“Did he say why he’d be leaving?” Slivka asked. “Or when?”
“No. But he was pleased about it. He missed his family being here. It wasn’t his choice to come to Moscow-he was asked to. But he was a good man, promised to make sure I’d be all right. Which was kind of him-there’s many just look after themselves these days.”
“How did he react to the professor’s death?” Slivka went on.
“He didn’t like the fellow, he said as much, but he was shocked by it. He said it was sad that anyone should come to such an end. Even a man like him.”
“Even a man like him?”
“Those were his words.”
They went through all the usual questions with the maid-trying to account for her whereabouts, for Shtange’s, asking for a list of all the people he might have had contact with-and by the time they’d finished with her they had the beginnings of a picture of the doctor: conscientious, hard-working, a good comrade and yet, for some hidden reason, a man someone decided to kill.
CHAPTER TWENTY
By eleven o’clock Korolev and Slivka, between them, had personally interviewed the downstairs neighbor with the blood-soaked ceiling, the caretaker who’d come to his aid, the people who’d lived above, alongside, and across from Shtange’s flat, and a maid from along the corridor who’d sworn she’d heard a woman scream at around 10:30 on the morning of the murder. Korolev had been the one who’d spoken to the maid but, given she’d done nothing about it at the time, not even look out into the corridor, Korolev didn’t think her statement could be relied on. Meanwhile Sergeant Bukov’s men were continuing to go through the house apartment by apartment and would soon be taking their inquiries out into the neighboring buildings and streets. Korolev had left Slivka in charge, knowing that that kind of work needed someone who was capable of giving it their full attention and that, with Yuri still missing and very little sleep the night before, he wasn’t the man for the job.
Instead Korolev was sitting in the passenger seat of Dubinkin’s car and feeling uncomfortable. The Chekist had returned from his visit to the extensive-yet-efficient State Security filing system to say that he had two clerks working on Azarov’s denunciations and that they could expect results later in the day. It had seemed logical to ask Dubinkin to drive with him over to Leadership House to see what could be shaken out of the Azarov side of the investigation, but it wasn’t turning out to be a happy experience. Not for the first time they’d come to a stop at a crossroads and the pedestrians had reacted to Dubinkin’s uniform in an unpleasant way. It seemed people didn’t know whether to run, pretend they’d seen nothing or, perhaps, salute. It bothered him.
“About your uniform,” Korolev said eventually, and not without misgivings. “I think it frightens people.”
Dubinkin nodded but said nothing, and Korolev got the impression that for the Chekist that might be the whole point.
“It’s just, when we’re asking people questions-well-I feel it’s best if they forget we’re Militia. Or, in your case…”
“A Chekist or, as Lenin called us, the Sword and the Shield of the Party,” Dubinkin said in a neutral voice that made Korolev want to stop the conversation there and then. But he couldn’t do that now, could he? He was stuck in it, fool that he was.
“It’s just they’re more relaxed then, do you see? And if they’re more relaxed, we get more out of them.”
“You think so?” Dubinkin said, clearly unconvinced, but then he seemed to reconsider the point-nodding slowly. “All right, Korolev. I see how people react to the uniform, I’m not unobservant. Of course, it often has its uses-but here I can see why you might think a more subtle approach may be required. I’ll get rid of it.”
Korolev was pleased to see their destination approaching on the other side of the river, offering the perfect excuse for a change of subject.
“It’s entrance number eight,” Korolev said, thinking he could kiss each square inch of its oak doors in gratitude for hoving into view when it had.
Sergeant Belinsky was just exiting the building when they pulled up.
“Any news for us, Belinsky?” Korolev asked. Unsurprisingly the sergeant couldn’t seem to make up his mind which was more distracting-the Chekist’s uniform or Korolev’s battered face. “I fell off a tram-it looks worse than it is.”
“I’m pleased to hear it, Comrade Captain,” Belinsky said, with a grave nod-it seemed he’d decided to pretend Dubinkin wasn’t there for the moment. “I’m afraid we haven’t turned up anything directly related to the murder, at least so far, but it does seem as if the professor wasn’t a popular neighbor. More than one resident has gone so far as to indicate he wouldn’t be missed. And something else, which might be more relevant.”
Now Belinsky remembered the Chekist was there all right-his tongue appeared at one corner of his mouth as he considered how to approach a no-doubt delicate subject.
“The Golovkins? The fact that Azarov denounced them?” Dubinkin asked with a smile.
“Yes,” Belinsky said, blinking with surprise. “And not just the Golovkins, Comrade Lieutenant. They say he acquired his current apartment as a result of information he passed on to State Security, which resulted in the arrest of the former tenant. The man was called Bramson-arrested last year. His wife as well. There’s another case too-a factory director by the name of Menchikov, also arrested. His wife and children still live in the building.”
“Good work, Belinsky,” Korolev said. “I’d like to talk to Menchikov’s wife, if she’s here.”
“She is, Comrade Captain. I told her you might want a word. Also, you asked me to make sure the doorman Priudski was available for questioning-but I’m afraid that hasn’t been possible.”
While they were talking they’d walked toward the entrance and now Korolev could see that Priudski, the small gray man who’d made his presence so unpleasantly felt on Korolev’s first visit, had been replaced by a man of about Korolev’s age, taller than Priudski, with short gray hair and a drinker’s hollow cheeks.
“What happened to Priudski?” Korolev asked, showing the doorman his identity card. He didn’t respond immediately, apparently transfixed by the NKVD badge on Dubinkin’s gymnastiorka.
“He’s no longer working here, Comrade Captain,” the doorman said eventually, turning his full attention to Korolev’s feet. “I’m Timinov.”
“Since when?”
“Since birth,” Timinov said.
“Not you. Priudski.”
“I’m sorry, I thought…” the doorman began before stopping, straightening himself up, and looking Korolev in the eye. “Since Tuesday,” he said in a firm voice, before his new confidence seemed to wane. “He-uh.” He looked at Dubinkin then back to Korolev. “He was arrested.”
“Arrested?” Dubinkin asked. “What for?”
The doorman blinked and his eyes dropped to the badge on Dubinkin’s breast and then back to the rank badges on his collar.
“Well,” Timinov said. “I wouldn’t know what your colleagues wanted him for, Comrade Lieutenant, and I wouldn’t ask either.”
Which was fair enough, Korolev thought.
“State Security arrested him?” Dubinkin asked, looking confused.
The doorman nodded his agreement.
“On Tuesday, you say. When on Tuesday?” Korolev wondered if it had something to do with Shtange’s death.
“About six in the evening.”
“I know nothing about this, Korolev, but I’ll find out, believe me.” Dubinkin turned to Timinov. “I need a telephone.”
“There’s one in here,” the doorman said and gestured to his small office. Dubinkin looked at his watch and then at Korolev.
“I’m going up to talk to Citizeness Menchikova,” Korolev said. “But we need to speak to Priudski.”