The White Russian

by Tom Bradby

  The man was wrapped in a blanket and had a long, unkempt beard, encrusted with filth. He stared up at Ruzsky with hollow eyes.

  Ruzsky ignored him, but twenty paces down the street, he changed his mind, turned around, and went back. He pulled the man to his feet, ignoring the indignant shouts of the fat schweizar-the porter-who emerged from nowhere as Ruzsky half carried, half dragged the man up the stairs.

  Ruzsky had intended to leave the man inside the entrance to the building, but dragged him instead up to his room and placed him in front of the stove.

  Ruzsky straightened and looked at the man as he would a wounded animal. He stoked the fire, sighed, went to his bed and brought back a second blanket to put around the man’s shoulders. “What’s your name?”

  The man just stared at the flame.

  “When you are warm, I’d be grateful if you could leave. I have things to do.”

  Ruzsky waited for a response, but none was forthcoming. He crouched down beside him. “I have work to do. There is nothing here of value, so I will leave you. Please let yourself out when you are warm.”

  The man continued to stare straight ahead. Ruzsky moved to the door, wondering if he would return to find a corpse.

  Outside, he stopped for a moment in an attempt to clear the foul smell of the hallway latrines from his nostrils and then began to walk.

  Line Fourteen was close to Maly Prospekt, the seediest of the main three streets that cut across the island. Down at the far end, close to the great massif of the Stock Exchange and the honey-colored buildings of the university, around Bolshoy Prospekt and down to about Line Five, the island managed a faintly well-bred air. But the area around Maly was more or less a slum, run-down ochre-colored houses interspersed between shops with small grimy windows. Most had signs above their doors announcing Credit not allowed. Do not come in unless you can pay.

  This had never been a good part of the city, but now it was downright depressing. It was close to the narrow streets of the Gavan, St. Petersburg ’s first port, which lay at the western tip of the island, and, as he walked, Ruzsky brushed past several merchant sailors emerging from the area’s seedy pubs.

  Maly had no restaurants, but plenty of tea houses. However, even these chaynaya, which had once served basic fare at a reasonable price-before the war you could get a decent fried pot with sausages here for five copecks or so-no longer had anything appetizing to hang in the window. The only activity appeared to be in the secondhand clothes shops which had multiplied along the street.

  Ruzsky was hungry, so he walked down to the St. Andrew’s Market, which ran in narrow alleys off the back of the cathedral on Line Six, but he was shocked to find that the war had stripped even this colorful quarter of its character.

  If Irina had never gotten over having to move away from the south side, she had at least enjoyed helping the servants with the shopping here. It had always been bustling, loud peddlers touting their wares in competition with one another, but this morning a grim silence hung over the tiny square. The only stall holders were families trying to offload secondhand junk in return for a few copecks. In between the piles of old furniture and books, all Ruzsky could find was root vegetables, so he turned around and began to walk in the opposite direction.

  He passed a group of students emerging from a café. There were four of them: a pretty girl in an astrakhan cap and three young men in tattered, worn-out clothing. As Ruzsky examined them, their anxious faces brought to mind the phrase put into Judge Porphyre’s mouth in Crime and Punishment: “Raskolnikov’s crime is the work of a mind over-excited by theories.”

  As he reached the waterfront, he saw a few droshky drivers waiting for hire, but he ignored their shouts and continued on past Konradi’s sweetshop on the corner, where the servants had brought him and Dmitri to spend their weekend pocket money.

  Ruzsky waited for a tram to cross in front of him as he was buffeted by a sudden gust of wind on the Nicholas Bridge. The dawn sun washed the sky a delicate and subtle shade of red. The lamps hissed. Those on the waterfront were the last to be lit and put out.

  It was cold, the Arctic wind still whistling down the Neva with startling ferocity. Ruzsky’s cheeks stung and his feet grew numb. He recalled running across the bridge to Konradi’s and reflected upon the way he still physically shuddered almost every time he thought of his schooldays. As he turned onto Horseguards, he considered, as he often did, how different his life would have been if he’d followed the course prescribed for him.

  Would it, in fact, have been easier?

  The giant semicircular colonnade of the Kazan Cathedral had been inspired by St. Peter’s in Rome, and this morning, as always, there were beggars standing on the steps at its entrance-mostly women with young children. Ruzsky stepped into the relative warmth of the cathedral’s interior. It was packed already; small groups stood in front of icons and candles, their heads bent in prayer. Ruzsky bought a candle from the nearest booth and joined a group close to the altar. He lit the candle and placed it in the metal holder, crossing himself as he did so.

  The priest’s murmured prayers were answered by a choir on the mezzanine floor at the far end of the cavernous hall. Ruzsky breathed out. He did not believe in God, but for as long as he could recall, he had found the church’s rituals soothing.

  Ruzsky crossed himself once more and then began to wander amongst the other worshipers. All around, pale blue spirals of incense drifted up toward the vaulted ceiling. He walked behind one of the great columns and stood directly before the altar, beneath the great chandelier that hung from the dome.

  He searched the faces around him, without success. He was moving toward the darker corners down one wing of the cathedral when he saw her.

