Last Violent Call (Secret Shanghai, #3.5)(49)
“Mr. Portsmith,” Benedikt said drolly when the man rose. “We speak English perfectly fine.”
“Yes, don’t go spreading rumors to the other foreigners traveling on board that we will go easy on them,” Marshall added. “We have at least a dozen languages between us.”
Mr. Portsmith blinked. He lowered himself back onto the chair slowly. “Oh. Oh, all right.”
The questioning proceeded. Most were Russian, but there was one Frenchwoman. Another Englishman. Three Chinese passengers. The majority of suspects who came through could name one or two others who were with them at the time of Mrs. Kuzmina’s scream. They all claimed to be unfamiliar with the deceased. Even if a few couldn’t resist adding a barbed comment about missing their destination during the questioning, each passenger was largely cooperative, answering politely before being dismissed and allowed to return to their rooms. It made sense. If a murderer walked into questioning before a clue had been found or a suspect identified, it would be rather silly to stick their nose out and draw attention to their guilt.
Then the next man walked in, slamming the doors to the carriage, and Marshall almost jumped out of his skin in fright.
“This is ridiculous!” The loud bang at the entrance clearly wasn’t enough. As the man marched his way over to the table, striding wide in a manner that looked like his gray trousers had caught on fire, he also slapped one of the dining chairs, sending it skidding against the wooden floorboards. “What authority do you have to be holding us like this?”
Marshall glanced over Benedikt’s shoulder, peering at his notes. The passenger list identified this man to be Eduard Kozlov. There was no noted patronymic. Oh dear, Benedikt wrote under Eduard Kozlov’s column, angling the paper when he felt Marshall’s gaze so Marshall could read the English words.
“Actually”—Benedikt sounded perfectly unperturbed by the man’s aggressive question—“when you purchased your ticket, you agreed to its conditions, and those conditions include the officer on board determining your passage.”
Eduard Kozlov made an immediate sneer. “So who the hell are you two? Not the officer, clearly.”
“If the train officer entrusts us with the proceedings, then we are your makeshift officers too.” Marshall leaned his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers together. “Would you like to sit?”
“I would not. I would like to get off at my destination.”
“Then I would recommend you answer our questions,” Benedikt said, “because the quicker we find this murderer, the more likely it is that this train will resume its normal passage. Now, are you going to cooperate?”
It seemed that Eduard took that as his cue to depart. His nostrils flared, then he spun on his heel, kicking another chair before exiting the dining carriage.
“Surely it would be far too obvious if that turned out to be our killer,” Marshall said.
“You never know.” Benedikt had added 不肯合作 in his column of notes. Unwilling to cooperate. “Maybe the universe is giving us a break.”
Marshall leaned closer. “Are you writing in Chinese?”
Benedikt started a new line, switching languages. ???…
“I’m writing in everything but Russian,” he replied. “Less chance of someone stealing my notes and understanding them.”
“Yes, because I’m sure the killer will see vague remarks such as ‘is angry…’ and go on another scathing rampage.”
“My Korean vocabulary is rusty, all right?”
Leaning over, Marshall plucked away the pen and added: ?? ??
Benedikt snorted. “Did you have to draw the sad face?”
“Yes. That poor chair.”
The door to the dining carriage slid open again, bringing a new passenger. In stark contrast to Eduard, the girl who entered next only poked her head in first, cautious about interrupting. Marshall recognized her, though it took him a second to recall why.
“Vodin sent me through,” she said.
“Come and sit,” Benedikt prompted, taking his pen back and tapping it twice on Marshall’s knee to tell him to get back on task. “This will be quick. You are…” He consulted the passenger list. “Yeva?”
The girl nodded, walking forward and sliding into the seat. She was wearing a pale green dress in a collared style that felt reminiscent of Shanghai, though perhaps cities spreading their fashion to each other was no big surprise. A silver necklace dangled outside the lace, its pendant engraved with an English letter Y.
“Yeva Mikhailovna, at your service.” Her voice came quietly, not because of timidity, but merely as if that were her default volume.
“No family name?” Marshall asked.
“That is not so strange in this day and age,” she answered easily.
Marshall supposed he had to agree. After all, his full name on this train ride was “Just Marshall.”
“Are there any other passengers who can account for your whereabouts at the time of the crime, Yeva Mikhailovna?” Benedikt asked, probably writing her lack of surname into his notes too.
“That depends,” Yeva answered. She smoothed a stray piece of hair away, pressing it back into her low bun. “When the provodnitsa screamed, I was alone in my own room drinking tea. But a few minutes beforehand, if that is when the crime occurred, you two saw me.”