Free The Cleansing Flames by R. N. Morris Page B

state’s authority, a symbol also – as he well knew, being a magistrate – of its summary judicial power. Ah yes, he had contemplated this figure before, somewhere, if not here; drawn to it, perhaps, because of its particular relevance to him. She was Nemesis.
    Porfiry consulted his watch again. It was now a quarter past the hour. He looked about him, his expectancy turned to unease, remembering another sentence in the letter. ‘If this letter falls into the wrong hands, I will be dead by the time you come to meet me.’
    He would give it till four o’clock, he decided.

Chits
     
     
    When Porfiry returned to his chambers later that afternoon, he found a small crowd of his colleagues already gathered there. As he entered the room, the mood of excitability that was clearly prevalent changed instantly. Everyone fell conspiratorially silent, regarding him with a mixture of glances, some guilty, others amused, but most pitying. He noticed, however, that they were unanimous in avoiding his eye.
    He hung his coat on the stand without saying a word. Facing the room again, he acknowledged Nikodim Fomich’s presence with an unsmiling nod. The chief of the Haymarket District Police Bureau received the greeting with a wince. His was the most pitying expression of all.
    Also there was Virginsky, together with the clerk Zamyotov, as well as a number of other magistrates and clerks. There were about eight or nine men in all; perhaps not enough to truly constitute a crowd, but when he had first entered, their frenzied activity and agitated shouts had given the impression of a much larger gathering. Besides which, his chambers were not large.
    One or two of the men thought it best to make their escape at this moment, almost tiptoeing out of the room. The remnant assembled suspiciously around his desk. They seemed to be united in their determination to prevent him from seeing whatever was on it.
    Porfiry looked enquiringly to Virginsky for an explanation.
    ‘There has been a slight mishap. An administrative error, one might say.’
    ‘It was his fault,’ put in Zamyotov, quickly.
    ‘That’s not entirely true, Alexander Grigorevich, and you know it!’ countered Virginsky.
    ‘An easy enough mistake to make,’ smoothed Nikodim Fomich, ever the genial uncle.
    ‘What has happened?’ enquired Porfiry.
    ‘It is to do with the poster,’ began Virginsky. ‘Technically, Imperial State has done an excellent job, considering the time in which they managed to produce the posters. The reproduction of the photograph is excellent.’
    Porfiry took a step forward. The men shielding his desk bristled and closed ranks.
    ‘Please, stand aside.’
    No one moved, although one man felt compelled to cough.
    ‘If I may first explain,’ offered Virginsky. ‘There has been a misunderstanding. The system, if you like, caught us out.’
    ‘ Us? ’
    ‘Very well, it caught me out, if you prefer. It appears I may have filled in the wrong chit. However, I must say in my defence that I filled in the chit with which Alexander Grigorevich supplied me.’
    ‘It was up to you to check it,’ insisted Zamyotov.
    ‘Yes, I was remiss in not looking more closely at the wording.’
    ‘The colour. The colour should have told you.’ Zamyotov shook his head mercilessly.
    ‘And so, which chit did you fill in?’ wondered Porfiry.
    ‘I . . . well . . .’ Virginsky reached behind him and held up a copy of the poster.
    It was printed on flimsy newsprint, tangy with the smell of fresh ink. Porfiry recognised the strange doll-like face staring out as that of the victim. The pockmarks were somewhat less defined in the photograph, but noticeably there, especially on the forehead. The most conclusive distinguishing feature, for Porfiry at least, was the blank-eyed presence of death. And it was that that rendered the poster’s solitary word, printed in large block type, so absurd.
    ‘Wanted?’ read Porfiry.
    ‘Yes, I apparently filled out the chit for a