“What use would his strength be to him, supposing he were asleep?”

“The murderers came upon him as he was taking off his boots.  He was taking off his boots, so he was not asleep.”

“It’s no good making things up!  You had better eat your lunch!”

“To my thinking, your honour,” said Yefrem, the gardener, as he set the samovar on the table, “this vile deed was the work of no other than Nikolashka.”

“Quite possible,” said Psyekov.

“Who’s this Nikolashka?”

“The master’s valet, your honour,” answered Yefrem.  “Who else should it be if not he?  He’s a ruffian, your honour!  A drunkard, and such a dissipated fellow!  May the Queen of Heaven never bring the like again!  He always used to fetch vodka for the master, he always used to put the master to bed. . . .  Who should it be if not he?  And what’s more, I venture to bring to your notice, your honour, he boasted once in a tavern, the rascal, that he would murder his master.  It’s all on account of Akulka, on account of a woman. . . .  He had a soldier’s wife. . . .  The master took a fancy to her and got intimate with her, and he . . . was angered by it, to be sure.  He’s lolling about in the kitchen now, drunk.  He’s crying . . . making out he is grieving over the master . . . .”

“And anyone might be angry over Akulka, certainly,” said Psyekov.  “She is a soldier’s wife, a peasant woman, but . . .  Mark Ivanitch might well call her Nana.  There is something in her that does suggest Nana . . . fascinating . . .”

“I have seen her . . .  I know . . .” said the examining magistrate, blowing his nose in a red handkerchief.

Dyukovsky blushed and dropped his eyes.  The police superintendent drummed on his saucer with his fingers.  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.  Nikolashka, a lanky young man with a long pock-marked nose and a hollow chest, wearing a reefer jacket that had been his master’s, came into Psyekov’s room and bowed down to the ground before Tchubikov.  His face looked sleepy and showed traces of tears.  He was drunk and could hardly stand up.

“Where is your master?” Tchubikov asked him.

“He’s murdered, your honour.”

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?”

Nikolashka raised his head, craned his neck, and pondered.

“I can’t say, your honour,” he said.  “I was drunk and I don’t remember.”