Short Stories by Chekhov
"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