一八八五年十月六日早晨，某縣第二區警察分局長辦公室里，走進來一個裝束考究的青年人，報告說：他的東家，退役的近衛軍騎兵少尉瑪爾克·伊凡諾維奇·克里亞烏左夫，遇害身亡。青年人報告這件事的時候，臉色蒼白，极其激動。
他雙手不住發抖，眼睛里充滿恐怖。
“請問，您是什么人？"警察分局長問他說。
“普塞科夫，克里亞烏左夫庄園的總管。農藝師和机械師。"警察分局長和證人們，會同普塞科夫一起來到出事地點，發現情況如下：克里亞烏左夫所住的廂房四周，圍著一群人。
出事的消息猶如風馳電掣，傳遍附近一帶。正巧這天是節日，附近各村的人紛紛赶來，聚在廂房附近。到處是嘈雜聲和談話聲。這儿那儿可以見到蒼白而帶著淚痕的臉。克里亞烏左夫的臥室房門，經查明是鎖著的。房門里邊，鎖眼內插著鑰匙。
“顯然，坏人是從窗口爬進去，害死他的，"在檢查房門的時候，普塞科夫說。
他們走進花園，臥室窗子正對著花園。窗子看上去陰森而凶險。窗上挂著綠色窗帘，褪了色。窗帘的一角略微往外掀起，這就使人看得見臥室里面。
“你們誰在窗口往里看過？"警察分局長問。
“沒有人看過，老爺，"花匠葉弗烈木說。他是個身材矮孝頭發灰白的小老頭，帶著退役的軍士的臉容。"大家的腿打哆嗦，顧不上看了。”“唉，瑪爾克·伊凡內奇，瑪爾克·伊凡內奇１啊！"警察分局長瞧著窗口歎道。“我早就對你說過，你的下場好不了！
我早就對你說過，可怜的人，可你就是不听！放蕩不會有好下場啊！”“這倒多虧葉弗烈木，"普塞科夫說，"要不是他，我們至今還蒙在鼓里呢。他 頭一個想起來事情有點蹊蹺。今天早晨他來找我，說：'為什么我們的東家睡這么久還沒醒？他足足有一個星期沒走出臥室了！'他對我說出這句話，就象迎頭給我 一斧子似的。……立刻有個想法在我心里一閃。……他從上星期六七就沒露過面，而今天已經是星期日！七天了，這可不是鬧著玩的！
１瑪爾克·伊凡諾維奇的簡稱。
“是啊，可怜的人，……"警察分局長又歎道。"挺聰明的人，又受過教育，心眼那么好。在朋友們當中，可以說，他是個數一數二的人。可他就是生 活放蕩，祝他升天堂吧！這我早就料到了！斯捷潘，"警察分局長轉過身去對證人說，"你馬上坐車到我家里去，打發安德留希卡去找縣警察局長，向他報告一聲！ 就說瑪爾克·伊凡內奇給人害死了！你再跑到鄉村警察那儿去。他為什么坐在家里納福？叫他到這儿來！
然后你自己赶快去找法院偵訊官尼古拉·葉爾莫拉伊奇，１對他說，要他到這儿來！慢著，我來給他寫封信。"警察分局長派人在廂房四周站崗守衛， 給偵訊官寫了封信，隨后到總管家里去喝茶。大約十分鐘以后，他坐在凳子上，一點一點地啃著糖塊，把象燒紅的煤塊那么燙的熱茶喝下去。
“是啊，……"他對普塞科夫說。"是埃……他是貴族，又是富人，……用品希金的話來講，可以說是上帝的寵儿呢。
可是結果怎么樣？一事無成！酗酒啊，放蕩啊，……現在你瞧！……給人害了。”過了兩個鐘頭，偵訊官坐著馬車來了。尼古拉·葉爾莫拉耶維奇·楚 比科夫（這是偵訊官的姓名）是個高大而結實的老人，年紀有六十歲，已經在他的行業里活動四分之一世紀了。他這個人是以為人正直、頭腦聰明、精力充沛、熱愛 工作而在全縣聞名的。同他一起來到出事地點的，還有跟他形影不离的同伴、助手和辦事員玖科夫斯基。他是個高身量１尼古拉·葉爾莫拉耶維奇的簡稱。
的青年人，年紀在二十六歲上下。
“真會有這种事嗎，諸位先生？"楚比科夫走進普塞科夫的房間里，匆匆同所有的人握手，開口說。"真會有這种事嗎？
瑪爾克·伊凡內奇出事了？給人害死了？不，這不可能！不可能！”“這事就是怪呀，……"警察分局長歎道。
“我的上帝啊！要知道，上星期五我還在達拉班科沃鎮的市集上見過他！我跟他一起，不瞞你們說，還喝過酒呢！”“這事就是怪呀，……"警察分局長又歎道。
大家唉聲歎气，心惊膽戰，各人喝下一大杯熱茶，然后往廂房走去。
“讓開！"鄉村警察對人群吆喝說。
偵訊官走進廂房，首先著手考察臥室的房門。原來那扇房門是松木做的，涂了黃油漆，沒有損坏的痕跡。他們沒發現特殊的表記，足以成為任何罪證的線索。他們就動手撬門。
“我請求閒人們走開，諸位先生！"房門經不住長久的敲擊和劈砍，終于向斧子和鑿子讓步而打開后，偵訊官說。"我為偵訊工作的利益要求你 們。……警察，不准把人放進來！"楚比科夫、他的助手和警察分局長推開房門，猶豫不決地一個跟著一個走進臥室里。他們的眼睛遇到如下一幅圖景。
房間里只有一個窗子，窗旁放著大木床，上面放著很大的羽毛褥墊。揉皺的羽毛褥墊上放著揉皺的被子，亂成一團。枕頭丟在地板上，蒙著花布的枕 套，也揉得极皺。床前小桌上放著一個銀怀表和一枚二十戈比銀幣。桌上還放著几根硫磺火柴。除了床、小桌和僅有的一把椅子以外，臥室里再也沒有別的家具。警 察分局長往床底下看一眼，瞧見二十來個空酒瓶、一頂舊草帽和一小桶白酒。小桌底下丟著一只皮靴，布滿灰塵。偵訊官對房間掃了一眼，皺起眉頭，漲紅臉。
“那些坏蛋！"他嘟噥著，捏緊拳頭。
“可是瑪爾克·伊凡內奇在哪儿呢？"玖科夫斯基輕聲問道。
“我請求您別打岔！"楚比科夫粗魯地對他說。"請您檢查地板！我辦案以來，碰到這樣的案情已經是第二次了。葉夫格拉甫·庫茲米奇，"他轉過身 去，壓低喉嚨，對警察分局長說，"在一千八百七十年，我也辦過這樣一個案子。您一定記得吧。……就是商人波爾特烈托夫凶殺案。那情形也是這樣。
那些坏蛋把他打死，然后從窗口把他的尸体拖出去了。
……
楚比科夫走到窗前，把窗帘拉到一邊，小心地推一下窗子。窗子就開了。
“這個窗子開了，可見本來就沒扣上。……嗯！……窗台上有痕跡，看見沒有？這是膝蓋的痕跡。……必是有人在這儿爬出去過。……應當仔細檢查一 下窗子。！薄霸詰匕逕廈環□質裁刺乇鸕畝纉鰨*"玖科夫斯基說。"既沒有血跡，也沒有抓痕。只找到一根點過的瑞典火柴。喏，這就是！我記得瑪爾克·伊凡內 奇不吸煙。在日常生活里他用硫磺火柴，從沒用過瑞典火柴。這根火柴可以作為線索。
……”
“哎，……你就少說几句吧，勞駕！"偵訊官搖一搖手。
“他一個勁儿嘮叨他那根火柴！我就受不了這种發熱的頭腦！
您与其找火柴，不如把床檢查一遍。”
檢查床以后，玖科夫斯基報告說：
“沒有血跡，也沒有別的什么斑點。……新撕破的裂口也沒有。枕頭上有牙齒櫻被子上洒過一种液体，有啤酒的气味，論味道，也是啤酒的味道。…… 這張床總的看來，使人有根据認為床上發生過斗毆。”“就是您不說，我也知道發生過斗毆！誰也沒問您斗毆的事。您与其找斗毆的痕跡，還不如，……”“這儿只 有一只皮靴，另一只找不到。”“哦，那又怎么樣？”“那就可見他是在脫皮靴的時候給人活活悶死的。他還沒來得及脫另一只皮靴就……”“胡扯！……您憑哪一 點知道他給人悶死的？”“枕頭上有牙齒印嘛。枕頭本身就揉得很皺，況且又扔在离床兩俄尺半的地方。”“夸夸其談，這個貧嘴！我們還是到花園里去好。您与其 在這儿亂翻，還不如到花園里去檢查一下。……這儿的事，沒有您，我也能做。"偵訊人員走進花園里，首先著手考察草地。窗前的青草已經被人踩平。窗下沿牆的 一叢牛蒡１也已經被人踩倒。玖科夫斯基在其中找到几根折斷的小枝子和一小塊棉絮。在上邊的花頭上找到几根很細的深藍色毛線。
“他最近穿的一套衣服是什么顏色？"玖科夫斯基問普塞１一种帶刺的野草。
科夫說。
“黃色的，帆布的。”
“好。可見外來的人穿著藍色衣服。”
他掐下几個牛蒡的花頭，細心地把它們包在紙里。這時候縣警察局長阿爾契巴謝夫－司維斯達科夫斯基和醫師丘丘耶夫來了。縣警察局長同大家打過招 呼，立刻去滿足他的好奇心。醫師卻沒同任何人打招呼，而且什么話也不問。他是個身量很高而又极瘦的人，眼睛凹進去，鼻子很長，下巴尖尖的。他在樹墩上坐 下，歎口气說：“塞爾維亞人又鬧起來了！他們要怎么樣呢？我不懂！唉，奧地利呀，奧地利！這都是你干出來的好事！"檢查窗子的外部，毫無所獲。可是，檢查 草地以及离窗子最近的灌木叢，倒為偵訊工作提供了許多有益的線索。比方說，玖科夫斯基在草地上發現一條又長又黑的地段，血跡斑斑，從窗口直通到花園深處， 有几俄丈遠。這條狹長地帶在丁香花叢那邊結束，那儿有一大灘深棕色的污跡。在花叢下找到一只皮靴，同臥室里找到的那只恰好配成一對。
