by William Ryan
“He’d his collar turned right up. All you could see was the cigarette poking out.”
“Very good.” Korolev reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He extracted two single rouble notes, thought about it and took out another three.
“There’s someone I want you to see if you can find for me.” He said, taking out the picture of Nancy Dolan. “Ten roubles if you track her down, and these five to share among yourselves in the meantime.”
Goldstein took the money from him and extended his hand to shake on the deal.
“We’ll find her, don’t you worry.” He walked over to the other children, nodded and then they turned as one to walk off down the alleyway.
“Waste of money, if you ask me,” the sergeant grumbled, but he had a smile hidden under his mustache. Korolev nodded in the direction the children had departed.
“What happens to them? In the end?”
“The Lord takes them to himself soon enough, if the State doesn’t throw them into an orphanage. I don’t know which is better.”
It was as Korolev had expected. He buttoned his overcoat against the floating drizzle and ran a finger down the cut as they walked back toward the Militia post.
“What’s your name, Sergeant? So I know it, if you call?”
“Pushkin.”
“Really?”
The sergeant shook his head in resignation. “Please, Comrade Captain. It wasn’t my choice. I was just born to it. You can’t change your family name, can you? I don’t complain—a name’s only a name. The Lord willed it. I mean to say—it’s the way it must be. Comrade Stalin wouldn’t change his name, now would he?”
“No, that’s true enough, Sergeant.” Although, of course, the big boss had changed his name, the canny Georgian. Stalin sounded better than Djugashvili to Russian ears, after all.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Korolev splashed through a deep puddle in front of the Razin Street Militia Station and cursed. Brusilov was waiting inside the doorway, smoking a cigarette.
“Korolev. You look like you swam the Moskva to get here. What happened to your coat?”
Korolev shook Brusilov’s shovel of a hand, holding up the edge of the slashed coat as he did so.
“A little brat tried to shave me with his razor. Is there a fire I can put it in front of for a while? It’s wet through.”
The captain’s face seemed formed from the same hard stone as the station’s walls, but his eyes were friendly as he pointed to a cast-iron stove at the back of the room, and Korolev gladly shed the sodden garment. The station was even more rundown than Korolev remembered it. A mixed bag of citizenry sat on a bench that ran the length of one wall, their clothes wet and their faces sour, while in front of them uniformed Militiamen sat at three desks dealing with the endless complaints, notifications and attendances. A bare electric light bulb lit the scene. Brusilov followed his glance and shook his head.
“Half our time is taken up with bureaucracy—I’ve three of my boys stamping documents from morning to night and the queue gets longer every day. Anyway, your young fellow’s upstairs with Citizeness Kardasheva, and a right one she is too. Mind if I sit in?”
“Help yourself, brother. The more the merrier.”
Semionov and Kardasheva were sitting facing each other across a pockmarked wooden table in the station’s interview room. Paint peeled from the gray walls and the weak light bulb didn’t seem quite strong enough to reach the corners.
“Ah, more of you, I see,” Kardasheva said, adjusting her glasses so that she could focus on Brusilov and Korolev. “Am I under arrest?”
“No, Citizeness, we just have a few questions for you about what you saw the night before last.” Semionov looked weary; it clearly wasn’t the first time he’d explained this to her.
“But this is a cell, is it not? It has bars on the window.” She pointed at the tiny window high on the wall facing the door. The window was so dirty Korolev was surprised she could see the bars outside.
“I’m not the architect, Citizeness, but this is an interview room, nothing more. And I’ve asked you to remain here so that you can describe exactly what you saw to Captain Korolev.”
“I thought it was you investigating the murder?”
“I am, but Captain Korolev is the senior officer on the case.”
The elderly lady snorted, then pulled her ancient brown coat closer around her, tucking her silver hair inside the frayed velvet collar. She was about sixty-five, Korolev guessed, with a once pretty face sharpened by hunger and chronic cynicism.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Citizeness Kardasheva. I’m afraid I’m at fault here. I wanted to hear what you had to say directly.”
