“She brought me here only to ask about her stolen possessions.”

“She is naturally concerned and, at times, confused, about to whom she has spoken, and to whom she has not.”

Ruzsky looked at Shulgin. He could see the futility of his task. “Whatever Ella stole could be the final nail in the Romanov coffin,” he said. “Or so Vasilyev has claimed. But my father realized what he really had in mind.”

“Good day, Chief Investigator.”

Ruzsky turned away, but as he did so, he caught a glimpse of Shulgin’s unguarded expression. He had the look of a man who has felt someone walking across his grave.

53

T he offices of the Bourse Gazette were close to Sennaya Ploschad, in a nondescript gray building in a narrow side street. As the droshky driver dropped Ruzsky and Pavel off at the entrance, a black automobile drew to a halt twenty yards away, on the opposite side of the road.

Their surveillance had been stepped up.

A porter ushered them through the ground floor, past a series of giant black printing presses, to a steel staircase that led up to the editor’s office. As they passed through the newsroom, the noise and bustle fell away, and they were greeted by looks of hostility.

Ruzsky was glad of Pavel’s robust company.

The editor was much younger than he’d expected, in his twenties or early thirties, with dark hair that hung to his shoulders and a long, narrow nose. He had bony hands, which he kept clasped together in front of his face and did not move as the porter introduced them.

“How can we help you gentlemen?”

There was another man behind him, standing in front of a series of framed pages of the newspaper and a photograph of a man whom Ruzsky took to be their proprietor. Both wore the expression of carefully cultivated disdain he had come to expect from the Petrograd intelligentsia. Another slipped into the room behind them, a notebook and pen in his hand. He was even younger, and slouched in the corner, his manner was deliberately disrespectful. “I don’t think we’ll need the office boy,” Ruzsky said.

“I demand that you do not threaten us.” The editor got to his feet.

“You demand?” Ruzsky said.

Pavel stepped forward, his manner conciliatory. “We are conducting a criminal investigation.”

“And we are a newspaper,” the editor countered.

For a moment, nobody moved, then Pavel took one pace toward the young man, picked him up and threw him out of the room, then slammed the door shut. An overcoat hanging on the back of it fell to the floor.

“How dare-”

“Sit down,” Pavel ordered. The man did as he was told and glowered at them in silence.

“I apologize for our ill humor,” Ruzsky said.

The men glanced at each other, without speaking.

Ruzsky seated himself, trying to shake off his fatigue. He scratched his cheek. “I am Chief Investigator Ruzsky,” he said. “This is my deputy, Pavel Miliutin.”

The men stared at them.

“We are investigating a series of murders. You may recall that two bodies were found on the Neva on January first.”

“A series of murders?” the editor asked, his curiosity aroused.

“Yes.”

“The two bodies on the Neva?”

“And two more since.”

The men frowned.

“A man at the Lion Bridge with his head almost severed about ten days ago, and a woman close to the Finland Station yesterday.”

He could see he had their attention now. “An American came to see you,” Ruzsky went on. “Just before the first murders. His name was Robert White, though he may have used an alias.”

“Anyone who visits this office with information does so on a guarantee of anonymity.”

“He’s dead.”

Pavel took the photographs from a folder he had tucked under his arm and spread them out on the desk.

“This is the man who came to see you?” Ruzsky pointed at the American’s corpse.

Neither man answered. They were staring at the photographs, which appeared to be having the desired effect.

“Whitewater,” the editor said quietly. “That was the name he gave.”

“What did he want?” Pavel asked.

“He said he had some material that would be of interest to us.”

“What kind of material?”

“He didn’t say.”

Ruzsky stared at them. “‘Explosive’ is what I imagine he told you.”

“We have done nothing wrong,” the editor said.

“No one has suggested that you have.”

The man looked at the photographs again. He pulled over the picture of the bodies on the Neva. “Who is the girl?” the editor asked.

“You don’t know her?”

The man shook his head. He glanced at the photograph of the body at the Lion Bridge. “Who was he?”

“His name was Markov. He was from Yalta.”

“From Yalta?”

“Yes. Both men, and the woman at the Finland Station, were stabbed repeatedly. It’s possible the murders had something to do with the material you were being offered.”

Neither man met his eye.

“What was it?” Ruzsky asked.

Ruzsky could see that White had told them exactly what he had in his possession. “It was revealing,” he went on. “That’s what they told you. Something revealing that related to the personal lives of the imperial family…”

The editor put the photographs back in a pile and moved them to the other side of the desk, as if trying to distance himself from them.

“He said it was evidence we would wish to print.”

“Evidence?”

“Yes.”

“Of what?”

The editor shrugged. “Of the corruption of the Romanovs.”

“What kind of evidence?”

“He was… vague about the detail.”

“Where did he say he had got this material?” Ruzsky asked.

“He didn’t.”

“An American walks in alone, off the street, and promises you material such as this and you believe him?”

“He did not come in off the street. Nor was he alone.”

“He was with the girl?” Ruzsky pointed at the top photograph. “With Ella.”

“Not with her.”

“Who then?”

“I do not feel inclined to tell you.”

“Someone you knew?”

“Someone whose sympathies we know of.” The editor smiled. He had recovered his confidence. “We wished to examine the material,” he said, smugly. “That was all.”

“What proof did they offer that it was genuine?”

“We did not get that far.”

“You were told that the material had been stolen?”

“It was intimated. But, as you will understand, we did not wish to investigate that too closely until we had at least had sight of it.”

“You were told you could meet the woman who had acquired it?” Ruzsky asked. He leaned forward and pointed at the picture of Ella’s bloodied body on the ice. “They told you this girl worked out at Tsarskoe Selo from where the material you were promised was stolen?”

“Naturally, we would have handed any stolen property over to the police.”

“Naturally. You planned a private printing?”

Neither man answered.

“Why did they offer you this material?” Pavel said.

“They did not say.” The editor held his gaze.

“The American came with a man?”

“No.”

“A woman. Did she give you her name?”

“I cannot give you the woman’s identity,” he said calmly.

“The material was never delivered?” Ruzsky asked.

The editor shook his head.

“But you were expecting it?”

“The agreement was that it would be delivered this morning before eight.” The editor looked at the clock on the wall beside him. It had just gone three. “And, upon verification, we’d have printed for tomorrow morning. I imagine your presence means it is unlikely we will ever receive it.”

“It was supposed to be delivered today?”

“That is correct.”

“You set a deadline?”

“No. The American was quite specific; he wanted the material on the streets late this evening or early tomorrow morning. Not before, not after.”

“Why?”

“No reason was given.”