Last Violent Call (Secret Shanghai, #3.5)(51)

Benedikt, in the present, turned his head. “You’re being awfully quiet, Mars.”

Yet even when the rest of the world was fooled, Benedikt took him seriously. The last star could burn out and the oceans could dry to nothing, but Benedikt would be there, letting Marshall protest and fuss and grouse until his true face came out.

“I am only thinking,” Marshall said. “About you.”

“Good thoughts, I hope.”

“Dirty ones, actually.”

Benedikt rolled his eyes. Before he could respond, however, there was a muffled crash in the passageway outside, and then a yell of alarm. Both Marshall and Benedikt were up within seconds, knowing that there could only be so many reasons someone was yelling on a train with an active crime scene.

Marshall threw open the compartment door. His first instinct was to look left, in the direction of the dining carriage. When another cry sounded, he was almost surprised to discover it was from the right.

“Hang on, hang on,” Benedikt warned before he could start in that direction. “What is it?”

A woman stumbled out of the washroom at the end of the carriage.

“I-i-in there,” she stammered. “I only turned on the lights and…”

She had been among the passengers interviewed only hours earlier. Marshall couldn’t recall her name, but he gave her a reassuring smile as he brushed by, saying, “Take a deep breath. I will have a look.”

He stepped into the washroom. On the mirror, there was a message penned by a careful hand.

In dripping, crimson blood.


STOP LOOKING





7


“Okay, well, the good news is that it’s not blood.”

Benedikt swiped a finger against one of the Cyrillic letters, taking off its tail. He rubbed the smudge against his thumb and continued, “Oil-based paint, I would guess. It looks very difficult to clean.”

A sudden flash of light flared over his shoulder. Benedikt whirled around quickly, then almost knocked into Lev, who had silently approached from behind with his camera out.

“Oops,” the boy said. “Don’t mind me. Getting some pictures.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Benedikt said, sidling out of the way. His knee nudged against the porcelain toilet bowl.

Alongside Lev’s appearance, a group of passengers had also gathered in the passageway, drawn by the woman’s cry and curious over what the hubbub was. A shelf of soaps had been knocked over in her panic. It was collapsed sadly by the toilet bowl. While onlookers drew closer and tried to peer in, Marshall did his best to wave them off from the door, saying that there was nothing interesting here to see.

It clearly wasn’t true—not when Lev had been let in to take his photos.

“Mars,” Benedikt called. “Come in. The rest of you outside need to make some space in case the message here is poisoned.”

There was no chance that someone would go mixing poison into paint—because it would be a rather fruitless endeavor—but his warning did the trick. The passengers quickly scattered back, muttering about whether they were in danger and putting their handkerchiefs to their noses. It was only Mr. Portsmith who remained where he stood, poking his head into the washroom. He hadn’t understood Benedikt when he spoke in Russian.

“What does that say?” Mr. Portsmith nodded at the mirror.

“Mr. Portsmith, please return to your compartment,” Marshall replied, switching to English. “We must conduct an investigation here.”

The old man huffed. “What a frightfully boring journey,” he muttered. “I spent about ten minutes yammering to that Yeva girl at the samovar before realizing she didn’t understand me. I can hardly get through to my traveling companion either, and now the only English speakers won’t answer a simple question….” He shuffled off, still grouching to himself.

Marshall stepped in through the door, finally having rid the passageway of onlookers.

“Why the washroom, of all places?” he wondered, eyes tracing the scene.

As far as train facilities went, the washroom size was rather generous, or at least enough so that Benedikt could stretch his arms wide and not nudge either of the deep green walls. Perhaps it was because the compartments didn’t come with their own washrooms, unlike some other train designs. There was only one in each carriage that the passengers had to share for a full week. A shower attachment could even be pulled off the wall, though Benedikt didn’t sense any dampness on the floor or see any water collected around the drain to signal its recent use. One bulb dangled on a string from the ceiling. The porthole window offered little but the fallen dusk outside.

“Other parts of the train are rather closely watched,” Benedikt guessed. “The washroom is the only private place to leave a threatening message without being seen.”

Stop looking. It was rather vague as far as threats went too. They could have gone for “You are next.” Or even “I will kill again.” But instead, it was an instruction regarding the investigation itself.

Fair enough, Benedikt thought to himself. Popov had been arguing with someone before his death. This had to have been a crime with a motive, a murder committed in answer for something he had done, or someone he had upset. Once he was dealt with, the problem was solved. There was a killer on board, but that killer probably wasn’t a big threat anymore, unless someone really pushed them to act again.