The White Russian

by Tom Bradby

  He watched every jaunty, carefree step his brother took.

  Ruzsky waited, listening to the sound of Dmitri pounding up Maria’s stairwell. It had stopped snowing and the night was uncannily still, the footsteps echoing like rifle shots.

  He crossed to the far side of the street and looked up at her window. Just for a moment, he caught a glimpse of both of them before Maria unfolded the shutters and blocked out the night.

  Ruzsky did not move, his eyes fixed upon the darkened window above.

  In his barren room a short time later, Ruzsky tried to sleep, but could not. He tossed and turned until he could stand it no more. He stood to dispel the images and paced around the silent room, turning to the window and the deserted, snow-covered street for solace, or at least distraction. He heard a dog bark again.

  Ruzsky placed the tips of the fingers of his right hand against the window and waited until they grew numb.

  He walked to his suitcase and pulled out his last bottle of vodka. There was no trace in the apartment of the tramp he had rescued this morning, except a lingering smell of decay.

  Ruzsky upended the bottle. He gulped down the harsh liquid within.

  Oblivion came quickly. His head swam, but even the fire of the vodka in his belly could not extinguish his fury. He raised the almost empty bottle above his head and smashed it against the edge of the dresser next to the door, slashing the palm of his hand.

  He looked at the blood oozing from his skin, but could feel nothing. He staggered toward his bunk and fell, face first, out cold.

  But if Ruzsky achieved sleep, peace eluded him. He found himself returning to the lake at Petrovo, the images that assaulted him stark against a clear, blue sky. He could see the ice cracking and feel the freezing water and then he was down-plunging back into the darkness, his arms flailing as he sought Ilusha’s outstretched hand.

  He could hear the dull swish of his movements in the water and the sound of the bubbles ascending as the air escaped from his lungs. He could see, through the shimmering surface, his father’s long hand stretched out toward him.

  And then he had turned away and was flailing in the darkness once more.

  Ruzsky kicked and swam, down and down. But all that touched his grasping fingers were the weeds and all that he could hear was the beating of his own heart.

  Ruzsky closed his eyes and began to shout, the pain searing his soul.

  He looked up. He could see the light slicing through the surface and his father’s hand pawing at the water. He felt the lake wrapping him in its icy embrace.

  He could no longer summon the will to resist. He slipped farther and farther away, the hand that trembled on the surface receding. Until at last, he was enveloped in water the color of night, and with it, a kind of peace.

  The banging had risen to a crescendo in his dream long before it woke him. Ruzsky had been curled up beneath his blankets like a fetus, and only reluctantly stuck his head out into the night. The gash in his hand was painful, his throat was dry, and his head pounded like a locomotive. The empty bottle of vodka beside him shimmered in the moonlight.

  Someone was thumping insistently on his door.

  “Who is it?” he yelled.

  Ruzsky heard a muffled cry, so he pulled back the covers and dived for his overcoat. As he walked across the room, he pulled out the Sauvage revolver. He winced as he gripped it with his injured palm. By the door, he considered turning on the light, then thought better of it. “Who is it?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Who’s me?”

  “Don’t be an ass.”

  Ruzsky pulled the bolt back and left Pavel to push the door open. The pain in his head seemed suddenly to explode.

  “Get dressed,” Pavel said.

  “It’s the middle of the night.”

  “We have another body.”

  19

  T he victim lay crumpled in the shadow of the arch.

  They were not far from the Mariinskiy Theatre, next to the Lviny Most, the Lion Bridge, a well-known haunt for lovers. It was about six in the morning, the city around them still shrouded in darkness.

  Ruzsky was standing next to one of the white stone lions, wondering how he could avoid going down onto the ice. His injured hand still throbbed gently. “Do you want us to bring him up?” Pavel asked. “He was pushed over from the parapet.”

  Ruzsky looked around him. The path was too well trodden to trace any footprints. “All right.”

  There were three constables, the same men who’d been on duty when the bodies had been found on the Neva. They listened to Pavel without enthusiasm and then walked down onto the ice behind him.

