VII
The Inspector
When we reached the Hollow, the roseate disk of the sun was just sinking below the horizon line; but, although the deep evening shadows were already overspreading the place, it was yet daylight. All was cool and still. The “Stone” loomed vaguely through the fog, and above it rose the full, pale moon. The dark forest lay wrapped in the profound sleep of enchantment; not a leaf stirred. The silence was broken only by the sound of the bell, which tinkled clearly in the air, repeated by the reverberating echo of the Hollow, and also behind us the sound of ringing could be faintly heard.
A light smoke rose from the direction of the bushes. The peasant watchers were sitting silently round a fire, and as soon as they saw us they rose, taking off their caps. At a short distance from them, under a linen cover, lay the body.
“Good evening, boys!” said the examiner, in an undertone.
“Good evening, Your Excellency!” replied the peasants.
“Nothing has been disturbed?”
“Nothing, we believe. … We were obliged to do something to him. … But we have not touched the animal.”
“What animal?”
“Why, didn’t you know the brutes shot the sorrel horse? … The deceased was returning on one of the side horses.” We saw the slain animal lying some thirty sazhén from the road.
Proskuróf, accompanied by the watchers, went to inspect the locality; he approached the deceased, and raised the covering from his face.
The pallor of death overspread his calm features. His dim eyes, turned upwards toward the evening sky, wore that peculiar expression of bewilderment and inquiry which is sometimes stamped upon the face of the dead by the last emotion of departing life. … The face was unsullied by blood.
A quarter of an hour later, Proskuróf passed me; he was walking toward the crossing, accompanied by the peasants. The team that we had heard behind us had just arrived.
A middle-aged man, in police uniform, jumped out, followed by a young person in citizen’s dress, who proved to be the surgeon. The inspector seemed much fatigued. His broad chest heaved like a pair of bellows; his portly person, enveloped in a stylish military cloak, swayed to and fro as he moved, and his long, waxed moustache alternately rose and fell, keeping time to his puffing and panting. His long, curling hair, slightly gray, was covered with dust.
“Ouf!” he exclaimed, gasping. “It’s hard work to follow you, Afanásy Ivánovitch. How do you do?”
“My respects to you,” answered Proskuróf. “I am sorry to have hurried you. I could have waited.”
“Oh, no! … Ouf! … Duty above all things. I never want to keep anyone waiting. That is against my principles.”
The inspector spoke in a hoarse army bass, the sound of which involuntarily brought to mind the idea of rum and Zhukof tobacco. His small eyes, colorless yet keen, with restless scrutiny, peered in all directions, and at last rested on me.
“This is Mr. N., a friend of mine, who is temporarily performing the duties of clerk,” said Proskuróf, as he introduced me.
“I have the pleasure to have heard of you, and am very happy to make your acquaintance. Bezrýlof, a retired captain.”
Lifting his hand to his visor, he clanked his spurs with a good deal of style.
“Very well! We will begin the investigation, then, while the daylight lasts, and make short work of it, in military fashion. Hey, there! …”
The watchers came toward us, and, together, we drew near the dead body. Bezrýlof was the first to reach it, and, with an air of indifference, instantly pulled off the covering.
We involuntarily recoiled at the spectacle before us. The entire chest of the deceased displayed gaping wounds, cut and pierced in different places. An unspeakable horror took possession of the soul at the sight of such traces of beastly rage. Any one of these wounds would have been mortal, but it was evident that the majority of them were dealt after death.
Even Bezrýlof lost his customary self-possession, and stood motionless, holding in his hand the end of the covering. His cheeks grew purple, and the ends of his moustache stood out like two spears.
“The rascals!” he said at last, and heaved a deep sigh, which may have been an expression of remorse, knowing, as he did, that for him there was no possible retreat from the path of concealment and deception upon which he had entered. Gently replacing the covering, he turned to Proskuróf, who had not once averted his eyes from him.
“If you are willing, I wish to postpone the description until the inquest tomorrow,” pleaded the inspector, with a dispirited look. … “And now let us examine the locality, and have the body carried to B⸺.”
“And there the prisoner shall be questioned,” replied Proskuróf, harshly.
A startled expression came into Bezrýlofs eyes, such as is seen in those of a hunted animal.
“The prisoner?” he exclaimed. “Have you a prisoner, then? … How happens it that I have not been … how is it that I knew nothing of it?”
He was almost ludicrous, but he quickly made an effort to recover himself. Casting a reproachful glance at his driver and the peasants, he turned again to Proskuróf.
“Well done! Matters begin to look alive … remarkably so! …”