Page 67 of Last Violent Call
“And where would you set it down, unthinkingly?” Marshall prompted.
“I’d toss it near the wall, annoyed,” Benedikt replied, as if they were playing off a script, dropping the two pieces closely to imitate the small size of Popov’s compartment. He made sure that the top half was positioned just right, the same way it had looked at the crime scene. The train floor was not an entirely flat surface. The top half of the coat rack stayed unmoving because of its irregular shapes. The bottom half started to roll, the circular base taking it in a crescent arc. “Then I would sit down to resume writing my letter.”
Benedikt took a seat at one of the dining tables. He mimed holding a pen in front of him. “I am concentrating hard. Furious over what is going on in my work, barely thinking about anything other than the words in front of me.”
“Then a knock comes at the door.” Marshall thuds his knuckles on one of the other tables. “It is the provodnitsa, checking in routinely.”
“So I turn my pen around to avoid its ink dripping while I am not writing.” Benedikt gestured for Marshall to throw him a real pen, wanting to have this aspect visualized too, but Marshall splayed his hands in silent answer that he didn’t have one. Lev, however, was paying close attention, because he quickly hurried forward, volunteering his own.
“Thank you, Lev,” Benedikt whispered. He flipped the ink nib upward. Clutched it in his fist. “I will return shortly to my work. There is no need to set it down.” He stood up. Intentionally, Benedikt didn’t look down, though a part of the broken coat rack he had tossed was right at his feet. “But the moment I start to walk…”
He paused, his foot hovering over the bottom coat rack piece. “I trip and fall.” In slow motion, he stepped over the piece. He fell to his knee. “I strike against this protruding piece”—the top half of the coat rack looks menacing now, its hook glinting with danger— “and I cut that mark intomy forehead. Right before the rest of my body entirely loses balance.”
Benedikt set his arm on the carpeted floor, elbow at a ninety-degree angle so that his fist was pressed flat, the sharp tip of the pen pointing directly up. The dining carriage had gone silent. Even the attendant behind the bar had stopped making drinks, watching in rapt attention alongside the passengers.
“You can imagine what I am getting at,” he finished. “I won’t demonstrate the final act.”
At once, Benedikt clambered back to his feet, returning the pen to Lev. The boy’s jaw was slightly agape, staring in wonder.
No one spoke for several long moments. Then Vodin, his voice almost hoarse: “You mean to tell me it was anaccident?”
“It makes sense—you know it does,” Marshall replied smoothly. “There is a reason why we couldn’t find a motive. Why every investigative thread seemed to lead elsewhere instead. There was never a murder to begin with.”
The passengers started to murmur. First with barely audible volume, then louder and louder. It got to a point where Vodin needed to gesture for quiet.
Benedikt curled his fist tight. At his side, he felt Marshall shift closer, then reach forward to ease his fingers back into a relaxed state before anyone could see.Don’t be visible about it,he could almost hear Marshall remind him.
“I’ll be,” Vodin finally said. He eyed the second broken coat rack, scratching his head. “I will report to the police about this and see what they think.”
13
They declined Lev’s request to get a photo of them, claiming that private investigators needed anonymity, lest their enemies come after them for serving justice on their crimes. The boy seemed to accept that explanation, because he nodded, then asked for a forwarding address to send them a copy of his article once he managed to get it into print. Gladly, Marshall offered an address and said he was looking forward to reading the story.
The police came on board. Removed Popov’s body, then waved in front of their noses at the stench while exiting the compartment, telling Vodin the carpet would need a serious deep clean once the train ran its course. But theywereletting the train finish its course. There was no need to take it off when there were still passengers waiting to get to their final destination. Anyone who had wanted a previous station could depart at Irkutsk and start to make their way back. The police were perfectly satisfied with the explanation that Vodin had delivered them courtesy of the private investigators on board.
The carriage felt a lot emptier once the train started to run again. Marshall wasn’t sure if it was because it had gotten quieter without every compartment at full capacity or if he was imagining the sensation after such a heart-pounding endeavor.
Night fell. When Marshall hovered at the compartment door to watch the train make its next stop at Verkhneudinsk, it almost feltpeculiar for the route be running as usual, all the train doors opening to allow the evening mist to permeate into the carriage. The calls of local vendors and kiosk sellers filtered in too, hawking snacks for the traveler tired of the dining carriage selection.
Someone stepped out from the compartment two doors down. Stepan Maximovich Ivanov entered the hallway too, mimicking Marshall’s state of hovering.
“I heard that all is well,” he remarked in greeting.
“That’s one way to put it,” Marshall replied. Behind him, inside the compartment, Benedikt appeared to perk his ears, listening in on the conversation while he silently put lotion on his hands. His palms had gotten scratched up from breaking that coat rack.
“I am sorry to have missed the proceedings. It was probably quite the show.”
Stepan sounded genuine. There was no note of mocking anywhere in his tone. And yet…
“I must ask,” Marshall said, making no effort to soften the landing of his next words. “You knew Popov prior to this train ride, didn’t you?”
A bout of silence descended into the hallway. Benedikt turned around, quietly creeping closer to Marshall, looking like he was bracing himself in case this question turned ugly. But, two doors away, Stepan laughed suddenly—the sound of someone who had been caught out for a minor infraction like stealing from the cookie jar or running a red tram light.
“Was it that obvious? I was trying to do a good job of not making myself look unnecessarily suspicious.”
“The easiest way to avoid looking unnecessarily suspicious would have been to tell us the truth,” Benedikt cut in, poking his head out into the hallway too.
“While you were both looking in every direction for a motive? No, thank you. I knew my own innocence; I didn’t have to go intentionallyshooting myself in the foot. Besides, I put you in the right direction, didn’t I?”
