Nicholas Yermolaiyevitch Chubikoff--for that was the magistrate's
name--was a tall, fleshy old man of sixty, who had been wrestling
with the duties of his office for a quarter of a century.
Everybody in the district knew him as an honest man, wise,
energetic, and in love with his work. He was accompanied to the
scene of the murder by his inveterate companion, fellow worker, and
secretary, Dukovski, a tall young fellow of twenty-six.
"Is it possible, gentlemen?" cried Chubikoff, entering Psyekoff's
room, and quickly shaking hands with everyone. Is it possible?
Marcus Ivanovitch? Murdered? No! It is impossible! Im-poss-i-
ble!
"Go in there!" sighed the inspector.
"Lord, have mercy on us! Only last Friday I saw him at the fair in
Farabankoff. I had a drink of vodka with him, save the mark!"
"Go in there!" again sighed the inspector.
They sighed, uttered exclamations of horror, drank a glass of tea
each, and went to the wing.
"Get back!" the orderly cried to the peasants.
Going to the wing, the examining magistrate began his work by
examining the bedroom door. The door proved to be of pine, painted
yellow, and was uninjured. Nothing was found which could serve as
a clew. They had to break in the door.
"Everyone not here on business is requested to keep away!" said the
magistrate, when, after much hammering and shaking, the door
yielded to ax and chisel. "I request this, in the interest of the
investigation. Orderly, don't let anyone in!"
Chubikoff, his assistant, and the inspector opened the door, and
hesitatingly, one after the other, entered the room. Their eyes
met the following sight: Beside the single window stood the big
wooden bed with a huge feather mattress. On the crumpled feather
bed lay a tumbled, crumpled quilt. The pillow, in a cotton pillow-
case, also much crumpled, was dragging on the floor. On the table
beside the bed lay a silver watch and a silver twenty-kopeck piece.
Beside them lay some sulphur matches. Beside the bed, the little
table, and the single chair, there was no furniture in the room.
Looking under the bed, the inspector saw a couple of dozen empty
bottles, an old straw hat, and a quart of vodka. Under the table
lay one top boot, covered with dust. Casting a glance around the
room, the magistrate frowned and grew red in the face.
"Scoundrels!" he muttered, clenching his fists.
"And where is Marcus Ivanovitch?" asked Dukovski in a low voice.
"Mind your own business!" Chubikoff answered roughly. "Be good
enough to examine the floor! This is not the first case of the
kind I have had to deal with! Eugraph Kuzmitch," he said, turning
to the inspector, and lowering his voice, "in 1870 I had another
case like this. But you must remember it--the murder of the
merchant Portraitoff. It was just the same there. The scoundrels
murdered him, and dragged the corpse out through the window--"
Chubikoff went up to the window, pulled the curtain to one side,
and carefully pushed the window. The window opened.
"It opens, you see! It wasn't fastened. Hm! There are tracks
under the window. Look! There is the track of a knee! Somebody
got in there. We must examine the window thoroughly."
"There is nothing special to be found on the floor," said Dukovski.
"No stains or scratches. The only thing I found was a struck
safety match. Here it is! So far as I remember, Marcus Ivanovitch
did not smoke. And he always used sulphur matches, never safety
matches. Perhaps this safety match may serve as a clew!"
"Oh, do shut up!" cried the magistrate deprecatingly. "You go on
about your match! I can't abide these dreamers! Instead of
chasing matches, you had better examine the bed!"
After a thorough examination of the bed, Dukovski reported:
"There are no spots, either of blood or of anything else. There
are likewise no new torn places. On the pillow there are signs of
teeth. The quilt is stained with something which looks like beer
and smells like beer. The general aspect of the bed gives grounds
for thinking that a struggle took place on it."
"I know there was a struggle, without your telling me! You are not
being asked about a struggle. Instead of looking for struggles,
you had better--"
"Here is one top boot, but there is no sign of the other."
"Well, and what of that?"
"It proves that they strangled him, while he was taking his boots
off. He hadn't time to take the second boot off when--"
"There you go!--and how do you know they strangled him?"
"There are marks of teeth on the pillow. The pillow itself is
badly crumpled, and thrown a couple of yards from the bed."
"Listen to his foolishness! Better come into the garden. You
would be better employed examining the garden than digging around
here. I can do that without you!"
When they reached the garden they began by examining the grass.
The grass under the window was crushed and trampled. A bushy
burdock growing under the window close to the wall was also
trampled. Dukovski succeeded in finding on it some broken twigs
and a piece of cotton wool. On the upper branches were found some
fine hairs of dark blue wool.
