The Twelfth Department (28 page)

“What about you? Did you get covered in blood? When it was going all over the place?”

“A bit,” he replied, looking uncertain—as if he were trying to remember. “I must have, mustn’t I?”

“I would have thought so,” Korolev said in a neutral voice. “Did you clean yourself up?”

“I did.” The doorman seemed uncertain once again. “In the sink.”

“Come with me, Citizen Priudski.”

Korolev led the former doorman back into Shtange’s study, where he placed a photograph of the dead man on the desk—Korolev saw no recognition in the doorman’s face. And even though Blanter was glaring at him once again, Korolev couldn’t help it. He had to ask questions—Slivka would expect him to.

“You recognize him, don’t you?” Korolev asked, and Priudski seemed to take the hint once again.

“It’s Dr. Shtange,” he said.

“Very good.” Korolev pulled photographs of the dead man’s blood-drenched body from an envelope. He laid them on the desk one by one. Priudski picked up each one and examined it with a dreamy expression on his face. He lifted the first of the autopsy photographs, then placed it carefully back down, before beginning to touch a finger to each of the dead man’s wounds, one after another.

“I stabbed him here, and here, and here…”

He spoke quietly, as if to himself.

“What kind of weapon did you use?”

“A knife, what else?” Priudski said, his finger still moving from wound to wound, his focus still on the photograph.

“And what did you do with it? This knife of yours?”

“I threw it into the Moskva—at night, off the bridge. Near where I work.”

Of course, by the time night had fallen on the day of Dr. Shtange’s murder, Priudski had already been picked up by Zaitsev’s men. He wished they’d at least bothered to get his story to hang together a little bit better.

“Describe it to me.”

“It was a fold-out knife. I had it open in my pocket, ready, in case there was trouble. I knew the fellow had shot the professor dead so I came prepared.” Priudski began to touch the photograph once again. “I stabbed him with it here, and here, and here.”

The way he spoke was disturbing. It was almost as if he’d really killed the man and he was lost in the memory of it. But that couldn’t be, could it?

“How big was the knife? The blade, that is?”

Priudski hesitated then held his hands apart. No more than four inches.

“Did you have any other weapons with you?” Korolev asked.

“No, just the knife. I didn’t need anything else.”

“Can you tell me about this mark here?” Korolev said, directing Priudski’s attention to another photograph, this time of the left side of Shtange’s face, and pointing to the scar that had been carved into the skin. Priudski examined it for a time before looking up to Blanter, as if for inspiration.

“After I’d killed him,” he said after a pause, “I was still angry. So I sliced him up a bit. With the knife.”

“With the fold-out knife?”

It was interesting—whenever the fellow seemed to be in doubt, his first instinct was to look to Blanter. Korolev turned to the Chekist to see yet another small nod from him. The boxer seemed almost to be directing Priudski.

“Yes,” Priudski said.

The Chekist looked back at Korolev, less aggressive now, it seemed. Possibly because he was satisfied with Priudski’s performance. Well, if he was, maybe Slivka would be too.

“Is that all?” Blanter asked, and it occurred to Korolev that the interview might be the last thing keeping the Chekist from a long-awaited bed. Well, he’d have to wait a bit longer—Korolev was more concerned with what Slivka thought, at this moment in time, and Slivka looked troubled. He had to allow her to ask a question or two if she was to be persuaded to go along with Priudski’s confession—even temporarily.

“I’ve no further questions, Comrade Blanter. You can take him away, as far as I’m concerned. Unless Sergeant Slivka has anything to ask him?”

Slivka looked up from her notebook with a quizzical look. “How did you meet Dr. Shtange?”

For a moment Priudski appeared uncertain, but then his expression changed, reminding Korolev of the secret pleasure a man gets when he picks up a winning hand of cards.

“He used to come round to visit the Azarovs—often. I didn’t pay much attention to him until he approached me a few weeks ago. He waited for me outside the building.” The answer slipped off Priudski’s tongue as smoothly as anything he’d said so far.

“The building?” Slivka asked.

“Leadership House. Where the Azarovs live. Where I work.”

That was enough, Korolev thought.

“Very good,” he said. “We’ve no further questions, Comrade Blanter. Thank you for your assistance.”

