Dmitri and the One-Legged Lady. Michael Pearce

you can’t have the sleigh,’ said the Procurator, ‘I have important visits to make.’

      ‘Such as?’

      ‘Lunch with Viktor Sharmansky, tea with Olga Vishinsky,’ the Procurator ticked off on his fingers, ‘lunch tomorrow with Sasha Radelsky, the next day with Irene Rodzhenitsy –’

      ‘A theft has been reported,’ said Dmitri doggedly. ‘It is our duty to investigate it.’

      ‘It is our duty to decide whether to investigate it,’ corrected the Procurator.

      ‘Are you saying that you have decided not to investigate it?’

      ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I wouldn’t say that at all!’

      ‘Then –’

      ‘It is simply a question of priorities. Naturally we shall investigate it. But with so much coming into the office –’

      ‘Nothing is coming into the office!’ said Dmitri. ‘I insist on being allowed to investigate the theft of the Icon!’

      ‘Dmitri Alexandrovich,’ said the Procurator in a tired voice, ‘there is a principle that I have always found helpful in such matters: leave unto God the things that are God’s and unto man the things that are man’s.’

      ‘I have heard that before,’ said Dmitri.

      ‘I hope you have. It comes from the Bible. I think.’

      ‘It comes from the Governor,’ said Dmitri. ‘I think. So you are not going to let me have the sleigh?’

      ‘When the Cossacks go in,’ said the Procurator, ‘anyone else would be well advised to stay out!’

      Dmitri sat in his office, first of all nursing his wrath, and secondly wondering how best he could pursue his inquiries while confined to Kursk. He was still nursing and still wondering when he heard the sleigh draw up outside. The door burst open and the Procurator rushed in.

      ‘Dmitri Alexandrovich! You must come with me at once!’

      He almost manhandled Dmitri into the sleigh.

      ‘Where are we going?’

      ‘To the Governor’s.’

      ‘What about?’

      The Procurator seemed deep in thought. Suddenly he stirred.

      ‘My advice, Dmitri Alexandrovich, is to say nothing!’

      ‘Certainly. But –’

      ‘And I will do the same.’

      ‘But … what are we saying nothing about?’

      The Procurator did not reply. He had sunk back into an agony of deep concentration.

      ‘Why does the Governor want to see us?’

      ‘It’s not him,’ said the Procurator.

      ‘Who is it, then?’

      ‘Volkov.’

3

      Who on earth, thought Dmitri, was Volkov? As soon as he entered the Governor’s room, however, and saw the blue tunic and the white gloves, he knew exactly who, or, rather, what, Volkov was. The Corps of Gendarmes was the specialist branch of the Ministry of the Interior which dealt with political offences. But what was a man like that doing here?

      ‘Most gratifying,’ the Governor was saying, ‘most gratifying! But … a little surprising, also. Over a thing so small!’

      ‘It may seem small,’ said Volkov, bowing acknowledgement, ‘but the Corps has learned to look behind things.’

      ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure … but … a mere icon!’

      ‘In itself it may be small. In what it stands for, however, in what it indicates, it may be much larger.’

      ‘Well, yes. Yes, of course. No doubt about it. But … exactly what –?’

      ‘Godlessness,’ the Procurator cut in helpfully. ‘The theft of a holy icon!’ He shook his head. ‘What is the nation coming to?’

      ‘What indeed?’ said the Governor, catching on. ‘It is a sad state of affairs when –’

      But Volkov seemed unmoved.

      ‘Sacrilege?’ said the Governor hopefully.

      ‘A blow at the Church?’ offered the Procurator.

      There was a slight flicker – or was there? – on the impassive face.

      ‘A blow at –?’ the Procurator hesitated, searching around. ‘Authority!’ he cried, with sudden inspiration.

      This time the flicker was definite.

      ‘A blow at Authority!’ cried the Procurator, confident now. ‘At – at the Tsar himself!’

      ‘The Tsar himself!’ echoed the Governor in appalled tones.

      Volkov gave an almost imperceptible nod.

      ‘Or just a simple theft?’ said Dmitri.

      The cold eyes dwelled on him for a moment, dwelled and then dismissed him as an insect.

      ‘Do peasants normally riot about simple thefts?’ asked Volkov.

      ‘Riot?’ said Dmitri. ‘I don’t think I would go so far as to call it that.’

      ‘The Chief of Police has asked us to send in Cossacks to put it down.’

      ‘He is mistaken,’ said Dmitri.

      The eyes turned back to him and rested.

      ‘Mistaken?’

      ‘The icon was very dear to them. All they were doing was protesting about the lack of progress on the case.’

      ‘Yes,’ said Volkov, ‘the lack of progress.’

      The Procurator swallowed.

      ‘We have done all we could, Excellency –’ he pleaded.

      ‘A mere icon,’ said the Governor, ‘a simple theft!’

      ‘Riot?’ said Volkov. ‘Missiles thrown at the police?’

      ‘Maximov exaggerates,’ said Dmitri. ‘I was there.’

      Volkov looked at him almost with interest.

      ‘Ah, yes.’ he said. ‘It’s in the report. The young Assistant Procurator who lost his head.’

      ‘Did he say that?’ demanded Dmitri hotly.

      ‘Certainly his own feats loomed large in the report,’ said Volkov with a wintry smile. ‘But then, we have learned to look behind that also.’

      ‘Did he say that he had done a deal with them?’

      ‘Deal?’

      ‘That if they would disperse and give me time to complete the investigation, he would not send for the Cossacks?’

      ‘I don’t believe in doing deals with peasants,’ said Volkov. ‘Especially rebellious ones. Do a deal with them on one thing and they expect you to do a deal on others.’

      ‘Quite so!’ said the Governor.

      ‘Absolutely right!’ said the Procurator, looking daggers at Dmitri.

      ‘So you will be sending in the Cossacks?’

      ‘Not yet,’ said Volkov, looking at Dmitri with his wintry smile.

      ‘A glass of vodka after your journey?’ suggested the Father Superior.

      ‘Tea,’