“這是很久以前留下的血！"玖科夫斯基考察那些污斑，說。
醫師听到"血"字，就站起來，懶洋洋地瞟一眼污斑。
“對，是血，"他嘟噥說。
“既然有血，可見他就不是悶死的！"楚比科夫惡狠狠地瞧著玖科夫斯基說。
“他們是在臥室里把他悶死的，可是抬到這儿，又怕他活過來，就拿一個尖東西扎他。花叢下面的血跡表明，他在那儿躺得相當久，因為他們在找東 西，想法把他從花園里抬出去。”“哦，那么這只靴子呢？”“這只靴子進一步肯定了我的想法：他是在臨睡以前脫靴子的時候遇害的。當時他已經脫掉一只靴子， 至于另一只，也就是這只，他剛來得及脫掉一半。這只脫掉一半的靴子，等到他身体顛動和落地，就自己掉下來了。……”“好厲害的推想力，瞧瞧您！"楚比科夫 冷笑一下說。"他講得天花亂墜，天花亂墜！您什么時候才能學會不嘮嘮叨叨發空論？您与啟發空論，不如取下點帶血的青草來供化驗用！"他們檢查完畢，把調查 的地點畫下草圖以后，就動身到總管家去寫報告，吃早飯。吃早飯的時候，他們談起話來。
“那怀表、錢和其余的東西，……都安然無恙，"楚比科夫第一個開口說。"這跟二乘二等于四一樣清楚：這個凶殺案根本不是見財起意。”“這個案子是由有知識的人干出來的，"玖科夫斯基插嘴說。
“您根据哪一點得出這個結論？”
“那根瑞典火柴幫了我的忙，本地的農民至今還沒學會使用這种火柴。只有地主們才使用這种火柴，而且也不是所有的地主都如此。順便說一句，這個 凶殺案不是由一個人干的，至少有三個人：兩個人按住他，另一個人悶死他。克里亞烏左夫力气很大，凶手一定知道這一點。”“假定說，他睡熟了，那他的力气于 他還有什么用？”“凶手到他那儿去，正赶上他脫皮靴。他在脫皮靴，那么足見他沒睡覺。”“不用想入非非！您還不如吃飯的好！”“按我的想法，老爺，"花匠 葉弗烈木把茶炊端到桌上來，說，"干這件坏事的不是別人，一定是尼古拉希卡。”“非常可能，"普塞科夫說。
“這個尼古拉希卡是誰？”
“他是東家的听差，老爺，"葉弗烈木回答說。"要不是他，還會是誰？他是個強盜，老爺！他又是酒鬼，又是色迷，只求圣母保佑，叫世上不要再有 這种人才好！平時他總是給東家送酒去，他服侍東家上床睡覺。……不是他還是誰？再者，我斗膽稟告一聲，老爺，有一回，他，這個混蛋，在小酒店里夸下海口， 說要把東家打死。……這都是阿庫爾卡惹出來的事，他們爭奪一個娘們儿。……他姘上一個大兵的老婆。
……可是東家看中她，跟她親近，得，他就……當然，冒火了。……現在他醉醺醺地倒在廚房里。他嗚嗚地哭，……假意說他為東家傷心。……”“确 實，為阿庫爾卡這种女人是很容易動肝火的，"普塞科夫說。"她是大兵的老婆，是個村婦，不過……。難怪瑪爾克·伊凡內奇叫她娜娜。她也真有點象娜娜，…… 媚里媚气１的。……”“我見過她，……我知道，……"偵訊官說，拿出紅手絹來擤鼻子。
玖科夫斯基漲紅臉，低下眼睛。警察分局長用手指頭輕１法國作家左拉所著長篇小說《娜娜》中的女主人公。
輕地叩著茶碟。縣警察局長開始咳嗽，不知什么緣故打開皮包翻東西。看來只有醫師一個人听到人家提起阿庫爾卡和娜娜卻無動于衷。偵訊官吩咐把尼 古拉希卡帶上來。尼古拉希卡是個身材瘦長的年輕小伙子，長鼻子上布滿麻點，胸脯凹進去，穿著東家賞給他的舊上衣。他走進普塞科夫的房間，對偵訊官跪下去， 匍匐在地。他臉上帶著睡意，淚痕斑斑。他喝醉了，站也站不穩。
“你的東家在哪儿？"楚比科夫問他說。
“他給人害死了，老爺。”
說完這話，尼古拉希卡開始睒巴眼睛，哭起來。
“我們知道他給人害死了。可是現在他在哪儿？他的尸体在哪儿？”“听說他讓人從窗子里拉出去，埋在花園里了。”“嗯！……我們的調查結果已經 傳到廚房里了。……真糟糕。小伙子，你東家遇害的那天晚上，你在哪儿？也就是說星期天晚上你在哪儿？"尼古拉希卡揚起頭來，伸直脖子，想一想。
“不知道，老爺，"他說。"我當時喝醉酒，記不得了。”“Ａｌｉｂｉ！"玖科夫斯基小聲說，冷笑，搓手。１"哦。那么，你東家窗子底下怎么會有血呢？"尼古拉希卡仰起頭來，沉思不語。
“你快點想！"縣警察局長說。
“我馬上就想出來。那血是小事，老爺。我宰過一只雞。
１拉丁語，被告聲明在犯罪事件發生時本人實不在場的供詞。
我很簡單地宰它一刀，跟往常一樣，可是那只雞猛一下掙脫我的手，撒腿就跑。……這才弄了一地的血。"葉弗烈木證明尼古拉希卡确實每天傍晚都宰雞，而且是在不同的地點干這件事，不過誰也沒見過那只沒有宰死的雞滿花園里亂跑，然而另一方面，卻也不能絕對否認這件事。
“Ａｌｉｂｉ”玖科夫斯基冷笑說。"而且是多么荒謬的ａｌｉｂｉ！”“你跟阿庫爾卡來往過嗎？”“我造過孽。”“那么你東家從你手里把她勾引 過去了？”“不是的。從我手里把她奪過去的是他老人家，普塞科夫先生，伊凡·米海雷奇。東家是從伊凡·米海雷奇手里把她奪過去的。事情就是這樣。"普塞科 夫神情狼狽，開始搔他的左眼皮。玖科夫斯基目不轉睛地瞅著他，看出他的窘態，不由得打個哆嗦。他看見總管下身穿一條藍色長褲，這是以前他一直沒有留意過 的。那條長褲使他聯想到在牛蒡那邊找到的藍色細線。這時候輪到楚比科夫也怀疑地瞧著普塞科夫了。
“你去吧！"他對尼古拉希卡說。"那么現在，請允許我向您提出一個問題，普塞科夫先生。您星期六晚上，當然，是在這儿吧？”“是的，十點鐘我同瑪爾克·伊凡內奇一塊儿吃晚飯來著。”“那么后來呢？"普塞科夫心慌意亂，從桌旁站起來。
“后來……后來……說真的，我記不得了，"他支吾道。
“當時我喝了許多酒。……我記不得在哪儿睡覺，什么時候睡覺了。……你們干嗎都這么瞧著我？倒好象我犯了凶殺罪似的！”“您是在哪儿醒過來 的？”“我是在仆人廚房里的灶台１上醒過來的。……大家都能作證。至于我是怎么睡在灶台上的，我就說不清了。……”“您不要激動。……您認識阿庫爾卡 嗎？”“認識是認識，也沒什么特別的。……”“她丟下您，跑到克里亞烏左夫那儿去了？”“是的。……葉甫烈木，你再端點菌子來！您要茶嗎，葉夫格拉甫·庫 茲米奇？"隨后是難堪而可怕的沉默，有五分鐘光景。玖科夫斯基一言不發，他尖利的目光一刻也不放松普塞科夫漸漸蒼白的臉。沉默是由偵訊官打破的。
“我們，"他說，"該到大房子里去一趟，同亡人的姐姐瑪麗雅·伊凡諾芙娜談談。她該能給我們提供點線索吧。"楚比科夫和他的助手為早飯道過 謝，往地主家的正房走去。克里亞烏左夫的姐姐瑪麗雅·伊凡諾芙娜是個四十五歲的老處女，他們正赶上她在很高的祖傳神龕跟前做禱告。她見到客人們手里拿著皮 包，帽子上有帽章，臉色頓時煞白。
“首先，我要表示歉意，因為我們破坏了您的所謂祈禱情緒，"禮貌周到的楚比科夫把兩個腳跟并攏，行個禮，開口說。
“我們有件事想麻煩您。您，當然，已經听說了。……目前有１俄國式的熱炕，設在大灶的很高的台面上。
人怀疑您的弟弟被人用某种方式謀害了。您知道，那是上帝的旨意。……死亡是誰也逃不脫的，不論是沙皇還是庄稼漢都一樣。您能提供些線索和說明 來幫助我們嗎？……”“哎呀，您不要問我！"瑪麗雅·伊凡諾芙娜說，臉色越發蒼白，用手蒙住臉。"我沒什么可跟您說的！沒有！我求求您！我沒什么話可 說。……我能說什么呢？啊，不，不，……關于我弟弟的事，我一句話也沒有！我宁可死，也不想說！"瑪麗雅·伊凡諾芙娜哭起來，走進另一個房間里。兩個偵訊 人員面面相覷，聳一聳肩膀，溜出去了。
“鬼娘們儿！"玖科夫斯基走出大房子，罵道。"看來，她知道點隱情，可就是瞞著不說。女仆臉上的表情也有點鬼鬼祟祟。……你們等著就是，魔 鬼！我們什么事都會弄清楚的！"傍晚，楚比科夫和他的助手，由白臉般的月亮照著，回家去了。他們坐在輕便的雙輪馬車上，頭腦里總結這一天經歷過的种种事 情。兩個人都疲乏了，默默不語。楚比科夫一般說來不喜歡在旅途上說話，饒舌的玖科夫斯基為了使老人滿意而保持沉默。可是臨到旅程就要結束，助手卻再也受不 住沉默，開口講話了。
“Ｎｏｎｄｕｂｉｔａｎｄｕｍｅｓｔ，"他說，"尼古拉希卡跟這個案子１有關系。其他那副嘴臉就可以看出他是個什么路數。……他的ａｌｉｂｉ弄得他露出了馬腳。然而這個案子的主犯不是他，這也無可怀疑。他無非是被人買通的愚蠢工具而已。您同意嗎？
