“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.”