'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 . . .'