"What color was his last suit?" Dukovski asked Psyekoff.
Yellow crash."
"Excellent! You see they wore blue!"
A few twigs of the burdock were cut off, and carefully wrapped in
paper by the investigators. At this point Police Captain
Artsuybasheff Svistakovski and Dr. Tyutyeff arrived. The captain
bade them "Good day!" and immediately began to satisfy his
curiosity. The doctor, a tall, very lean man, with dull eyes; a
long nose, and a pointed chin, without greeting anyone or asking
about anything, sat down on a log, sighed, and began:
"The Servians are at war again! What in heaven's name can they
want now? Austria, it's all your doing!"
The examination of the window from the outside did not supply any
conclusive data. The examination of the grass and the bushes
nearest to the window yielded a series of useful clews. For
example, Dukovski succeeded in discovering a long, dark streak,
made up of spots, on the grass, which led some distance into the
center of the garden. The streak ended under one of the lilac
bushes in a dark brown stain. Under this same lilac bush was found
a top boot, which turned out to be the fellow of the boot already
found in the bedroom.
"That is a blood stain made some time ago," said Dukovski,
examining the spot.
At the word "blood" the doctor rose, and going over lazily, looked
at the spot.
"Yes, it is blood!" he muttered.
"That shows he wasn't strangled, if there was blood," said
Chubikoff, looking sarcastically at Dukovski.
"They strangled him in the bedroom; and here, fearing he might come
round again, they struck him a blow with some sharp-pointed
instrument. The stain under the bush proves that he lay there a
considerable time, while they were looking about for some way of
carrying him out of the garden.
"Well, and how about the boot?"
"The boot confirms completely my idea that they murdered him while
he was taking his boots off before going to bed. He had already
taken off one boot, and the other, this one here, he had only had
time to take half off. The half-off boot came off of itself, while
the body was dragged over, and fell--"
"There's a lively imagination for you!" laughed Chubikoff. "He
goes on and on like that! When will you learn enough to drop your
deductions? Instead of arguing and deducing, it would be much
better if you took some of the blood-stained grass for analysis!"
When they had finished their examination, and drawn a plan of the
locality, the investigators went to the director's office to write
their report and have breakfast. While they were breakfasting they
went on talking:
"The watch, the money, and so on--all untouched--" Chubikoff began,
leading off the talk, "show as clearly as that two and two are four
that the murder was not committed for the purpose of robbery."
"The murder was committed by an educated man!" insisted Dukovski.
"What evidence have you of that?"
"The safety match proves that to me, for the peasants hereabouts
are not yet acquainted with safety matches. Only the landowners
use them, and by no means all of them. And it is evident that
there was not one murderer, but at least three." Two held him,
while one killed him. Klausoff was strong, and the murderers must
have known it!
"What good would his strength be, supposing he was asleep?"
"The murderers came on him while he was taking off his boots. If
he was taking off his boots, that proves that he wasn't asleep!"
"Stop inventing your deductions! Better eat!"
"In my opinion, your worship," said the gardener Ephraim, setting
the samovar on the table, "it was nobody but Nicholas who did this
dirty trick!"
"Quite possible," said Psyekoff.
"And who is Nicholas?"
"The master's valet, your worship," answered Ephraim. "Who else
could it be? He's a rascal, your worship! He's a drunkard and a
blackguard, the like of which Heaven should not permit! He always
took the master his vodka and put the master to bed. Who else
could it be? And I also venture to point out to your worship, he
once boasted at the public house that he would kill the master! It
happened on account of Aquilina, the woman, you know. He was
making up to a soldier's widow. She pleased the master; the master
made friends with her himself, and Nicholas--naturally, he was mad!
He is rolling about drunk in the kitchen now. He is crying, and
telling lies, saying he is sorry for the master--"
The examining magistrate ordered Nicholas to be brought. Nicholas,
a lanky young fellow, with a long, freckled nose, narrow-chested,
and wearing an old jacket of his master's, entered Psyekoff's room,
and bowed low before the magistrate. His face was sleepy and tear-
stained. He was tipsy and could hardly keep his feet.
"Where is your master?" Chubikoff asked him.
"Murdered! your worship!"
As he said this, Nicholas blinked and began to weep.
"We know he was murdered. But where is he now? Where is his
body?"
"They say he was dragged out of the window and buried in the
garden!"
