Chapter Text
The windowless ground floor of the Zagorodniy Prospekt police station was damp and stifling year round. The blank and monotonous gray walls contributed to the overall bleakness of the space where suspects awaited interrogations, hearings, and meetings with lawyers. Shtolman and Oblansky descended the two flights of stairs while discussing techniques and the goal of today’s questioning.
Yakov Platonovich elected to interview the young man that Oblansky tackled in the alley the previous night. Makar had been deposited in the first room off the stairway. Tikhon Efimivich moved farther along the hallway to the cell of the mustached hoodlum, Anton.
Makar, his clothes ripped, dirty and disheveled, dispassionately eyed Yakov as he entered the small chamber. His lower jaw was bruised and swollen; he drew in careful, slow breaths. Yakov imagined Makar’s ribs were similarly injured.
“Makar Ziborsky,” Yakov slowly uttered the man’s name. He moved the lone chair away from the small table into the middle of the room. He held Makar’s gaze as he seated himself casually. Makar seemed content to watch the detective; his expression and posture unchanged.
“It is not looking good, Ziborsky,” Yakov affected a pained demeanor. “Your partner has given us all the details we need to send you off to Siberia, or possibly the gallows.”
This got the boy’s attention. He straightened up, wincing and moaning softly.
“The gun used in the robbery, and murders, was found in your apartment,” Yakov continued. “As was the purse that belonged to Mr. Mariv.” He looked at the young man, letting the silence fill the space.
Makar shifted his weight on the cot several times, considering his options. Yakov waited patiently, steadily observing the man’s reactions. Makar was clearly anxious, but experience or fear prohibited him from reacting to Yakov’s provocations. Makar averted his eyes and maintained his presentation of disinterest.
‘What I don’t understand is how you happened upon a stalled coach along a poorly traveled road at just the right time of day,” Shtolman contemplated aloud. “Or why a band of robbers would be so sloppy.”
“Were you working with the Rofstranyevs?” Yakov asked. Makar, surprised by this change in focus, shot Yakov a puzzled look before returning quickly to his guarded aloofness. Yakov allowed another ten minutes to drift by, before returning the chair to its original position and rapping on the door to signal the constable.
Back in the second floor office, Yakov awaited Tikhon Efimivich. After thirty minutes, Yakov understood that Anton Franz must have been more amenable to conversation than Makar. The rascal had been quite glib at the tavern the night before. Perhaps Oblansky would be able to extricate a confession or additional details.
“Nothing!” Tikhon Efimivich exclaimed, as he walked rapidly and forcefully into the office. He tossed his journal and pen onto his desk, set his hands on his waist, and gave Yakov Platonovich an annoyed look.
“Nothing?” Yakov was perplexed. “What have you been doing for the last half hour?”
A low growl-like sound emanated from Tikhon, followed by a deep breath. He took a second one before responding.
“Anton Franz… Anton Franz!” Tikhon shook his index finger at the ceiling as he crossed the room. “That man…” Tikhon abruptly sat in the chair across from Yakov. “I thought he was confessing. He starts talking right away, as soon as I step foot in the cell. All animated and full of details. I’m furiously taking notes.”
“And then...Oh! and then….” Tikhon’s face flushed with anger. “Something seemed too familiar about his story. But still, I’m paying attention, writing, then he stops...and demands to speak to Porfiry Petrovich!” Tikhon paused to gauge Shtolman’s reaction, which reflected immediate comprehension and a subtle hint of amusement. “It was Crime and Punishment! But, of course, not Crime and Punishment, because the murder weapon wasn’t an axe ... he substituted...well, you understand what I’m saying.” Tikhon quit, exasperated.
“I did not get anywhere with Makar, either.” Shtolman disclosed. “The Vyborgsky police found the murder weapon, Mariv’s purse, and several hunderd rubles in the rooms that Anton and Makar rented. In addition, the police were able to interview the Rofstranyev brothers; Mariv had committed ten thousand rubles to the purchase of the theater. As we know that did not take place. According to the police report, Mariv made multiple excuses to the Rofstranyevs for the delay in his investment. But the Mariv’s bank shows a withdrawal of four thousand a week ago.”
“The numbers do not add up.” Oblansky observed. “Could Mariv have been carrying the four thousand in his purse the night of the robbery?”
“Seems unlikely,” Yakov commented. “If he had been, where is the rest of it? Even Swedish vodka doesn’t cost that much.”