  Pavel bent over the body. One of the constables glanced up toward Ruzsky.

  The chief investigator muttered a curse and then walked down to the ice. The Griboedov Canal curved to the left here, its frozen surface ghostly in the light of the gas lamps. As he stepped onto it, Ruzsky twisted involuntarily and slipped. He struggled to control his breathing. Gradually, he became aware that he was under the scrutiny of the constable closest to him. Ruzsky lowered his head and marched toward the body.

  The man lay curled up, his body frozen. “Shit,” Ruzsky said. He waved to indicate that the constables should move back, then he took hold of the corpse with his good hand and dragged it out into the moonlight.

  He bent down again.

  For all his experience, he felt his stomach lurch. The man had been stabbed so many times in the neck, his head had almost been severed. The blood had frozen and crystals of ice had collected in his mustache and along his eyebrows.

  “Christ,” Pavel whispered beside him.

  The man had a young, lean face and yellow teeth. Ruzsky guessed that he would only have been marginally more attractive in life than he now appeared in death.

  He pulled back the man’s overcoat. There were no markings on it, and at first, he thought the body had been systematically stripped again. In the right-hand pocket he found a disordered fistful of banknotes.

  Ruzsky riffled through them, holding them up to see if any had been marked in the same way as the American’s, but they had not. In the middle of the bundle was a return rail ticket from Sevastopol to Petrograd, issued from an office in Yalta. The card for the first leg of the journey had been stamped three days ago at Sevastopol, so the man must just have arrived in the capital.

  Ruzsky tried the other pocket. He pulled out some identity papers. They appeared to be genuine. “Boris,” Ruzsky said. “What does that say?”

  “Molkov,” Pavel said, scrutinizing it closely. “Or Markov. Markov.”

  “ Yalta. Thirty-four years of age.”

  Pavel pulled the coat back farther to be sure there were no other wounds. “Almost certainly the same killer, wouldn’t you say?”

  Ruzsky didn’t answer. He took two paces back and scanned the buildings overlooking the canal. They were residential apartments or houses, backing onto the Conservatory. “More chance of someone having seen here,” Ruzsky said.

  “Not at that time in the morning. He’s been dead several hours, at least.”

  Ruzsky looked at his pocket watch. It was almost seven. He wondered if the man had already been dead when he had left the theater with Maria.

  “This time,” Pavel said, “the killer wasn’t stalking his victim.”

  “An arranged meeting?”

  “Don’t you think so?”

  “Yes, but it’s a strange time to choose.”

  They heard a group of horses whinnying and turned to see a green Okhrana sledge pulling up. Prokopiev jumped down before it had stopped and strode toward them. He vaulted the side and landed squarely on the ice-a silly, theatrical gesture. “Thank you for your assistance, gentlemen. We shall take over from here.”

  Prokopiev’s shirt was open at the neck, as though he had, himself, just gotten out of bed. He looked at them with his head titled down a fraction, and, in the dark, it had the effect of making his stare still more intense. Two other Okhrana
men leaned over the bridge above them.

  Ruzsky slipped the dead man’s identity papers and the wad of money into his overcoat pocket. Prokopiev was too busy preening himself to notice.

  “By order of the interior minister,” Prokopiev said.

  “What is?”

  “We’ll deal with the case.”

  The two groups glared at each other. “Is there something I’m missing?” Ruzsky asked. As he spoke another sledge rounded the corner and drew up in front of the Lion Bridge. The chief of the Okhrana climbed down and strode toward them. He wore a fur hat. He stepped awkwardly onto the ice, before turning to face them. The moonlight made his face seem older, the lines exaggerated and his skin bloodless. He nodded once. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

  No one replied.

  “We need more constables, I see.”

  It was a moment before Ruzsky realized that this had been an attempt at humor. “Yes,” he said.

  “What is the situation?”

  Ruzsky frowned. “What is what situation?”

  “You have discovered another body and the constables have reported that the killing was aggressive?”

