“Consequently, you could have met Olga?”
“Yes, I could,” Kamyshev said smiling.
“And you met her.”
“No, I did not meet her.”
“In your investigations you forgot to question one very important witness, and that was yourself.… Did you hear the shriek of the victim?”
“No.… Well, baten'ka,[26] you don't know how to cross-examine at all.”
This familiar baten'ka jarred on me; it accorded but ill with the apologies and the disconcertion with which our conversation had begun. Soon I noticed that Kamyshev looked upon me with condescension,—from above—and almost with admiration of my inexperience in extricating myself from the number of questions that were troubling me.
“Let us admit that you did not meet Olga in the forest,” I continued, “though it was more difficult for Urbenin to meet Olga than for you, as Urbenin did not know she was in the forest, and, therefore, did not look for her, while you, being drunk and maddened would probably have looked for her. You certainly did look for her, otherwise what would be your object in going home through the forest instead of by the road?… But let us admit that you did not meet her.… How is your gloomy, your almost mad frame of mind, in the evening of the ill-fated day, to be explained? What induced you to kill the parrot, who cried out about the husband who killed his wife? I think he reminded you of your own evil deed. That night you were summoned to the Count's house, and instead of beginning your investigations at once, you delayed until the police arrived almost four and twenty hours later, and you yourself probably never noticed it.… Only those magistrates who already know who the criminal is can delay in that way.… The criminal was known to you.… Further,—Olga did not mention the name of the murderer because he was dear to her.… If her husband had been the murderer she would have named him. If she had been capable of informing against him to her lover the Count, it would not have cost her anything to accuse him of murder: she did not love him, and he was not dear to her.… She loved you, and it was just you, who were dear to her … she wanted to spare you.… Allow me to ask why did you delay asking her a straight question when she regained consciousness for a moment? Why did you ask her all sorts of questions that had nothing to do with the matter? Allow me to think you did this only to mark time, in order to prevent her from naming you. Then Olga dies.… In your novel you do not say a word about the impression that her death made on you … In this I see caution: you do not forget to write about the number of glasses you emptied, but such an important event as the death of “the girl in red” passes in the novel without leaving any traces.… Why?”
“Go on, go on.…”
“You made all your investigations in a most slovenly way.… It is hard to admit, that you, a clever and very cunning man, did not do so purposely. All your investigations remind one of a letter that is purposely written with grammatical errors. The exaggeration gives you away.… Why did you not examine the scene of the crime? Not because you forgot to do so, or considered it unimportant, but because you waited for the rain to wash away your traces. You write little about the examination of the servants. Consequently, Kuz'ma was not examined by you until he was caught washing his poddevka.… You evidently had no cause to mix him up in the affair. Why did you not question any of the guests, who had been feasting with you on the clearing? They had seen the blood stains on Urbenin, and had heard Olga's shriek,—they ought to have been examined. But you did not do it, because one of them might have remembered at his examination, that shortly before the murder you had suddenly gone into the forest and been lost. Afterwards they probably were questioned, but this circumstance had already been forgotten by them.…”