"Hum! The results of the investigation are known in the kitchen
already!--That's bad! Where were you, my good fellow, the night
the master was murdered? Saturday night, that is."
Nicholas raised his head, stretched his neck, and began to think.
"I don't know, your worship," he said. "I was drunk and don't
remember."
"An alibi!" whispered Dukovski, smiling, and rubbing his hands.
"So-o! And why is there blood under the master's window?"
Nicholas jerked his head up and considered.
"Hurry up!" said the Captain of Police.
"Right away! That blood doesn't amount to anything, your worship!
I was cutting a chicken's throat. I was doing it quite simply, in
the usual way, when all of a sudden it broke away and started to
run. That is where the blood came from."
Ephraim declared that Nicholas did kill a chicken every evening,
and always in some new place, but that nobody ever heard of a half-
killed chicken running about the garden, though of course it wasn't
impossible.
"An alibi," sneered Dukovski; "and what an asinine alibi!"
"Did you know Aquilina?"
"Yes, your worship, I know her."
"And the master cut you out with her?"
"Not at all. HE cut me out--Mr. Psyekoff there, Ivan
Mikhailovitch; and the master cut Ivan Mikhailovitch out. That is
how it was."
Psyekoff grew confused and began to scratch his left eye. Dukovski
looked at him attentively, noted his confusion, and started. He
noticed that the director had dark blue trousers, which he had not
observed before. The trousers reminded him of the dark blue
threads found on the burdock. Chubikoff in his turn glanced
suspiciously at Psyekoff.
"Go!" he said to Nicholas. "And now permit me to put a question to
you, Mr. Psyekoff. Of course you were here last Saturday evening?"
"Yes! I had supper with Marcus Ivanovitch about ten o'clock."
"And afterwards?"
"Afterwards--afterwards--Really, I do not remember," stammered
Psyekoff. "I had a good deal to drink at supper. I don't remember
when or where I went to sleep. Why are you all looking at me like
that, as if I was the murderer?"
"Where were you when you woke up?"
"I was in the servants' kitchen, lying behind the stove! They can
all confirm it. How I got behind the stove I don't know
"Do not get agitated. Did you know Aquilina?"
"There's nothing extraordinary about that--"
"She first liked you and then preferred Klausoff?"
"Yes. Ephraim, give us some more mushrooms! Do you want some more
tea, Eugraph Kuzmitch?"
A heavy, oppressive silence began and lasted fully five minutes.
Dukovski silently kept his piercing eyes fixed on Psyekoff's pale
face. The silence was finally broken by the examining magistrate:
"We must go to the house and talk with Maria Ivanovna, the sister
of the deceased. Perhaps she may be able to supply some clews."
Chubikoff and his assistant expressed their thanks for the
breakfast, and went toward the house. They found Klausoff's
sister, Maria Ivanovna, an old maid of forty-five, at prayer before
the big case of family icons. When she saw the portfolios in her
guests' hands, and their official caps, she grew pale.
"Let me begin by apologizing for disturbing, so to speak, your
devotions," began the gallant Chubikoff, bowing and scraping. "We
have come to you with a request. Of course, you have heard
already. There is a suspicion that your dear brother, in some way
or other, has been murdered. The will of God, you know. No one
can escape death, neither czar nor plowman. Could you not help us
with some clew, some explanation--?"
"Oh, don't ask me!" said Maria Ivanovna, growing still paler, and
covering her face with her hands. "I can tell you nothing.
Nothing! I beg you! I know nothing--What can I do? Oh, no! no!--
not a word about my brother! If I die, I won't say anything!"
Maria Ivanovna began to weep, and left the room. The investigators
looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, and beat a retreat.
"Confound the woman!" scolded Dukovski, going out of the house.
"It is clear she knows something, and is concealing it! And the
chambermaid has a queer expression too! Wait, you wretches! We'll
ferret it all out!"
In the evening Chubikoff and his deputy, lit on their road by the
pale moon, wended their way homeward. They sat in their carriage
and thought over the results of the day. Both were tired and kept
silent. Chubikoff was always unwilling to talk while traveling,
and the talkative Dukovski remained silent, to fall in with the
elder man's humor. But at the end of their journey the deputy
could hold in no longer, and said:
"It is quite certain," he said, "that Nicholas had something to do
with the matter. Non dubitandum est! You can see by his face what
sort of a case he is! His alibi betrays him, body and bones. But
it is also certain that he did not set the thing going. He was
only the stupid hired tool. You agree? And the humble Psyekoff
was not without some slight share in the matter. His dark blue
breeches, his agitation, his lying behind the stove in terror after
the murder, his alibi and--Aquilina--"
"'Grind away, Emilian; it's your week!' So, according to you,
whoever knew Aquilina is the murderer! Hothead! You ought to be
sucking a bottle, and not handling affairs! You were one of
Aquilina's admirers yourself--does it follow that you are
implicated too?"
