Last Violent Call (Secret Shanghai, #3.5)(52)

Another flash of light. Lev was leaning right over the metal sink, getting close to the mirror.

“You keep him company and continue looking,” Marshall said, stepping back into the passageway. “I will report to Vodin—I figure this message works in our favor.”

“In your favor?” Lev cut in excitedly. “How so?”

Benedikt plonked two hands on the boy’s shoulders and maneuvered him to face the mirror again. “Take your pictures promptly. I am getting itchy just watching you linger in here. It is in our favor because it means we’re onto something.”

Now it was just a matter of figuring out what. It wasn’t as if any of the questioning had led to a pivotal clue. Neither Benedikt nor Marshall felt very assured about the direction of their investigation at all. They were two frauds groping around in the dark, and it seemed someone felt threatened enough to try to halt them in their tracks.

“Stay right here,” Marshall said. He trekked off, pushing into the next carriage.

Lev turned back to the mirror’s message. His camera shutter made a loud noise.

Then, before he could take his next picture, he decided to crouch down, angling up at the writing.

“Mal’chik,” Benedikt said slowly. “What… are you doing?”

Lev looked away from his camera lens. He blinked his eyes innocently. “Getting this little fleck right here.”

On days when Benedikt painted around their apartment in Moscow, he could be as careful as a surgeon and still Marshall would somehow walk into a splotch he had unknowingly dropped in the kitchen. It was always rather funny to listen to Marshall yell, though, startled that he had trod on something suspiciously wet and cold.

Benedikt traced down the mirror. Leaned in close.

At the base of the sink, right beside Lev’s shoe, there was a smudged bit of red paint upon the linoleum floor. It hadn’t entirely dried yet. The barest sheen of light bounced off the color.

“Lev, don’t move,” Benedikt warned.

The boy looked away from his camera again. “Huh?”

“Just stand there and keep taking your photos. I will return shortly.”

Benedikt kept his eyes pinned down. He edged through the doorway carefully, then situated himself forward and reached for the wallpapered sides, gripping hard to maintain balance, as if that could minimize the amount of carpet he was stepping on.

He found the next phantom bit of paint right outside the washroom, where the linoleum met the navy-blue carpet. It would have been rather impossible to see the mark if he hadn’t been looking closely. The dark color swallowed it right up.

He scoured the nearby carpet, looking and looking and looking….

A cacophony of noise burst behind him, the carriage doors opening to bring Marshall, Vodin, and Mrs. Kuzmina. Marshall and Vodin were going back and forth rather forcefully about what more could be found in the investigation. The provodnitsa, meanwhile, was carrying a bucket of water and a cloth, likely heading for the washroom with the intention of cleaning up the mirror after Marshall had reported the scene.

“Hey,” Benedikt called out.

Mrs. Kuzmina paused in front of the washroom. Marshall and Vodin, too, stopped mid-debate to glance over. In that one word, they had picked up Benedikt’s concern—or perhaps it was more accurate to say that Marshall had picked up Benedikt’s slight concern, and Vodin was only following the more visceral cues that Marshall was giving off.

Benedikt pointed to the door right beside the washroom. “Who occupies this room?”

“That room?” The provodnitsa set down her bucket. “Nobody. It is empty.”

That was unexpected. And it didn’t make any sense. Because if it was empty, why was there a third smear of the faintest paint smudge right outside the doorway, as if someone had made two long strides out of the washroom before disappearing right next door?

“Recently?” Benedikt pressed. Hearing his urgency, Marshall hurried over too. “Did someone move rooms?”

Mrs. Kuzmina reached into her pocket, pulling out her master key. “No, no. For this journey, there was no ticket holder for this room. See?” She put the key in, turning the lock and pushing on the handle. “Empty.”

The door swung open. She flicked on the overhead light.

And though there were no sheets on the bed nor any clothes hanging on the wardrobe hangers, there was a single can of red paint sitting on the table with a wet brush lying beside it.

The train bounced. For a moment, no one said anything. Then, very seriously, Marshall demanded: “Is there any chance that we have a stowaway?”

The provodnitsa’s mouth opened and closed. Disbelief turned her movements slow. “I don’t know. I cannot imagine how.”

This investigation was only getting stranger and stranger. Muttering a curse, Benedikt strode into the room, making a quick inventory of its contents. The compartment looked near identical to the others in the carriage. The curtains were drawn back. The one drawer beneath the wardrobe was ever so slightly ajar.

Out of instinct, Benedikt nudged it open with his foot. He didn’t say anything. He let Vodin come into the room and start ranting about keeping track of where the keys were, the officer’s pointer finger stabbing into his other palm forcefully as he instructed the provodnitsa on altering the lock on the door. When Marshall’s gaze settled in his direction, Benedikt locked eyes meaningfully, then inclined his head at the drawer.