小心謹慎的普塞科夫在這個案子里也不是演小角色的。藍色１拉丁語：無可怀疑。
的長褲啦，狼狽的神態啦，殺人以后由于害怕而睡在灶台上啦，ａｌｉｂｉ啦，阿庫爾卡啦。”“隨您去瞎說吧，貧嘴！那么依您看來，誰認識阿庫爾 卡，誰就是凶手？哎，您這個頭腦發熱的人！您該去叼著橡皮奶頭，不該來辦案子！您也親近過阿庫爾卡，莫非您在這個案子里也有份儿？”“阿庫爾卡也在您家里 做過一個月廚娘，可是……我什么也沒說。那個星期六晚上，我跟您一塊儿打紙牌來著，我見到您了，要不然我也要盤問您。問題，先生，不在于女人。問題在于下 流的、卑鄙的、惡劣的感情。……那個小心謹慎的青年人發現得手的不是他，您要明白，他就一肚子不高興。他愛面子，您要明白。……他要報仇。其次，……他的 厚嘴唇強有力地說明他好色。您記得他把阿庫爾卡比做娜娜的時候，他把嘴唇叭噠得多么響？他，這個坏蛋，欲火中燒，這是無可怀疑的！結果呢，自尊心受到挫 傷，情欲沒得到滿足。這就足以使人動殺机了。兩個已經落在我們手心里，可是第三個是誰呢？尼古拉希卡和普塞科夫按住他。然而是誰悶死他的呢？普塞科夫膽 小，怯生生的，總的來說是個懦夫。尼古拉希卡不會用枕頭悶死他，他們干起來總是掄斧子，耍刀子。
……一定有個第三者把他悶死，然而是誰呢？"玖科夫斯基把帽子拉到眼睛上邊，沉吟不語。直到雙輪馬車駛到偵訊官家門口，他才開口。
“Ｅｕｒｅｋａ！"他一面說，一面走進那所小房子，脫掉大衣。１１希腊語：找到了（找到所要找的東西時的歡呼語）。
“Ｅｕｒｅｋａ，尼古拉·葉爾莫拉伊奇！我簡直不明白早先我怎么就沒有想起來。您知道第三個人是誰？”“您別說了，勞駕！喏，晚飯准備好了！ 坐下吃飯吧！"偵訊官和玖科夫斯基坐下來吃晚飯。玖科夫斯基給自己斟好一杯白酒，站起來，挺直身子，兩眼閃閃發光，說：“您要知道，同坏蛋普塞科夫串通作 案，把人悶死的第三者，是個女人！對！我說的是受害人的姐姐瑪麗雅·伊凡諾芙娜！"楚比科夫把酒嗆到气管里去了，他定睛瞧著玖科夫斯基。
“您……不大對頭吧？您的腦袋……出了毛病吧？頭痛嗎？”“我挺健康。好，就算我神志不清吧，不過我們一去，她就張皇失措，這您怎么解釋呢？ 她一句供詞也不肯吐露，這您又怎么解釋？就算這都是小事，……好吧！也行！……那您回想一下他們的關系！她痛恨她的弟弟！她是舊教徒，他呢，卻是浪子，不 信。……這就是積怨很深的緣故！听說，他居然弄得她相信他就是惡魔的使者。當著她的面施展招魂術！”“哦，那又怎么樣？”“您不明白？她這個舊教徒是出于 熱才把他弄死的！她不但弄死一個坏人，一個浪子，而且讓全世界少了一個基督的敵人。她認為這就是她的功勞，她在宗教上的丰功偉績！啊，您可不知道這些老處 女，舊教徒！您該讀一讀陀思妥耶夫斯基的作品！列斯科夫１和彼切爾斯基２寫得多好！……就是她，就是她，您就是殺了我，我也要說是她！是她把他死的！啊， 陰險的女人！我們走進去的時候，她正站在圣像面前，豈不是特意蒙哄我們？她心里說：我站在這儿做禱告，他們就會以為我心里踏踏實實，沒到他們會來！所有的 犯罪新手都用這套辦法。好朋友，尼古拉·葉爾莫拉伊奇我的親人！您把這個案子交給我辦！我要親自把它弄個水落石出！我親愛的！已經開了頭，那我就會把它弄 個水落石出！"楚比科夫開始搖頭，皺起眉毛。
“困難的案子我自己會辦，"他說。"您的事就是不要去管那些不該管的事。到了該您抄寫公文的時候，您就把我嘴里念的照記不誤，這就是您的事！"玖科夫斯基漲紅臉，砰的一響關上門，走掉了。
“他是聰明人，這個坏包！"楚比科夫瞧著他的背影，喃喃地說。"聰明得很！只是頭腦發熱，勁頭用得不得當。我應該到市集上去買個煙盒來送給他 呢。……“第二天早上，有人從克里亞烏左夫卡村帶著一個年輕小伙子來見偵訊官，那人腦袋很大，嘴唇上有個缺口，自稱是牧人丹尼爾卡。他的口供很有趣。
“當時我喝多了酒，"他說。"我在干親的家里一直坐到午夜才走。我回家的路上，醉醺醺地鑽到河里洗澡。我正洗著，１列斯科夫（１８３１—１８９５），俄國作家。
２彼切爾斯基是俄國作家密耳尼科夫（１８１９—１８８３）的筆名，他的小說描述伏爾加河流域舊教徒、商人、富農等的生活和習俗。
……抬頭一看！有兩個人在河壩上走過，抬著個黑糊糊的東西。'呔！'我對他們喊一聲。他們害怕了，撒腿就跑，一口气跑到瑪卡烈夫的菜園里。要 是他們抬的不是我們的老爺，就叫上帝打死我！"當天將近傍晚，普塞科夫和尼古拉希卡被捕，押解到縣城去。一到城里，他們就關進監獄了。
十二天過去了。
那是早晨。偵訊官尼古拉·葉爾莫拉伊奇坐在他房間里一張綠桌子旁邊，翻閱克里亞烏左夫的案卷。玖科夫斯基心神不定地從這個牆角走到那個牆角，就象關在籠里的狼一樣。
“您相信尼古拉希卡和普塞科夫有罪，"他說，煩躁地揪他新生出的胡子。“那您為什么就不肯相信瑪麗雅·伊凡諾芙娜有罪？莫非您還嫌罪證不足？”“我沒說我不相信。我相信是相信，不過總還有點不放心。
……真正的罪證沒有，所有的只是些抽象的理論。……什么狂熱啦，這個那個的。……”“那么您非要斧子和帶血的被單不可！……這些法律家！
那我來給您證明就是！對這個案子的心理方面，您不要這樣馬馬虎虎！您那個瑪麗雅·伊凡諾芙娜該送到西伯利亞去！我來給您證明就是！您嫌抽象的理論不夠，那我手上還有物證。
……這東西會向您表明我的理論多么正确！只要讓我出去走一趟就行。”“您指的是什么？”“就是瑞典火柴，先生。……您忘了？可是我沒忘！我要 弄明白誰在受害人房間里點那根火柴！點那根火柴的不是尼古拉希卡，也不是普塞科夫，搜查他們衣物的時候沒發現那种火柴。一定是第三個人，也就是瑪麗雅·伊 凡諾芙娜有。我來證明給您看！……不過要讓我在全縣走一遭，四處查訪一下。……”“哦，行，您坐下。……我們先來審案子。"玖科夫斯基就挨著小桌坐下，把 長鼻子伸到公文上去。
“把尼古拉１·捷捷霍夫帶上來！"偵訊官叫道。
尼古拉希卡押來了。他臉色蒼白，瘦得象一根細劈柴，身子索索地抖。
“捷捷霍夫！"楚比科夫開口說。"一千八百七十九年，您在第一區法官那里為盜竊罪受審，判過徒刑。一千八百八十二年，您第二次為盜竊罪受審， 第二次關進監獄。……您的事我們都知道。……"尼古拉希卡的臉上現出惊訝。偵訊官的無所不知使得他暗暗吃惊。不過惊訝的神情很快就換成极度悲傷的神情。他 放聲大哭，請求讓他去洗一下臉，定一定神。他就給押走了。
“把普塞科夫帶上來！"偵訊官命令道。
普塞科夫押來了。近些天來，這個青年人的臉容大大變了樣。他消瘦，蒼白，憔悴了。他的眼睛里流露出冷漠的神情。
“坐下，普塞科夫，"楚比科夫說。"我希望今天這一次您１尼古拉希卡是尼古拉的小名。
會通情達理，不象以前那些次似的說假話。這些天，您不顧大量的罪證證明您有罪，矢口否認您參与過克里亞烏左夫的凶殺案。這是不識利害。招認可 以減罪。今天我是最后一次跟您談話。要是今天您不招認，明天就遲了。那么，告訴我們……”“我什么也不知道。……我也不知道你們那些什么罪證，"普塞科夫 低聲說。
“這不應該，先生！好，那就讓我來對您講一下這個案子的經過。那個星期六傍晚，您在克里亞烏左夫的臥室里坐著，同他一起喝白酒和啤酒。"（玖 科夫斯基盯住普塞科夫的臉，他的眼睛在偵訊官問話那段時間始終也沒放松那張臉。）"尼古拉伺候你們。十二點多鐘，瑪爾克·伊凡諾維奇告訴您說他想上床睡 覺。他朴素總是十二點多鐘上床睡覺。他正脫起靴，對您交代有關農務方面的事，不料您和尼古拉根据預定的暗號，抓住喝醉的主人，把他推倒在床上。你們一個人 坐在他腿上，一個人品在他頭上。這時候前堂里走進來一個你們認得的女人，穿著黑色連衣裙，她事先已經跟你們約定她在這件犯罪的事當中擔任什么角色。她拿起 枕頭來，開始用它悶死他。在扭打中，蜡燭熄了。女人就從口袋里取出一盒瑞典火柴，點上蜡燭。不是這樣嗎？我從您的臉色就看得出我說的是實情。不過，接著說 下去。……你們把他悶死，相信他已經斷了气，您跟尼古拉一起把他從窗口拖出去，把他放在牛蒡附近。你們怕他活過來，就用個尖東西扎他。后來你們抬著他走一 陣，暫時把他放在丁香花叢下邊。你們休息一忽儿，想一想，又抬著他走。……你們翻過一道篱牆。……后來你們順著大路走。……前面是一道河壩。河壩附近有個 農民把你們嚇了一跳。可是，您怎么了？"普塞科夫臉白得象亞麻布一樣，站起來，身子搖搖晃晃。
