I praise him to you for his palm? I merely said that he’s a good chap, in his own way! I mean, if you start looking every which way how many good people will we be left with? In that case I myself, entrails and all, will fetch no more than a baked onion, and only if they throw you into the bargain too!’
‘Come come. I’ll give two for you . . .’
‘And I’ll only give one for you! Aren’t you the wit? Zametov’s just a kid and I can still pull him up by his hair, because, you see, he needs to be kept close. Keep a man at arm’s length and you’ll never fix him, especially a kid. With kids you have to be twice as careful. Look at you all, you progressive, clueless numbskulls! Respect other people and you respect yourself . . . But if you really want to know – well, it looks like we’re joining forces.’
‘Do tell.’
‘It’s that business about the painter – the decorator, I mean . . . We’ll save his bacon and no mistake! Though, actually, the danger’s already passed. The whole thing could hardly be plainer! We’ll just give it a gentle push.’
‘Decorator – what decorator?’
‘You mean I didn’t tell you? No? Too right, I only started telling you . . . It’s about the murder of that old pawnbroker, the civil servant’s widow . . . Well, now a decorator’s got himself mixed up in it all as well . . .’
‘I heard about the murder even before you did, and I even became quite curious about it . . . as the result of a certain . . . and I read about it in the papers! But as for . . .’
‘Lizaveta was killed, too, by the way!’ Nastasya suddenly blurted out, addressing Raskolnikov. She’d been in the room all the while, pressed up against the door, listening.
‘Lizaveta?’ muttered Raskolnikov in a barely audible voice.
‘You know, Lizaveta, the clothes-dealer. Used to come by downstairs. Even mended your shirt.’
Raskolnikov turned to the wall, with its dirty yellow paper and its pattern of little white flowers. He chose an ungainly white flower with little brown marks and started studying it: how many leaves did it have, what kind of notches were there on the leaves, and how many marks? He could feel his arms and legs going numb, as if paralysed, but he didn’t even try to move them and stared stubbornly at the flower.
‘So what about that decorator, then?’ Zosimov broke in, extremely put out by Nastasya’s nattering. She sighed and fell silent.
‘He’s a suspect, too!’ Razumikhin went on excitedly.
‘So there’s evidence?’
‘Evidence, my foot! Though you’re right: evidence, but evidence which isn’t evidence, that’s what needs to be proved! Just like at the beginning when they dragged in those two as suspects – what were their names again . . . ? Oh yes, Kokh and Pestryakov. Ugh! The way they go about it is so stupid it’s disgusting – even if you’ve got nothing to do with it! Actually, Pestryakov might come round to see me later . . . None of this is news to you, Rodya. It happened before you fell sick, the day before you fainted in the office, when they were talking about it there . . .’
Zosimov looked curiously at Raskolnikov; he didn’t stir.
‘Know what, Razumikhin? I look at you and think: what a busybody you are,’ Zosimov remarked.
‘Fine, but we’ll still save his bacon,’ cried Razumikhin, banging his fist on the table. ‘I mean, what’s the worst thing about all this? It’s not that they’re fibbing; fibs can always be forgiven; in fact, there’s something nice about fibs – they lead to the truth. No, what’s really infuriating is that they bow down to their own fibs. Porfiry’s a man I respect, but . . . Just think: what was it that threw them off from the very start? The door’s locked, back they come with the caretaker, and look, it’s open: so it’s Kokh and Pestryakov what done it! That’s about the sum of their logic.’
‘No need to get so worked up. They