  Her expression in repose, it seemed to him, had a wistful quality. But a slow smile spread across her face as he approached. “Hello, Sandro,” she whispered. “I thought you might come here.”

  They stood close together, looking at the golden sun above the altar and listening to the priest’s mournful liturgy. “I got your note,” Ruzsky said.

  “You will come?”

  “Of course.”

  Maria was still looking toward the altar. “Perhaps I should not have asked you.”

  Ruzsky’s heart beat a little faster.

  “You are chief investigator once more?”

  “Yes.”

  “So we can sleep easily in our beds again.” She smiled at him, then gazed back toward the altar.

  “We found two bodies on the Neva yesterday. In front of the Winter Palace.”

  “Who were they?”

  “We don’t know,” Ruzsky said. He recalled Irina’s accusation that he never communicated, about anything. “They were badly mutilated.”

  She turned to him suddenly. “Sandro, I…” She was biting her lip and he could see the confusion in her face.

  “My wife has left me,” he said quickly, before she could go on. “She made her choice.”

  “It may be that we now live in a world without choices.”

  “Things change.”

  “Yes.” Maria looked into his eyes. “Things change. But we must stay friends. We can achieve that, can’t we?”

  “Of course.”

  She was flustered. “I have to go. You will be there tonight?”

  He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  He watched her go. When she reached the door, she turned once, hesitated for a second, and then slipped out into the cold light.

  Ruzsky went first to the duty desk, where the officer that he’d dealt with yesterday sat slumped forward, his face on the report book, fast asleep. His mouth was squashed open and he snored quietly.

  “Good morning.”

  The man sat bolt upright, with startled eyes.

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Ruzsky grinned. “It is a Sunday, after all. How long have you been on the night shift?”

  “Two weeks. This is my last one.”

  “Good. You look like yo
u need some sleep.” Ruzsky reached for the report book and glanced at the previous day’s record of assaults, burglaries, and random acts of street violence. Many more than he ever remembered. “Get me Missing Persons again, would you?”

  The officer hurried to oblige.

  There were no new entries.

  “Nothing there, sir?”

  “No.”

  “Who were they?”

  Ruzsky looked at the man for a second. “We don’t know,” he said.

  “Revolutionaries?”

  Ruzsky frowned. “Why do you say that?”

  “It’s what the others think. Out there in front of the palace.”

  Ruzsky shook his head. He assumed the men had been talking about yesterday’s visit from the Okhrana. “I think they’re wrong. When’s your relief?”

  “In an hour, sir. If he’s on time.”

  “Tell him if there is any report of someone missing, I want to be told immediately.”

  There was a pile of papers on his desk, placed there after he’d left the previous evening. On top was a note from the fingerprint bureau asking for written authorization to begin a search. He filled in the form, ticked the box marked criminal suspects only, and placed it in his “out” tray. The one thing common to all departments of the Tsar’s government was their insane level of bureaucracy.

  Ruzsky looked at his pocket watch. He picked up the telephone earpiece and waited for a connection. He asked the operator for the line to Tsarskoe Selo and it was answered immediately.

  “May I speak with Colonel Shulgin please?”

  “Who is calling?”

  “Investigator Ruzsky of the Petrograd Police Department.”

  “What is it concerning?”

  “I’d rather explain to the colonel in person.”

  “One minute, please.”

  Ruzsky waited and waited, drumming his fingers impatiently on his desk.

  “Are you still there?” the voice asked eventually.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m afraid Colonel Shulgin is engaged. He will telephone you later this morning.”

  “I’d like to speak to him now.” Ruzsky was aware of the sharpness in his voice.

  “He is otherwise engaged.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “He will be engaged for some time.”

  “This is a murder investigation.”

  Ruzsky heard the man sigh. “Colonel Shulgin will telephone you later this morning.”

  “Do you have any idea how long he will be? I have to go out.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Ruzsky terminated the call. He thought the arrogance of the palace staff in the face of the current popular mood defied belief. He looked at his pocket watch again.

  Downstairs, Sarlov was drinking from a tin cup full of strong Turkish coffee. There was another corpse on the slab, covered by a single white sheet, folded back at the top. The victim was an old man.

  “A drunk,” Sarlov explained. “Froze to death.”

  There was a light on in the corner, but the room was mostly in shadow. The smell made Ruzsky gag, but he didn’t recoil. It irritated Sarlov when detectives were in a hurry to get away. He appeared to prefer the company of corpses to that of humans. There were times when Ruzsky couldn’t bring himself to blame him.

  “So,” Ruzsky said.

  “So… what?”

  “Any further thoughts?”

  “I’m thinking about whether you have a cigarette.”

  Ruzsky took out the silver case and walked around the corpse’s head, offering Sarlov a cigarette and then lighting one for himself. They smoked in a silence that was almost companionable. Ruzsky stared at the old man in front of him. His face was as white as marble.

  “It’s a Sunday morning,” Sarlov said. “I’m not officially working.”

  “I can see.”

  “You don’t know who they are, do you?” Sarlov said. “Or why they were taken?”

  Ruzsky pointed with his cigarette. “The girl was called Ella. She worked in the nursery at Tsarskoe Selo-”

  Sarlov whistled quietly.

