Josh Roseman - The Clockwork Russian and Other Stories

“Not since this morning.” Iyarina ran one hand through thick blond hair. The move made her body shift provocatively under her tightly-buttoned blouse; I managed not to look away. It was clearly a practiced motion, intended to attract attention. “Why do you ask?”

“Because he’s dead.”

To her credit, the dancer pulled off a good impression of a devastated lover, but I knew better: she’d been here because Robins had paid her. She didn’t really have any ties to him.

“Can you think of anyone who’d want to hurt him?” I asked.

She shook her head, hair falling around her face, eyes downcast. She even manufactured a couple of tears, which dripped from her narrow nose and spattered on her stockinged thigh. “He was a gentle man,” she said. Then she looked up at me. “Am I safe, Constable McDonald?”

“Did you kill him?”

“I did not.”

“Then you’re safe from me, at least.” I ran my palms over my knees. “Stay in company. Just in case. But I think you’ll be all right.” I waved to the door. “Go on. I know where to find you if I need you.”

She didn’t say anything else, just got out of there. I locked the cabin door behind her and began searching the room. The wardrobe yielded nothing much, just clothing that befit a gentleman of leisure and a couple of walking-sticks — neither of which concealed swords, not that I really expected to find them. But it was a bit odd that there were no weapons at all among his belongings; spies were said to value their lives very highly.

A quick search of the drawers in the bedside tables revealed nothing but a pad of writing-paper and a sharpened pencil. I was luckier in the washroom: in the center of the toilet roll, I found another thick envelope, curled up and stuck there by two dabs of what smelled like spirit gum. I wiped my fingers on the hand towel and put the envelope into my jacket, then rechecked all of Robins’s toiletries on the off chance he’d secreted something inside one of the bottles. He hadn’t, of course; the toilet roll had been a very good hiding place.

Before leaving, I lifted the toilet lid, just to check. “Oh, that’s vile.” Robins hadn’t had the courtesy to pull the chain after his last trip. I dropped the wooden disc back onto the bowl and tugged the small handle on the wall behind.

Nothing happened.

Had this been a routine search for contraband, I might have let it be and called a mechanic, but given the situation, I was taking nothing for granted. Upon closer inspection, the tiny silver screws holding the panel behind the handle were definitely damaged, probably by a screwdriver not made for this size or head. I used the small driver in my little leather case to remove the panel so I could reach into the opening.

Another envelope. I took it out and examined it: thicker than either of the others, and the humidity of the plumbing had loosened the gumming along the seal. It was already almost open; my thumb teased the flap the rest of the way off and I peered inside.

Hundred-dollar bills. At least fifty of them. I cursed quietly: as if a murdered spy wasn’t bad enough, now I had to deal with one who might have been working for the highest bidder.

I locked the cabin behind me and made for the bridge. I needed to speak to the captain.

Captain Saint-Pierre wasn’t happy to be in his office talking to me, not this late in the evening, and he didn’t try to hide it. “I’m really quite busy, Mrs. McDonald.” He never said my rank, either.

“I know, sir.” I opened the flat metal box where I’d put Robins’s rice paper and handed the captain a magnifying glass. “But look at this.”

The captain huffed but did as I asked. He only glanced, though. “I don’t read this language, Mrs. McDonald.”

I suppressed a sigh. “It’s Russian, sir. These are state secrets, I think.”

“Really now?” He looked again, then shrugged, broad shoulders shifting beneath his maroon jacket. He set dark brown eyes on me. “Do you believe he was killed for them?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Did you find anything else, Mrs. McDonald?” Every time he called me that, I had to fight down the urge to snarl at him. I hadn’t been married for years, but for propriety’s sake the Company said I had to be treated as if I still had a husband. Not that the captain cared; his hand had “accidentally” brushed my backside far too many times over the past year for it to be much of an accident anymore.

“He’d hidden more documents in his toilet roll—”

Saint-Pierre laughed. “You’re not being paid to clean his washroom, Mrs. McDonald.” I bit the inside of my lip as hard as I could. “Was there more?”

“No, sir.” Except the money, but I wasn’t telling him about that. Not now, and perhaps not ever. The ass.

“Then figure out who killed him. Figure out why. And soon. I don’t want a killer on my airship. Understand?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“And try not to anger too many of the passengers.” He offered me a flash of a smile, teeth bright white in his dark Caribbean face. “The last thing we need is to be giving refunds because Mrs. McDonald stepped on the wrong toes.”

My teeth were clenched tightly enough that, if I kept it up, I would have a spectacular headache. “No, sir,” I said through them.

“Good.”

His hand on my lower back was overly familiar as he ushered me out of his office, but I endured it. At least he tried to be subtle; the one and only time Commander Markel had pinched my backside, I’d broken his fingers — and paid dearly for it out of my wages.

Worth it, though.

I separated the evidence into three plain white envelopes, then locked it all in my safe. Except for the money. I couldn’t guarantee I had the only key to my safe, and it was a lot of cash. I counted it again, then put it into my jacket. $6,500. If the killer knew about the money, he or she would most certainly come looking for it. Better to keep it on my person.

I sighed. $6,500 was enough for me to quit the Company and disappear, enough for Rebecca McDonald to die quietly and be reinvented in Spain or France — I spoke both languages well enough. All I had to do was repair the handle-plate in Robins’s cabin — Marianne would be glad to help me there, I was certain — and say nothing of the money.

Money. It had spelled the end of my career with the San Francisco Police Department: after my first partner’s death, I’d been paired with a clumsy, easily-bribed nincompoop who’d pinned his theft of $700 on me. As far as I knew, he was still taking bribes and menacing citizens while I looked down from tens of thousands of feet and tried to figure out who had killed a spy. And of course the Company didn’t pay women nearly as well as men; I had precious little left over after paying for a room back in California that I only used one week out of every four.

I touched the envelope in my pocket one more time, then squared my shoulders and headed out to the entertainment deck. I still had a job to do. The money would wait — whatever I decided to do with it.

Most of the 300-or-so passengers were on the entertainment deck. It was the largest deck on the airship, and for at least some portion of the evening everyone made it up here. It would’ve been suspicious not to. I looked in on the main dining cabin; no one taking a late meal seemed the worse for wear, and the help had cleaned the floor. But word had got around nonetheless, and a couple of passengers asked me if I’d caught the culprit yet.

“I can’t discuss an active investigation,” I said to an older man walking with his wife and sons — both of whom leered openly at me.