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Updated: June 23, 2025
"Bring in Psyekov!" said the examining magistrate. Psyekov was led in. The young man's face had greatly changed during those twelve days. He was thin, pale, and wasted. There was a look of apathy in his eyes. "Sit down, Psyekov," said Tchubikov. "I hope that to-day you will be sensible and not persist in lying as on other occasions.
Dyukovsky asked quietly. "I beg you not to put your spoke in," Tchubikov answered roughly. "Kindly examine the floor. This is the second case in my experience, Yevgraf Kuzmitch," he added to the police superintendent, dropping his voice. "In 1870 I had a similar case. But no doubt you remember it. . . . The murder of the merchant Portretov. It was just the same.
He was known to the whole district as an honest, intelligent, energetic man, devoted to his work. His invariable companion, assistant, and secretary, a tall young man of six and twenty, called Dyukovsky, arrived on the scene of action with him. "Is it possible, gentlemen?" Tchubikov began, going into Psyekov's room and rapidly shaking hands with everyone. "Is it possible? Mark Ivanitch? Murdered?
"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 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.
Tchubikov and his assistant thanked Psyekov for the lunch, then went off to the big house. They found Klyauzov's sister, a maiden lady of five and forty, on her knees before a high family shrine of ikons. When she saw portfolios and caps adorned with cockades in her visitors' hands, she turned pale.
"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.
Under the same bush was found a boot, which turned out to be the fellow to the one found in the bedroom. "This is an old stain of blood," said Dyukovsky, examining the stain. At the word "blood," the doctor got up and lazily took a cursory glance at the stain. "Yes, it's blood," he muttered. "Then he wasn't strangled since there's blood," said Tchubikov, looking malignantly at Dyukovsky.
"First of all, I must offer an apology for disturbing your devotions, so to say," the gallant Tchubikov began with a scrape. "We have come to you with a request. You have heard, of course, already. . . . There is a suspicion that your brother has somehow been murdered. God's will, you know. . . . Death no one can escape, neither Tsar nor ploughman.
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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