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Updated: June 1, 2025
Dukovski took the candle in his hand and climbed up to the top tier of the sweating frame. There he saw a long human body lying motionless on a large feather bed. A slight snore came from the body. "You are making fun of us, devil take it!" cried Dukovski. "That is not the murdered man! Some live fool is lying here. Here, whoever you are, the devil take you!"
Dukovski poured himself out a glass of vodka, rose, drew himself up, and said, with sparkling eyes: "Well, learn that the third person, who acted in concert with that scoundrel Psyekoff, and did the smothering, was a woman! Yes-s! I mean the murdered man's sister, Maria Ivanovna!" Chubikoff choked over his vodka, and fixed his eyes on Dukovski. "You aren't what's-its-name?
"That shows he wasn't strangled, if there was blood," said Chubikoff, looking sarcastically at Dukovski. "They strangled him in the bedroom; and here, fearing he might come round again, they struck him a blow with some sharp-pointed instrument. The stain under the bush proves that he lay there a considerable time, while they were looking about for some way of carrying him out of the garden.
Dukovski hid his nose in the collar of his overcoat, as if he was afraid that the darkness and the drizzling rain might read the shame in his face. When they reached home, the examining magistrate found Dr. Tyutyeff awaiting him. The doctor was sitting at the table, and, sighing deeply, was turning over the pages of the Neva.
Aquilina declared that she knew nothing whatever about it. At six that evening Dukovski returned. He was more agitated than he had ever been before. His hands trembled so that he could not even unbutton his greatcoat. His cheeks glowed. It was clear that he did not come empty-handed. "Veni, vidi, vici!" he cried, rushing into Chubikoff's room, and falling into an armchair.
Aquilina declared that she knew nothing whatever about it. At six that evening Dukovski returned. He was more agitated than he had ever been before. His hands trembled so that he could not even unbutton his greatcoat. His cheeks glowed. It was clear that he did not come empty handed. "Veni, vidi, vici!" he cried, rushing into Chubikoff's room, and falling into an armchair.
"What pigs we are," said Chubikoff, taking hold of the bell, "to disturb a poor woman like this!" "It's all right! It's all right! Don't get frightened! We can say that we have broken a spring." Chubikoff and Dukovski were met at the threshold by a tall buxom woman of three and twenty, with pitch-black brows and juicy red lips.
The magistrate Nicholas Yermolaiyevitch was sitting in his office before a green table, turning over the papers of the "Klausoff case"; Dukovski was striding restlessly up and down, like a wolf in a cage. "You are convinced of the guilt of Nicholas and Psyekoff," he said, nervously plucking at his young beard. "Why will you not believe in the guilt of Maria Ivanovna?
Looking under the bed, the inspector saw a couple of dozen empty bottles, an old straw hat, and a quart of vodka. Under the table lay one top boot, covered with dust. Casting a glance around the room, the magistrate frowned and grew red in the face. "Scoundrels!" he muttered, clenching his fists. "And where is Marcus Ivanovitch?" asked Dukovski in a low voice. "Mind your own business!"
While they were breakfasting they went on talking: "The watch, the money, and so on all untouched " Chubikoff began, leading off the talk, "show as clearly as that two and two are four that the murder was not committed for the purpose of robbery." "The murder was committed by an educated man!" insisted Dukovski. "What evidence have you of that?"
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