  “Something like it.”

  “Something like it?”

  Ruzsky looked at the dead man. “It’s similarly savage.” He glanced at the constables, each of whom avoided his eye.

  “So the same killer?” Vasilyev asked.

  “Possibly. Or someone who wants us to think that.”

  “You can go home now,” Vasilyev said. He’d spoken so quietly that it was a moment before Ruzsky grasped what had been said.

  “What did you say?”

  “Ivan will deal with this.”

  Pavel tugged at Ruzsky’s arm. “Isn’t that Anton’s decision?” Ruzsky asked. “Or does the Okhrana have an interest in the case we should know about?”

  “The same frenzied attack,” Vasilyev continued smoothly. “We should have let Ivan deal with the couple on the ice.”

  “And why is that?” Ruzsky asked. Pavel tugged at his sleeve again.

  “Ivan has many agents at his disposal, Sandro. A member of the imperial staff… it must have been the work of terrorists.”

  Ruzsky hesitated. He was about to go on. He wanted a confrontation, but he could sense Pavel’s nervousness. He made them wait. “Good luck,” he said finally, before clambering back onto the bridge.

  “Will they get Sarlov to do the autopsy?” Ruzsky asked when they had turned the corner.

  “I don’t know.”

  “We should get him out of bed and explain what has happened.”

  “What’s that going to achieve?”

  “Forewarn him, Pavel.”

  “We should just leave it.”

  “And how did they find out so quickly?” Ruzsky went on, ignoring his partner. “Which one of the constables is in their pay?”

  “Calm down, Sandro.”

  Ruzsky stopped and stared at his colleague.

  “All right,” Pavel said, “but let’s slow down, can we? And by the way, you look terrible.” Ruzsky wasn’t surprised. He pressed his eyes into their sockets. His head was pounding. “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “Understand what?”

  “When they took away the bodies from the Neva, why didn’t they just assume control of the case? It doesn’t make any sense to me. Their actions aren’t consistent.”

  Pavel didn’t answer. “What happened to your hand?” he asked.

  “Oh.” Ruzsky looked at the rag he had bound around his palm. “An accident with a vodka bottle.”

  “You should be more careful, my friend.”

  20

  B ack at his desk, Ruzsky picked up the telephone earpiece and asked the operator to put him through to Dr. Sarlov at home. It rang repeatedly.

  “Yes?” The pathologist sounded sleepy.

  “We’ve had an incident with the Okhrana.”

  “I don’t want to know.”

  “Another victim. Same kind of attack. The head was almost severed. They have removed the body. Will you still do the autopsy?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “If you do-”

  “Consider who is listening,” the doctor said, before abruptly terminating the call.

  Ruzsky sat back. He sorted through the telegraphs he’d received the previous night. He reread the one from Yalta. American wanted in connection with armed robbery in Yalta, October 1910. Fits description. More details upon request. He picked up the receiver again and asked to be put through to Detective Godorkin.

  The line went dead, but he held on.

  Ruzsky heard a loud crackle, as though someone were screwing up newspaper next to the mouthpiece. “Detective Godorkin, please,” he shouted again.

  “Godorkin here,” a voice said calmly. The line was suddenly clear.

  “Detective Godorkin?”

  “I am he.”

  “This is Chief Investigator Ruzsky, Petrograd City Police.”

  “Chief Investigator. I was trying to contact you.”

  “I don’t know how long the line will last,” Ruzsky said, “so let’s dispense with the niceties. We’ve got three dead bodies, including two from Yalta; a girl from the palace called Ella Kovyil who was murdered with her American boyfriend on the Neva, and a Boris Markov.”

  “I see.”

  “What can you tell me? Could the American have been the one you are searching for? His name was White…”

  The line faded again and Ruzsky cursed.

  It came back, but Ruzsky only caught the end of a sentence. “I missed that,” he shouted.

  “Robert Whitewater,” Godorkin said.

  “Whitewater?”