“我透不出气來了！"他說。"好，……就算是這樣吧。……不過我要出去了，……勞駕。"普塞科夫就給押走了。
“他到底還是招認了！"楚比科夫舒暢地伸個懶腰，說。
“他露出馬腳來了！不過，我多么巧妙地揭了他的底！這下子可把他整垮了。……“"他連那個穿黑衣服的女人都沒否認！"玖科夫斯基笑著說。"不 過另一方面，那根瑞典火柴弄得我心里七上八下！我再也受不住了！再見！我要走了。"玖科夫斯基戴上帽子，動身走了。楚比科夫開始審問阿庫爾卡。阿庫爾卡聲 明說她什么也不知道。……"我只跟您相好過，此外我跟誰也沒有相好過！"她說。
傍晚五點多鐘，玖科夫斯基回來了。他激動得不得了。他的手抖得沒法解開大衣扣子。他的臉燒得通紅。看得出來，他是帶著新消息回來的。
“Ｖｅｎｉｖｉｄｉｖｉｃｉ"他飛奔進楚比科夫的房間里，往圈，，！１椅上一坐，說。"我憑我的名譽起誓，我開始相信我的天才了。
您听著，見鬼！您听著會大吃一惊的，老頭子！這又可笑又可悲！您手心里已經有三個，……不是這樣嗎？我卻找到了第四個罪犯，或者更确切地說， 女犯，因為那也是個女人！而１拉丁語：我來了，我看見了，我胜利了！（古羅馬大將愷撒的豪語。）且是個什么樣的女人啊！我只要能挨一下她的肩膀，情愿少活 十年呢！不過……您听著，……我坐車到克里亞烏左夫卡村，繞著它兜了個大圈子。一路上我訪問了所有的小雜貨舖、小酒店、酒館，到處打听瑞典火柴。到處都對 我說'沒有'。
我坐著車子轉來轉去直到現在。我二十次失掉希望，又二十次收回希望。我逛蕩了整整一天，直到一個鐘頭以前我才算找著我要找的東西。离這儿有三 俄里遠。他們拿給我一大包，一共是十盒。其中正好缺一盒。……我馬上問：'那一盒是誰買去的？'一個女人買去了。……'她喜歡這玩意儿，這玩意儿一擦 就……嗤的一響。'我的好朋友！尼古拉·葉爾莫拉伊奇！一個被宗教學校開除出來而且熟讀過加博里奧１的作品的人，有的時候竟然能辦出什么樣的大事來，那是 人類的智慧簡直無法理解的！從今天气我要開始尊敬自己了！……嘿嘿。……好，我們走吧！”“到哪儿去？”“到她那儿去，到第四個那儿去埃……我們得赶緊 去，要不然……要不然，我急得心里象有一團火，要活活燒死了！
您知道她是誰？您再也猜不出來！就是我們警察分局長，老頭子葉夫格拉甫·庫茲米奇的年輕妻子奧爾迦·彼得羅芙娜，就是她！她買了那盒火柴！” “您……你……您……發瘋了吧？”“這很容易理解嘛！第一，她吸煙。第二，她沒命地愛上了克里亞烏左夫。他呢，有了個阿庫爾卡，就拒絕了她的愛１加博里奧 （１８３５—１８７３），法國作家，現代偵探小說創始人之一。
情。她要報仇。現在我想起有一次我碰見他倆躲在廚房里屏風后面。她向他賭咒發誓，他卻吸著她的紙煙，把煙子噴到她臉上去。不過，我們得走 了。……快一點，天黑下來了。……我們走吧！”“我還不至于神志不清到听了個小娃娃的話就半夜三更去打攪一個高尚而誠實的女人！”“高尚，誠實。……出了 這樣的事還說這樣的話，您簡直是草包，算不得偵訊官！我素來不敢罵您，可是現在您逼得我罵！草包！老頑固！得了，我的親人，尼古拉·葉爾莫拉伊奇！我求求 您！“偵訊官搖一搖手，吐了口唾沫。
“我求求您了！我不是為我自己，而是為審判的利益求您！
我真心實意地求您！您給我個面子吧，哪怕一輩子就這一次！"玖科夫斯基跪下去。
“尼古拉·葉爾莫拉伊奇！哎，您發發善心吧！要是關于這個女人我看錯了，您就罵我混蛋，流氓！要知道，這是個什么樣的案子啊！這個案子！簡直 是長期小說，不是案子！這個案子的名片會傳遍整個俄國！日后人家會提拔您做專辦特別重大案件的偵訊官！您得明白才是，不懂事的老頭子！"偵訊官皺起眉頭， 猶豫不決地伸出手去拿帽子。
“好，見你的鬼，就這樣吧！"他說。"我們走。"等到偵訊官的輕便雙輪馬車開到警察分局長的家門口，天色已經黑了。
“我們簡直是豬！"楚比科夫拉了拉門鈴說。"我們在打攪人家喲。”“沒什么，沒什么。……您不要膽怯。……我們就說馬車上的彈簧坏了。"在門 口迎接楚比科夫和玖科夫斯基的，是個大約二十三歲的女人，身量高，体態丰滿，眉毛漆黑，嘴唇又厚又紅。她就是奧爾迦·彼得羅芙娜本人。
“啊，……很高興！"她說，滿面笑容。"你們正好赶上吃晚飯。我的葉夫格拉甫·庫茲米奇不在家。……他到教士家里串門去了。……不過他不在， 我們也無所謂。……請進去坐！你們這是剛辦完偵訊工作吧？……”“是埃……我們，您要知道，車上的彈簧坏了，"楚比科夫走進客廳里，在圈椅上坐下，開口 說。
“您要冷不防……給她個措手不及！"玖科夫斯基小聲對他說。"您給她個措手不及！”“彈簧。……嗯，……是埃……我們就冒冒失失地到這儿來 了。”“給她個措手不及，我跟您說！要是您淨說廢話，她就會猜出來了！”“哦，既是你全懂，那就由你來干，不用找我！"楚比科夫嘟噥說，站起來，往窗子那 邊走去。"我辦不到！你自己煮的粥你自己喝！”“是啊，彈簧，……"玖科夫斯基走到警察分局長的妻子跟前，開口說，皺起長鼻子。"我們到這儿來，不是為 了……呃呃……吃晚飯，也不是找葉夫格拉甫·庫茲米奇。我們來，是為了問您，太太：由您弄死的瑪爾克·伊凡諾維奇如今在哪儿？”“什么？哪個瑪爾克·伊凡 諾維奇？"警察分局長的妻子吞吞吐吐地說。突然，她那張大臉轉眼間漲得通紅。"我……不明白。”“我是以法律的名義問您！克里亞烏左夫在哪儿？我們全知道 了！”“你們是听誰說的？"警察分局長的妻子受不住玖科夫斯基的目光，輕聲問道。
“請您務必告訴我們：他在哪儿？！”
“不過你們是從哪儿知道的？是誰對你們說的？”“我們全知道，太太！我是用法律的名義要求您！"偵訊官看見警察分局長的妻子心慌意亂，就放大 膽子，走到她跟前，說：“您告訴我們，我們就走了。要不然我們就要……”“你們找他干什么？“"何必問這些呢，太太？我們要求您說出來！您在發抖，張皇失 措。……是的，他遇害了，而且說句不怕您見怪的話，就是被您害死的！您的同謀犯把您供出來了！"警察分局長的妻子頓時臉色煞白。
“那我們就去吧，"她絞著手，低聲說。"他在我家的浴室里藏著。只是看在上帝分上，你們不要對我丈夫說起這件事！
我求求你們！他會受不了！”
警察分局長的妻子從牆上取下一把大鑰匙，領著她的客人們穿過廚房和前堂，走進院子里。院子里黑糊糊的。天上下著毛毛細雨。警察分局長的妻子在 前邊帶路。楚比科夫和玖科夫斯基在高高的草叢中跟著她走，吸進野麻和污水的气味，腳底下踩著污水而發出咕唧咕唧的響聲。院子很大。不久，污水沒有了，他們 腳下感覺到耕松的土地了。黑暗中露出樹木的輪廓，樹木之間有一所小房子，房頂上豎著一根歪煙囪。
“這就是浴室，"警察分局長的妻子說。"可是，我求求你們，不要對外人說！“楚比科夫和玖科夫斯基走到浴室跟前，看見門上挂著一把极大的鎖。
“准備好蜡燭頭和火柴！"偵訊官對他的助手小聲說。
警察分局長的妻子開了鎖，把客人們讓進浴室。玖科夫斯基擦燃火柴，照亮浴室的更衣間。更衣間中央擺著桌子。桌上放著矮粗的小茶炊，旁邊有個海碗，里面盛著白菜湯，已經涼了，還有個菜碟，上面只剩些調味汁。
“再往前走！”
他們走進隔壁房間，也就是浴室。那儿也有一張桌子。桌上有個大碟子，盛著火腿，還有一大瓶白酒、几個盤子和一些刀叉。
“可是那個人在……哪儿？受害者在哪儿？"偵訊官問。
“他在上邊那層舖上！"警察分局長的妻子小聲說，臉色越發蒼白，渾身發抖。
玖科夫斯基手里拿著蜡燭頭，爬到上層舖去。他在那儿看見一個人的很長的身体，紋絲不動地躺在大絨毛褥墊上。那個身体發出輕微的鼾聲。……"我們上當了，見鬼！"玖科夫斯基叫起來。"這不是他！
這儿躺著個活人，蠢貨。喂，您是什么人，見鬼？"那個身体吸進一口气，發出吹口哨的聲音，然后動起來。
玖科夫斯基用胳膊肘捅他一下。他舉起胳膊，伸了個懶腰，略微抬起頭來。
“這是誰爬上來了？"一個沙啞而低沉的男低音問道。"你要干什么？"玖科夫斯基把蜡燭頭湊到生人的臉上，不由得尖叫一聲。
