“What did the doctor say to you when he opened the door?” Korolev asked, deciding to give him a clue. Fortunately the word “doctor” seemed to have the desired effect.
“He didn’t say anything at first,” the doorman said, looking to Blanter who, Korolev noticed, gave him a small nod. “He just looked at me as if I was dirt. But I wasn’t having that-I’d come for my money and told him so. He said we were both going to a camp in Kolyma if I squealed, so why should he pay me anything. Then he threatened to kick me down the stairs. So I pulled out the knife and told him to pay me what I owed, or else I’d go to Kolyma with him on my conscience. And what do you think he said to that?”
“Tell me,” Korolev said.
“He called me an old fool and told me I was too old to play with knives. So I lost my temper.” Priudski stopped, and did a passable imitation of regret. “I didn’t mean to kill him but-it just happened that way.”
The Shtange Priudski described bore little relationship to the Shtange Korolev had met but, then again, neither did this Priudski bear much relationship to the doorman he’d encountered just four days before. Either Zaitsev had Priudski’s son in his care as well as Yuri, or something else was going on. Maybe the professor’s research had been more successful than Dr. Shtange had given him credit for.
“How many times did you stab him?”
“A great many. I was angry as hell. There was blood all over the place-that much I can tell you. All over the place.”
“What about you? Did you get covered in blood? When it was going all over the place?”
“A bit,” he replied, looking uncertain-as if he were trying to remember. “I must have, mustn’t I?”
“I would have thought so,” Korolev said in a neutral voice. “Did you clean yourself up?”
“I did.” The doorman seemed uncertain once again. “In the sink.”
“Come with me, Citizen Priudski.”
Korolev led the former doorman back into Shtange’s study, where he placed a photograph of the dead man on the desk-Korolev saw no recognition in the doorman’s face. And even though Blanter was glaring at him once again, Korolev couldn’t help it. He had to ask questions-Slivka would expect him to.
“You recognize him, don’t you?” Korolev asked, and Priudski seemed to take the hint once again.
“It’s Dr. Shtange,” he said.
“Very good.” Korolev pulled photographs of the dead man’s blood-drenched body from an envelope. He laid them on the desk one by one. Priudski picked up each one and examined it with a dreamy expression on his face. He lifted the first of the autopsy photographs, then placed it carefully back down, before beginning to touch a finger to each of the dead man’s wounds, one after another.
“I stabbed him here, and here, and here…”
He spoke quietly, as if to himself.
“What kind of weapon did you use?”
“A knife, what else?” Priudski said, his finger still moving from wound to wound, his focus still on the photograph.
“And what did you do with it? This knife of yours?”
“I threw it into the Moskva-at night, off the bridge. Near where I work.”
Of course, by the time night had fallen on the day of Dr. Shtange’s murder, Priudski had already been picked up by Zaitsev’s men. He wished they’d at least bothered to get his story to hang together a little bit better.
“Describe it to me.”
“It was a fold-out knife. I had it open in my pocket, ready, in case there was trouble. I knew the fellow had shot the professor dead so I came prepared.” Priudski began to touch the photograph once again. “I stabbed him with it here, and here, and here.”
The way he spoke was disturbing. It was almost as if he’d really killed the man and he was lost in the memory of it. But that couldn’t be, could it?
“How big was the knife? The blade, that is?”
Priudski hesitated then held his hands apart. No more than four inches.
“Did you have any other weapons with you?” Korolev asked.
“No, just the knife. I didn’t need anything else.”
“Can you tell me about this mark here?” Korolev said, directing Priudski’s attention to another photograph, this time of the left side of Shtange’s face, and pointing to the scar that had been carved into the skin. Priudski examined it for a time before looking up to Blanter, as if for inspiration.
“After I’d killed him,” he said after a pause, “I was still angry. So I sliced him up a bit. With the knife.”
“With the fold-out knife?”
It was interesting-whenever the fellow seemed to be in doubt, his first instinct was to look to Blanter. Korolev turned to the Chekist to see yet another small nod from him. The boxer seemed almost to be directing Priudski.
“Yes,” Priudski said.
The Chekist looked back at Korolev, less aggressive now, it seemed. Possibly because he was satisfied with Priudski’s performance. Well, if he was, maybe Slivka would be too.
“Is that all?” Blanter asked, and it occurred to Korolev that the interview might be the last thing keeping the Chekist from a long-awaited bed. Well, he’d have to wait a bit longer-Korolev was more concerned with what Slivka thought, at this moment in time, and Slivka looked troubled. He had to allow her to ask a question or two if she was to be persuaded to go along with Priudski’s confession-even temporarily.
“I’ve no further questions, Comrade Blanter. You can take him away, as far as I’m concerned. Unless Sergeant Slivka has anything to ask him?”
Slivka looked up from her notebook with a quizzical look. “How did you meet Dr. Shtange?”
For a moment Priudski appeared uncertain, but then his expression changed, reminding Korolev of the secret pleasure a man gets when he picks up a winning hand of cards.
“He used to come round to visit the Azarovs-often. I didn’t pay much attention to him until he approached me a few weeks ago. He waited for me outside the building.” The answer slipped off Priudski’s tongue as smoothly as anything he’d said so far.
“The building?” Slivka asked.
“Leadership House. Where the Azarovs live. Where I work.”
That was enough, Korolev thought.
“Very good,” he said. “We’ve no further questions, Comrade Blanter. Thank you for your assistance.”
Slivka looked at him in surprise, but he ignored her. Blanter looked content-which was something.
“Colonel Zaitsev wants it to be known that his cooperation can be absolutely relied upon. He told me to say that to you most specifically. And this is his telephone number-should you require any more of his cooperation.”
Blanter spoke slowly, almost ponderously-but the message was clear enough.
* * *
“What was all that about?” Slivka said when the two men had left. “What did he mean by telling you that Zaitsev’s cooperation could be relied upon?”
“Who knows?” Korolev said.
He reached his left hand into his pocket, found Yuri’s pocket knife, and closed his fingers around it. He sighed. The worst thing about life these days was that when things went wrong-when you were being sucked into the whirlpool-other people were sucked in with you, whether you liked it or not. He smiled at her, but suspected it was a poor effort.
“Well then, let’s talk about Priudski. What did you make of him?”
“He was lying, wasn’t he?” Slivka wasn’t beating around the bush, but he’d not expected her to.
“Certainly at the end-when he said Shtange had visited the Azarovs,” Korolev said, shrugging. “But there could be an explanation for that.”
“An explanation?”
“Shock-killing someone can do that to people. I’ve seen it.”
She looked perplexed. “You don’t believe him, do you?”
“That’s not what I said.” Korolev ran a hand over a neck that was already damp with sweat. The day was going to be another scorcher.