Page 52 of Last Violent Call
Alongside Lev’s appearance, a group of passengers had also gathered in the passageway, drawn by the woman’s cry and curious over what the hubbub was. A shelf of soaps had been knocked over in her panic. It was collapsed sadly by the toilet bowl. While onlookers drew closer and tried to peer in, Marshall did his best to wave them off from the door, saying that there was nothing interesting here to see.
It clearly wasn’t true—not when Lev had been let in to take his photos.
“Mars,” Benedikt called. “Come in. The rest of you outside need to make some space in case the message here is poisoned.”
There was no chance that someone would go mixing poison into paint—because it would be a rather fruitless endeavor—but hiswarning did the trick. The passengers quickly scattered back, muttering about whether they were in danger and putting their handkerchiefs to their noses. It was only Mr. Portsmith who remained where he stood, poking his head into the washroom. He hadn’t understood Benedikt when he spoke in Russian.
“What does that say?” Mr. Portsmith nodded at the mirror.
“Mr. Portsmith, please return to your compartment,” Marshall replied, switching to English. “We must conduct an investigation here.”
The old man huffed. “What a frightfully boring journey,” he muttered. “I spent about ten minutes yammering to that Yeva girl at the samovar before realizing she didn’t understand me. I can hardly get through to my traveling companion either, and now the only English speakers won’t answer a simple question….” He shuffled off, still grouching to himself.
Marshall stepped in through the door, finally having rid the passageway of onlookers.
“Why the washroom, of all places?” he wondered, eyes tracing the scene.
As far as train facilities went, the washroom size was rather generous, or at least enough so that Benedikt could stretch his arms wide and not nudge either of the deep green walls. Perhaps it was because the compartments didn’t come with their own washrooms, unlike some other train designs. There was only one in each carriage that the passengers had to share for a full week. A shower attachment could even be pulled off the wall, though Benedikt didn’t sense any dampness on the floor or see any water collected around the drain to signal its recent use. One bulb dangled on a string from the ceiling. The porthole window offered little but the fallen dusk outside.
“Other parts of the train are rather closely watched,” Benedikt guessed. “The washroom is the only private place to leave a threateningmessage without being seen.”
Stop looking.It was rather vague as far as threats went too. They could have gone for “You are next.” Or even “I will kill again.” But instead, it was an instruction regarding the investigation itself.
Fair enough,Benedikt thought to himself. Popov had been arguing with someone before his death. This had to have been a crime with a motive, a murder committed in answer for something he had done, or someone he had upset. Once he was dealt with, the problem was solved. There was a killer on board, but that killer probably wasn’t a big threat anymore, unless someonereallypushed them to act again.
Another flash of light. Lev was leaning right over the metal sink, getting close to the mirror.
“You keep him company and continue looking,” Marshall said, stepping back into the passageway. “I will report to Vodin—I figure this message works in our favor.”
“In your favor?” Lev cut in excitedly. “How so?”
Benedikt plonked two hands on the boy’s shoulders and maneuvered him to face the mirror again. “Take your pictures promptly. I am getting itchy just watching you linger in here. It is in our favor because it means we’re onto something.”
Now it was just a matter of figuring out what. It wasn’t as if any of the questioning had led to a pivotal clue. Neither Benedikt nor Marshall felt very assured about the direction of their investigation at all. They were two frauds groping around in the dark, and it seemed someone felt threatened enough to try to halt them in their tracks.
“Stay right here,” Marshall said. He trekked off, pushing into the next carriage.
Lev turned back to the mirror’s message. His camera shutter made a loud noise.
Then, before he could take his next picture, he decided to crouchdown, angling up at the writing.
“Mal’chik,” Benedikt said slowly. “What… are you doing?”
Lev looked away from his camera lens. He blinked his eyes innocently. “Getting this little fleck right here.”
On days when Benedikt painted around their apartment in Moscow, he could be as careful as a surgeon and still Marshall would somehow walk into a splotch he had unknowingly dropped in the kitchen. It was always rather funny to listen to Marshall yell, though, startled that he had trod on something suspiciously wet and cold.
Benedikt traced down the mirror. Leaned in close.
At the base of the sink, right beside Lev’s shoe, there was a smudged bit of red paint upon the linoleum floor. It hadn’t entirely dried yet. The barest sheen of light bounced off the color.
“Lev, don’t move,” Benedikt warned.
The boy looked away from his camera again. “Huh?”
“Just stand there and keep taking your photos. I will return shortly.”
Benedikt kept his eyes pinned down. He edged through the doorway carefully, then situated himself forward and reached for the wallpapered sides, gripping hard to maintain balance, as if that could minimize the amount of carpet he was stepping on.