"Aquilina was cook in your house for a month. I am saying nothing
about that! The night before that Saturday I was playing cards
with you, and saw you, otherwise I should be after you too! It
isn't the woman that matters, old chap! It is the mean, nasty, low
spirit of jealousy that matters. The retiring young man was not
pleased when they got the better of him, you see! His vanity,
don't you see? He wanted revenge. Then, those thick lips of his
suggest passion. So there you have it: wounded self-love and
passion. That is quite enough motive for a murder. We have two of
them in our hands; but who is the third? Nicholas and Psyekoff
held him, but who smothered him? Psyekoff is shy, timid, an all-
round coward. And Nicholas would not know how to smother with a
pillow. His sort use an ax or a club. Some third person did the
smothering; but who was it?"
Dukovski crammed his hat down over his eyes and pondered. He
remained silent until the carriage rolled up to the magistrate's
door.
"Eureka!" he said, entering the little house and throwing off his
overcoat. "Eureka, Nicholas Yermolaiyevitch! The only thing I
can't understand is, how it did not occur to me sooner! Do you
know who the third person was?"
"Oh, for goodness sake, shut up! There is supper! Sit down to
your evening meal!"
The magistrate and Dukovski sat down to supper. Dukovski poured
himself out a glass of vodka, rose, drew himself up, and said, with
sparkling eyes:
"Well, learn that the third person, who acted in concert with that
scoundrel Psyekoff, and did the smothering, was a woman! Yes-s! I
mean--the murdered man's sister, Maria Ivanovna!"
Chubikoff choked over his vodka, and fixed his eyes on Dukovski.
"You aren't--what's-its-name? Your head isn't what-do-you-call-it?
You haven't a pain in it?"
"I am perfectly well! Very well, let us say that I am crazy; but
how do you explain her confusion when we appeared? How do you
explain her unwillingness to give us any information? Let us admit
that these are trifles. Very well! All right! But remember their
relations. She detested her brother. She never forgave him for
living apart from his wife. She is of the Old Faith, while in her
eyes he is a godless profligate. There is where the germ of her
hate was hatched. They say he succeeded in making her believe that
he was an angel of Satan. He even went in for spiritualism in her
presence!
"Well, what of that?"
"You don't understand? She, as a member of the Old Faith, murdered
him through fanaticism. It was not only that she was putting to
death a weed, a profligate--she was freeing the world of an
antichrist!--and there, in her opinion, was her service, her
religious achievement! Oh, you don't know those old maids of the
Old Faith. Read Dostoyevsky! And what does Lyeskoff say about
them, or Petcherski? It was she, and nobody else, even if you cut
me open. She smothered him! O treacherous woman! wasn't that the
reason why she was kneeling before the icons, when we came in, just
to take our attention away? 'Let me kneel down and pray,' she said
to herself, 'and they will think I am tranquil and did not expect
them!' That is the plan of all novices in crime, Nicholas
Yermolaiyevitch, old pal! My dear old man, won't you intrust this
business to me? Let me personally bring it through! Friend, I
began it and I will finish it!"
Chubikoff shook his head and frowned.
"We know how to manage difficult matters ourselves," he said; "and
your business is not to push yourself in where you don't belong.
Write from dictation when you are dictated to; that is your job!"
Dukovski flared up, banged the door, and disappeared.
"Clever rascal!" muttered Chubikoff, glancing after him. "Awfully
clever! But too much of a hothead. I must buy him a cigar case at
the fair as a present."
The next day, early in the morning, a young man with a big head and
a pursed-up mouth, who came from Klausoff's place, was introduced
to the magistrate's office. He said he was the shepherd Daniel,
and brought a very interesting piece of information.
"I was a bit drunk," he said. "I was with my pal till midnight.
On my way home, as I was drunk, I went into the river for a bath.
I was taking a bath, when I looked up. Two men were walking along
the dam, carrying something black. 'Shoo!' I cried at them. They
got scared, and went off like the wind toward Makareff's cabbage
garden. Strike me dead, if they weren't carrying away the master!"
