II

Twelve days passed.

It was morning. The examining magistrate, Nikolay Yermolaitch, was

sitting at a green table at home, looking through the papers,

relating to the "Klyauzov case"; Dyukovsky was pacing up and down

the room restlessly, like a wolf in a cage.

"You are convinced of the guilt of Nikolashka and Psyekov," he said,

nervously pulling at his youthful beard. "Why is it you refuse to

be convinced of the guilt of Marya Ivanovna? Haven't you evidence

enough?"

"I don't say that I don't believe in it. I am convinced of it, but

somehow I can't believe it. . . . There is no real evidence. It's

all theoretical, as it were. . . . Fanaticism and one thing and

another. . . ."

"And you must have an axe and bloodstained sheets! . . . You lawyers!

Well, I will prove it to you then! Do give up your slip-shod attitude

to the psychological aspect of the case. Your Marya Ivanovna ought

to be in Siberia! I'll prove it. If theoretical proof is not enough

for you, I have something material. . . . It will show you how right

my theory is! Only let me go about a little!"

"What are you talking about?"

"The Swedish match! Have you forgotten? I haven't forgotten it!

I'll find out who struck it in the murdered man's room! It was not

struck by Nikolashka, nor by Psyekov, neither of whom turned out

to have matches when searched, but a third person, that is Marya

Ivanovna. And I will prove it! . . . Only let me drive about the

district, make some inquiries. . . ."

"Oh, very well, sit down. . . . Let us proceed to the examination."

Dyukovsky sat down to the table, and thrust his long nose into the

papers.

"Bring in Nikolay Tetchov!" cried the examining magistrate.

Nikolashka was brought in. He was pale and thin as a chip. He was

trembling.

"Tetchov!" began Tchubikov. "In 1879 you were convicted of theft

and condemned to a term of imprisonment. In 1882 you were condemned

for theft a second time, and a second time sent to prison . . . We

know all about it. . . ."

A look of surprise came up into Nikolashka's face. The examining

magistrate's omniscience amazed him, but soon wonder was replaced

by an expression of extreme distress. He broke into sobs, and asked

leave to go to wash, and calm himself. He was led out.

"Bring in Psyekov!" said the examining magistrate.

Psyekov was led in. The young man's face had greatly changed during

those twelve days. He was thin, pale, and wasted. There was a look

of apathy in his eyes.

"Sit down, Psyekov," said Tchubikov. "I hope that to-day you will

be sensible and not persist in lying as on other occasions. All

this time you have denied your participation in the murder of

Klyauzov, in spite of the mass of evidence against you. It is

senseless. Confession is some mitigation of guilt. To-day I am

talking to you for the last time. If you don't confess to-day,

to-morrow it will be too late. Come, tell us. . . ."

"I know nothing, and I don't know your evidence," whispered Psyekov.

"That's useless! Well then, allow me to tell you how it happened.

On Saturday evening, you were sitting in Klyauzov's bedroom drinking

vodka and beer with him." (Dyukovsky riveted his eyes on Psyekov's

face, and did not remove them during the whole monologue.) "Nikolay

was waiting upon you. Between twelve and one Mark Ivanitch told you

he wanted to go to bed. He always did go to bed at that time. While

he was taking off his boots and giving you some instructions regarding

the estate, Nikolay and you at a given signal seized your intoxicated

master and flung him back upon the bed. One of you sat on his feet,

the other on his head. At that moment the lady, you know who, in a

black dress, who had arranged with you beforehand the part she would

take in the crime, came in from the passage. She picked up the

pillow, and proceeded to smother him with it. During the struggle,

the light went out. The woman took a box of Swedish matches out of

her pocket and lighted the candle. Isn't that right? I see from

your face that what I say is true. Well, to proceed. . . . Having

smothered him, and being convinced that he had ceased to breathe,

Nikolay and you dragged him out of window and put him down near the

burdocks. Afraid that he might regain consciousness, you struck him

with something sharp. Then you carried him, and laid him for some

time under a lilac bush. After resting and considering a little,

you carried him . . . lifted him over the hurdle. . . . Then went

along the road. . . Then comes the dam; near the dam you were

frightened by a peasant. But what is the matter with you?"

