Slivka shook her head in disbelief. “No wonder you look like you’ve been through the mill. But even if the citizens out at the university don’t have such esteemed relatives, the message came across, all the same. They made it clear what they thought of him.”
“Go on.”
“Two-Shtange was a different kettle of fish. Popular with staff and students-a real Bolshevik, they said, and they meant that in a good way.”
“What other way is there?” Korolev said, and Slivka looked as if she’d swallowed her tongue.
“I meant…”
“Don’t worry, I know what you meant. Carry on.”
Slivka took a moment to collect herself.
“Anyway, he was a good fellow, they were all agreed on that. He was only allocated to the university for two days a week but in that time he did a full week’s work. And students were welcomed to his flat when they needed extra tuition. Azarov, on the other hand, hadn’t taught in three years-not that his lectures were much missed.”
“And?”
“Three is a rumor, only a rumor-but you know how these things are…” Her expression was too neutral to be trusted. “We probably should pay no attention to it.”
“Get to the point, you scoundrel,” Korolev said, looking for something to throw at her. Not anything too hard, this cushion in his hand perhaps.
“Well, if you insist, I’ll tell you.” Slivka smiled. “It’s said that Comrade Madame Azarova, the widow of the late departed and much unlamented Professor Azarov…” She paused for effect and Korolev found himself leaning forward. “… was having an affair with a certain Dr. Weiss, member of the same university faculty and resident of Leadership House. Two stories up from the Azarovs, I believe.”
“The same Dr. Weiss who offered comfort to the said Comrade Madame Azarova on the morning of her husband’s murder?”
“The very same. Do you want to hear the fourth discovery?”
“I do.”
“Dr. Weiss was denounced as a Rightist saboteur by Professor Azarov only last month at the University Works Meeting. Azarov didn’t pull any punches either-went for the knockout. But, for a change, someone stood up to him. Told the meeting Azarov had personal reasons for denouncing the good doctor and, if anyone was against the Revolution and damaging the department’s efforts to meet its targets, it wasn’t Dr. Weiss-oh no, it was Professor Azarov himself, and his failure to live up to the teaching commitments that his position as a professor required.”
“And the reaction?”
“Stunned silence, followed by an outbreak of sporadic clapping, then shouts of agreement that turn into applause, stamping of feet, and unrestrained cheering. Azarov storms from the room issuing dire threats. Weiss is exonerated to universal acclaim. And who do you think was the brave citizen who defended him?”
“The good Dr. Shtange?”
“The very same.”
Korolev looked at the cushion in his hand-to think he’d even thought of throwing it at this splendid woman.
“Did you speak to Weiss?”
“I did-but before I knew about the rumor or how Shtange had defended him.” She flicked back through her notebook. “What he did say was that he’d known Azarova for many years and that she was misjudged by many. He was also deeply upset by Shtange’s death. Kept shaking his head in bewilderment whenever we discussed it.”
“But not Azarov’s?”
“He expressed sympathy for Azarova-said that she’d invested her entire adult life in the man. But the implication was it had been a wasted investment. No, he didn’t give a damn about Azarov-but Shtange he did care about. Well, it would make sense, given the fellow most likely saved him from a long trip to the Zone.”
Korolev nodded. Imprisonment would be the standard punishment for offenses under Article 58-political offenses, in other words. And if the University Works Meeting had upheld Azarov’s criticisms that would have been the likely next step.
“What do you think, now you look back on your conversation with him?”
“I think he might well have been having an affair with her. Be having an affair with her, for all I know.”
“It’s a line of inquiry,” Korolev said, pleased. “He lives in the same building, he has a motive, he’s known to Azarov. The only question is what he was doing at the time of Azarov’s murder. And whether what he was doing was putting a bullet in the professor’s head.”
“That’s another interesting thing-I asked him what he was doing on Monday morning and he said he couldn’t tell me, said he’d have to request authorization before he could. I didn’t push it-it seemed sensible to see what he came back with first. He’s not going anywhere, after all.”
Korolev found himself frowning-was this really yet more secret business, or just a guilty man trying to evade a reasonable question?
“We need to talk to him first thing.”
“Yes, because I had Belinsky ask quietly whether anyone in Leadership House might have any suspicions of their own about Weiss and the widow Azarova. Anyway, the Azarovs’ maid let slip that Azarova and Weiss were very good friends-that he would often come round during the day.”
“Interesting. Does Weiss have a maid?” If anyone knew anything about what went on in an apartment it was the maid-and perhaps the building’s doorman. But without the missing Priudski, the maid would have to do.
“He has a maid. And a wife as well,” Slivka added.
“We’re going to have a busy day tomorrow,” Korolev said, and found himself praying fervently that this might, after all, turn out to be something as simple as a romantic entanglement that had turned murderous. Although where Shtange came into it, he wasn’t quite sure.
“And you, Chief? What did you come up with?”
Korolev sighed and told her how the institute effectively no longer existed and about his conversation with Shtange’s widow, who might even now be packing her bags for France.
“It makes me wonder,” Korolev said, “between you and me, whether this report Shtange was writing mightn’t be behind at least some of this. As soon as Shtange is killed, within a couple of hours, it seems, the institute’s shut down and most of its paperwork and staff put beyond the reach of any immediate investigation. Not only that, every scrap of paperwork here and in Azarov’s office is also removed.”
“I should have said, it’s the same at the university. Both Shtange and Azarov’s offices completely stripped. Of everything written, anyway.”
Korolev felt his suspicion hardening.
“I’m wondering if all of this activity is intended to make sure that report never sees the light of day. I wonder what it says.”
“You really want to know?” Slivka asked, her expression doubtful-and it occurred to him that she was right. Who in their right mind would want to see a report whose very existence might have led to a man’s death? And if it had led to his death, then the likely killer was something to do with the NKVD. Anyone in their right mind would run away from that kind of association. But then again.
“Look, if Shtange was killed for that report, or because of what he might have said about the institute-” Korolev didn’t feel he had to mention that if this was the case the perpetrators would most probably have been from the Twelfth Department-“then wouldn’t the killing have been more … professional? Do you see what I mean? A well-placed bullet would have been enough, just as it was for Azarov. All that stabbing and blood seems a bit amateurish to me. There’s too much emotion as well. Chestnova said he was still being stabbed when he was down on the ground, clearly dead. And then there was another wound, made with a different knife-a scalpel probably-on his cheek. Made when he was already dead.”
He traced the line of the cut on his own face.
“A signature, perhaps? A message?”
“To who? Us? He was a surgeon-something to do with that?” Korolev considered what this might mean and was reminded of someone. And the reminder set his tired mind into motion once again.