Selected early short stories 1882-1885

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