“I have my own,” Korolev said, embarrassed, and pulled his Belomorkanals from his pocket.
Shtange shrugged and closed the case with a snap. Korolev could see there was an inscription beneath the propeller, but it was illegible from this distance. Maybe he should have taken a cigarette after all.
“I presume Azarov’s death will have a serious affect on the institute’s work?” Korolev asked.
“We operate as a collective, Comrade Korolev, like all Soviet organizations. The institute bears Comrade Azarov’s name, of course, but whoever of our number falls away, there will always be another ready to step forward to replace them.”
“You, perhaps?” Korolev said, feeling his bait being taken. “I mean to say-will you be appointed the new director of the institute?”
“Comrade Korolev, if I’m appointed director it will be because someone higher up decides I should be-not because I ask for it. As it happens, I think they’ll find someone else. Unless I’m wrong, my remaining time here will be very short.”
He spoke with a certain satisfaction and Korolev had the impression the fellow wouldn’t miss the place at all.
“Anyway,” Shtange continued. “You’re here to investigate Comrade Azarov’s death-what can I do to assist?”
Korolev looked around him-it was a large room, overlooking the garden. The desk that Shtange sat behind was also large and on it two wooden trays sat either side of a wide leather-cornered blotter. The trays were marked “in” and “out”-the “in” tray was almost empty, whereas the “out” tray was piled high.
“You’ve been busy,” Korolev said.
“Not me, Comrade. The director attended to these papers himself this morning.”
“The director?” Korolev asked and then worked it out. “This is his office, then?”
Korolev let his eyes wander round the wooden paneling that covered the walls, the obligatory portraits of Stalin and Lenin, Marx and Engels, the filing cabinets ranked along one wall-but this time with a different eye. So this was where the dead man had worked. He turned his attention back to Shtange.
“You’ve moved in quickly.”
The deputy director laughed, a genuine laugh-rich and good-humored. It was unusual to come across such a laugh during a murder investigation.
“Look, Korolev-I’d nothing to do with Professor Azarov’s death, nothing whatsoever. I’ve been asked to take over in the short-term, at least until a decision is made as to the institute’s future-so here I sit. There are aspects of the institute’s work I simply don’t know about and this is the place to find out about them.”
“Of course, you serve Socialism in whichever capacity you’re asked to.”
Shtange raised an eyebrow but otherwise didn’t react.
Korolev, disappointed, let the conversation go silent. But it soon became clear that the silence didn’t bother Shtange at all. In fact the deputy director sat back in his chair and began to give every appearance of enjoying it.
“I’d like to look through this paperwork of his,” Korolev said, feeling a little irritated at the fellow’s calm reaction. “If that’s all right, of course?”
“I’m afraid you can’t,” Shtange said, leaning forward to stub out his cigarette.
“I can’t?”
“I’m afraid not. The professor’s work was, and remains, strictly confidential. If you’d like to get access to his correspondence or anything similar, you’ll have to ask permission from the organization that the Azarov Institute forms part of. And thirty minutes ago the responsible person at that organization informed me that such permission will be refused.”
Korolev had a fair idea what organization that might be-his encounter with the guards at the front gate should have made it clear to him that this visit was a waste of time. But he dutifully scratched his head and pretended to look puzzled.
“I’m sorry, Comrade Shtange, I don’t understand. You said you would be cooperating with the investigation.”
“Only as far as is possible. I think I was clear about that.”
“I see,” Korolev said, understanding all too well. “So you’ll be helpful to the extent you’re able to-which is not at all.”
“I wouldn’t put it that way-I can’t discuss the work carried out by the institute. Or the identities of any of my colleagues working here. Or any information of any sort concerning the institute. That’s all true.”
Shtange smiled.
“But then, even I don’t know everything that goes on here-it’s nothing to do with wanting to obstruct your investigation. Our research would lose its value if we went around telling everyone about it.”
Korolev found himself scratching his head again.
“So what can you tell me?” he asked.
“I can tell you that I met with the professor this morning-he came into the institute first thing. I wrote a report which he…” Shtange paused, seeming to consider his words carefully, “which he wanted to discuss.”
“He seemed normal, to you?”
“His normal self,” Shtange said, and Korolev wondered whether the careful way the answer was phrased was deliberate. Shtange smiled, as if acknowledging Korolev’s observation.
“How shall I put it, Comrade Korolev?” he continued. “The professor could be forceful and direct. We didn’t always see eye to eye-and certainly not on this matter.”
“I see-an argument?”
“You could call it that.”
“About your report?”
“Yes.”
“But you can’t tell me what was in the report.”
The deputy director gave him a wry smile.
“No. But I can tell you that the guards at the gate keep a record of everyone who enters and leaves and they can confirm I’ve been here since seven. I’m sure, if you ask them, they can also tell you precisely when the professor arrived and left this morning.”
“Will they be allowed to tell me though?”
“They will be. I requested it. I don’t want my time taken up by your investigation any more than it has to be. I thought you’d inevitably want to-how shall I put it? — ensure yourself of my innocence. I anticipated your frustration, Captain Korolev, and so, at my further request, I’m allowed to give you some assurances.”
“Assurances?”
“Yes, and impressions.”
“Impressions? Well, I’d be grateful.”
Korolev decided to light the cigarette that had been hanging forgotten from his mouth since he’d put it there. Shtange took a sheet of paper from a drawer.
“Firstly,” he said, looking to the page for guidance, it seemed, “I’m instructed to assure you that Director Azarov’s death did not arise from any connection he might have had to this institute, to any of its staff, or to the work he performed here.”
“I see,” Korolev said. “That’s reassuring.”
Shtange smiled once again.
“I’m also instructed to assure you that, notwithstanding the previous assurance, a separate investigation will be undertaken as a matter of course into Comrade Azarov’s death-in so far as it might possibly relate to his connection with this institute, its staff, and the work he carried out here. In fact it’s already begun. I’m further permitted to tell you that if any such connection emerges and such connection indicates any culpability in relation to his death-then it will be dealt with as part of that investigation.”
Korolev frowned. Here he was, being assured Azarov’s death had nothing to do with the institute, but at the same time that someone would be investigating whether there was in fact a connection between the murder and the institute. And, if by any chance there was, then that would be dealt with separately, thank you very much for your interest. It was confusing.
“Who?”
“I beg your pardon,” Shtange said.
“Who’ll be investigating it?”
“I’m afraid that information is classified.”
“You surprise me.”
“It couldn’t possibly be in safer hands, however.”