他看見紫紅的鼻子，沒梳理過的蓬松頭發，兩撇漆黑的唇髭，其中一撇雄赳赳地往上翹著，驕橫地直指天花板，他認出這個人就是騎兵少尉克里亞烏左夫。
“您是……瑪爾克……伊凡內奇？！不可能！"偵訊官抬頭一看，楞住了。……“是我，對了。……原來是您啊，玖科夫斯基！您到這儿干什么來了？ 下邊，還有那個丑家伙是誰？圣徒呀，原來是偵訊官！是什么風把你們吹來的？"克里亞烏左夫爬下來，擁抱楚比科夫。奧爾迦·彼得羅芙娜溜出門外去了。
“你們是怎么來的？咱們來喝一盅，見鬼！特拉——搭——梯——多。……咱們來喝一盅！不過，是誰把你們領到這儿來的？你們怎么知道我在這儿？不過，反正也無所謂！咱們來喝酒吧！"克里亞烏左夫點上燈，斟滿三杯酒。
“說實在的，我不明白你是怎么回事，"偵訊官攤開手說。
“這究竟是你呢，還是不是你？”
“你算了吧。……你想教訓我一番吧？那就請你少費這個心。青年人玖科夫斯基，喝下你那杯酒！朋友們，咱們來快快活活地消磨這個良宵吧。……你們瞧著我干嗎？喝呀！”“我仍舊弄不明白，"偵訊官說，心不在焉地喝下酒去。
“你為什么待在這儿？”
“既然我覺得這儿挺好，為什么我不該待在這儿？"克里亞烏左夫喝酒，吃火腿。
“你看得明白，我在警察分局長太太的家里住著。我住在這個荒起的地方，住在這個密林里，活象一尊家神。喝吧！當時，老兄，我怜惜她了。我既然 怜惜她，得，我就住到這儿，住到這個沒人用的浴室里來，象個隱士似的。……我有吃有喝。不過，我想下個星期從這儿搬走。……我已經住得膩味了。……”“不 可理解！“玖科夫斯基說。
“這有什么不可理解的？”
“不可理解！看在上帝面上，請您告訴我，您那只皮靴怎么會跑到花園里去的？“"哪只皮靴？”“我們在您臥室里只找到一只，另一只卻在花園 里。”“你們要知道這些干什么？這不關你們的事。……你們倒是喝呀，見你們的鬼。你們既是把我叫醒了，那就得喝酒！說起那只皮靴，老兄，倒有個有趣的故事 呢。我不肯到奧麗雅１這儿來。你要知道，那時候我心緒不好，又有點醉意。……她就跑到我窗前來，開口罵我。……你知道，就跟娘們家一樣，……反正是這么一 套。……我呢，喝醉了，撈起一只靴１奧爾迦的愛稱。
子朝她扔過去。……哈哈。……我說：不准你罵。她就爬進窗口，點上燈，把我這個醉漢打了個夠。她靈机一動，把我拉到這儿來，鎖在屋里。現在我 倒有吃有喝了。……愛情，白酒，冷葷菜！可是你們上哪儿去？楚比科夫，你上哪儿去？"偵訊官啐了口唾沫，從浴室里走出來。玖科夫斯基耷拉著腦袋，跟著他走 出去。兩個人沉默地坐上輕便的雙輪馬車，走了。這條路，他們覺得，以前任什么時候都不象現在這樣漫長而乏味。兩個人都沒說話。楚比科夫一路上起得發抖。玖 科夫斯基把臉藏在大衣領里，仿佛深怕黑暗和細雨會看見他臉上的羞愧似的。
回到家里，偵訊官正碰上丘丘耶夫醫師在他家里。醫師在桌旁坐著，翻看《田地》雜志，深深地歎气。１"這個世界上淨是些什么樣的事呀！"他帶著憂郁的笑容迎接偵訊官，說。"奧地利又那個了！㗖峩窶乘苟佗諞蒼諛持殖潭壬稀㗖㗖閉段豆侔衙弊油⅖雷擁紫亂歡□硭魎韉囟丁*
“瘦鬼！不要找我羅唆！我已經跟你說過一千次，不要拿你那套政治來糾纏我。現在顧不上談政治！還有你，"楚比科夫轉過臉去對著玖科夫斯基，搖著拳頭說，“還有你，……我永生永世也忘不了！”“可是……這都要怪那根瑞典火柴啊！我怎么能知道呢！”
１一八七○至一九一八年在彼得堡出版的一种迎合小資產階級口味的畫報。
２格萊斯頓（１８０９—１８９８），英國首相，反動的國務活動家。
“巴不得叫你那根火柴堵在你嗓子眼里，把你活活地卡死才好！你給我走，別惹我生气，要不然鬼才知道我會把你揍成什么樣！叫你兩條腿都斷掉才好！"玖科夫斯基歎口气，拿起帽子，走出去。
“我要去喝一通酒！"他走出門外，暗自決定，然后傷心地往小飯舖慢慢走去。
警察分局長的妻子從浴室回到家里，發現她丈夫在客廳里。
“偵訊官來干什么？"丈夫問。
“他來說一聲：克里亞烏左夫已經找著了。你猜怎么著，他們是在別人妻子家里找著他的。”“唉，瑪爾克·伊凡內奇啊，瑪爾克·伊凡內奇！"警察分局長抬起眼睛，歎道。"我跟你說過，放蕩是鬧不出好下場來的！我早就跟你說過，可你就是不听啊！”
----------------
(The Story of a Crime)
I
ON the morning of October 6, 1885, a well-dressed young man presented himself at the office of the police superintendent of the 2nd division of the S. district, and announced that his employer, a retired cornet of the guards, called Mark Ivanovitch Klyauzov, had been murdered. The young man was pale and extremely agitated as he made this announcement. His hands trembled and there was a look of horror in his eyes.
"To whom have I the honour of speaking?" the superintendent asked him.
"Psyekov, Klyauzov's steward. Agricultural and engineering expert."
The police superintendent, on reaching the spot with Psyekov and the necessary witnesses, found the position as follows.
Masses of people were crowding about the lodge in which Klyauzov lived. The news of the event had flown round the neighbourhood with the rapidity of lightning, and, thanks to its being a holiday, the people were flocking to the lodge from all the neighbouring villages. There was a regular hubbub of talk. Pale and tearful faces were to be seen here and there. The door into Klyauzov's bedroom was found to be locked. The key was in the lock on the inside.
"Evidently the criminals made their way in by the window" Psyekov observed, as they examined the door.
They went into the garden into which the bedroom window looked. The window had a gloomy, ominous air. It was covered by a faded green curtain. One corner of the curtain was slightly turned back, which made it possible to peep into the bedroom.
"Has anyone of you looked in at the window?" inquired the superintendent.
