Josh Roseman - The Clockwork Russian and Other Stories

“John,” Alan says, “don’t—”

“I have to.” I hate cutting him off, but I’ve made my choice. “I’m keeping that deed, and without it, the buildings will be tied up in probate for months. Long enough for me to figure something out, or maybe to magically ‘find’ the deed. There’s got to be a way.”

Alan smiles, gives his head a little shake. “So much passion.”

I look down at Alan and see what’s in his eyes. “I only get to see you a few times a month; I have to do something with it.”

He holds out his hand, and I take it, and we don’t have to talk about this anymore. For the next little while, everything will be all right.

Alexandra is in the kitchen, heating coffee on the little gas burner on my counter. There’s already a mug of tea, steam rising, next to that, and she hands it to me. “Sleep well?” I ask.

“As well as I usually do when I spend the night at my suitor’s house.” She clicks the burner off and pours a measure of milk into her mug, then adds the coffee. “It’s funny,” she says as we carry our drinks to the table. “People find out you and Alan are together and both of you are ruined, but if I stay at the house of John Bach, the dark and mysterious—”

“Hardly mysterious, Alex,” I say. She’s laid out fruit and toast, and I spread preserves on a slice. “Everyone in town knows who I am.”

She smiles above the rim of her mug. “Knowing what you do isn’t knowing who you are. I, on the other hand, know who you are, and I still think you’re dark and mysterious.”

“Well, I appreciate that.” I crunch into the toast — Alexandra always makes it a bit too crispy, but who am I to complain? I probably wouldn’t have bothered even heating the bread. “Thanks for staying.”

“Have to maintain the illusion,” she says.

“I suppose there is that.” I drink some of the tea. “Did you see Alan when he left?”

“I heard him, but my door was closed.”

I make a humming noise but say nothing else on the matter.

After breakfast, I escort her, arm in arm, to the next block. I hail her a cab and, before putting her in, we kiss again — the same closed-lips closeness we’ve been doing in public for a year. It gets the job done.

I wait for the cab to turn the corner, heading for Mr. Frieze’s property no doubt, before hailing another for myself. It takes ten minutes to get to the buildings on the deed in my pocket. The business address is an old-looking four-story, the front done in bricks that were once red but are now pinkish from age. I start up the steps, nodding politely to the first two men who pass, but the third — a stocky man in a black fur hat and blue coat — pushes past me as I’m going in and he’s leaving. If I was somewhere I knew better, I might have said something, but I haven’t been this way since I was a police officer, and though I’m armed, I’m not looking for trouble. Just information.

The lobby smells like vinegar — probably recently mopped. It’s tiled, not cheaply but not expensive either, at least as far as I can tell. There’s not much interesting to see, just mailboxes on one wall, a wide staircase, and a door that says Manager . I try the handle and it opens to a tiny office, barely big enough for two people. One is already there: a teenage girl with hair like white silk and impossibly-dark blue eyes. She’s bundled against the chill of the room, a heavy black sweater and a dark-green scarf, both of which have seen better days. She smiles — crooked teeth. “Good morning. May I help you?” I can’t mistake the accent as anything but Russian, and it’s pretty thick. Makes sense.

“I’d like to see the building manager.” I point to the door behind her, which I’m guessing leads to an inner office. “Is he in?”

“ Nyet. ” Her pale cheeks go instantly pink. “I am sorry. I mean, no, he is not. I can take a message if you would like to leave one.”

I blink. “What about the owner?” Let her think I don’t know.

But she surprises me when she shakes her head. “I do not know the owner. The manager is the only person I talk to.” Despite the accent, she’s not picking her way through the words, which means she’s spent time learning English. Good. She might not be in school but at least she’s educated. So many of the young Russians don’t even bother after they high-tail it across the border. “A message?”

“I’ll just come back,” I say. “When will he return?”

“I do not know.” She brushes a tendril of hair behind her left ear. “I am here only to collect the rent. Gospodin Ivanov does not tell me his comings and goings.”

The name instantly catches my attention. “Ivanov? Karol Ivanov?”

“Yes, that is him. Are you a friend?”

I sniff to cover my surprise at hearing that name. “I’m a friend of a friend. Pyotr Novotny.”

“I know no Pyotr Novotny.”

“What about his brother?”

“V—” She cuts herself off, but not soon enough. Her face flushes again. “No, I know no Novotny.”

I put my hands on the desk and lean down. I hate to menace a teenaged girl, but it usually works. “When’s the last time you saw Vasily Leonovich?”

Her eyebrows flick upward in surprise; I don’t imagine she sees many Negroes, let alone those who know the proper form of Russian address. I use that surprise, holding her eyes, not looking angry, just disappointed. She breaks quickly. “Karol Antonovich — Ivanov,” she amends. “After the turn of the year, when I arrived to work, he was in the office, trying to open the safe. I do not have the code, and I told him so. He was angry, and left quickly. When Vasily Leonovich arrived later, I told him what had happened, and after lunch, I was sent home and the two men locked the office behind me.” She pushes back from the desk a little, and I stand up straight. “How do you know Pyotr and Vasily?”

I smile, just a little. “I’m an investigator. Pyotr Leonovich hired me after Vasily’s death.”

She goes white. “Vasily… he is… dead?”

Oh, hell. She didn’t know. “Yes. I’m sorry I had to be the one to tell you.” Tears well in her eyes, and I hand her my handkerchief. She accepts it with a watery grin and wipes her face. “You knew him well, then?”

A nod. “Vasily Leonovich allowed my family to live on his property for no money until we had jobs and could pay him. He taught me…” Her voice breaks, but she swallows and soldiers on. “He helped me to learn English, so I could succeed. I cannot believe… he is truly dead?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

She sniffs hard and wipes her nose again. “Two Mondays past, Vasily Leonovich came to me, gave me a gift, and warned me that if anyone came looking for him, I did not know who he was. Him or his brother. He had told me of the troubles during the Uprising, and I thought it was maybe the Secret Brigade.” Rasputin formed the Secret Brigade in the months after the Uprising — his personal police, who would do anything he ordered. They made Mr. Frieze look like a schoolteacher. “When Ivanov said Vasily Leonovich made him manager, I did not question. I had seen them talking many times, and it… it seemed…” She trails off in a fall of fresh tears.

I come around the desk, sit on the edge, and take her hand. It’s slender, small and cold. “What’s your name?”

“Irina.” She swallows hard. “Iosovna.”

“Irina Iosovna,” I say, holding her hand probably tighter than I should, “my name is John Bach. I’m going to figure out what happened to Vasily.”

“So it was not the Brigade?”

I shake my head. “I guarantee it.” I let her hand go, and she lets it fall to her lap. She’s still dabbing at her eyes with the handkerchief. “Can I take a look in your boss’s office?”