The Twelfth Department (16 page)

“That fellow who was killed the day before him—his boss?”

“That’s the one.”

“He didn’t much like him, I could tell that. I heard them arguing on the telephone once or twice, and one time, after he hung up, he called him a devil. And Comrade Shtange was a mild-mannered man.”

“What were they arguing about?”

“Scientific business, I suspect. Nothing of interest to me anyway.”

“I see. Do you know why he disliked Azarov?”

“It seemed he didn’t like the way things were done at the institute. His wife came to visit with his children two weeks ago and he said as much to her.”

Slivka raised an eyebrow and Lilova shrugged her shoulders.

“It’s a small flat—I know my faults, Comrades.”

“In our profession, Citizen Lilova, we don’t consider curiosity a fault.”

Lilova smiled at him demurely, as if she thought he might be flirting with her. He hoped the sudden warmth in his cheeks didn’t mean he was blushing.

“Did you,” he continued, in a gruffer tone of voice, “happen to overhear or notice anything else you might like to tell us?”

“Such as whether he was having an affair, what he argued with his wife about, whether he gambled away the institute’s money? That sort of thing?”

“That sort of thing would be very interesting,” Slivka said.

Lilova shook her head, regret apparent in the gesture.

“I tell you he was as honest a man as I ever met, and a model husband with it—he’d go home to see his family every weekend, even if only for a day. And if he didn’t go there, they’d come here. They never had a harsh word for each other. A fine wife, foreign but speaks Russian like any one of us. She’s also a doctor. And his two boys were good children, very polite. And as for having a wandering eye for other women, he didn’t have the time. Between working at the university and the institute and trekking back and forth to Leningrad, he barely had time to sleep. And sometimes not even that—more than once he worked through the night.”

“Do you know why he was at home on Tuesday morning, not at the institute?”

“He worked here often—unless he was doing surgery, that is. In which case he’d spend days and nights there, looking after his patients. Otherwise he liked to work here. Reading, writing, that sort of thing. He’d take the phone off the hook and I was told to keep visitors away. In my opinion, he didn’t like that institute one little bit. And it wasn’t just the professor he didn’t like about it either. The university was different—he seemed happy when he went over there.”

Korolev wondered what kind of operations Shtange had been carrying out, given Kolya’s comments at the zoo, but he decided this was a question better left until his visit to the institute.

“You said visitors?”

“Sometimes students would come from the university—he was very friendly with them, encouraged them. But otherwise there weren’t many—he hadn’t been in Moscow long.”

“Was there a particular reason he was home the morning he was killed? His boss had just died, after all—I’d have thought he’d have had plenty to do.”

“All I know is that the doctor told me on Monday evening that with Professor Azarov dead he’d almost certainly be leaving Moscow—and that I should think about looking for another place to work. I came in at the same time as usual on Tuesday morning—I make him his breakfast at six—and he was in good spirits, I’d say. Said he wasn’t going into the institute and he was fine with me going to visit my boy at the hospital. As I said, he was a comradely sort of a man.”

Korolev looked at Slivka, wondering if she could make sense of it. If Azarov was dead then surely Shtange, as his deputy, should have been at his post—and why would he have thought Azarov’s death would mean he’d be leaving? Of course, he’d suggested as much when Korolev had met him, but that had just seemed to be proper socialist modesty. Even if someone else had been immediately appointed to take over from Azarov, surely Shtange would have been responsible for some kind of handover?

“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.”

“I understand,” Dubinkin said. “Leave it to me.”

*   *   *

Korolev followed Timinov up the stairs—there was something familiar about the fellow’s face.

“So Timinov, have you worked here long?” Korolev said, and the doorman turned to look at Korolev, his eyes unreadable in the half-light of the stairwell.

“It’s Captain Korolev—isn’t it?”

“So it says on my identification. From Petrovka.”

“I didn’t read it—that Chekist had my attention. And then I didn’t recognize you, because of your face.”

Korolev nodded, resisting the temptation to invent yet another improbable excuse for his bruises.

“But we’ve met before—back in twenty-nine. I was working at the Red Flag Tractor factory then.”

Korolev looked at him more closely, subtracting eight years.

“I remember you. The local uniforms had you fixed for that foreman—the one who woke up with his head cracked open.”

“I owe you for that, Comrade Captain.”

Korolev shrugged. “You didn’t kill him—it’s not my job to put innocent people against crimes they’d nothing to do with.”

“All the same, I’m in your debt—there’s many would have left things as they were.” Timinov extended his hand and Korolev took it. “So now you’re looking into the professor’s death?”

“That’s right.”

The doorman nodded, as if that made sense to him.

“I’ve worked here three years, Comrade. A bit of this and a bit of that—whatever needs doing around the place—and I help out at the theater and the cinema when I’m needed, or I used to anyway. I’m a doorman now. Well, for the moment at least.”

“And you knew the professor?”

“Oh, I knew him—he tried to have me fired once. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead but he was a hard man to like.”

“And Priudski?”

“I don’t know much about him, Comrade Captain. I stayed well clear.”

“How come?”

“All I can say is he hung himself on his own rope, I shouldn’t wonder.”

Korolev nodded—it seemed he wasn’t the only one who’d thought that Priudski’s ears were working for State Security. He stopped to recover his breath, looking out one of the dusty windows at the street far below.

“How many damned floors are there in this place?”

“Ten altogether.”

“And which of them is this woman Menchikova on?”

“The tenth. It’s not what she’s used to, I can tell you. You think Professor Azarov’s apartment is big? Well, you should have seen theirs. But a cat couldn’t swing a mouse in the room they have now. One more flight of stairs is all.”