“Well, it’s just not right. I haven’t done anything wrong and I’ll be lucky if I get a crust at the bakers’ cooperative now. There’ll be a queue a verst long—all for black bread at one rouble and seventy five kopeks a kilo. It was easier with coupons. But go on, go on. Ask your questions. I’ll tell you everything. I’m a loyal citizen—see no one tells you different.”
“Of course, I can see that.” Korolev spoke in a conciliatory voice, “I’m sorry to have to ask you these questions yet again.”
Kardasheva’s hard mouth softened into a grimace and she inclined her head in acknowledgment of his courtesy.
“You saw a young woman walking with two men on the night of the murder, heading in the direction of the church where the victim was found. Do you think you would recognize the woman from a photograph?”
“Perhaps. My eyesight isn’t perfect, but I was wearing my glasses and the street is well lit.”
Korolev put the photograph of Mary Smithson on the table and pushed it toward her. A long thin hand extended to pick it up and then held it so as to catch as much of the light from the bulb as possible.
“I think so. It was dark, but I would think so. I wouldn’t say it wasn’t her, anyway.”
She pushed the photograph back and then refolded her arms. Brusilov leaned forward and picked up the picture, examining it with the same care.
Korolev continued. “Your description of the clothes matches those of the victim as well. So, for the purpose of discussion, let’s presume the woman you saw was the victim. I’d like you to tell me as much as possible about the two men with her.”
Kardasheva’s eyes seemed to refocus on the remembered midnight street.
“One of them was big. You know, not really tall, but very big, like a two-legged ox. I felt sorry for the girl. I thought he’d do something bad to her.”
“Why did you think that, Citizeness? You said nothing about that in the interview.”
“Well, it looked like she might be drunk. She wasn’t unsteady on her feet as such, but the big man had his arm around her and I don’t think she had much choice about where she was going. He looked like he could lift a house with one hand. Just the size of him. And it wasn’t fat either. He was solid muscle. You could tell from the way he walked.”
“How tall do you think he was?”
“I would say about five foot ten. How tall was the girl? I’d say he was half a foot taller than her.”
Korolev thought five foot ten sounded about right. The girl had been five foot four according to the autopsy report.
“The other man had a fedora, smaller, but a little taller than the girl, and he carried a suitcase. Both of the men had long overcoats. Dark. I couldn’t see their faces, but the larger man had a very wide face, the same as his body. The other man I didn’t notice so much, really. The big man caught my attention. They weren’t ordinary workers, that’s my opinion. But you’d know better than me.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean what I say. They were Militia or State Security if I’m not mistaken—certainly the larger man was. Not hooligans or Thieves. I could tell, even from the other side of the street. The click, click, click of new boots on the pavement; not that many new boots clicking along Razin Street this year—you can’t buy them in the
shops, no matter who you know. And the way they walked as well—like they owned the place.”
Korolev knew the kind she meant—they deliberately made their presence felt, even in plain clothes. Sometimes they were detectives, it was true, but more often than not they were Chekists. Korolev looked down at his feet and then at Semionov and Brusilov’s—both the other Militiamen wore new leather boots. Was he the only damned policeman in Moscow squelching round in felt this winter? She caught his disgruntled look and laughed.
“Yes, Captain, I’m not sure you’re taking full advantage of your position.”
“A bit of respect, please, Citizeness.” Korolev didn’t manage to keep the irritation out of his voice. How the hell did everyone else have new leather boots?
“Do you have any other reason for your assertion that the two men were investigators?”
“Oh no, I didn’t say they were investigators. They were heavies. You’re not a heavy, my dear Captain. Not at all. And nor’s the boy.” She nodded toward Semionov in such a dismissive way that the lieutenant blushed. “Comrade Brusilov here could be, but isn’t. The other two—well, it was their profession.”
Chekists for sure, then. Korolev looked down at his notes and then at Brusilov, who shrugged his shoulders. Semionov nodded in agreement with the consensus. She’d nothing more to tell them.
