Last Violent Call (Secret Shanghai, #3.5)(59)
“The cut was thickest by his right temple and thinner as it moved inward. He was hit like this: a backhanded smack of the coat stand from a left-handed grip.”
Benedikt frowned. He reached for Marshall’s hand, prying the blunt knife out of his grip and swapping it into his right hand instead, which was usually his dominant grip.
“I don’t see why it couldn’t have been like this.” Benedikt, with his hands wrapped around Marshall’s, pulled the proper end of the knife toward his temple and moved the arc inward.
“You’re so silly,” Marshall said with amusement. “Because it was a long coat stand, Ben. If someone was holding it with their right hand, it wouldn’t require any need for this awkward movement. Look at how much my wrist is bent to create the angle. They would just”—Marshall shook his hand free, then tapped the dull knife directly onto Benedikt’s forehead—“do this. Big smack.”
It did make sense. It was impressive deduction, the stuff of real detective work. Benedikt nodded appreciatively. Marshall would know the gesture was the same caliber of admiration as his prolonged Wooooow.
“Should we look for someone left-handed then?”
“Not necessarily. In moments of panic people can pick up weapons with any hand. I suppose it only means anyone who cannot hit hard with their left is ruled out.”
Benedikt picked his fork back up. Ate a bit of the terrible meat. “This… really doesn’t narrow it down by much, does it?”
Night proper was settling heavily around the train. They were three days in, so their surroundings had turned into mountain ranges and snowy riverbeds. The Ural Mountains had been left behind in the daytime. The terrain had turned rougher since then, but it was nothing unrecognizable. The farther they pressed into Siberia, the sparser the scenery would turn. After Lake Baikal, even the stops that the Trans-Siberian Express would usually make grew farther apart. If they could just hold out until then, maybe they had a greater chance of pushing all the way into Vladivostok.
As if hearing Benedikt’s thoughts, there was a rumble of commotion from the passageway outside the dining carriage. Unlike other times, however, this commotion sounded celebratory, and Benedikt slowly got to his feet, curious to see what the matter was.
He took a step toward the door. The train bounced under his feet. Was he imagining the slowing speed…?
“We are stopping!” a passenger crowed, sticking their head into the dining carriage.
Benedikt whirled around. Marshall’s horrified expression mirrored his own.
“Absolutely not,” he declared, hurrying forward.
* * *
“We are only refueling. You do not have to worry.”
Vodin waved for Benedikt to take a step back, looking concerned at the combative stance he had adopted. They had practically ambushed the officer as soon as he walked through the door. Benedikt shuffled slightly, inhaling deeply so he could lower his voice a sensible amount. Marshall squeezed his elbow, noting his tension. They stood in the passageway of the last soft-class carriage, right beside the guarded door that led into hard-class. In the search for answers, Benedikt had charged through all the carriages looking for Vodin, only to be stopped at the barrier by the attendant and told that he was speaking to the officers at the rear. Since those officers couldn’t come forward, only Vodin received signal communication from the engineer driving the train at the front in the locomotive cab.
“But the doors need to remain closed,” Benedikt emphasized. “The moment this train stops, it is an opportunity for escape.”
Right on cue, the train came to a complete halt, pulling up to Novosibirsk-Glavny Station. A whistle of steam howled into the night. Since one of the nearby compartments had its door propped open—its passenger napping casually on the bed with no care for the conversation in the passageway—Benedikt could see flashes of the station through the compartment window. A few streetlamps lit the night scene. The station’s turquoise green walls were an imposing sight, bright alongside the mounds of winter snow stacked at its sides.
It suddenly felt strange for the floor to be unmoving under his feet. He had gotten too used to the constant sensation of momentum. The world at rest felt like an unnatural state, some deviation from what was supposed to be routine.
“Don’t worry. The people at the station will handle the task at the locomotive, so there is no need for anyone to step foot outside the train. We will be in Novosibirsk for no longer than twenty minutes. Like I said, there is nothing to be concerned about.” Vodin looked around. “Where’s Lev?”
“Here!”
The boy scampered out from another compartment clutching a lined piece of paper in his hands. “I think that is everyone’s handwriting. We had a very pleasant chat about ink pens.”
“Did you now?” Vodin peered at the paper, giving an approving nod. “Be a dear and take my satchel from me, would you? My shoulder is getting quite weak.”
Lev hurried to ease the bag off his uncle’s left arm. Benedikt cast Marshall a quick look. He had been correct about his guess.
“All the samples are in there,” Vodin said. “The only one who wouldn’t offer one was… Lev, what was his name again?”
“Eduard Kozlov,” Lev supplied eagerly.
“Right, right. He was rather difficult about showing his shoes too. On this there was no answer at his door.”