Last Violent Call (Secret Shanghai, #3.5)(67)
Benedikt set his arm on the carpeted floor, elbow at a ninety-degree angle so that his fist was pressed flat, the sharp tip of the pen pointing directly up. The dining carriage had gone silent. Even the attendant behind the bar had stopped making drinks, watching in rapt attention alongside the passengers.
“You can imagine what I am getting at,” he finished. “I won’t demonstrate the final act.”
At once, Benedikt clambered back to his feet, returning the pen to Lev. The boy’s jaw was slightly agape, staring in wonder.
No one spoke for several long moments. Then Vodin, his voice almost hoarse: “You mean to tell me it was an accident?”
“It makes sense—you know it does,” Marshall replied smoothly. “There is a reason why we couldn’t find a motive. Why every investigative thread seemed to lead elsewhere instead. There was never a murder to begin with.”
The passengers started to murmur. First with barely audible volume, then louder and louder. It got to a point where Vodin needed to gesture for quiet.
Benedikt curled his fist tight. At his side, he felt Marshall shift closer, then reach forward to ease his fingers back into a relaxed state before anyone could see. Don’t be visible about it, he could almost hear Marshall remind him.
“I’ll be,” Vodin finally said. He eyed the second broken coat rack, scratching his head. “I will report to the police about this and see what they think.”
13
They declined Lev’s request to get a photo of them, claiming that private investigators needed anonymity, lest their enemies come after them for serving justice on their crimes. The boy seemed to accept that explanation, because he nodded, then asked for a forwarding address to send them a copy of his article once he managed to get it into print. Gladly, Marshall offered an address and said he was looking forward to reading the story.
The police came on board. Removed Popov’s body, then waved in front of their noses at the stench while exiting the compartment, telling Vodin the carpet would need a serious deep clean once the train ran its course. But they were letting the train finish its course. There was no need to take it off when there were still passengers waiting to get to their final destination. Anyone who had wanted a previous station could depart at Irkutsk and start to make their way back. The police were perfectly satisfied with the explanation that Vodin had delivered them courtesy of the private investigators on board.
The carriage felt a lot emptier once the train started to run again. Marshall wasn’t sure if it was because it had gotten quieter without every compartment at full capacity or if he was imagining the sensation after such a heart-pounding endeavor.
Night fell. When Marshall hovered at the compartment door to watch the train make its next stop at Verkhneudinsk, it almost felt peculiar for the route be running as usual, all the train doors opening to allow the evening mist to permeate into the carriage. The calls of local vendors and kiosk sellers filtered in too, hawking snacks for the traveler tired of the dining carriage selection.
Someone stepped out from the compartment two doors down. Stepan Maximovich Ivanov entered the hallway too, mimicking Marshall’s state of hovering.
“I heard that all is well,” he remarked in greeting.
“That’s one way to put it,” Marshall replied. Behind him, inside the compartment, Benedikt appeared to perk his ears, listening in on the conversation while he silently put lotion on his hands. His palms had gotten scratched up from breaking that coat rack.
“I am sorry to have missed the proceedings. It was probably quite the show.”
Stepan sounded genuine. There was no note of mocking anywhere in his tone. And yet…
“I must ask,” Marshall said, making no effort to soften the landing of his next words. “You knew Popov prior to this train ride, didn’t you?”
A bout of silence descended into the hallway. Benedikt turned around, quietly creeping closer to Marshall, looking like he was bracing himself in case this question turned ugly. But, two doors away, Stepan laughed suddenly—the sound of someone who had been caught out for a minor infraction like stealing from the cookie jar or running a red tram light.
“Was it that obvious? I was trying to do a good job of not making myself look unnecessarily suspicious.”
“The easiest way to avoid looking unnecessarily suspicious would have been to tell us the truth,” Benedikt cut in, poking his head out into the hallway too.
“While you were both looking in every direction for a motive? No, thank you. I knew my own innocence; I didn’t have to go intentionally shooting myself in the foot. Besides, I put you in the right direction, didn’t I?”
Marshall grumbled under his breath, folding his arms. “You could have helped us earlier.”
“Do accept my apologies.” Stepan looked genuinely remorseful when he pushed a hand into his thinning hair, smoothing his palm down before fetching the hat by his door and putting it on. “To be fair, I did not know him well. His workplace in Moscow was just down the road, and I always heard grumbling in my own building about their office leaving the lights on overnight. It truly was a coincidence that I happen to have been able to put a name to the face once on board.”
“Nevertheless…,” Marshall muttered. He didn’t actually have anything to follow that, though. When he glanced at Benedikt, he received a small shake of the head, communicating that they might as well let this go. It sounded like the truth.