Psyekov, white as a sheet, got up, staggering.

"I am suffocating!" he said. "Very well. . . . So be it. . . . Only

I must go. . . . Please."

Psyekov was led out.

"At last he has admitted it!" said Tchubikov, stretching at his

ease. "He has given himself away! How neatly I caught him there."

"And he didn't deny the woman in black!" said Dyukovsky, laughing.

"I am awfully worried over that Swedish match, though! I can't

endure it any longer. Good-bye! I am going!"

Dyukovsky put on his cap and went off. Tchubikov began interrogating

Akulka.

Akulka declared that she knew nothing about it. . . .

"I have lived with you and with nobody else!" she said.

At six o'clock in the evening Dyukovsky returned. He was more excited

than ever. His hands trembled so much that he could not unbutton

his overcoat. His cheeks were burning. It was evident that he had

not come back without news.

"_Veni, vidi, vici!_" he cried, dashing into Tchubikov's room and

sinking into an arm-chair. "I vow on my honour, I begin to believe

in my own genius. Listen, damnation take us! Listen and wonder, old

friend! It's comic and it's sad. You have three in your grasp already

. . . haven't you? I have found a fourth murderer, or rather

murderess, for it is a woman! And what a woman! I would have given

ten years of my life merely to touch her shoulders. But . . . listen.

I drove to Klyauzovka and proceeded to describe a spiral round it.

On the way I visited all the shopkeepers and innkeepers, asking for

Swedish matches. Everywhere I was told 'No.' I have been on my round

up to now. Twenty times I lost hope, and as many times regained it.

I have been on the go all day long, and only an hour ago came upon

what I was looking for. A couple of miles from here they gave me a

packet of a dozen boxes of matches. One box was missing . . . I

asked at once: 'Who bought that box?' 'So-and-so. She took a fancy

to them. . . They crackle.' My dear fellow! Nikolay Yermolaitch!

What can sometimes be done by a man who has been expelled from a

seminary and studied Gaboriau is beyond all conception! From to-day

I shall began to respect myself! . . . Ough. . . . Well, let us

go!"

"Go where?"

"To her, to the fourth. . . . We must make haste, or . . . I shall

explode with impatience! Do you know who she is? You will never

guess. The young wife of our old police superintendent, Yevgraf

Kuzmitch, Olga Petrovna; that's who it is! She bought that box of

matches!"

"You . . . you. . . . Are you out of your mind?"

"It's very natural! In the first place she smokes, and in the second

she was head over ears in love with Klyauzov. He rejected her love

for the sake of an Akulka. Revenge. I remember now, I once came

upon them behind the screen in the kitchen. She was cursing him,

while he was smoking her cigarette and puffing the smoke into her

face. But do come along; make haste, for it is getting dark already

. . . . Let us go!"

"I have not gone so completely crazy yet as to disturb a respectable,

honourable woman at night for the sake of a wretched boy!"

"Honourable, respectable. . . . You are a rag then, not an examining

magistrate! I have never ventured to abuse you, but now you force

me to it! You rag! you old fogey! Come, dear Nikolay Yermolaitch,

I entreat you!"

The examining magistrate waved his hand in refusal and spat in

disgust.

"I beg you! I beg you, not for my own sake, but in the interests

of justice! I beseech you, indeed! Do me a favour, if only for once

in your life!"

Dyukovsky fell on his knees.

"Nikolay Yermolaitch, do be so good! Call me a scoundrel, a worthless

wretch if I am in error about that woman! It is such a case, you

know! It is a case! More like a novel than a case. The fame of it

will be all over Russia. They will make you examining magistrate

for particularly important cases! Do understand, you unreasonable

old man!"

The examining magistrate frowned and irresolutely put out his hand

towards his hat.

"Well, the devil take you!" he said, "let us go."

It was already dark when the examining magistrate's waggonette

rolled up to the police superintendent's door.

"What brutes we are!" said Tchubikov, as he reached for the bell.

"We are disturbing people."

"Never mind, never mind, don't be frightened. We will say that one

of the springs has broken."

Tchubikov and Dyukovsky were met in the doorway by a tall, plump

woman of three and twenty, with eyebrows as black as pitch and full

red lips. It was Olga Petrovna herself.

