Last Violent Call (Secret Shanghai, #3.5)(47)
On any normal journey, the train would have been making stops today. Instead, passengers holding tickets for the nearest destinations would have to ride for another five days until Vladivostok.
It didn’t sound like people were very happy about the announcement. Benedikt didn’t particularly care about the other passengers grumbling as long as it served his purpose.
He eased out from underneath Marshall’s heavy arm, moving carefully to avoid waking him. For a moment, it seemed Marshall had been roused, mumbling something about soup. Benedikt stopped, wondering if he ought to go fetch some soup, but then Marshall continued snoring, his crop of dark hair falling off his forehead and against the soft pillow.
Suppressing a smile, Benedikt hurried to get dressed in the half dark, the curtains blocking out most of the rising daylight. He only caught the barest glimpse of himself in the small mirror hanging from the wall before exiting the compartment, running a hand through his hair so he didn’t have a yellow clump at the back of his head.
Benedikt nodded at the attendant standing guard outside the dead man’s room.
“May I enter?”
The attendant, recognizing Benedikt as the investigator, moved aside, opening the compartment door. With the curtains drawn back in this room and the morning streaming bright, Benedikt made his second perusal quickly, not wanting to hover around the corpse for too long lest the metallic smell seep into his clothes. At least there was no bodily decomposition yet. In another day or so, it wouldn’t only be the stench of murder, it would be the stench of decay.
“All right,” Benedikt muttered under his breath. “Let’s see.”
He rolled up the dead man’s sleeves carefully, examining his limbs for a site of injection. Stiffness had set in on the corpse, making it exceedingly difficult to move elbows or shoulders around as needed, but Benedikt tried his best. He prodded at the cold skin. Maneuvered around rubbery lines and rigid fingers.
Ten minutes later, he hadn’t found anything of note, and he rolled Popov’s sleeves back down in defeat. He went as far as to peer around the deceased’s throat and jostle the murder weapon around, checking the skin beneath the clumps of dried blood, but there was no sign of a puncture wound… apart from the ink nib itself, of course.
Benedikt got to his feet. Wrinkled his nose at the body as if the man’s death had been a personal slight against him. It might as well have been—this was supposed to be the restful part of his journey.
With a sigh, Benedikt exited the compartment and nodded to the attendant, letting him resume watch over the crime scene. He was deep in thought as he proceeded to the dining car, mulling over their next options.
“Good morning, Mr. Sokov.”
Benedikt startled as he grabbed a muffin from the food cart, needing a moment to register where the loud voice was coming from and another moment to realize that he was the one being addressed.
Vodin was sitting at a table with a cup of coffee in front of him. His mustache was brushed very primly.
“Hello,” Benedikt said plainly. “Can we question the passengers and attendants in soft-class today?”
An attendant pushed in a new cart of fruit. Vodin took a sip of his coffee.
“Not one for idle conversation, are you?”
Benedikt frowned. “What is this, high society?”
“Ah, touché.” Vodin looked a little amused at Benedikt’s curt attitude. He wasn’t putting on a comedic act, though. This was just how Benedikt talked. “Of course—I will ask every passenger and attendant across the soft-class carriages to cooperate. Where is your investigation partner?”
Benedikt bit into his muffin. He didn’t bother taking a seat when he would be done in a few seconds anyway. “Marshall is still resting.”
“Late night?”
Benedikt’s frown turned even deeper. “I suppose so. We sent Lev off around the time when we were concluding our work. It wasn’t as late as it could be.”
Vodin finished his coffee. He nodded, then wiped the milk foam from his mustache. “Speaking of my nephew, I will go wake him now. I hope he can sit in on the questioning.”
“Of course.” Benedikt stepped aside as Vodin got up. “We can start in an hour or so.”
“Very well.” Vodin tipped his black hat. For whatever absurd reason, he looked like he was barely holding back a laugh. “In the meantime, Mr. Sokov, you may wish to consult the mirror. Or not. Up to you. I will fetch my nephew.”
The officer sauntered off. With immense confusion, Benedikt leaned over the food cart, finding a reflective surface to peer into. This time, he looked at himself properly.
“Damn it, Marshall,” he hissed, reaching for a cold spoon and pressing it to his neck.
* * *
Marshall was startled awake by the sensation of something cold thwacking him on the forehead.
“Ah, shibal—”
His eyes flew open, bewildered and groggy. Benedikt, or rather the fuzzy impression of Benedikt, was standing over him, holding what looked to be a metal spoon.
“Ow!” Marshall complained.
“Ow?” Benedikt echoed. He pointed to his neck.
Marshall blinked rapidly, clearing his vision. Now he could see Benedikt clearly, from his golden hair to his brown-gray, ambiguously dark eyes, to the faint bruise at the left of his throat, kissed into existence right before they went to sleep.