Last Violent Call (Secret Shanghai, #3.5)(56)
The woman sitting at the bar chuckled. The attendant frowned but didn’t argue further, cleaning the glass in his hand and mumbling something inaudible under his breath about the possibility of hidden talents.
“Officer, we must collect handwriting samples,” Marshall continued. If one branch of investigation didn’t look like it was offering any results, he had to keep throwing different options at Vodin, give him the impression that something would be found. Though Marshall would be plenty pleased if they truly found something, his first priority was to keep the train running so they could get as close as possible to Vladivostok.
“Handwriting samples?” Vodin echoed.
“To match the threat written on the mirror,” Lev supplied before Marshall could, sounding like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s the first rule of investigating. We could start narrowing down who wrote it.”
The boy lifted his chin high. He glanced at Marshall, seeking approval, and Marshall immediately stuck both his thumbs high in the air. Lev beamed.
“I see.” Vodin pushed off from the bar. He tapped the surface, considering, then nodded. “All right. Lev, you can help me then. Let’s fetch the papers in my compartment.”
Vodin ushered Lev away, giving Marshall a weighty look over his nephew’s shoulder. It seemed to warn him that he needed to work fast—at the very least, have some new findings to report back while Vodin collected the passengers’ handwriting. The door closed after him. The dining carriage returned to its usual procession of activity.
“Another drink?” the attendant asked. His tone sounded a little snootier after Marshall’s comment about his weak muscles.
Marshall shook his head. He picked up his first drink, only half-consumed. “I am off to sit. If there are any more of those pastries at the back, though, do bring some for me.”
He had his pick of seating, settling at a table in the corner, right beside the library shelves. The decor in the dining carriage gave the impression of an old manor house, and the unlit candelabras dotting each windowsill only accentuated the ambience. Just as Marshall was leaning toward the closest one, wondering if the wax was real or merely for appearances, someone cleared their throat from behind him, and he reared away, pretending to have only been stretching his neck.
“May I join you?” Stepan Maximovich Ivanov asked. His eyes were wide, as usual.
Marshall gestured to the free chair. “I would never decline company.”
“Ah, you are better than I am.” Stepan settled down, dropping into the chair before setting his cup of coffee on the table. A few drops spilled over the side. The man grimaced, but otherwise didn’t fuss before using a thumb to swipe the liquid away from the saucer.
“So,” the man continued. “Private investigation. How did you get into the field?”
Great question. Marshall wondered that himself sometimes. He supposed he could recount the series of events that had set him here today. Somehow, though, he figured it didn’t make an appropriate story to describe his beginnings as a bastard child living in the Chinese countryside with his Korean mother, which led to joining the White Flowers upon her death, which led to his place beside the ruling Montagov family. Officially, he had been a gangster running their errands. Unofficially, he had been part troublemaker, part detective, part adviser—depending on the day and what new troubles stirred up in the underground empire. He’d had plenty of opportunity to develop private investigation skills.
“The way it always starts,” Marshall replied, circling around the question. “A morbid curiosity as a child.”
Stepan tapped his spoon against the side of his coffee cup. He bounced up and down once in his seat, in the manner of a chuckle. “Are you very far from those days? You barely look old enough to be working.”
“Very funny. I have been told I have a youthful glow.”
After those early years on his own, fending for himself and trying to walk in an orderly line that didn’t teeter entirely into oblivion, Marshall was used to a world where that was the norm. Shanghai was a beating, thriving world of opportunity at any stage. Heirs were primed to take over criminal networks at eighteen. Children ran messages into enemy territory because they were quicker and more agile when avoiding bullets.
“There is great benefit in that.” Stepan sipped his coffee. He grimaced, face morphing in silent complaint over the bitter taste. “You get old and suddenly you can no longer flash a handsome smile to solve a problem.”
Marshall snorted. “I don’t think a handsome smile is going to help with this problem at present.”
Stepan made a noise of agreement. He leaned back in his chair. Crossed one leg over the other. That perpetual look of surprise he always wore narrowed a minute amount, transforming into consideration.
“It is not going well?”
“Oh”—Marshall backtracked, not wanting to reveal too much—“it is going as it should. But wouldn’t it be easier if there were shortcuts?”
“I imagine there must be a vast amount of information to cover. There is so much to look into regarding the deceased’s work alone, never mind his personal life.”
Marshall didn’t quite register the full impact of that statement before he was already nodding along. Two seconds later, his nod halted mid-movement, and he tilted his head instead.