that his shirt seemed ready to tear at the shoulder, were eloquent
of his strength. Genka sat close to him with her feet on the sofa;
Clotilde was opposite. Sipping his liqueur slowly with his red lips, in
an artificially elegant voice he told his tale unconcernedly:
‘They brought him to the station. His passport--Korney Sapietov,
resident in Kolpin or something of the kind. Of course the devil was
drunk, absolutely. “Put him into a cold cell and sober him down.”
General rule. That very moment I happened to drop into the inspector’s
office. I had a look. By Jove, an old friend: Sanka the Butcher--triple
murder and sacrilege. Instantly I gave the constable on duty a wink,
and went out into the corridor as though nothing had happened. The
constable came out to me. “What’s the matter, Leonti Spiridonovich?”
“Just send that gentleman round to the Detective Bureau for a minute.”
They brought him. Not a muscle in his face moved. I just looked him
in the eyes and said’:--Leonka rapped his knuckles meaningly on the
table--‘“Is it a long time, Sanka, since you left Odessa and decided
to honour us here?” Of course he’s quite indifferent--playing the
fool. Not a word. Oh, he’s a bright one, too. “I haven’t any idea
who Sanka the Butcher is. I am ... so and so.” So I come up to him,
catch hold of him by the beard--hey, presto--the beard’s left in my
hand. False!... “Will you own up now, you son of a bitch?” “I haven’t
any idea.” Then I let fly straight at his nose--once, twice--a bloody
mess. “Will you own up?” “I haven’t any idea.” “Ah, that’s your game,
is it? I gave you a decent chance before. Now, you’ve got yourself to
thank. Bring Arsenti the Flea here.” We had a prisoner of that name. He
hated Sanka to death. Of course, my dear, I knew how they stood. They
brought the Flea. “Well, Flea, who’s this gentleman?” The Flea laughs.
“Why Sanka the Butcher, of course? How do you do, Sanichka? Have you
been honouring us a long while? How did you get on in Odessa?” Then the
Butcher gave in. “All right, Leonti Spiridonovich. I give in. Nothing
can get away from you. Give us a cigarette.” Of course I gave him one.
I never refuse them, out of charity. The servant of God was taken away.
He just looked at the Flea, no more. I thought, well, the Flea will
have to pay for that. The Butcher will do him in for sure.’
‘Do him in?’ Genka asked with servile confidence, in a terrified
whisper.
‘Absolutely. Do him in. That’s the kind of man he is!’
He sipped his glass complacently. Genka looked at him with fixed,
frightened eyes, so intently that her mouth even opened and watered.
She smacked her hands on her lips.
‘My God, how awful! Just think, Clotilduchka! And you weren’t afraid,
Leonya?’
‘Well, am I to be frightened of every vagabond?’
The rapt attention of the woman excited him, and he began to invent
a story that students had been making bombs somewhere on Vassiliev
Island, and that the Government had instructed him to arrest the
conspirators. Bombs there were--it was proved afterwards--twelve
thousand of them. If they’d all exploded then not only the house
they were in, but half Petersburg, perhaps, would have been blown
to atoms.... Next came a thrilling story of Leonka’s extraordinary
heroism, when he disguised himself as a student, entered the ‘devil’s
workshop,’ gave a sign to some one outside the window, and disarmed the
villains in a second. He caught one of them by the sleeve at the very
moment when he was going to explode a lot of bombs.
Genka groaned, was terror-stricken, slapped her legs, and continually
turned to Clotilde with exclamations:
‘Ah! what do you think of all that? Just think what scoundrels these
students are, Clotilduchka! I never liked them.’
At last, stirred to her very depths by her lover, she hung on his neck
and began to kiss him loudly.
‘Leonichka, my darling! It’s terrible to listen to, even! And you
aren’t frightened of anything!’
He complacently twisted his left moustache upwards, and let drop
carelessly: ‘Why be afraid? You can only die once. That’s what I’m paid
for.’
Clotilde was tormented all the while by jealous envy of her friend’s
magnificent lover. She vaguely suspected that there was a great deal
of lying in Leonka’s stories; while she now had something utterly
extraordinary in her hands, such as no one had ever had before,
something that would immediately take all the shine out of Leonka’s
exploits. For some minutes she hesitated. A faint echo of the tender
pity for Ribnikov still restrained her. But a hysterical yearning to
shine took hold of her, and she said in a dull, quiet voice: ‘Do you
know what I wanted to tell you, Leonya? I’ve got such a queer visitor
to-day.’
‘H’m. You think he’s a sharper?’ he asked condescendingly. Genka was
offended.
‘A sharper, you say! That’s your story. Some drunken officer.’
‘No, you mustn’t say that,’ Leonka pompously interrupted. ‘It happens
that sharpers get themselves up as officers. What was it you were going
to say, Clotilde?’
Then she told the story of Ribnikov with every detail, displaying a
petty and utterly feminine talent for observation: she told how they
called him General Kuroki, his Japanese face, his strange tenderness
and passion, his delirium, and finally now he said ‘Banzai!’
‘You’re not lying?’ Leonka said quickly. Keen points of fire lit in his
eyes.
‘I swear it’s true! May I be rooted to the ground if it’s a lie! You
look through the keyhole, I’ll go in and open the shutter. He’s as like
a Japanese as two peas.’
Leonka rose. Without haste, with a serious look, he put on his
overcoat, carefully feeling his left inside pocket.
‘Come on,’ he said resolutely. ‘Who did he arrive with?’
Only Karyukov and Strahlmann remained of the all-night party. Karyukov
could not be awakened, and Strahlmann muttered something indistinctly.
He was still half drunk and his eyes were heavy and red.
‘What officer? Blast him to hell! He came up to us when we were in the
“Buff,” but where he came from nobody knows.’
He began to dress immediately, snorting angrily. Leonka apologised
and went out. He had already managed to get a glimpse of Ribnikov’s
face through the keyhole, and though he had some doubts remaining, he
was a good patriot, distinguished for impertinence and not devoid of
imagination. He decided to act on his own responsibility. In a moment
he was on the balcony whistling for help.