"Ah, how very nice," she said, smiling all over her face. "You are

just in time for supper. My Yevgraf Kuzmitch is not at home. . . .

He is staying at the priest's. But we can get on without him. Sit

down. Have you come from an inquiry?"

"Yes. . . . We have broken one of our springs, you know," began

Tchubikov, going into the drawing-room and sitting down in an

easy-chair.

"Take her by surprise at once and overwhelm her," Dyukovsky whispered

to him.

"A spring .. . er . . . yes. . . . We just drove up. . . ."

"Overwhelm her, I tell you! She will guess if you go drawing it

out."

"Oh, do as you like, but spare me," muttered Tchubikov, getting up

and walking to the window. "I can't! You cooked the mess, you eat

it!"

"Yes, the spring," Dyukovsky began, going up to the superintendent's

wife and wrinkling his long nose. "We have not come in to . . .

er-er-er . . . supper, nor to see Yevgraf Kuzmitch. We have come

to ask you, madam, where is Mark Ivanovitch whom you have murdered?"

"What? What Mark Ivanovitch?" faltered the superintendent's wife,

and her full face was suddenly in one instant suffused with crimson.

"I . . . don't understand."

"I ask you in the name of the law! Where is Klyauzov? We know all

about it!"

"Through whom?" the superintendent's wife asked slowly, unable to

face Dyukovsky's eyes.

"Kindly inform us where he is!"

"But how did you find out? Who told you?"

"We know all about it. I insist in the name of the law."

The examining magistrate, encouraged by the lady's confusion, went

up to her.

"Tell us and we will go away. Otherwise we . . ."

"What do you want with him?"

"What is the object of such questions, madam? We ask you for

information. You are trembling, confused. . . . Yes, he has been

murdered, and if you will have it, murdered by you! Your accomplices

have betrayed you!"

The police superintendent's wife turned pale.

"Come along," she said quietly, wringing her hands. "He is hidden

in the bath-house. Only for God's sake, don't tell my husband! I

implore you! It would be too much for him."

The superintendent's wife took a big key from the wall, and led her

visitors through the kitchen and the passage into the yard. It was

dark in the yard. There was a drizzle of fine rain. The superintendent's

wife went on ahead. Tchubikov and Dyukovsky strode after her through

the long grass, breathing in the smell of wild hemp and slops, which

made a squelching sound under their feet. It was a big yard. Soon

there were no more pools of slops, and their feet felt ploughed

land. In the darkness they saw the silhouette of trees, and among

the trees a little house with a crooked chimney.

"This is the bath-house," said the superintendent's wife, "but, I

implore you, do not tell anyone."

Going up to the bath-house, Tchubikov and Dyukovsky saw a large

padlock on the door.

"Get ready your candle-end and matches," Tchubikov whispered to his

assistant.

The superintendent's wife unlocked the padlock and let the visitors

into the bath-house. Dyukovsky struck a match and lighted up the

entry. In the middle of it stood a table. On the table, beside a

podgy little samovar, was a soup tureen with some cold cabbage-soup

in it, and a dish with traces of some sauce on it.

"Go on!"

They went into the next room, the bath-room. There, too, was a

table. On the table there stood a big dish of ham, a bottle of

vodka, plates, knives and forks.

"But where is he . . . where's the murdered man?"

"He is on the top shelf," whispered the superintendent's wife,

turning paler than ever and trembling.

Dyukovsky took the candle-end in his hand and climbed up to the

upper shelf. There he saw a long, human body, lying motionless on

a big feather bed. The body emitted a faint snore. . . .

"They have made fools of us, damn it all!" Dyukovsky cried. "This

is not he! It is some living blockhead lying here. Hi! who are you,

damnation take you!"

The body drew in its breath with a whistling sound and moved.

Dyukovsky prodded it with his elbow. It lifted up its arms, stretched,

and raised its head.

"Who is that poking?" a hoarse, ponderous bass voice inquired. "What

do you want?"

Dyukovsky held the candle-end to the face of the unknown and uttered

a shriek. In the crimson nose, in the ruffled, uncombed hair, in

the pitch-black moustaches of which one was jauntily twisted and

pointed insolently towards the ceiling, he recognised Cornet Klyauzov.

