The Twelfth Department

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

“What happened here? In your own words.” Korolev spoke dispassionately. His calm came, strangely, from ice-cold fury. He hadn’t wanted any part of this but they’d dragged him into it all the same—and now they’d taken his son. Why shouldn’t he be angry?

They’d gone through Priudski’s story once already—how he’d opened the door to the Azarovs’ apartment for the doctor, heard the sounds of an argument and the pop, pop of a small revolver. How he’d been horrified by the murder, how Shtange had told him he wanted to spring a surprise on Azarov, nothing more than that. And then, to make matters worse, Shtange had refused to pay up—leaving him with a dead tenant and a guilty conscience. He’d described, step by step, his journey across town to have it out with the murderer, and the meeting’s fatal result—for the doctor at least. From time to time, Slivka had looked more than a little puzzled—unsurprisingly. The story still had plenty of holes in it and, to complicate matters, Zaitsev had sent along his pet boxer, Blanter, who had spent most of the interview cracking his knuckles, one by one—all the while staring at Korolev with what seemed to be intense hatred. The man looked as though he hadn’t slept in a couple of days, his eyes red-rimmed and his stubble a sweaty gray shadow. Perhaps he blamed Korolev. In any event, it wasn’t the ideal atmosphere in which to conduct an interrogation.

Now Priudski stood, in the hallway where Shtange had been killed, looking confused.

“Here?” Priudski asked, looking around him. “You want to know what happened here?”

The carpet had been taken away and the walls cleaned, so that the only sign of the doctor’s murder was a dark stain on the floorboards—a stain which could have been caused by anything. Still, Priudski knew this was the doctor’s apartment and this was the hallway so he must know this was where the murder had been committed—he’d already told them as much in the study. And yet it seemed he didn’t.

“Where are we exactly?” Priudski asked, speaking slowly, as if not wanting to commit himself.

“You’re in an apartment building on Chistye Prudy,” Korolev said, casting a wary glance in Slivka’s direction. Even if this might all be complete nonsense, it was important he persuade Slivka to play along, even if only temporarily—and for that he needed Priudski to play his part just a little better.

“Chistye Prudy?” Priudski scratched his head, dropping his gaze to the floor as if there might be a clue there—but Shtange’s maid had done a good job of making sure that particular clue wasn’t as obvious as it had been the day before.

“What did the doctor say to you when he opened the door?” Korolev asked, deciding to give him a clue. Fortunately the word “doctor” seemed to have the desired effect.

“He didn’t say anything at first,” the doorman said, looking to Blanter who, Korolev noticed, gave him a small nod. “He just looked at me as if I was dirt. But I wasn’t having that—I’d come for my money and told him so. He said we were both going to a camp in Kolyma if I squealed, so why should he pay me anything. Then he threatened to kick me down the stairs. So I pulled out the knife and told him to pay me what I owed, or else I’d go to Kolyma with him on my conscience. And what do you think he said to that?”

“Tell me,” Korolev said.

“He called me an old fool and told me I was too old to play with knives. So I lost my temper.” Priudski stopped, and did a passable imitation of regret. “I didn’t mean to kill him but—it just happened that way.”

The Shtange Priudski described bore little relationship to the Shtange Korolev had met but, then again, neither did this Priudski bear much relationship to the doorman he’d encountered just four days before. Either Zaitsev had Priudski’s son in his care as well as Yuri, or something else was going on. Maybe the professor’s research had been more successful than Dr. Shtange had given him credit for.

“How many times did you stab him?”

“A great many. I was angry as hell. There was blood all over the place—that much I can tell you. All over the place.”

“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.