第70章

第70章“it’snotthetimetolookatroomsatnight!andyououghttocomeupwiththeporter.”

“thefloorshavebeenwashed,willtheybepainted?”raskolnikovwenton.“istherenoblood?”

“whatblood?”

“why,theoldwomanandhersisterweremurderedhere.therewasaperfectpoolthere.”

“butwhoareyou?”theworkmancried,uneasy.

“whoami?”

“yes.”

“youwanttoknow?cometothepolicestation,i’lltellyou.”

theworkmenlookedathiminamazement.

“it’stimeforustogo,wearelate.comealong,alyoshka.wemustlockup,”saidtheelderworkman.

“verywell,comealong,”saidraskolnikovindifferently,andgoingoutfirst,hewentslowlydownstairs.“hey,porter,”hecriedinthegateway.

attheentranceseveralpeoplewerestanding,staringatthepassers-by;thetwoporters,apeasantwoman,amaninalongcoatandafewothers.raskolnikovwentstraightuptothem.

“whatdoyouwant?”askedoneoftheporters.

“haveyoubeentothepoliceoffice?”

“i’vejustbeenthere.whatdoyouwant?”

“isitopen?”

“ofcourse.”

“istheassistantthere?”

“hewasthereforatime.whatdoyouwant?”

raskolnikovmadenoreply,butstoodbesidethemlostinthought.

“he’sbeentolookattheflat,”saidtheelderworkman,comingforward.

“whichflat?”

“whereweareatwork.‘whyhaveyouwashedawaytheblood?’sayshe.‘therehasbeenamurderhere,’sayshe,‘andi’vecometotakeit.’andhebeganringingatthebell,allbutbrokeit.‘cometothepolicestation,’sayshe.‘i’lltellyoueverythingthere.’hewouldn’tleaveus.”

theporterlookedatraskolnikov,frowningandperplexed.

“whoareyou?”heshoutedasimpressivelyashecould.

“iamrodionromanovitchraskolnikov,formerlyastudent,iliveinshil’shouse,notfarfromhere,flatnumber14,asktheporter,heknowsme.”raskolnikovsaidallthisinalazy,dreamyvoice,notturninground,butlookingintentlyintothedarkeningstreet.

“whyhaveyoubeentotheflat?”

“tolookatit.”

“whatistheretolookat?”

“takehimstraighttothepolicestation,”themaninthelongcoatjerkedinabruptly.

raskolnikovlookedintentlyathimoverhisshoulderandsaidinthesameslow,lazytones:

“comealong.”

“yes,takehim,”themanwentonmoreconfidently.“whywashegoingintothat,what’sinhismind,eh?”

“he’snotdrunk,butgodknowswhat’sthematterwithhim,”mutteredtheworkman.

“butwhatdoyouwant?”theportershoutedagain,beginningtogetangryinearnest—“whyareyouhangingabout?”

“youfunkthepolicestationthen?”saidraskolnikovjeeringly.

“howfunkit?whyareyouhangingabout?”

“he’sarogue!”shoutedthepeasantwoman.

“whywastetimetalkingtohim?”criedtheotherporter,ahugepeasantinafullopencoatandwithkeysonhisbelt.“getalong!heisarogueandnomistake.getalong!”

andseizingraskolnikovbytheshoulderheflunghimintothestreet.helurchedforward,butrecoveredhisfooting,lookedatthespectatorsinsilenceandwalkedaway.

“strangeman!”observedtheworkman.

“therearestrangefolksaboutnowadays,”saidthewoman.

“youshouldhavetakenhimtothepolicestationallthesame,”saidthemaninthelongcoat.

“betterhavenothingtodowithhim,”decidedthebigporter.“aregularrogue!justwhathewants,youmaybesure,butoncetakehimup,youwon’tgetridofhim.…weknowthesort!”

“shalligothereornot?”thoughtraskolnikov,standinginthemiddleofthethoroughfareatthecross-roads,andhelookedabouthim,asthoughexpectingfromsomeoneadecisiveword.butnosoundcame,allwasdeadandsilentlikethestonesonwhichhewalked,deadtohim,tohimalone.…allatonceattheendofthestreet,twohundredyardsaway,inthegatheringduskhesawacrowdandheardtalkandshouts.inthemiddleofthecrowdstoodacarriage.…alightgleamedinthemiddleofthestreet.“whatisit?”raskolnikovturnedtotherightandwentuptothecrowd.heseemedtoclutchateverythingandsmiledcoldlywhenherecognisedit,forhehadfullymadeuphismindtogotothepolicestationandknewthatitwouldallsoonbeover.