William Ryan - The Twelfth Department

“You look troubled,” Timinov said.

“I’m thinking—it takes a lot out of me. I’ve a question though.”

“Ask me.”

“Who knows about the ventilation shafts—apart from the doormen?”

“Building management, and the men who come to fix the lifts when they stop working. Otherwise no one. The keys to the lift shaft are held in the building manager’s office—I only got them today because I said someone had been complaining about mice in the ventilation shafts.”

Korolev wasn’t so sure about that—in his experience humans tended to know their surroundings better than even they themselves suspected. And if someone had been in the ventilation shaft, it would explain why there’d been no gunpowder residue found on the professor. It would also explain how he’d been shot from such a high angle.

Korolev looked at his watch.

“How many ways into the lift shaft are there?”

“There are access doors on every other floor, five altogether, and there’s a trapdoor in the lift itself.”

“I’d like to have a look at them—the lock on the fifth-floor grille seems to have been picked, so maybe that’s how they got in. If they had a key, then that points us in a different direction.”

“I see,” Timinov said, and Korolev wondered if he realized that the likely direction was toward State Security—because the doorman still looked quite cheerful.

“Is Comrade Madame Azarova in?” Korolev continued.

“I don’t think so.”

“And her maid?”

“She went out an hour ago.”

“Can you get me into the apartment? I’d like to have a quick look at this ventilation space from the other side.”

“Of course,” Timinov said, and gave him a conspiratorial smile.

It was strange, Korolev thought, how some people seemed to think playing at detective was an adventure, an amusing diversion from their daily existence. Well, if Timinov wanted to share in the excitement, why not let him?

“Another thing—there are three apple cores on the roof of the lift. Can you get them for me?”

Because nothing would persuade Korolev himself to get back inside that lift shaft ever again.

Ten minutes later, Korolev was standing outside Dr. Weiss’s apartment, three dusty apple cores in his pocket, and more than a few questions and scenarios buzzing around his head.

He was about to knock for a second time, when the door was opened by a middle-aged woman in an apron, a mop in her hand and a bucket of soapy water beside her bare feet—her hair covered with a white cotton headscarf.

She seemed surprised to see him at first, then suspicious. Her eyes examined him from head to toe as she rolled something around in her mouth that might have been a ball of spit.

“I’m Korolev, from Moscow CID.”

The woman appeared to reconsider discharging whatever was in her mouth onto the ground in front of him—instead turning to shout back into the apartment.

“Mikhail Nikolayevich, there’s another Ment at the door. What do you want me to do with him?”

She turned back to Korolev, making a small upward gesture with the mop that seemed to indicate she might have a suggestion of her own.

“Let the Comrade Militiaman in, Tasha. For the sake of kindness, let him in.”

The sound of approaching footsteps brought a tall, well-proportioned man to the door. He pushed a pair of reading glasses back onto his graying hair to examine Korolev more closely, squinting as he did so.

“I was expecting your colleague, Sergeant Slivka.”

“I’m Korolev. I’d like a few moments of your time, Dr. Weiss—if you don’t mind.”

“She mentioned you. Of course, come through to the sitting room.”

Weiss wasn’t exactly good-looking—it appeared his nose had been punched flat once or twice—but he had the sort of benevolent confidence that Korolev suspected women found attractive. And if the clear blue eyes that were calmly appraising him were anything to go by, the fellow was clever too.

“I’ll be mopping down the staircase then, Mikhail Nikolayevich,” Tasha growled. “You shout if you need me. I’ll be listening, don’t you worry about that.”

She placed a hand on Korolev’s arm to move him sideways, revealing a surprising strength, before picking up her bucket. She gave him a threatening look as she passed.

Korolev caught Weiss’s small smile.

“Tasha’s been with me a long time,” the doctor said, waving him along the short corridor. “She can be a little—well—abrupt, but she’s a loyal soul. A glass of tea? Or something else?”

Weiss picked up a toy airplane from an armchair and invited Korolev to sit down. Timinov was right, it was a big place.

“How many children do you have, Dr. Weiss?”

Weiss looked down at the plane he was holding, smiled, and placed it on a small table beside him.

“Ah—yes, the toy. Three—all boys. Eight, eleven, and fourteen. They’ve gone to the park with my wife. I thought it would be better if we spoke without interruption. You know how boys can be—especially when it comes to matters such as this.”

Yes, Korolev thought, thinking that he also knew how wives could be when an affair came to light during an investigation—not very happy, nine times out of ten.

“I know you spoke to Sergeant Slivka yesterday,” Korolev began, opening his notebook.

“I presumed you’d want to talk to me again, but may I ask what happened to you?”

Korolev looked down at his clothes. His trousers and shirt suggested he’d been—well—nearly killed in a lift shaft. On top of which, his face—well—the bruising probably didn’t look any better than it had the day before.

“It goes with the job, I’m afraid.”

“I never knew it was such tough work.”

Korolev remembered the whirr of the cable as the lift came up toward him.

“Sometimes we find ourselves in unfortunate situations, but perhaps this week has been—exceptional.”

Korolev could feel the hair on the back of his neck quivering at the memory of the lift shaft. Anyway, enough of the pleasantries.

“I have to ask about Professor Azarov’s wife. About your relationship with her.”

“You’re very direct,” Weiss said.

“I don’t have time to be otherwise.”

“No, I’m sure you don’t.” Weiss rested his hands on his knees and nodded, perhaps to himself. “I suspect some kind soul has told you that I’m having an affair with Irina Azarova? Is that the case?”

Korolev nodded.

“Then let me try and be just as direct in turn, Comrade Captain. The rumor’s true. Unless I’m wrong, your next question will be where I was on the morning of the murder.”

“If you ever want to change professions,” Korolev said dryly, “you can always try mine.”

Weiss smiled and pointed to a sheet of paper that was lying on a low table beside Korolev’s chair.

“That tells you where I was and who I was with. When you read it, you’ll understand why I couldn’t be more frank with Sergeant Slivka.”

The letter was brief and to the point and, curiously, addressed to Captain A. D. Korolev, 38 Petrovka Street. When he’d finished it, Korolev decided he’d have been happier if it had been addressed to someone else. He found himself trying to swallow on a dry mouth and, as a result, making a strange sound not dissimilar to the beginnings of a death rattle.

“You were in a meeting with the General Secretary? Himself?”

Four people had attended the meeting. Two of them were from the Ministry of Health—a man and a woman he’d never heard of. Dr. Weiss had been the third, and the fourth was a man he knew all too well, seeing as he was the General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union.