"No, your honour," said Yefrem, the gardener, a little, grey-haired old man with the face of a veteran non-commissioned officer. "No one feels like looking when they are shaking in every limb!"
"Ech, Mark Ivanitch! Mark Ivanitch!" sighed the superintendent, as he looked at the window. "I told you that you would come to a bad end! I told you, poor dear--you wouldn't listen! Dissipation leads to no good!"
"It's thanks to Yefrem," said Psyekov. "We should never have guessed it but for him. It was he who first thought that something was wrong. He came to me this morning and said: 'Why is it our master hasn't waked up for so long? He hasn't been out of his bedroom for a whole week! When he said that to me I was struck all of a heap . . . . The thought flashed through my mind at once. He hasn't made an appearance since Saturday of last week, and to-day's Sunday. Seven days is no joke!"
"Yes, poor man," the superintendent sighed again. "A clever fellow, well-educated, and so good-hearted. There was no one like him, one may say, in company. But a rake; the kingdom of heaven be his! I'm not surprised at anything with him! Stepan," he said, addressing one of the witnesses, "ride off this minute to my house and send Andryushka to the police captain's, let him report to him. Say Mark Ivanitch has been murdered! Yes, and run to the inspector--why should he sit in comfort doing nothing? Let him come here. And you go yourself as fast as you can to the examining magistrate, Nikolay Yermolaitch, and tell him to come here. Wait a bit, I will write him a note."
The police superintendent stationed watchmen round the lodge, and went off to the steward's to have tea. Ten minutes later he was sitting on a stool, carefully nibbling lumps of sugar, and sipping tea as hot as a red-hot coal.
"There it is! . . ." he said to Psyekov, "there it is! . . . a gentleman, and a well-to-do one, too . . . a favourite of the gods, one may say, to use Pushkin's expression, and what has he made of it? Nothing! He gave himself up to drinking and debauchery, and . . . here now . . . he has been murdered!"
Two hours later the examining magistrate drove up. Nikolay Yermolaitch Tchubikov (that was the magistrate's name), a tall, thick-set old man of sixty, had been hard at work for a quarter of a century. He was known to the whole district as an honest, intelligent, energetic man, devoted to his work. His invariable companion, assistant, and secretary, a tall young man of six and twenty, called Dyukovsky, arrived on the scene of action with him.
"Is it possible, gentlemen?" Tchubikov began, going into Psyekov's room and rapidly shaking hands with everyone. "Is it possible? Mark Ivanitch? Murdered? No, it's impossible! Imposs-i-ble!"
"There it is," sighed the superintendent
"Merciful heavens! Why I saw him only last Friday. At the fair at Tarabankovo! Saving your presence, I drank a glass of vodka with him!"
"There it is," the superintendent sighed once more.
They heaved sighs, expressed their horror, drank a glass of tea each, and went to the lodge.
"Make way!" the police inspector shouted to the crowd.
On going into the lodge the examining magistrate first of all set to work to inspect the door into the bedroom. The door turned out to be made of deal, painted yellow, and not to have been tampered with. No special traces that might have served as evidence could be found. They proceeded to break open the door.