Slivka looked at him in surprise, but he ignored her. Blanter looked content—which was something.

“Colonel Zaitsev wants it to be known that his cooperation can be absolutely relied upon. He told me to say that to you most specifically. And this is his telephone number—should you require any more of his cooperation.”

Blanter spoke slowly, almost ponderously—but the message was clear enough.

*   *   *

“What was all that about?” Slivka said when the two men had left. “What did he mean by telling you that Zaitsev’s cooperation could be relied upon?”

“Who knows?” Korolev said.

He reached his left hand into his pocket, found Yuri’s pocket knife, and closed his fingers around it. He sighed. The worst thing about life these days was that when things went wrong—when you were being sucked into the whirlpool—other people were sucked in with you, whether you liked it or not. He smiled at her, but suspected it was a poor effort.

“Well then, let’s talk about Priudski. What did you make of him?”

“He was lying, wasn’t he?” Slivka wasn’t beating around the bush, but he’d not expected her to.

“Certainly at the end—when he said Shtange had visited the Azarovs,” Korolev said, shrugging. “But there could be an explanation for that.”

“An explanation?”

“Shock—killing someone can do that to people. I’ve seen it.”

She looked perplexed. “You don’t believe him, do you?”

“That’s not what I said.” Korolev ran a hand over a neck that was already damp with sweat. The day was going to be another scorcher.

“But Madame Shtange said they disliked each other,” Slivka said. “He and Azarov—they
never
met socially. It’s in your notes of the conversation.”

“It is,” Korolev agreed, “and Chestnova thought that there were two knives. One with a very large blade—eight to ten inches—and the other closer to a medical scalpel. Priudski said he used a single knife, which was shorter, to judge from how far he held his hands apart, and one which he seems to have disposed into the Moskva at night, when he should already have been in custody. What to make of that? I’m not sure.”

“And the man barely knew where he was—he didn’t seem to even recognize the doctor when he looked at the photographs.”

“There are certainly questions that need answering—but Slivka, on the other hand, I’ve seen men react to terrible events in similar ways, back in the war. It’s the fear, it wipes everything from their mind—he reminded me of them. Even the confusion—some of them were confused in just such a way. They can’t remember things, so they make them up.”

He watched Slivka as he spoke. Unless he was mistaken, she was listening to his argument at least. That was good.

“And the first person the professor’s wife blamed for his death was none other than Dr. Shtange,” Korolev said, finishing up with what wasn’t a bad point, even in these circumstances.

“Yes, she did.” Slivka seemed to be thinking it through. “You think that’s what it was? Some kind of shock? Perhaps he did have more than one knife—only he can’t remember the second one?”

“It seems to me it might all just about hang together. Obviously we need to look into it properly.”

Korolev didn’t lie often, well not this kind of lie—a lie to a friend—and he wasn’t sure he was very good at it, but Slivka seemed to be giving him the benefit of the doubt. She looked at him uncertainly.

“I’ll be honest, Chief, I’m not entirely convinced—but if you think we can make something of it, then I’m happy to try.”

“It looks a little improbable, but let’s not be too cynical here. Let’s not look too hard at the gift-horse’s teeth.” Even though that was precisely what they were paid to do. “It still has four legs and it might take us to where we want to go. Let’s ask around and see if we can find anyone who saw him here or near here. Get the uniforms to show his smiling face around the locality. He came here by tram and went away by tram. Let’s see if any of the conductors remember him.”

“You mean did anyone see a blood-drenched doorman making his way several miles across town on a tram?”

She paused, seeming to consider what she’d said, before she continued, apparently more receptive to the possibility.

“Of course, this is Moscow. People can be blind when it suits them.”

Korolev didn’t like to say that that was because Muscovites were sensible people, by and large.

“Exactly,” he said. “So ask around—I’ll carry on with the other leads, but I want you to focus on this.”

What he meant, of course, was that he wanted her to stay safely away from the things he might or might not have to do to get both Yuri and himself out of this mess in one piece. Or as safely away as possible, anyway.

“All right,” she agreed, and if she was still reluctant about Priudski’s story, he appreciated the fact that she made some effort to hide it. “I’ll do it, but there’s another matter we have to attend to in the meantime.”

