ON the morning of October 6, 1885, a well-dressed young man presented himself at the office of the police superintendent1 of the 2nd division of the S. district, and announced that his employer, a retired2 cornet of the guards, called Mark Ivanovitch Klyauzov, had been murdered. The young man was pale and extremely agitated3 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 steward4. 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 lodge5 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 hubbub6 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, ominous7 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 inspector8—why should he sit in comfort doing nothing? Let him come here. And you go yourself as fast as you can to the examining magistrate9, 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 nibbling10 lumps of sugar, and sipping11 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, devoted12 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 tampered13 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 axe14 and the chisel15. “I ask this in the interests of the investigation16. . . . 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 solitary17 window stood a big wooden bedstead with an immense feather bed on it. On the rumpled18 feather bed lay a creased19 and crumpled20 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 crimson21.
“The blackguards!” he muttered, clenching22 his fists.
“And where is Mark Ivanitch?” Dyukovsky asked quietly.
“I beg you not to put your spoke23 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 thoroughly24.”
“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 rummaging25 about here. . . . I can do that without your help.”
When they went out into the garden their first task was the inspection26 of the grass. The grass had been trampled27 down under the windows. The clump28 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 stump29, heaved a sigh and said:
“The Serbians are in a turmoil30 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 streak31 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 cursory32 glance at the stain.
“Yes, it’s blood,” he muttered.
“Then he wasn’t strangled since there’s blood,” said Tchubikov, looking malignantly33 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 contention34 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 deduction35! Just look at him!” Tchubikov jeered36. “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 motives37.”
“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 vile38 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 tavern39, the rascal40, 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 rummaged41 in his portfolio42 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 lanky43 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 bDlinked 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 alibi44!” 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 trifling45 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 positively46 denied that it had done so.
“An alibi,” laughed Dyukovsky, “and what an idiotic47 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 enticed48 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 previously49 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 maiden50 lady of five and forty, on her knees before a high family shrine51 of ikons. When she saw portfolios52 and caps adorned53 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 gallant54 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 implore55 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, shrugged56 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 concealing57 it. And there is something peculiar58 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 exhausted59 and sat silent. Tchubikov never liked talking on the road. In spite of his talkativeness, Dyukovsky held his tongue in deference60 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 instigator61 of the crime. He was only the stupid hired tool. Do you agree? The discreet62 Psyekov plays a not unimportant part in the affair too. His blue trousers, his embarrassment63, 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 smacked64 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 smothered65 him? Psyekov is timid, easily embarrassed, altogether a coward. People like Nikolashka are not equal to smothering67 with a pillow, they set to work with an axe or a mallet68. . . . 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 collaborated69 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 detested70 her brother! She is an Old Believer, he was a profligate71, a godless fellow . . . that is what has bred hatred72 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 fanaticism73! She has not merely slain74 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, standing75 before the ikons when we went in to put us off the scent76? ‘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 novices77 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 sifting78 difficult cases myself,” he said. “And it’s your place not to put yourself forward. Write what is dictated79 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 guilt80 of Nikolashka and Psyekov,” he said, nervously81 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 inquiries82. . . .”
“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 condemned83 to a term of imprisonment84. 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 omniscience85 amazed him, but soon wonder was replaced by an expression of extreme distress86. He broke into sobs87, 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 apathy88 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 participation89 in the murder of Klyauzov, in spite of the mass of evidence against you. It is senseless. Confession90 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 riveted91 his eyes on Psyekov’s face, and did not remove them during the whole monologue92.) “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 intoxicated93 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 smother66 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 regain94 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 hurdle95. . . . 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 suffocating96!” 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 neatly97 I caught him there.”
“And he didn’t deny the woman in black!” said Dyukovsky, laughing. “I am awfully98 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 interrogating99 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 vow100 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 regained101 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 impatience102! 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 puffing103 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, honourable104 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 entreat106 you!”
The examining magistrate waved his hand in refusal and spat107 in disgust.
“I beg you! I beg you, not for my own sake, but in the interests of justice! I beseech108 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 wretch105 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 unreasonable109 old man!”
The examining magistrate frowned and irresolutely110 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 brutes111 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 doorway112 by a tall, plump woman of three and twenty, with eyebrows113 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 inquiry114?”
