Last Violent Call (Secret Shanghai, #3.5)(58)

Marshall shook the directory vigorously. “We need to interview everyone again.”





9


“Do you take any medicines?”

No one who sat down for questioning knew how to answer. Or rather, they would blink, trying to comprehend the relevance of the topic, then answer hesitantly—which Benedikt hoped meant they were caught off guard just enough not to lie.

“Sleeping pills, I suppose,” Portsmith said.

“I have high blood pressure.” Mrs. Kuzmina massaged her temples while she spoke. “Do you want a list of all my medicines?”

“Vitamins,” Yeva Mikhailovna answered. “My husband tells me I need to keep my bones strong.”

“I do not.” Stepan kept an innocent expression. “Only the occasional painkiller.”

By nightfall, they had made an abundance of scribbles on the passenger list, having questioned every person in soft-class but one: Eduard Kozlov. He had stayed in his compartment, refusing to show up.

Benedikt looked up as Marshall returned to the table holding two plates in his hands. He had asked the attendants for a quick dinner so that they didn’t collapse while investigating.

“What is that?”

“Don’t be fussy,” Marshall replied. It didn’t go over Benedikt’s head that he deliberately did not answer.

“Veal?” Benedikt guessed, even more wary. He picked up a fork and prodded the side of the meat. Though it was smothered with brown gravy, the whole dish colorless, part of the meat fell free as soon as he nudged the fork against it, its quality dry and hard.

“Eat, Ben.”

“Must I? Which of the attendants is doubling as the cook, because I would really like a word with—”

Marshall forked a piece into his mouth, shutting him up. The food didn’t taste any better than it looked. But sustenance was sustenance, so Benedikt chewed obediently, trying not to make a face.

“How are our findings looking?” Marshall asked, leaning over to peer at the passenger list. “I am shocked that Vodin has such a long list of medications.”

“I suspect he’s had some sort of surgery recently,” Benedikt said.

Marshall tilted his head. He had the sort of face that was loud about his confusion even if he didn’t say a word; nothing could be concealed in the dip of his brow when he scrunched his forehead, nor in the way his lower lip would stick out just a little if he was trying to add something up but couldn’t get it to fit quite right.

“He is always ginger with his left shoulder.” Benedikt had noticed it on that first day when Vodin didn’t lean his body into the door to leave but rather opted to push his hand forward. “Yet his handshake with his right hand is perfectly firm. It would make sense with why he’s taking these medications.”

“Wooooow.” Marshall drew the exclamation long. When he propped his chin on his hand, his dark eyes were practically twinkling, light pouring from his smile. “You sound just like a real detective.”

Benedikt pointed his fork at him. If he didn’t warn Marshall off being so dramatic all the time, Benedikt was going to develop an ego sooner or later. Even though his fork-waving was a clear warning, Marshall only stuck his tongue out to lick the gravy off the utensil.

“You volunteered our services precisely because we have the qualifications.”

“I suppose that is true. How do you feel about actually going into private investigation after this? We might make more money than education.”

“Mars,” Benedikt said dully. “You would hate that.”

“I love saving the day.”

“You couldn’t be patient to save your life.”

Marshall had been caught out. “Then educating children it is.” He took a bite of his own food, chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed and said: “You know what else, though… If Vodin has a weak left shoulder, we also know for certain he is entirely innocent in all this.”

Benedikt arched an eyebrow.

“Why do you say that? We have no reason to think Vodin did it, sure, but we can’t entirely rule out any suspect.” He wiped a single drop of sauce off Marshall’s chin. Such a messy eater. “We should even suspect the provodnitsa: she was the first person Popov was rude to, after all.”

That was the first rule of solving any murder, according to the novels, wasn’t it? The culprit was never who the detective expected it to be. The final answer was always supposed to add up at the last minute once they had found some sort of revelatory piece of information. Even if it would make no sense for the officer in charge to have something to do with the murder, they couldn’t discount anything.

But then Marshall said, “We can definitely rule him out.” He set down his fork and picked up another utensil: the blunt knife. He flipped it around in his hand, the blade moving across his fingers with the practiced ease of agility, and stopped it when he made a fist. “Remember the cut on Popov’s forehead?”

“Of course.”

Slowly, Marshall made Benedikt set his utensil down too, then mimed attacking him with the knife. He was still making a fist around the knife, but instead of pressing the dull blade forward, he used the other end, drawing his elbow outward. Its metal grazed across Benedikt’s skin, running a cold line from his temple to the center of his forehead.