  “She was fired, apparently for stealing.”

  “That’s what they told you?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you didn’t believe them?”

  “I’d hesitate to say that. It was the Empress who told me.”

  “You spoke to her? She consented to see you?” Sarlov couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice.

  “I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”

  “I was forgetting… your fine lineage and noble connections,” Sarlov said, with what might or might not have been irony.

  “I went out to see Vyrubova,” Ruzsky said, “and the Empress walked in during the course of our interview.”

  “This is the same Vyrubova who is, or was, an intimate of both Rasputin and the Empress?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is the girl supposed to have stolen?” Sarlov asked.

  “Money, they said. But I’m not sure I believed them about that either.”

  “How did she look?”

  “Who?”

  “The Empress.”

  Ruzsky stared at the wall. “Tired.”

  “She stays up late to telegraph the Germans with our war secrets.”

  Ruzsky didn’t react. Rumors had circulated since the beginning of the war that the Empress was feeding secrets to the country of her birth. He looked at the dead couple’s effects, which were still piled in the corner. He dropped his cigarette on the floor, stamped on it, and picked up the man’s overcoat. “Why didn’t Prokopiev take their clothes?”

  “He looked at them.”

  Ruzsky spread out the overcoat. “A cursory glance or a proper examination?”

  Sarlov shrugged. “Pretty thorough.”

  “A few seconds?”

  “A minute or more. I don’t see what you’re driving at.”

  “What was he looking for, that’s what I’m driving at.”

  “He looked like he was checking there was no incriminating evidence,” Sarlov said.

  Ruzsky glanced at his colleague. This is exactly what he had been thinking, but he’d not expected the doctor to articulate it. “You said the man was American,” Ruzsky went on.

  “Possibly foreign,” Sarlov said, correcting him.

  “We might know by later on this morning, or perhaps tomorrow. Pavel has a lead down at the United States embassy.”

  Ruzsky looked at the patch where the label in the overcoat had been removed, then turned out the inside pockets. There was still a little dirt there. He faced Sarlov. “Did the girl die instantly?”

  “Most unlikely. Why?”

  “I can’t get a clear view of this. Once we establish both their identities, in what direction should we be looking? Is it a crime of passion, a professional assassination, a family feud? What do you think? I mean, forgetting the Okhrana’s behavior for a moment and just considering the crime scene itself.” Ruzsky put the overcoat down and turned to the man’s jacket. Labels had been removed from the collar and the inside pocket.

  Sarlov stubbed his own cigarette out on the corner of the table, then flicked it into the iron wastepaper bin. “I’ve been thinking about it, too. Let’s start at the beginning. I would say the murderer was tall. Take the woman. From what I could see, a healthy incision, but high. Forceful. Overhand.” He simulated the action. “Then the man.” Sarlov looked at the position he had once occupied on the slab. He pushed his glasses up his nose. His hair was wilder than yesterday. “Stabbed once initially, also overhand and quite high, coming down-remember the cuts on his face.” He raised his arm once more. “Then again. And again. And again, and again, and again, and again-”

  “I get the picture.”

  “You see what I’m saying?”

  “No.”

  “The murderer is angry. More than angry. This is a deep, atavistic rage, certainly not the work of a professional assassin. You do not stab so many
times to be certain of the man’s death. Nor do you plan to do so in the snow, in full sight of the Winter Palace. This isn’t some petty squabble over money or… something trivial.”

  “All right, Sarlov. I see.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “The murderer’s anger is directed principally at the man-that is my other point. It is an elementary, but nonetheless important, observation. The murder of the woman is purely functional. There is no anger against her, he just needs to get that done, before he turns to the man. That is why he is here and… bang, an explosion of rage. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything quite like it.”

  “You make it sound like a lover’s quarrel,” Ruzsky said.

  “It could be.” Sarlov was interested in drawing conclusions from the medical facts at his disposal, not in dreaming up explanations.

  “And the branded star on the man’s shoulder doesn’t ring any bells for you? You’ve never seen anything like it before, don’t recall hearing of anything similar?”

  Sarlov shook his head.

  “Can you think of any potential explanation?”

  “That’s your job. It could be anything.”

  “What created it, then? What was it made with?”

  “As you have observed, it is a branded star.”

  “An imprint of loyalty to an organization, or group, or society?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “A religious sect?”

  Sarlov didn’t answer. Ruzsky made a mental note to pursue the possibility of a religious connection.

  He stared ahead, lost in thought, then turned back to the clothes. The branded star rang a bell somewhere in his mind. Was it in a case he himself had investigated, or something he had read about? He picked up the man’s boots. They had tiny holes in both soles, like his own. He caught sight of something on the heel and held them up to the light. “Have you got a magnifying glass?” he asked.

  The physician rumbled around in a drawer and then came over, cleaning his glasses and looking up as Ruzsky held both the boots and the magnifying glass to the light. “Do you see that?”

  “No.”

  “The maker’s name has been worn down, but you can see something. I think it is ‘amburg.’ The ‘H’ has gone. Hamburg. That’s where they were made.”