Last Violent Call (Secret Shanghai, #3.5)(66)
Vodin, thankfully, seemed persuaded. Or at least enough to stop resisting. Benedikt released the officer and spun around to look for Marshall again, who was coming through the doors with the last of the curious passengers.
“You got it?” Marshall asked.
Benedikt tipped his head to the side. He had fetched a coat rack from one of the other compartments after cajoling the provodnitsa to let him in. Now it waited by the bar, placed in front of the working attendant, who kept glancing at the growing crowd with confusion.
“I got it. Let’s begin.”
Lev pushed forward, a pen and a notepad clutched in his hands. He bobbed up on his toes, trying to avoid getting swallowed by the milling passengers.
“Fellow train-riders joining us today,” Marshall declared. The dining carriage fell into a hush. “We will waste no time with polite introductions. You have all spoken with us at least once this week while we investigated the death of Danila Andreyevich Popov. Thank you for bearing with us.”
Marshall had the sort of theatric voice that could get everyone’s attention fixated on the scene. With that done, he looked to Benedikt, who shifted the coat rack forward a little and took over.
“Danila Andreyevich Popov was stabbed through the throat with a pen, in case you hadn’t heard gossip about the gory details yet,” he said plainly. “He was also a busy man. A founder of a pharmaceuticals company with business in both Moscow and Vladivostok. He made this journey across Siberia often.”
“Gentlemen,” Vodin interrupted. “I am waiting to hear about the culprit.”
“We are getting there,” Marshall assured him.
“Right this moment, actually.” From underneath one of the tables, Benedikt drew out the briefcase that they had taken from Popov’s belongings. He pulled forth the letters that had been bundled in there, mostly set aside for irrelevance in the beginning. “A few passengers heard Mr. Popov arguing with someone, but they only heard his voice. There was the indication of some reply being given, but no one could pick out words. No one could guess if it was a man or woman in his compartment—there was nothing to go by.”
“And it doesn’t make sense, does it?” Marshall continued while Benedikt smoothed out the letters. “We know how thin the walls are. How is it possible to carry on an argument like that?”
“The answer,” Benedikt said, “is that it wasn’t an argument at all, but Mr. Popov talking to himself. He was writing letters, and he was getting incredibly worked up. He was shouting his argument, then muttering imagined responses from his business correspondents as he wrote his letters. You can read some of these lines and hear the turn in his thoughts.”
Marshall shuffled the papers closer to Lev. He lifted the camera dangling at his neck and snapped a picture.
“Next”—Benedikt walked to the coat rack—“for the longest time, we couldn’t determine why the coat rack at the crime scene was snapped in half. It wastes several seconds if it was a spur-of-the-moment decision; it doesn’t add up if it was a logical decision. Why not swing the whole thing? Wouldn’t that make a more formidable weapon because it is heavier?
“The answer…,” Benedikt concluded. He picked up the coat rack set in front of them and then suddenly snapped it in half over his knee. The part of his leg that made contact with the furniture piece throbbed in pain, but he drew a few gasps across the dining carriage, and he knew he had made his point. “It wasn’t snapped to be used as a weapon. It was snapped in a fit of anger.”
“And where would you set it down, unthinkingly?” Marshall prompted.
“I’d toss it near the wall, annoyed,” Benedikt replied, as if they were playing off a script, dropping the two pieces closely to imitate the small size of Popov’s compartment. He made sure that the top half was positioned just right, the same way it had looked at the crime scene. The train floor was not an entirely flat surface. The top half of the coat rack stayed unmoving because of its irregular shapes. The bottom half started to roll, the circular base taking it in a crescent arc. “Then I would sit down to resume writing my letter.”
Benedikt took a seat at one of the dining tables. He mimed holding a pen in front of him. “I am concentrating hard. Furious over what is going on in my work, barely thinking about anything other than the words in front of me.”
“Then a knock comes at the door.” Marshall thuds his knuckles on one of the other tables. “It is the provodnitsa, checking in routinely.”
“So I turn my pen around to avoid its ink dripping while I am not writing.” Benedikt gestured for Marshall to throw him a real pen, wanting to have this aspect visualized too, but Marshall splayed his hands in silent answer that he didn’t have one. Lev, however, was paying close attention, because he quickly hurried forward, volunteering his own.
“Thank you, Lev,” Benedikt whispered. He flipped the ink nib upward. Clutched it in his fist. “I will return shortly to my work. There is no need to set it down.” He stood up. Intentionally, Benedikt didn’t look down, though a part of the broken coat rack he had tossed was right at his feet. “But the moment I start to walk…”
He paused, his foot hovering over the bottom coat rack piece. “I trip and fall.” In slow motion, he stepped over the piece. He fell to his knee. “I strike against this protruding piece”—the top half of the coat rack looks menacing now, its hook glinting with danger— “and I cut that mark into my forehead. Right before the rest of my body entirely loses balance.”