That same day, toward evening, Psyekoff and Nicholas were arrested
and brought under guard to the district town. In the town they
were committed to the cells of the prison.
II
A fortnight passed.
It was morning. The magistrate Nicholas Yermolaiyevitch was
sitting in his office before a green table, turning over the papers
of the "Klausoff case"; Dukovski was striding restlessly up and
down, like a wolf in a cage.
"You are convinced of the guilt of Nicholas and Psyekoff," he said,
nervously plucking at his young beard. "Why will you not believe
in the guilt of Maria Ivanovna? Are there not proofs enough for
you?"
"I don't say I am not convinced. I am convinced, but somehow I
don't believe it! There are no real proofs, but just a kind of
philosophizing--fanaticism, this and that--"
"You can't do without an ax and bloodstained sheets. Those
jurists! Very well, I'll prove it to you! You will stop sneering
at the psychological side of the affair! To Siberia with your
Maria Ivanovna! I will prove it! If philosophy is not enough for
you, I have something substantial for you. It will show you how
correct my philosophy is. Just give me permission--"
"What are you going on about?"
"About the safety match! Have you forgotten it? I haven't! I am
going to find out who struck it in the murdered man's room. It was
not Nicholas that struck it; it was not Psyekoff, for neither of
them had any matches when they were examined; it was the third
person, Maria Ivanovna. I will prove it to you. Just give me
permission to go through the district to find out."
"That's enough! Sit down. Let us go on with the examination."
Dukovski sat down at a little table, and plunged his long nose in a
bundle of papers.
"Bring in Nicholas Tetekhoff!" cried the examining magistrate.
They brought Nicholas in. Nicholas was pale and thin as a rail.
He was trembling.
"Tetekhoff!" began Chubikoff. "In 1879 you were tried in the Court
of the First Division, convicted of theft, and sentenced to
imprisonment. In 1882 you were tried a second time for theft, and
were again imprisoned. We know all--"
Astonishment was depicted on Nicholas's face. The examining
magistrate's omniscience startled him. But soon his expression of
astonishment changed to extreme indignation. He began to cry and
requested permission to go and wash his face and quiet down. They
led him away.
"Brink in Psyekoff!" ordered the examining magistrate. They
brought in Psyekoff. The young man had changed greatly during the
last few days. He had grown thin and pale, and looked haggard.
His eyes had an apathetic expression.
"Sit down, Psyekoff," said Chubikoff. "I hope that today you are
going to be reasonable, and will not tell lies, as you did before.
All these days you have denied that you had anything to do with the
murder of Klausoff, in spite of all the proofs that testify against
you. That is foolish. Confession will lighten your guilt. This
is the last time I am going to talk to you. If you do not confess
to-day, to-morrow it will be too late. Come, tell me all--"
"I know nothing about it. I know nothing about your proofs,"
answered Psyekoff, almost inaudibly.
"It's no use! Well, let me relate to you how the matter took
place. On Saturday evening you were sitting in Klausoff's sleeping
room, and drinking vodka and beer with him." (Dukovski fixed his
eyes on Psyekoff's face, and kept them there all through the
examination.) "Nicholas was waiting on you. At one o'clock,
Marcus Ivanovitch announced his intention of going to bed. He
always went to bed at one o'clock. When he was taking off his
boots, and was giving you directions about details of management,
you and Nicholas, at a given signal, seized your drunken master and
threw him on the bed. One of you sat on his legs, the other on his
head. Then a third person came in from the passage--a woman in a
black dress, whom you know well, and who had previously arranged
with you as to her share in your criminal deed. She seized a
pillow and began to smother him. While the struggle was going on
the candle went out. The woman took a box of safety matches from
her pocket, and lit the candle. Was it not so? I see by your face
that I am speaking the truth. But to go on. After you had
smothered him, and saw that he had ceased breathing, you and
Nicholas pulled him out through the window and laid him down near
the burdock. Fearing that he might come round again, you struck
him with something sharp. Then you carried him away, and laid him
down under a lilac bush for a short time. After resting awhile and
considering, you carried him across the fence. Then you entered
the road. After that comes the dam. Near the dam, a peasant
frightened you. Well, what is the matter with you?"
"I am suffocating!" replied Psyekoff. "Very well--have it so.
Only let me go out, please!"
They led Psyekoff away.
"At last! He has confessed!" cried Chubikoff, stretching himself
luxuriously. "He has betrayed himself! And didn't I get round him
cleverly! Regularly caught him flapping--"