The Collected Works of Anton Chekhov: Plays, Novellas, Short Stories, Diary & Letters. Anton Chekhov
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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 pockmarked 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 maidservant’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 hothead! 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,