"You. . . . Mark . . . Ivanitch! Impossible!"

The examining magistrate looked up and was dumbfoundered.

"It is I, yes. . . . And it's you, Dyukovsky! What the devil do you

want here? And whose ugly mug is that down there? Holy Saints, it's

the examining magistrate! How in the world did you come here?"

Klyauzov hurriedly got down and embraced Tchubikov. Olga Petrovna

whisked out of the door.

"However did you come? Let's have a drink!--dash it all! Tra-ta-ti-to-tom

. . . . Let's have a drink! Who brought you here, though? How did you

get to know I was here? It doesn't matter, though! Have a drink!"

Klyauzov lighted the lamp and poured out three glasses of vodka.

"The fact is, I don't understand you," said the examining magistrate,

throwing out his hands. "Is it you, or not you?"

"Stop that. . . . Do you want to give me a sermon? Don't trouble

yourself! Dyukovsky boy, drink up your vodka! Friends, let us pass

the . . . What are you staring at . . . ? Drink!"

"All the same, I can't understand," said the examining magistrate,

mechanically drinking his vodka. "Why are you here?"

"Why shouldn't I be here, if I am comfortable here?"

Klyauzov sipped his vodka and ate some ham.

"I am staying with the superintendent's wife, as you see. In the

wilds among the ruins, like some house goblin. Drink! I felt sorry

for her, you know, old man! I took pity on her, and, well, I am

living here in the deserted bath-house, like a hermit. . . . I am

well fed. Next week I am thinking of moving on. . . . I've had

enough of it. . . ."

"Inconceivable!" said Dyukovsky.

"What is there inconceivable in it?"

"Inconceivable! For God's sake, how did your boot get into the

garden?"

"What boot?"

"We found one of your boots in the bedroom and the other in the

garden."

"And what do you want to know that for? It is not your business.

But do drink, dash it all. Since you have waked me up, you may as

well drink! There's an interesting tale about that boot, my boy. I

didn't want to come to Olga's. I didn't feel inclined, you know,

I'd had a drop too much. . . . She came under the window and began

scolding me. . . . You know how women . . . as a rule. Being drunk,

I up and flung my boot at her. Ha-ha! . . . 'Don't scold,' I said.

She clambered in at the window, lighted the lamp, and gave me a

good drubbing, as I was drunk. I have plenty to eat here. . . .

Love, vodka, and good things! But where are you off to? Tchubikov,

where are you off to?"

The examining magistrate spat on the floor and walked out of the

bath-house. Dyukovsky followed him with his head hanging. Both got

into the waggonette in silence and drove off. Never had the road

seemed so long and dreary. Both were silent. Tchubikov was shaking

with anger all the way. Dyukovsky hid his face in his collar as

though he were afraid the darkness and the drizzling rain might

read his shame on his face.

On getting home the examining magistrate found the doctor, Tyutyuev,

there. The doctor was sitting at the table and heaving deep sighs

as he turned over the pages of the _Neva_.

"The things that are going on in the world," he said, greeting the

examining magistrate with a melancholy smile. "Austria is at it

again . . . and Gladstone, too, in a way. . . ."

Tchubikov flung his hat under the table and began to tremble.

"You devil of a skeleton! Don't bother me! I've told you a thousand

times over, don't bother me with your politics! It's not the time

for politics! And as for you," he turned upon Dyukovsky and shook

his fist at him, "as for you. . . . I'll never forget it, as long

as I live!"

"But the Swedish match, you know! How could I tell. . . ."

"Choke yourself with your match! Go away and don't irritate me, or

goodness knows what I shall do to you. Don't let me set eyes on

you."

Dyukovsky heaved a sigh, took his hat, and went out.

"I'll go and get drunk!" he decided, as he went out of the gate,

and he sauntered dejectedly towards the tavern.

When the superintendent's wife got home from the bath-house she

found her husband in the drawing-room.

"What did the examining magistrate come about?" asked her husband.

"He came to say that they had found Klyauzov. Only fancy, they found

him staying with another man's wife."

"Ah, Mark Ivanitch, Mark Ivanitch!" sighed the police superintendent,

turning up his eyes. "I told you that dissipation would lead to no

good! I told you so--you wouldn't heed me!"