Last Violent Call (Secret Shanghai, #3.5)(46)
Benedikt rolled his eyes, but a hint of humor quirked at his lips. As much as Benedikt made it his job to keep Marshall in line, Marshall always knew exactly what it took to get through.
“I did find something, actually. Is the door closed?”
The floor bounced under their feet. They had been driving for long enough to hit the rougher parts of the tracks, out in places that never saw travelers except for the screech of a train passing in the night.
Marshall glanced to the door. “Closed firm.”
Benedikt was holding something in his gloved hand. “I didn’t want Lev to see this until we determined what it might be. It gives me a strange feeling.”
Frowning, Marshall stepped closer so he could see the object under the terrible blue-toned lighting. He ought to ask around and acquire a candle for their own compartment. This light would give him night terrors if he lived under it for a week.
“A needle?” Marshall asked, bemused.
Benedikt changed the angle at which he was holding the thin stick of metal, pinching around its middle instead of its end. Now Marshall could see the rough cut at one of the tips, as if it had been snapped off something.
“A syringe needle.”
* * *
“Maybe it was left there from the previous occupant?”
Benedikt stirred his tea. He had requested a wedge of lemon that bobbed in the dark liquid, swimming along the sides with each revolution of his spoon. The dining table in front of them was entirely covered in bits and bobs. Popov’s wallet. His briefcase’s contents. The train’s paperwork regarding every trip he had made on the railway. With the hour nearing ten o’clock, most of the dining car passengers had retired to their own compartments, but there were still one or two dawdlers who ate their desserts or read their books under the soft glow of the chandelier at the bar. If they had to walk past Benedikt and Marshall’s table, however, they gave a wide berth to the makeshift workstation.
Or maybe that was because of Lev, pacing up and down in the aisle beside the table, muttering under his breath as he deliberated headlines for his upcoming piece.
Benedikt let the boy do his own thing, turning his attention back to the clues in front of them—without the needle, of course.
“The attendants would have cleaned it away, or the provodnitsa would have seen it,” he replied, keeping his voice quiet. “It wasn’t well hidden at all. It was lying right on the carpet before I picked it up.”
The most likely scenario was that the syringe needle had been flung there in a struggle. But how was it used? Where was the syringe itself? Benedikt couldn’t wrap his head around it. There was no chance of getting an autopsy performed or the corpse examined unless the train stopped—and the whole point of this front as private investigators was to avoid the train’s delay and reach Vladivostok as soon as possible.
“I suppose we can check for injection marks in the morning light,” Marshall said thoughtfully. He tipped backward on his chair. It would serve him right if the chair legs suddenly snapped and he went sprawling on the floor. “Beyond that… what about motive?”
Lev was still pacing. The old woman sitting in the corner looked more and more concerned, and when Lev suddenly threw his arms up and made a cry of revelation, she hurried to mark her book, scuttling away from the table and retreating out of the dining carriage. With the boy too distracted to glance their way, Benedikt stretched his legs out under the table, hooking one foot around the rung on Marshall’s chair and tugging him forward so he wouldn’t fall. Marshall grabbed his ankle before he could pull it away.
“At least we confirmed that we have his correct name,” Benedikt replied. He yanked his ankle once more, trying to get it back. Marshall, mischievously, held on tight. There was no indication in either of their voices of the battle going on under the table.
“Assuming his identification isn’t forged.”
“Sure. If anything is forged, though, I suppose we have much grander problems. His permanent address puts him in Moscow.”
Marshall’s grip started to slide higher. Benedikt used his other leg to kick, and with a silent protest, Marshall was forced to release him.
Let me love you, he mouthed.
Arrested for public obscenity, Benedikt mouthed back in warning.
“Yet he comes and goes often,” Marshall continued aloud without missing a beat, gesturing to the log of Popov’s past trips between Moscow and Vladivostok. “I don’t suppose this was only a simple robbery from someone who had memorized his usual itinerary.”
Benedikt flicked the leather wallet on the table, sending it from one corner to the other. “If it were, there wouldn’t be any money left behind.”
The dining car bounced. The chandelier above the bar made a tinkling noise, its glass beads jangling upon collision with one another. It was getting late. They still had six days, after all. Even Lev seemed to have run out of energy from his pacing, standing by the moss-colored wallpaper and mumbling to himself.
“I’ll be damned if we can figure out a motive from this alone.” Benedikt sighed, shaking his head. “Let’s call it a night.”
5
It was surprisingly soothing to sleep on a moving train. Benedikt didn’t wake once through the night, not from the rumbling of the engine or the screeching of the tracks. Only when morning arrived and fellow passengers started to move along the passageway outside did he stir, catching snippets of complaints passing outside his door.