"I beg you, gentlemen, who are not concerned, to retire," said the examining magistrate, when, after long banging and cracking, the door yielded to the axe and the chisel. "I ask this in the interests of the investigation. . . . Inspector, admit no one!"
Tchubikov, his assistant, and the police superintendent opened the door and hesitatingly, one after the other, walked into the room. The following spectacle met their eyes. In the solitary window stood a big wooden bedstead with an immense feather bed on it. On the rumpled feather bed lay a creased and crumpled quilt. A pillow, in a cotton pillow case--also much creased, was on the floor. On a little table beside the bed lay a silver watch, and silver coins to the value of twenty kopecks. Some sulphur matches lay there too. Except the bed, the table, and a solitary chair, there was no furniture in the room. Looking under the bed, the superintendent saw two dozen empty bottles, an old straw hat, and a jar of vodka. Under the table lay one boot, covered with dust. Taking a look round the room, Tchubikov frowned and flushed crimson.
"The blackguards!" he muttered, clenching his fists.
"And where is Mark Ivanitch?" Dyukovsky asked quietly.
"I beg you not to put your spoke in," Tchubikov answered roughly. "Kindly examine the floor. This is the second case in my experience, Yevgraf Kuzmitch," he added to the police superintendent, dropping his voice. "In 1870 I had a similar case. But no doubt you remember it. . . . The murder of the merchant Portretov. It was just the same. The blackguards murdered him, and dragged the dead body out of the window."
Tchubikov went to the window, drew the curtain aside, and cautiously pushed the window. The window opened.
"It opens, so it was not fastened. . . . H'm there are traces on the window-sill. Do you see? Here is the trace of a knee. . . . Some one climbed out. . . . We shall have to inspect the window thoroughly."
"There is nothing special to be observed on the floor," said Dyukovsky. "No stains, nor scratches. The only thing I have found is a used Swedish match. Here it is. As far as I remember, Mark Ivanitch didn't smoke; in a general way he used sulphur ones, never Swedish matches. This match may serve as a clue. . . ."
"Oh, hold your tongue, please!" cried Tchubikov, with a wave of his hand. "He keeps on about his match! I can't stand these excitable people! Instead of looking for matches, you had better examine the bed!"
On inspecting the bed, Dyukovsky reported:
"There are no stains of blood or of anything else. . . . Nor are there any fresh rents. On the pillow there are traces of teeth. A liquid, having the smell of beer and also the taste of it, has been spilt on the quilt. . . . The general appearance of the bed gives grounds for supposing there has been a struggle."
"I know there was a struggle without your telling me! No one asked you whether there was a struggle. Instead of looking out for a struggle you had better be . . ."
"One boot is here, the other one is not on the scene."
"Well, what of that?"
"Why, they must have strangled him while he was taking off his boots. He hadn't time to take the second boot off when . . . ."
"He's off again! . . . And how do you know that he was strangled?"
"There are marks of teeth on the pillow. The pillow itself is very much crumpled, and has been flung to a distance of six feet from the bed."
"He argues, the chatterbox! We had better go into the garden. You had better look in the garden instead of rummaging about here. . . . I can do that without your help."
When they went out into the garden their first task was the inspection of the grass. The grass had been trampled down under the windows. The clump of burdock against the wall under the window turned out to have been trodden on too. Dyukovsky succeeded in finding on it some broken shoots, and a little bit of wadding. On the topmost burrs, some fine threads of dark blue wool were found.
"What was the colour of his last suit? Dyukovsky asked Psyekov.
"It was yellow, made of canvas."
"Capital! Then it was they who were in dark blue. . . ."
Some of the burrs were cut off and carefully wrapped up in paper. At that moment Artsybashev-Svistakovsky, the police captain, and Tyutyuev, the doctor, arrived. The police captain greeted the others, and at once proceeded to satisfy his curiosity; the doctor, a tall and extremely lean man with sunken eyes, a long nose, and a sharp chin, greeting no one and asking no questions, sat down on a stump, heaved a sigh and said:
"The Serbians are in a turmoil again! I can't make out what they want! Ah, Austria, Austria! It's your doing!"
The inspection of the window from outside yielded absolutely no result; the inspection of the grass and surrounding bushes furnished many valuable clues. Dyukovsky succeeded, for instance, in detecting a long, dark streak in the grass, consisting of stains, and stretching from the window for a good many yards into the garden. The streak ended under one of the lilac bushes in a big, brownish stain. Under the same bush was found a boot, which turned out to be the fellow to the one found in the bedroom.
"This is an old stain of blood," said Dyukovsky, examining the stain.
At the word "blood," the doctor got up and lazily took a cursory glance at the stain.
"Yes, it's blood," he muttered.
"Then he wasn't strangled since there's blood," said Tchubikov, looking malignantly at Dyukovsky.
"He was strangled in the bedroom, and here, afraid he would come to, they stabbed him with something sharp. The stain under the bush shows that he lay there for a comparatively long time, while they were trying to find some way of carrying him, or something to carry him on out of the garden."
"Well, and the boot?"
"That boot bears out my contention that he was murdered while he was taking off his boots before going to bed. He had taken off one boot, the other, that is, this boot he had only managed to get half off. While he was being dragged and shaken the boot that was only half on came off of itself. . . ."
"What powers of deduction! Just look at him!" Tchubikov jeered. "He brings it all out so pat! And when will you learn not to put your theories forward? You had better take a little of the grass for analysis instead of arguing!"
After making the inspection and taking a plan of the locality they went off to the steward's to write a report and have lunch. At lunch they talked.
"Watch, money, and everything else . . . are untouched," Tchubikov began the conversation. "It is as clear as twice two makes four that the murder was committed not for mercenary motives."
"It was committed by a man of the educated class," Dyukovsky put in.
"From what do you draw that conclusion?"
"I base it on the Swedish match which the peasants about here have not learned to use yet. Such matches are only used by landowners and not by all of them. He was murdered, by the way, not by one but by three, at least: two held him while the third strangled him. Klyauzov was strong and the murderers must have known that."
"What use would his strength be to him, supposing he were asleep?"
"The murderers came upon him as he was taking off his boots. He was taking off his boots, so he was not asleep."
"It's no good making things up! You had better eat your lunch!"
"To my thinking, your honour," said Yefrem, the gardener, as he set the samovar on the table, "this vile deed was the work of no other than Nikolashka."
"Quite possible," said Psyekov.
"Who's this Nikolashka?"
"The master's valet, your honour," answered Yefrem. "Who else should it be if not he? He's a ruffian, your honour! A drunkard, and such a dissipated fellow! May the Queen of Heaven never bring the like again! He always used to fetch vodka for the master, he always used to put the master to bed. . . . Who should it be if not he? And what's more, I venture to bring to your notice, your honour, he boasted once in a tavern, the rascal, that he would murder his master. It's all on account of Akulka, on account of a woman. . . . He had a soldier's wife. . . . The master took a fancy to her and got intimate with her, and he . . . was angered by it, to be sure. He's lolling about in the kitchen now, drunk. He's crying . . . making out he is grieving over the master . . . ."
"And anyone might be angry over Akulka, certainly," said Psyekov. "She is a soldier's wife, a peasant woman, but . . . Mark Ivanitch might well call her Nana. There is something in her that does suggest Nana . . . fascinating . . ."
"I have seen her . . . I know . . ." said the examining magistrate, blowing his nose in a red handkerchief.
Dyukovsky blushed and dropped his eyes. The police superintendent drummed on his saucer with his fingers. The police captain coughed and rummaged in his portfolio for something. On the doctor alone the mention of Akulka and Nana appeared to produce no impression. Tchubikov ordered Nikolashka to be fetched. Nikolashka, a lanky young man with a long pock-marked nose and a hollow chest, wearing a reefer jacket that had been his master's, came into Psyekov's room and bowed down to the ground before Tchubikov. His face looked sleepy and showed traces of tears. He was drunk and could hardly stand up.
"Where is your master?" Tchubikov asked him.
"He's murdered, your honour."
As he said this Nikolashka blinked and began to cry.
"We know that he is murdered. But where is he now? Where is his body?"
"They say it was dragged out of window and buried in the garden."
"H'm . . . the results of the investigation are already known in the kitchen then. . . . That's bad. My good fellow, where were you on the night when your master was killed? On Saturday, that is?"
Nikolashka raised his head, craned his neck, and pondered.
"I can't say, your honour," he said. "I was drunk and I don't remember."
"An alibi!" whispered Dyukovsky, grinning and rubbing his hands.
"Ah! And why is it there's blood under your master's window!"
Nikolashka flung up his head and pondered.