“You’re free to go, Citizeness and thank you for your help. If by any chance you spot one of the men, please call me at Petrovka Street. The exchange will put you straight through. Or contact Captain Brusilov.”
“I’m not afraid, you know. Of saying two Chekists might have been involved in a murder.” She sighed, and then lifted her chin slightly, proud or perhaps just resigned. “Maybe I would be if I were younger, Captain, but I saw what I saw. What can I do? It’s my duty to tell the truth, surely. Weren’t we all taught that in school?”
Before the Revolution perhaps, thought Korolev, and nodded toward the door. “Lieutenant Semionov will see you out. Thank you, Citizeness.”
When the heavy door had shut behind them, he turned to Brusilov.
“What d’you make of that?”
“Not possible, surely? If the Chekists need to do something like that, they’ve got the Lubianka and the Butyrka and half a dozen other prisons. It just seems unlikely. What else have you got?”
Korolev told him about the Emka and the electrical burns and the dead Thief. Brusilov rasped a broad hand back and forth across his unshaven chin.
“I’m glad it’s your case and not mine,” he said, after a long pause. “It stinks. Still, we’ll pass on anything we come across. We’re still checking the Komsomol members who visited the church.”
The way he raised his eyebrows told Korolev he thought this was a waste of time.
“It’s worth doing,” Korolev said and reached for a cigarette, offering the pack to Brusilov, who refused with a sigh.
“Did you hear the explosion last night?” Brusilov said, changing the subject.
Korolev thought for a moment before he shook his head.
“Another church. They’ve half of it cleared away already. To make space for the October Day Parade.” Brusilov’s statement was neutral, betraying no feeling about the event, one way or the other. “Maybe I will have one of those cigarettes.”
He was just lighting it when Semionov returned and handed Korolev a note with an expectant look.
Meet me at the Hippodrome at 1:30. Sit in the stands—in line with the winning post. I’ll find you. Our friend wants to meet you. I.E.B.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It always struck Korolev that the exterior of the Moscow Hippodrome made it look more like a museum than a sports venue. With its columns and grandeur, the long white building seemed a relic of a time gone by—a building meant for princes rather than proletarians. Even the entrance resembled a triumphal arch, surmounted, as it was, by a bronze chariot team. It all seemed decidedly un-Soviet, despite the large banner exhorting the citizenry to early completion of the Five Year Plan. Perhaps the building’s elegance was why, for several years after the Revolution, there’d been no racing there. The need for a suspiciously bourgeois-looking race track hadn’t been a priority while the city starved and armies moved back and forth and battles were won and lost. Eventually, however, when the Civil War was over and peace had been reached with the Poles, it had been allowed to reopen. Muscovites still liked to gamble, after all, although these days the crowds wore flat caps instead of top hats.
Semionov brought the car to a halt a safe distance from the scattered groups of loungers and hawkers outside the entrance and turned to Korolev. “Close enough?”
“This will be fine.”
Korolev had a quick look round to see if there was anyone near, then checked his Walther was fully loaded—chambering a round, just in case. Semionov followed his example. As always, the smell of gun oil sent a shiver of anticipation down Korolev’s back. He didn’t expect to have to use the automatic, but it was best to be properly prepared, just as Popov had instructed.
“You stay back. I’ll pull out my handkerchief if I think I need help, but even then I don’t want you barging in on your own. There’ll be some uniforms around, so grab hold of them first—Kolya isn’t likely to be on his own.”
Semionov looked at Korolev’s white handkerchief as though memorizing it. “You won’t notice me, Alexei Dmitriyevich, but I swear on my Komsomol honor I won’t lose sight of you.”
“Good. Now, give me a head start before you follow.”
Korolev levered himself out of the car and started to walk toward the main entrance, the Walther a reassuring presence in his armpit.
