Last Violent Call (Secret Shanghai, #3.5)(45)
“The kid. Unless you are some amateur. Find a good place to stand, Lev Grigoryevich.”
There was no response to his instruction. Concerned, Benedikt turned back to locate the kid and found that he had gone pale, staring intently at the body. Lev hovered there for a considerable moment before his hand flew to his mouth. At once, he ran out of the room in the direction of the washroom.
Benedikt sighed. How hard can this be? He really shouldn’t have asked.
4
Night had fallen thoroughly, offering only velvet darkness on the other side of the window. Every so often, a railside light would flash into the room, but otherwise the overhead bulb was their only illumination, and it wasn’t great as far as lighting sources went.
Marshall eyed the body. He didn’t want to move the corpse in case it messed up some clue, but in truth, he also didn’t want to go touching any stiff limbs, even with gloves on. While the kid stood at a distance, scribbling in his notebook and probably writing down every word that Marshall and Benedikt said to each other, Benedikt was digging around the room itself, searching through the deceased’s belongings.
“His name was Danila Andreyevich Popov,” Marshall reported while he carefully prodded a finger at Popov’s clothes, checking if there was anything that might shake out. “He introduced himself to the man next door, Stepan. And I had a conversation with Stepan about the arguing we both heard coming from his room. Probably no less than ten minutes before he was killed.”
“Then I suppose the person you heard arguing with him was the killer,” Benedikt stated plainly. He was fiddling with something in the corner of the room.
“I am inclined to agree.” Marshall rose to his feet, rolling out the strain in his neck. “The unfortunate part is that I couldn’t discern anything about the voice. It was too faint. They were trying their best to keep quiet.”
“Hmmm…”
Benedikt continued to investigate, deep in thought. Marshall, too, circled around the man again, trying to look at the body from the head instead of from the toes. He didn’t want to get too close and step in the blood. It was starting to smell—like rusting iron and something rancid. By tomorrow, the scene would turn rather unpleasant. They would have to do a final examination in the daytime and then simply suffer the consequences of moving the body. It wasn’t as if taking pictures would help if there was no darkroom on the train to develop them. By the time they developed the pictures off-board, the case would be irrelevant to their interests. They were only playing detective to prevent the train from stopping.
“Mr. Marshall, do you have any observations?” Lev called from the compartment entrance. After heaving up his stomach in the washroom, he had eagerly scuttled back into the room and snapped a few pictures. Before he could get light-headed again from the scene, Marshall had maneuvered him firmly away from the body, pressing the kid up against the closed door. If it were up to him, he would have put Lev on the other side instead, but chances were high that Vodin was only allowing this investigation to happen because his nephew wanted some journalism practice out of it.
“I hope you know that most journalists are not asking investigators for their observations at the crime scene,” Marshall returned. He grimaced. “Ink nib, stabbed straight through his throat. There’s the faintest protrusion at the back of his neck, but the metal didn’t break the skin there. A bit more pressure would have done the trick.”
He didn’t add that it looked like there had to have been considerable struggle before the man died. His mouth was open a fraction, frozen in his struggled gasp for breath. The pen wasn’t thick enough to completely block out his windpipe, so he would have been viciously heaving and choking in his last moments before he bled out.
“Don’t forget about the coat stand,” Benedikt supplied. He had moved on to examining the bed, shaking through the blankets.
Of the four walls in the compartment, one hosted the door, one hosted the window, one held the bed, and the fourth bore nothing save for a few old scuff marks. At its base, however, the coat stand had been broken in two, snapped right down the middle, and the two pieces left on the carpet.
“Right,” Marshall said. “There’s a scratch on Mr. Popov’s forehead. My best guess…”
He pointed to one of the sharp hooks on the coat stand. They were made of metal.
“Either he was struck and then stabbed or stabbed and then struck.”
Lev grimaced. Though he was turning pale again, he jotted down the observations faithfully.
“I am not seeing anything else around the room.” Benedikt took a step back from the messy sheets. There was nothing more to rummage around. These compartments were already miniature to begin with. “Lev, ask your uncle for all the information stored about this man. Anything that can be helpful.”
In an instant, the boy saluted, then snapped his notebook closed and hurried out of the compartment. Marshall scuffed his foot against one half of the coat stand, turning over the circular object to see if there was anything interesting on the other side. There was not.
“This feels very nostalgic,” he said. “We used to look at so many dead bodies together.”
“And I suppose that alone qualifies us as private investigators,” Benedikt replied dryly.
“Why not? The first thing any job needs is work experience.”