"Think a little quicker," said the police captain.
"In a minute. That blood's from a trifling matter, your honour. I killed a hen; I cut her throat very simply in the usual way, and she fluttered out of my hands and took and ran off. . . .That's what the blood's from."
Yefrem testified that Nikolashka really did kill a hen every evening and killed it in all sorts of places, and no one had seen the half-killed hen running about the garden, though of course it could not be positively denied that it had done so.
"An alibi," laughed Dyukovsky, "and what an idiotic alibi."
"Have you had relations with Akulka?"
"Yes, I have sinned."
"And your master carried her off from you?"
"No, not at all. It was this gentleman here, Mr. Psyekov, Ivan Mihalitch, who enticed her from me, and the master took her from Ivan Mihalitch. That's how it was."
Psyekov looked confused and began rubbing his left eye. Dyukovsky fastened his eyes upon him, detected his confusion, and started. He saw on the steward's legs dark blue trousers which he had not previously noticed. The trousers reminded him of the blue threads found on the burdock. Tchubikov in his turn glanced suspiciously at Psyekov.
"You can go!" he said to Nikolashka. "And now allow me to put one question to you, Mr. Psyekov. You were here, of course, on the Saturday of last week?
"Yes, at ten o'clock I had supper with Mark Ivanitch."
"And afterwards?"
Psyekov was confused, and got up from the table.
"Afterwards . . . afterwards . . . I really don't remember," he muttered. "I had drunk a good deal on that occasion. . . . I can't remember where and when I went to bed. . . . Why do you all look at me like that? As though I had murdered him!"
"Where did you wake up?"
"I woke up in the servants' kitchen on the stove . . . . They can all confirm that. How I got on to the stove I can't say. . . ."
"Don't disturb yourself . . . Do you know Akulina?"
"Oh well, not particularly."
"Did she leave you for Klyauzov?"
"Yes. . . . Yefrem, bring some more mushrooms! Will you have some tea, Yevgraf Kuzmitch?"
There followed an oppressive, painful silence that lasted for some five minutes. Dyukovsky held his tongue, and kept his piercing eyes on Psyekov's face, which gradually turned pale. The silence was broken by Tchubikov.
"We must go to the big house," he said, "and speak to the deceased's sister, Marya Ivanovna. She may give us some evidence."
Tchubikov and his assistant thanked Psyekov for the lunch, then went off to the big house. They found Klyauzov's sister, a maiden lady of five and forty, on her knees before a high family shrine of ikons. When she saw portfolios and caps adorned with cockades in her visitors' hands, she turned pale.
"First of all, I must offer an apology for disturbing your devotions, so to say," the gallant Tchubikov began with a scrape. "We have come to you with a request. You have heard, of course, already. . . . There is a suspicion that your brother has somehow been murdered. God's will, you know. . . . Death no one can escape, neither Tsar nor ploughman. Can you not assist us with some fact, something that will throw light?"
"Oh, do not ask me!" said Marya Ivanovna, turning whiter still, and hiding her face in her hands. "I can tell you nothing! Nothing! I implore you! I can say nothing . . . What can I do? Oh, no, no . . . not a word . . . of my brother! I would rather die than speak!"
Marya Ivanovna burst into tears and went away into another room. The officials looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, and beat a retreat.
"A devil of a woman!" said Dyukovsky, swearing as they went out of the big house. "Apparently she knows something and is concealing it. And there is something peculiar in the maid-servant's expression too. . . . You wait a bit, you devils! We will get to the bottom of it all!"
In the evening, Tchubikov and his assistant were driving home by the light of a pale-faced moon; they sat in their waggonette, summing up in their minds the incidents of the day. Both were exhausted and sat silent. Tchubikov never liked talking on the road. In spite of his talkativeness, Dyukovsky held his tongue in deference to the old man. Towards the end of the journey, however, the young man could endure the silence no longer, and began:
"That Nikolashka has had a hand in the business," he said, "non dubitandum est. One can see from his mug too what sort of a chap he is. . . . His alibi gives him away hand and foot. There is no doubt either that he was not the instigator of the crime. He was only the stupid hired tool. Do you agree? The discreet Psyekov plays a not unimportant part in the affair too. His blue trousers, his embarrassment, his lying on the stove from fright after the murder, his alibi, and Akulka."
"Keep it up, you're in your glory! According to you, if a man knows Akulka he is the murderer. Ah, you hot-head! You ought to be sucking your bottle instead of investigating cases! You used to be running after Akulka too, does that mean that you had a hand in this business?"
"Akulka was a cook in your house for a month, too, but . . . I don't say anything. On that Saturday night I was playing cards with you, I saw you, or I should be after you too. The woman is not the point, my good sir. The point is the nasty, disgusting, mean feeling. . . . The discreet young man did not like to be cut out, do you see. Vanity, do you see. . . . He longed to be revenged. Then . . . His thick lips are a strong indication of sensuality. Do you remember how he smacked his lips when he compared Akulka to Nana? That he is burning with passion, the scoundrel, is beyond doubt! And so you have wounded vanity and unsatisfied passion. That's enough to lead to murder. Two of them are in our hands, but who is the third? Nikolashka and Psyekov held him. Who was it smothered him? Psyekov is timid, easily embarrassed, altogether a coward. People like Nikolashka are not equal to smothering with a pillow, they set to work with an axe or a mallet. . . . Some third person must have smothered him, but who?"
Dyukovsky pulled his cap over his eyes, and pondered. He was silent till the waggonette had driven up to the examining magistrate's house.
"Eureka!" he said, as he went into the house, and took off his overcoat. "Eureka, Nikolay Yermolaitch! I can't understand how it is it didn't occur to me before. Do you know who the third is?"
"Do leave off, please! There's supper ready. Sit down to supper!"
Tchubikov and Dyukovsky sat down to supper. Dyukovsky poured himself out a wine-glassful of vodka, got up, stretched, and with sparkling eyes, said:
"Let me tell you then that the third person who collaborated with the scoundrel Psyekov and smothered him was a woman! Yes! I am speaking of the murdered man's sister, Marya Ivanovna!"
Tchubikov coughed over his vodka and fastened his eyes on Dyukovsky.
"Are you . . . not quite right? Is your head . . . not quite right? Does it ache?"
"I am quite well. Very good, suppose I have gone out of my mind, but how do you explain her confusion on our arrival? How do you explain her refusal to give information? Admitting that that is trivial--very good! All right!--but think of the terms they were on! She detested her brother! She is an Old Believer, he was a profligate, a godless fellow . . . that is what has bred hatred between them! They say he succeeded in persuading her that he was an angel of Satan! He used to practise spiritualism in her presence!"
"Well, what then?"
"Don't you understand? She's an Old Believer, she murdered him through fanaticism! She has not merely slain a wicked man, a profligate, she has freed the world from Antichrist--and that she fancies is her merit, her religious achievement! Ah, you don't know these old maids, these Old Believers! You should read Dostoevsky! And what does Lyeskov say . . . and Petchersky! It's she, it's she, I'll stake my life on it. She smothered him! Oh, the fiendish woman! Wasn't she, perhaps, standing before the ikons when we went in to put us off the scent? 'I'll stand up and say my prayers,' she said to herself, 'they will think I am calm and don't expect them.' That's the method of all novices in crime. Dear Nikolay Yermolaitch! My dear man! Do hand this case over to me! Let me go through with it to the end! My dear fellow! I have begun it, and I will carry it through to the end."
Tchubikov shook his head and frowned.
"I am equal to sifting difficult cases myself," he said. "And it's your place not to put yourself forward. Write what is dictated to you, that is your business!"
Dyukovsky flushed crimson, walked out, and slammed the door.
"A clever fellow, the rogue," Tchubikov muttered, looking after him. "Ve-ery clever! Only inappropriately hasty. I shall have to buy him a cigar-case at the fair for a present."
Next morning a lad with a big head and a hare lip came from Klyauzovka. He gave his name as the shepherd Danilko, and furnished a very interesting piece of information.
"I had had a drop," said he. "I stayed on till midnight at my crony's. As I was going home, being drunk, I got into the river for a bathe. I was bathing and what do I see! Two men coming along the dam carrying something black. 'Tyoo!' I shouted at them. They were scared, and cut along as fast as they could go into the Makarev kitchen-gardens. Strike me dead, if it wasn't the master they were carrying!"
Towards evening of the same day Psyekov and Nikolashka were arrested and taken under guard to the district town. In the town they were put in the prison tower.
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!"
[The end]
沒有留言:
張貼留言