Short Fiction by Vladimir Korolenko (ready player one ebook TXT) 📕

hill made here a sudden turn towards the station, and, in this place, we could see the team, directly below and very near us.

The post-horse troika, harnessed to a light taratáïka,29 was making rapid progress. The fine dust and pebbles already flew from under the hoofs of the galloping horses; but the driver, leaning forward, urged them with an occasional shout to still greater speed. Behind him appeared a figure clad in a civilian’s overcoat and a uniform cap. Although the uneven road pitched the taratáïka from side to side, and jolted the gentleman in the hat with the cockade, he did not seem to notice it in the least. He too was standing, bending forward over the box, and appeared to be superintending the horses, in order to make sure that each one was doing his share of the work. At times, he pointed out to the driver the one he thought ought to be urged, occasionally taking the whip from his hands, and using it himself, in a conscientious but awkward way. From this occupation, which seemed to absorb his entire attention, he would now and then tear himself away, to look at his watch.

During all this time, while the troika was ascending the hill, Vasíli Ivánovitch laughed immoderately; but when, with one final jerk of the bell, it stopped in front of the porch, the stationmaster sat there on the lounge, smoking his cigar, in apparent oblivion of what was passing.

At first, we heard nothing but the heavy breathing of the tired horses; then suddenly the door was thrown open, and the newcomer burst into the room. He was a man possibly thirty-five years of age, rather small in stature, but with an uncommonly large head. His broad face, with its prominent cheekbones, level brows, slightly turned-up nose, and thin lips, was almost square, and produced an effect of energy peculiar to itself. His large gray eyes looked straight ahead. In a general way, Proskuróf’s face struck one at once by its seriousness⁠—an impression that somehow vanished after a few seconds. The trim, official-looking side-whiskers, which framed his smoothly shaven face, the parting on his chin, and certain abrupt motions peculiar to him, added at once a tinge of comicality to the first impression of this original person. Upon entering the room, Proskuróf paused and glanced about him, and as soon as he discovered Vasíli Ivánovitch he approached him. “Mr. Stationmaster⁠ ⁠… Vasíli Ivánovitch, my dear fellow, let me have horses! For Heaven’s sake, my dear sir, let me have horses, as quickly as possible!”

Vasíli Ivánovitch, who was stretched out on the lounge, assumed a cold, diplomatic expression of countenance.

“Impossible,” said he; “besides, I believe you are not entitled to post-horses, and the horses belonging to the zemstvo30 will presently be required for the inspector, who may arrive at any moment.”

Too much surprised for utterance at the first moment, Proskuróf suddenly flared up.

“What do you mean?⁠ ⁠… Am I not here first?⁠ ⁠… A fine state of things!⁠ ⁠… In the first place, you are mistaken as to my rights about the post-horses; I have my travelling documents with me, and I can produce them if it is necessary,⁠ ⁠… and, besides, on legal principles.⁠ ⁠…”

But Vasíli Ivánovitch had already begun to laugh.

“The deuce take you, you are eternally joking. You know I am in a hurry!” exclaimed Proskuróf, in a tone of vexation, for he had evidently been caught in the same trap more than once. “Hurry, for goodness sake! I have business on hand.”

“I know it⁠—a murder case.”

“How do you know?” inquired the alarmed Proskuróf.

“How do you know?” repeated the postmaster, mimicking, him. “The inspector knows it already. He told me.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” replied the beaming Proskuróf. “They have not the least idea of it⁠—and my people have already arrested the criminal,⁠ ⁠… or I ought rather to say⁠ ⁠… the suspected party is in their hands. I tell you this promises to be a famous case!⁠ ⁠… You just wait, and see me make them tumble!”

“Indeed! You had better take care lest you tumble yourself.”

Just then the sound of a bell in the yard startled Proskuróf.

“Vasíli Ivánovitch,” he said, in a coaxing tone, “I hear them harnessing! Is that for me?”

And, seizing the postmaster’s hand, he threw an anxious glance in my direction.

“Yes, yes; it is for you! Be calm! But what business have you on hand, really?”

“A murder, my good fellow, another murder,⁠ ⁠… and such a murder!⁠—with unmistakable evidence against the famous band! I hold all the threads. Unless I am on the wrong scent, we shall have a chance to make some important personages squirm. Hurry, for mercy’s sake!⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes, yes, in a minute. Where did it happen?”

“In that same cursed Hollow, as usual. It ought to be blown up. A driver was killed.⁠ ⁠…”

“What’s that? A mail robbed?”

“No, no!⁠—he wasn’t a government driver.”

“The ‘Slayer’?” I exclaimed, as a sudden conviction flashed into my mind.

Proskuróf turned to me, and devoured me with his eyes.

“Precisely!⁠—that was the name the deceased was known by. May I ask what interest you have in this matter?”

“Hm!⁠ ⁠…” muttered Vasíli Ivánovitch, and a roguish look danced in his eyes. “Examine him⁠—you had better; examine him carefully.”

“I met him once,” I said.

“Just so,⁠ ⁠…” drawled out Vasíli Ivánovitch, “you met him.⁠ ⁠… Might one ask if there was any enmity or rivalry between you, or were you, perhaps, expecting some legacy after his death?”

“I wish you would stop joking. What an insufferable man you are!” rejoined Proskuróf, pettishly, and then, addressing himself to me, he continued:⁠—

“Pardon me, my dear sir! I had no intention of dragging you into this business, but you understand,⁠ ⁠… the interests of justice⁠ ⁠…”

“Of humanity and the safety of mankind,” interposed the incorrigible postmaster.

“In short,” continued Proskuróf, giving Vasíli Ivánovitch a savage glance, “I was only about to say that, since it is the duty of every citizen to promote the interests of justice, if you can communicate to me any information in regard to this matter, you must perceive