Page 49 of Last Violent Call
Where Marshall trusted that he could rely on his own head and remember the details that emerged as important, Benedikt was taking notes on every passenger, a few sheets of paper pressed to his leg. He was scribbling quickly now.
“Mr. Ivanov,” Benedikt said, “why didn’t you come out when the provodnitsa screamed? You had been speaking to my partner only a few minutes prior, and you were in the next compartment.”
“Oh, that has an easy answer.” Stepan Maximovich pointed to his ears. “Cotton-wrapped wax earplugs. They gave them out when we fought in the war to muffle gunfire, and I have been using them for sleep ever since.”
It did seem a little convenient. But there was nothing overly suspicious about wearing earplugs to sleep either.
“Did you know the deceased?”
“No.”
“Did you witness anything peculiar regarding the deceased?”
Stepan shook his head. He inclined his head to Marshall. “Nothing save for the muffled argument, which we discussed together. I didn’t catch any of the words exchanged, or else I might be of more use today.”
They dismissed Stepan and summoned in the next passenger: his allocated traveling companion. When Mr. Portsmith came in, he only confirmed the same answers. Or rather, he first used broken Russian to say that he would be utterly useless for questioning because he couldn’t speak the language, hopping out of the seat presumptuously as soon as he sat down.
“Mr. Portsmith,” Benedikt said drolly when the man rose. “We speak English perfectly fine.”
“Yes, don’t go spreading rumors to the other foreigners traveling on board that we will go easy on them,” Marshall added. “We have at least a dozen languages between us.”
Mr. Portsmith blinked. He lowered himself back onto the chair slowly. “Oh. Oh, all right.”
The questioning proceeded. Most were Russian, but there was one Frenchwoman. Another Englishman. Three Chinese passengers. The majority of suspects who came through could name one or two others who were with them at the time of Mrs. Kuzmina’s scream. They all claimed to be unfamiliar with the deceased. Even if a few couldn’t resist adding a barbed comment about missing their destination during the questioning, each passenger was largely cooperative, answering politely before being dismissed and allowed to return to their rooms. It made sense. If a murderer walked into questioning before a clue had been found or a suspect identified, it would be rather silly to stick their nose out and draw attention to their guilt.
Then the next man walked in, slamming the doors to the carriage, and Marshall almost jumped out of his skin in fright.
“This is ridiculous!” The loud bang at the entrance clearly wasn’t enough. As the man marched his way over to the table, striding wide in a manner that looked like his gray trousers had caught on fire, he also slapped one of the dining chairs, sending it skidding against the wooden floorboards. “What authority do you have to be holding us like this?”
Marshall glanced over Benedikt’s shoulder, peering at his notes. The passenger list identified this man to be Eduard Kozlov. There was no noted patronymic.Oh dear, Benedikt wrote under Eduard Kozlov’s column, angling the paper when he felt Marshall’s gaze so Marshall could read the English words.
“Actually”—Benedikt sounded perfectly unperturbed by the man’s aggressive question—“when you purchased your ticket, you agreed to its conditions, and those conditions include the officer on board determining your passage.”
Eduard Kozlov made an immediate sneer. “So who the hell are you two? Not the officer, clearly.”
“If the train officer entrusts us with the proceedings, then we are your makeshift officers too.” Marshall leaned his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers together. “Would you like to sit?”
“I would not. I would like to getoffat my destination.”
“Then I would recommend you answer our questions,” Benedikt said, “because the quicker we find this murderer, the more likely it is that this train will resume its normal passage. Now, are you going to cooperate?”
It seemed that Eduard took that as his cue to depart. His nostrils flared, then he spun on his heel, kicking another chair before exiting the dining carriage.
“Surely it would be far too obvious if that turned out to be our killer,” Marshall said.
“You never know.” Benedikt had added????in his column of notes.Unwilling to cooperate. “Maybe the universe is giving us a break.”
Marshall leaned closer. “Are you writing in Chinese?”
Benedikt started a new line, switching languages.???…
“I’m writing in everything but Russian,” he replied. “Less chance of someone stealing my notes and understanding them.”
“Yes, because I’m sure the killer will see vague remarks such as ‘is angry…’ and go on another scathing rampage.”
“My Korean vocabulary is rusty, all right?”
Leaning over, Marshall plucked away the pen and added:?? ??