“What?”

“Kolya. He’ll meet us at Gorky Park. At two. On the embankment—there’s a statue of a diver about two hundred meters along from the Krimsky Bridge.”

“I know it. Well done.”

“He’ll find us,” Slivka said. “We just go to the statue and walk on from there—he’ll pick us up when he thinks it’s safe.”

Korolev made a show of considering this, before shaking his head.

“No, Slivka, I’ll see him on my own. You need to keep on at this.”

Slivka gave him a strange glance, and Korolev found it difficult to hold her gaze.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Korolev sat at Shtange’s desk. Dubinkin would be walking through the door in a few minutes and he wanted to spend some time considering his situation before the Chekist arrived. Korolev’s fury was still smoldering, but other emotions were making themselves felt now, not least of which was severe anxiety for Yuri’s safety. If he allowed it to, he knew fear could slow him down, knew it was essential he kept moving forward on this most perilous of paths. To panic would be fatal for them both. All he could do was pray that the good Lord would preserve Yuri until he could, with luck, rescue him from the dangers the boy now faced.

At least Slivka had been dealt with, more or less. It had been unpleasant to lie to her and he’d been prepared for her to dig her heels in more. But instead she’d been surprisingly compliant—perhaps even suspiciously so. He considered that for a moment—no, she’d gone along with it because she trusted him. He’d have to explain the deception to her at some stage, no doubt, but he hoped she’d forgive him. If she didn’t—well—that was just the way things would be. After all, he couldn’t take any risks with this—the stakes were too high.

Korolev picked up a couple of the photographs of Priudski. They’d been taken in the last day or so. Korolev presumed they were the arrest photographs. One was taken from the side and in the other the doorman was looking straight at the camera. The curious thing was, the Priudski who he’d spoken to only a few minutes ago looked quite different to the man who’d stood against a wall in some Chekist building to have his photograph taken. Korolev examined the face carefully. The old Priudski had a sly look about him—and a pursed, down-turned mouth, both of which, to Korolev’s mind at least, had been signposts to the malevolence he’d detected when he’d first met him.

This morning, however, it had seemed to him that a lot of the doorman’s character had been—well—smoothed from his face. His features seemed more or less the same, but his face was like one of those you might see in a newspaper—the ones that blurred the things you weren’t meant to see. Korolev had seen Stalin at close quarters twice, and knew that the General Secretary’s face was pitted with small-pox scars. It was a rare newspaper photograph that showed them, however. Korolev half-wondered whether something similar might be going on with Priudski, but how could that possibly be? Could Priudski’s entire personality have been rubbed away by someone using Azarov’s methods, whatever they were? Had they really managed to convince the doorman of his own guilt? Or had they some other hold over him?

He shook his head slowly. He was pretty sure Priudski hadn’t killed Shtange, and it concerned him that his going along with Zaitsev’s deception might result in the doorman’s imprisonment or execution. He’d never framed an innocent man, or a guilty one for that matter—he’d always let the evidence take him where it needed to take him. And whoever he found at the other end of the trail was the guilty man and that was that. He was doing something damned close to framing Priudski here—but what choice did he have? None. Not at the moment at least. If things changed he’d do his best to get the fellow off the hook—but for now he was going to have to do his level best to convince everyone necessary that Priudski had perpetrated the most vicious of knife attacks, and that was that.

Which brought him back to Dubinkin. It was, of course, essential that the Chekist went along with the idea that Priudski’s confession had some substance to it. And, unless Korolev was mistaken, it was in Dubinkin’s interests as much as his that this case was put behind them speedily and efficiently. After all, Dubinkin wanted to get out of this business with his hide intact, just as he did—and this was as good a way as any. But there was also something that Zaitsev had let slip that made Korolev wonder if Dubinkin might not have another reason for agreeing to his version of events.

“Good morning, Korolev,” the Chekist said as he came into Shtange’s study, interrupting Korolev’s chain of thought. Which was just as well—sometimes thinking about things for too long made them seem more difficult than they were. All he had to do now was convince an intelligent, experienced Chekist that a lie was a truth. He wouldn’t want that to seem any more difficult than it already was.