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Updated: May 16, 2025
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 sipped his vodka and ate some ham. "I am staying with the superintendent's wife, as you see.
All this time you have denied your participation in the murder of Klyauzov, in spite of the mass of evidence against you. It is senseless. Confession 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!
"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!
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.
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.
ON the morning of October 6, 1885, a well-dressed young man presented himself at the office of the police superintendent of the 2nd division of the S. district, and announced that his employer, a retired cornet of the guards, called Mark Ivanovitch Klyauzov, had been murdered. The young man was pale and extremely agitated as he made this announcement.
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!
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!
"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?" faltered the superintendent's wife, and her full face was suddenly in one instant suffused with crimson. "I . . . don't understand." "I ask you in the name of the law! Where is Klyauzov?
Dyukovsky held the candle-end to the face of the unknown and uttered a shriek. In the crimson nose, in the ruffled, uncombed hair, in the pitch-black moustaches of which one was jauntily twisted and pointed insolently towards the ceiling, he recognised Cornet Klyauzov. "You. . . . Mark . . . Ivanitch! Impossible!" The examining magistrate looked up and was dumbfoundered.
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