  “Yes. That was his name. An American…”

  The line disappeared again. Ruzsky tried repeatedly to get another connection, but without success. He sat back in the chair as Pavel walked in with a newspaper under his arm. He threw it across the desk at Ruzsky. “Page three.”

  It was a copy of Novoe Vremia and Ruzsky flicked past the advertisements on the front page and scanned the inside of the newspaper. The article was a factual account of the discovery of the original bodies on the river and only the headline-Blood on the Neva -exhibited the sensationalism for which the paper was known. It did not give either Ella’s or the American’s name. The last line posed the question: In these difficult times, is a killer on the loose in Petrograd? The piece alongside it followed one woman’s daily struggle for survival while her husband was fighting at the front. While the rich drown in excess, it said, the struggle of the poor gets daily more impossible.

  The news item at the top of the page appeared under the headline Further explosion of crime; Petrograd ’s streets more dangerous than ever.

  Ruzsky glanced up at the clock. It was almost time for the morning conference. “Are we going?” Ruzsky asked.

  Pavel shrugged.

  Ruzsky stood and took his coat from the stand. Through the open door, he watched Vladimir rolling into the room opposite. The Investigator, Street Crime, was a barrel of a man, no taller than Ruzsky’s shoulder, but with the strength of an ox. He trailed a young assistant-a new one. He caught sight of Ruzsky, altered course immediately, and charged across the room toward him. “Here’s trouble,” he said, loud enough to be heard downstairs. “Welcome back.”

  They clasped each other. “This is my new assistant”- Vladimir indicated the young man standing awkwardly in the doorway-“Constable Shavelsky.” Shavelsky’s handshake was firm, his grip making Ruzsky wince, though the constable appeared not to notice. Ruzsky wondered whether he knew of the fate of his predecessor.

  “So,” Vladimir said, “they finally let you come home.”

  The fat detective took out a cigarette and offered one to both Ruzsky and Pavel, but not his assistant. He lit his own when the others declined, and smoked it with one hand in his pocket, looking out toward the secretaries who had begun to take their places at the desks outside, steam rising from mugs of tea alongsi
de their giant black typewriters. They leaned forward in their chairs, gossiping. “How was Tobolsk?” Vladimir asked.

  “Cold.”

  Vladimir shook his head. “He should never have let you go.”

  Ruzsky remembered the last morning conference before his exile, when Vladimir had launched a vicious attack on Anton for not fighting harder to protect him.

  “They’re keeping you busy, I see,” Ruzsky said, holding up his copy of Novoe Vremia.

  In response, Vladimir held up the sheet of paper in his own hand. It listed a series of crimes and incidents. “Last night alone.”

  “Deserters?”

  “Deserters, the desperate. Serving soldiers sometimes. Our friends in the Okhrana. Another three Jewish properties burned last night.”

  Ruzsky put his coat on. “How do you handle that?”

  “We take a look. If it is them, which it usually is, we leave it. What choice is there?” Vladimir turned around. “Are you coming to the conference?”

  “Not today,” Ruzsky said.

  “What happened to your hand?”

  “A small accident.” Ruzsky raised his hand, took off the rag, and threw it into the bin in the corner. A little blood was still oozing from his palm.

  Ella’s mother lived on the top floor of the tenement block and it was a slow climb. Pavel wheezed heavily.

  They stopped for a moment to catch their breath, surrounded by clothes which had been hung up to dry on lines crisscrossing the landing. A thin trickle of water ran down the stairs, forming a pool by their feet. There was an overpowering smell of urine.

  The door closest to them opened and a young girl appeared. She had wild black hair, hollow cheeks, and staring eyes. She wore high boots and stood with her feet close together, watching them. There were six or seven people at least in the gloomy room behind her, lying in bundles on the floor.

  Ruzsky started walking again and Pavel followed him. At the top, they saw that the trickle of water on the stairs had come from thick ice around the windows, some of which was beginning to melt.

  Pavel ducked under another line of frozen washing and knocked on the door at the far end of the corridor.