Last Violent Call (Secret Shanghai, #3.5)(57)

“Popov’s work?” he asked. “I am not sure if I know what you mean.”

“Oh?”

There was something very interesting about that one syllable. Because Stepan’s tone of voice sounded confused, but when he met Marshall’s gaze head-on, there was no sense of confusion there. Either his large, owl-like eyes were prone to going dull, or he had spoken on purpose so that Marshall would pick up on this thread of questioning.

Why?

“I wasn’t aware you didn’t know,” Stepan clarified. That was a lie, Marshall decided immediately—the man stressed all the wrong syllables in his sentence as he feigned shock.

“The deceased wasn’t around for very long; there was hardly time to offer information about his line of work,” Marshall said. “No one on board has made his acquaintance prior to the journey either.”

“The deceased was not around for very long, but for some time nevertheless.” Stepan’s attention moved behind Marshall, searching left and right. Marshall didn’t know what the middle-aged man was looking at until he rose up and shuffled toward the library shelf, tapping a hand atop the row of encyclopedias before stopping at the white-spined books on the row below instead. “I had a conversation with him shortly after we boarded. He said he worked in pharmaceuticals.”

Ten thousand different thoughts flew through Marshall’s head at once. Pharmaceuticals. Something was starting to click together. Something at the very edges of what he was capable of grasping—but something nonetheless.

“Why didn’t you mention this during questioning?” Marshall asked. “It feels like critical information.”

“Why, I thought it was information that would have been discovered in his belongings already!” Stepan slid out one of the volumes, then brought it over to the table. When Marshall glanced at the front cover, he realized it was a telephone and address book, its pages as thin as whiskers, flopping under its own weight. THE MOSCOW DIRECTORY, it read. “He would be listed in here, I am certain. Now, don’t go accusing me of withholding this when I am finding it for you.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Marshall said. Suspicion churned in his gut, but it didn’t add up. There was nothing about Stepan’s suggestion that seemed intended to throw the investigation off the right scent. Marshall didn’t even have a scent to begin with. And yet Stepan had mentioned it for some purpose.

“All right. Excuse me now, I must catch up on sleep.” Stepan rapped his knuckles on the directory. “The infernal sunlight woke me up too far early this morning. Best of luck, detective.”

Just as Stepan was striding out of the dining carriage, Benedikt was striding in. The man offered a tilt of the hat in greeting, and Benedikt returned an expressionless nod. The door closed. Marshall immediately indicated for Benedikt to hurry closer, his motions furious.

“Where’s the fire?” Benedikt asked, sliding into the seat Stepan had just departed from.

Marshall started to flip through the directory. It was organized by personal listings in the first three-quarters, then businesses and organizations at the back.

“Come closer.”

Benedikt frowned. He pulled his seat over, looking more intently at the pages now. His hair was still wet, the ends slick against his neck. “What is it?”

“Nothing, I haven’t found anything yet.” Marshall paused, taking a moment to run through the Russian alphabet in his head. “Pharmaceuticals” would be nearer the end. He continued flipping. “I merely like your smell.”

“And yet I’m the one who keeps getting accused of killer tendencies.” Despite his words, Benedikt looked quite pleased. He subtly turned his nose down, sniffing his white shirt collar as if he wasn’t sure what he smelled like. The train soap was horrific; he had brought his own, the same one he used in Moscow. Sea salt and pine wood. Charred at the edges like it had been dusted with warm smoke.

“Stepan Maximovich just told me that our dead man worked in pharmaceuticals.”

Benedikt dabbed the back of his hand against his temple, taking away a drop of water before it could seep from his hair. “And he knows this because…?”

“There was a brief conversation after departure, allegedly. I can’t imagine how it came up, but it would be an awfully bizarre thing to lie about.”

“Strange that he didn’t mention it during questioning.”

Marshall slapped the table. “That is exactly what I said!”

“Unless,” Benedikt continued slowly, still chasing the same line of thought, “this information is something he already knew before he boarded the train, and he is trying to aid the investigation without coming off as a suspect.”

The directory was now open to a page listing businesses involved with pharmaceuticals, starting with the research companies. There was Laboratory Ten, and Mercury Coats Research, and…

“Do you think Stepan Maximovich knows more than he is telling us?” Marshall asked. He turned the directory in Benedikt’s direction, showing him one of the listings. There were two addresses side by side, one primary establishment in Moscow and one secondary in Vladivostok. Above the listing information, however, there was a single company name, claiming ownership to both establishments.

POPOV’S PHARMACY

“So our victim was the founder of a pharmaceuticals research company.”