He handed over a fifty kopek note at the ticket barrier, then walked through into the ill-lit entrance hall, the high walls of which were decorated with mosaics celebrating the glory of the equine species—barely visible beneath twenty years of grime. Here was a cavalry charge, with Cossacks galloping out of the gloom, their mounts’ nostrils huge and their teeth bared; there, a column of horse artillery advancing across a desert. Horses plowed, carried, fought, marched, jumped and pulled, in dust-streaked image after dust-streaked image. He hadn’t been to the races since before the German War, and was surprised how rundown the place was. It had been truly spectacular back then, and the smell of the aristocratic women parading themselves on this very spot had been that of a field of summer flowers. Now things were not so pleasant. Most of the light bulbs in the chandelier were blown, the roof seemed to be leaking and the tiled floor was pooled with rainwater. At least he hoped it was rainwater, although the smell made him suspicious it might be something else. Men’s faces peered at him from the gloom as he went past, one or two turning away but others staring at him with a strange intensity. He kept moving, unsure what these men were waiting for, and shrugged off a hand that tugged at his sleeve.
The next room was better lit, with a rank of glass booths manned by morose, middle-aged women, alongside which a thin man on a stepladder wrote odds on a blackboard. There was also a stall selling food so he handed over sixty kopeks and received in exchange a buterbrod—a slice of black bread decorated with some thinly sliced sausage. He took a bite and, remembering he’d smoked the last of his cigarettes back in Razin Street, picked up a packet from the next stall along, then climbed the cracked gray marble steps that led to the front of the stands, brushing his way past a swaying sailor, who gave his slice of bread a hungry stare.
It was good to be back outside, despite the swirling drizzle, and he breathed a sigh of relief. The stands were busy: several thousand Muscovites had packed themselves into the tiered seating and were now letting loose a rumbling roar of excitement that was increasing in volume second by second. He turned and saw a clump of brightly colored riders approaching, their silks all the brighter against the slate gray sky and the dirt track. A great spray of water and mud surrounded the jockeys as they urged their horses on and the roar of the crowd rose, drowning out the galloping hooves. Three horses detached themselves
from the larger pack and a roar went up that mingled delight and dismay as the race splashed past, the jockeys’ whips flailing as the first two battled for the win.
The race finished; much of the crowd began to disperse. Some happy citizens waved winning tickets, while others made for the bar at the back of the stand and the consolation of vodka. Korolev climbed to the second tier of seating and picked a spot in line with the finishing post, as Babel had asked. He sat down, made himself comfortable, finished the last of the bread and sausage and lit a cigarette, inhaling the smoke with quiet pleasure. He wriggled a little deeper into his damp but still warm overcoat and tried to spot the stocky figure of the writer.
He was still looking when Babel sat down beside him, smiling with pleasure.
“You didn’t see me coming.”
“I wasn’t looking for you,” Korolev lied. “I decided it would be less hard work if you found me instead.”
“Got one of those for me?” Babel said, pointing to the cigarette.
“Sure.” Korolev offered the packet he’d just bought. “So, tell me. How’d it go with Kolya?”
“Not too bad. It seems I’m a first-class matchmaker; you both can’t wait for your first walk out. He knew all about you, anyway.”
“He knew about me?” Korolev repeated, mystified as to what a Thief like Kolya could possibly know about a run-of-the-mill investigator like him.
“It seems so.”
“Does he know about Tesak, perhaps? That I’m investigating his murder?”
“Well, he knows that Tesak’s dead. I’ll tell you how it went. I saw him by the parade ring and tipped my hat to him. He waved me over. ‘I wanted to have a word with you,’ I said. ‘Me likewise,’ he said. ‘Well, I’ve a proposal for you,’ I said. ‘Go on,’ he said, ‘I wonder if I can guess what it is.’ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘mine concerns a policeman who wants to have a word with you.’ ‘Korolev,’ he said, ‘your neighbor?’ At which point you could have tipped me over with a feather. But Kolya just gives a little smile, as if to say, ‘I know when you fart in the bath, Babel.’ Which was disconcerting, I can tell you.”