“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?” faltered115 the superintendent’s wife, and her full face was suddenly in one instant suffused116 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 accomplices117 have betrayed you!”
The police superintendent’s wife turned pale.
“Come along,” she said quietly, wringing118 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 drizzle119 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 hemp120 and slops, which made a squelching121 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 silhouette122 of trees, and among the trees a little house with a crooked123 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 prodded124 it with his elbow. It lifted up its arms, stretched, and raised its head.
“Who is that poking125?” a hoarse126, ponderous127 bass128 voice inquired. “What do you want?”
Dyukovsky held the candle-end to the face of the unknown and uttered a shriek129. In the crimson nose, in the ruffled130, uncombed hair, in the pitch-black moustaches of which one was jauntily131 twisted and pointed132 insolently133 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 sipped134 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 deserted135 bath-house, like a hermit136. . . . 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 dreary137. 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 drizzling138 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 melancholy139 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 decided140, 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 heed141 me!”
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收听单词发音
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1
superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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7
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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10
nibbling
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的现在分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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11
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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12
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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13
tampered
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| v.窜改( tamper的过去式 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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14
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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18
rumpled
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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creased
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的过去式和过去分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 皱皱巴巴 | |
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20
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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21
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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22
clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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23
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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24
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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rummaging
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的现在分词 )； 海关检查 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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27
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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28
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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29
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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30
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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31
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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cursory
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| adj.粗略的；草率的；匆促的 | |
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malignantly
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| 怀恶意地； 恶毒地； 有害地； 恶性地 | |
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contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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deduction
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| n.减除，扣除，减除额；推论，推理，演绎 | |
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jeered
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| v.嘲笑( jeer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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38
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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40
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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41
rummaged
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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42
portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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43
lanky
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| adj.瘦长的 | |
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44
alibi
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| n.某人当时不在犯罪现场的申辩或证明；借口 | |
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45
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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46
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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47
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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48
enticed
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| 诱惑，怂恿( entice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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50
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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51
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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52
portfolios
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| n.投资组合( portfolio的名词复数 )；（保险）业务量；（公司或机构提供的）系列产品；纸夹 | |
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53
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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54
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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55
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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56
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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57
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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58
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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59
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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60
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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61
instigator
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| n.煽动者 | |
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62
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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63
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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64
smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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66
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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67
smothering
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的现在分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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68
mallet
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| n.槌棒 | |
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69
collaborated
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| 合作( collaborate的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾结叛国 | |
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70
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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72
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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73
fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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74
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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75
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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76
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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77
novices
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| n.新手( novice的名词复数 )；初学修士（或修女）；（修会等的）初学生；尚未赢过大赛的赛马 | |
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78
sifting
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| n.筛，过滤v.筛( sift的现在分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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79
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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80
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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81
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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82
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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83
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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84
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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85
omniscience
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| n.全知，全知者，上帝 | |
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86
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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87
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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88
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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89
participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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90
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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91
riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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94
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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hurdle
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| n.跳栏，栏架；障碍，困难；vi.进行跨栏赛 | |
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suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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99
interrogating
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| n.询问技术v.询问( interrogate的现在分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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100
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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101
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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102
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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103
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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104
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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105
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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106
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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107
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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108
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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109
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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110
irresolutely
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| adv.优柔寡断地 | |
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111
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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112
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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113
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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114
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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115
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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116
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
accomplices
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| 从犯，帮凶，同谋( accomplice的名词复数 ) | |
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118
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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119
drizzle
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| v.下毛毛雨；n.毛毛雨，蒙蒙细雨 | |
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120
hemp
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| n.大麻；纤维 | |
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121
squelching
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| v.发吧唧声，发扑哧声( squelch的现在分词 )；制止；压制；遏制 | |
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122
silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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123
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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124
prodded
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| v.刺，戳( prod的过去式和过去分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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125
poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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126
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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127
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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128
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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129
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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130
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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131
jauntily
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| adv.心满意足地；洋洋得意地；高兴地；活泼地 | |
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132
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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133
insolently
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| adv.自豪地，自傲地 | |
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134
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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136
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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137
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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138
drizzling
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| 下蒙蒙细雨，下毛毛雨( drizzle的现在分词 ) | |
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139
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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140
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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141
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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