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Updated: June 22, 2025
"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.
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."
Dyukovsky hid his face in his collar as though he were afraid the darkness and the drizzling 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.
"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.
"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 prodded it with his elbow. It lifted up its arms, stretched, and raised its head. "Who is that poking?" a hoarse, ponderous bass voice inquired. "What do you want?"
"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.
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?
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 guilt of Nikolashka and Psyekov," he said, nervously pulling at his youthful beard.
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 wretch 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!
I have begun it, and I will carry it through to the end." Tchubikov shook his head and frowned. "I am equal to sifting difficult cases myself," he said. "And it's your place not to put yourself forward. Write what is dictated 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.
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