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Updated: May 1, 2025
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?"
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.
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.
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.
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