“It is a question of resources, your excellency. And priorities.”
“Are you saying Ratazyayev is not a priority?”
“We may not find him today, or tomorrow, but if he ever comes to our notice again, we will know him. Policemen have long memories. I have a long memory.”
Prince Bykov gulped in air, as if he had suddenly forgotten how to breathe. “What if he is dead? That man, the man who killed all those others, may have killed him.”
“We don’t know that.” Porfiry’s voice softened. His posture slumped a little, as if in defeat. “We have every right to hope that he is still alive.”
“I advise you to forget about him,” said Porfiry.
“But how can I? Everywhere I go I am reminded of him.”
“Then leave St. Petersburg. Travel is often an aid to recovery in cases like this.”
“Switzerland,” murmured the prince distractedly. “We once talked of going to Switzerland together.”
Porfiry closed his eyes tightly and placed one hand over them. When he took his hand away and opened his eyes, he saw that the prince was gone. His fit of blinking had passed too.
He bowed again, to the empty space where the prince had stood. Without looking at Zamyotov, he went into his chambers.
Porfiry leaned his back against the closed door and finally took out his cigarette case. He busied himself in lighting a cigarette. The headache eased as quickly as it had come. He gazed across the room at the window. A low sun blinded him to the details of his chambers. All he could see was the cloud of exhaled smoke, a swirling trap for sunlight.
He tried to remember what day it was. He could not shake off the feeling that there was something he should be doing. And yet whatever it was, it was not as important to him as leaning against this door and watching the smoke from his cigarette.