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I haven't forgotten it! I'll find out who struck it in the murdered man's room! It was not struck by Nikolashka, nor by Psyekov, neither of whom turned out to have matches when searched, but a third person, that is Marya Ivanovna. And I will prove it! . . . Only let me drive about the district, make some inquiries. . . ." "Oh, very well, sit down. . . . Let us proceed to the examination."
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.
Towards evening of the same day Psyekov and Nikolashka were arrested and taken under guard to the district town. In the town they were put in the prison tower. Twelve days passed. It was morning.
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.
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?
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."
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."
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.
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!
Dyukovsky sat down to the table, and thrust his long nose into the papers. "Bring in Nikolay Tetchov!" cried the examining magistrate. Nikolashka was brought in. He was pale and thin as a chip. He was trembling. "Tetchov!" began Tchubikov. "In 1879 you were convicted of theft and condemned to a term of imprisonment.
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