It had been given to Ruzsky by his brother as a joke. In the light of the carnage at the front, it no longer appeared funny.
Ruzsky pulled over his “in” tray and took out the only item that had been placed within it. It was a clipping from the newspaper Novoe Vremia.
He glanced over it. The article had been written by the liberal Maklakov and it compared Russia to an automobile being driven at breakneck speed toward a precipice by a mad chauffeur whose passengers were too scared to attempt to seize control of the steering wheel.
Ruzsky opened the central drawer of his desk and was surprised to find that his old notebook was still there. He opened it and flicked through the notes of his last case, that of the ill-fated girl from Sennaya Ploschad. He turned over a fresh page and wrote Neva Murders.
One of the office telephones rang and Ruzsky got up to answer it.
“Ruzsky.”
There was a confused pause, then the caller spoke.
“Ruzsky? Is it really you? It’s Veresov.”
Ruzsky was heartened by the pleasure he detected in Veresov’s voice. He was a small, studious man who occupied the tiny fingerprint bureau, located, much to his chagrin, in the basement, between the canteen and the cells.
“You’re back,” Veresov said.
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
Veresov was silent. “Not the best of times to return to,” he said.
There was a moment’s silence. “I have the dagger,” Veresov continued. “Is it criminal suspects only?”
“What do you mean?”
“We don’t have automatic access to the Okhrana’s files of political suspects anymore. If I have to apply to work through their records as well, it’s going to take twice as long.”
“I thought we shared files?”
“New regulations.”
“Well,” Ruzsky said. “It doesn’t look like a political case. Start with your own files.”
“ Petrograd or Empire-wide?”
“Start with St. Petersburg, then Moscow, then work through the other cities.”
Ruzsky put the mouthpiece back on its hook and it rang again immediately.
“It’s Sarlov. You can come down now.”
Sarlov’s laboratory was next to Veresov’s fingerprint bureau in the basement and it was equally damp and even more tiny. Sarlov always complained about this, but Ruzsky thought the pathologist enjoyed the fact that it forced detectives to stand too close to the bodies.
There was a bright lamp in the ceiling and the two victims lay side by side on a steel table beneath it. The table had been designed for one, and the man’s body looked as if it was about to tumble onto the floor.
Sarlov had a mask across his face and wore a white apron spattered with blood. He had a small saw in his right hand. “Ruzsky,” he said, surprise in his voice. “I didn’t know you were back. To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Did you see Rasputin’s body?” Ruzsky asked, ignoring his question.
“No.”
“Is it true he was still alive when they put him in the river?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t you doctors talk?”
“Sometimes.” He leaned over the man’s body and raised the saw.
“Please, Sarlov,” Pavel said. “Not now.”
“You can see for yourself. There’s not much to tell you. I’ll give you a full report upstairs when I’m finished.” Sarlov leaned back and pulled down his mask. “The man was in his early forties, died around three A.M. Between three and four. Severe loss of blood from the stab wounds. Seventeen in all. Look at him.”
Ruzsky realized he had been consciously not looking at either of the victims, but he forced himself to do so now. The man was bulkier than he’d imagined, a thick pelt of hair running from his chest to his waist. His body had been punctured repeatedly, but his face looked less distorted now that the wounds had been cleaned. He’d not been a handsome man, Ruzsky thought; his cheeks were too fleshy and nose too broad. The girl, by contrast, was prettier than she’d appeared. She had a neat face, with a petite nose and long eyelashes. She’d been stabbed only once, precisely, in the center of her chest. She was naked and Ruzsky instinctively wanted to reach forward and cover her up.
“So?” Pavel asked.
“They were followed from behind,” Ruzsky said. “And yet stabbed from the front.”
“I can certainly tell you they were stabbed from the front,” Sarlov responded.
“The man has no marks on his arms, so the first blow must have been sudden and unexpected. He was caught unawares.”
“Very good, Ruzsky. I’m pleased to see provincial life has not dulled your powers of observation.” Sarlov’s eyes twinkled with laughter. He liked to hide his affection beneath a manner that was alternately curmudgeonly and playful.
“Who was killed first?” Ruzsky asked, failing to return the smile. He knew the game. He was supposed to be the butt of their humor-now more than ever.
Sarlov shook his head. “I don’t know. Common sense dictates it must have been the man.”
“One of them was expecting this to happen,” Ruzsky went on, “because neither ran. Perhaps the girl was killed first, but the man was expecting it, so he stood and watched. Then the murderer turned unexpectedly on him.”
“And stabbed him seventeen times?” Pavel asked.
“Have you found anything on them, Sarlov?”
“No. Their pockets have been cleared out.”
“But nobody took the money.”
Sarlov shrugged.
“Have you found any clues at all?”
The doctor shook his head. “The man has had some dental work. It’s gold foil treatment, very elaborately performed. That is not to say it couldn’t have been done by a dentist here, just that it is more likely to have been done somewhere else. Europe, or maybe America. Somewhere like New York.”
“A foreigner, then?”
“His shirts have no markings, and the labels from his jacket and overcoat have been removed. His underpants were Russian, his boots made to measure, probably somewhere in the Empire, I couldn’t tell you where.”
“The man was the real target,” Ruzsky said.
“Perhaps.”
“Why else would he have been stabbed seventeen times?”
“He was certainly no Rasputin. I should think he was dead after the first blow.”
“Anything else?”
“No. Oh, yes. I almost missed this. Look here, on his shoulder.”
Ruzsky and Pavel examined the man’s skin. He had a small, branded black star there.
“What does that mean?” Pavel asked.
“I have no idea,” Sarlov said.
“Have you seen anything like it before?”
“No.”
Ruzsky noticed the pile of clothes on the far end of the shelf. The man’s clothes were stiff with dried blood. His overcoat was thick and, Ruzsky thought, expensive. There was nothing in the inside pocket and the outline where the label had been was clearly visible. He pulled the pocket out, but there was nothing there, except a little dirt.
The jacket was made of thick, dark wool, probably of cheap Russian manufacture, since the stitching appeared primitive. He turned all the pockets inside out, but again found nothing. He examined the boots for a moment. They were old and worn down and if the maker’s name had ever been visible in the sole, it had long since faded.
Ruzsky pushed the pile to one side and turned to the girl’s clothes. He was struck immediately by their quality. The seams were immaculately stitched. He started with her corset, but then picked up the dress and saw the tiny label sewn into the hem.
“Pavel,” he said. “Tell one of the constables to go down to the Nevsky and bring Madame Renaud here, whatever her objections.”
“Why?”
“Because my wife’s expensive taste in dresses has finally served a purpose.”
Ruzsky made his way upstairs to the first floor. He saw that Anton’s office door was ajar. Anton had always come to work on Saturday mornings. It was a ritual. He was bent over a drawer, searching for something. The desk itself was covered, as always, in loose papers. On the wall, below a white clock, was a picture of Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow. The bookcase was full of leather-bound volumes, some Anton’s own work.