Josh Roseman - The Clockwork Russian and Other Stories

“And she killed him anyway. Didn’t you, girl?”

When the dancer didn’t respond, the captain backhanded her across the other cheek. She slumped, probably feigning unconsciousness. Probably a good move.

“And as for you,” he snapped, his dark eyes on mine again, “you’re off my ship when we get to Boston.” He advanced, and I gave ground. When I’d been on the force, I’d have stood up to him, but here I had no backup. Here, Captain Saint-Pierre was the law. “Your assets are in the Company bank, aren’t they? It’ll be quite the challenge to get home to San Francisco without any money.” He was very close now. “Perhaps by then you’ll be properly humbled,” he said, low and vicious. “Perhaps I’ll let you back on my airship.” His hand came up and I flinched. I couldn’t help it. But all he did was touch my cheek, then my shoulder, then my breast. “In a far more revealing uniform, I think. One that befits a woman without usable skills.”

He smiled, and in that moment, I was truly afraid.

“Perhaps Miss Iyarina will teach you some of hers.”

Marianne found me in the plumbing room, hidden behind the water tank. When I saw her, I grabbed her and hugged her as hard as I could, disregarding the state of her clothes, not caring about the dirt transferring from her to me. “If I have to kill the captain,” I said, “please tell the police it was self-defense.”

Her arms went around me. She rocked me gently. “He’s a bastard,” she whispered, stroking my shoulders.

“He’s putting me off the ship in Boston.”

“Oh, Rebecca.” She kissed my shoulder.

“He suggested…” I successfully fought down a sob. “He suggested I whore my way back to California.”

Marianne had no words. She held me, I don’t know for how long. Until I was able to breathe normally, until my heart stopped hammering.

“Katya lied,” I finally said.

“What?”

I leaned against the bulkhead; Marianne held my hand, ran her thumb over my knuckles. “She lied to the captain. He…” I sighed. “Well, you probably know what he did. There were witnesses, though; she had to confess, even if it wasn’t true.”

“Then who did it?”

“I wish I knew.” I took a deep breath. “I’ve got four days to figure it out, though.”

“Do you want my help?”

I shook my head. “Don’t get involved, Marianne. Don’t go down with me.” She opened her mouth to protest, but I kept going. “I love you, but I don’t want you throwing your career away for me.”

“It’s my career!”

“Marianne,” I said, voice flat, and that was that. She knew that tone, knew that there would be no more compromises.

She turned. “Pride goes before a fall,” she said, and left the plumbing room.

Maybe Marianne was right, but I wasn’t done with this case. Not even close.

Hidden in an out-of-the-way corner of deck two was a locked room with a cot, privy, and basin. When passengers got drunk and violent and needed to sleep it off, I locked them in. I figured it was where the captain would put Iyarina. But when I got there, I found Tony Peters, the chief steward, leaning over a red-uniformed crewman who was on the deck, clutching his groin and gasping. “I came with her food,” Tony said. “She kicked him and ran.”

“Damn!” I drew my baton. “Did she say anything?”

“That she was going to jump. That no one would believe her anyway.”

I turned and bolted. There was only one place she could be going.

At half-past-eight, few passengers were up and about. The dining cabin didn’t open until nine anyway. I had to dodge only two or three people as I sprinted along the length of the entertainment deck and burst through the foredeck door.

Katya Iyarina was holding onto the railing, staring straight ahead.

“Don’t do it,” I said.

She looked back, saw me holding the baton. I put it away and moved toward her. “Katya, please. This isn’t the answer.”

“So I go to prison for murder? Or worse?” Her fingers were curled tightly around the metal, her hair flowing as the airship continued on course. “I did nothing wrong!”

“Katya,” I said, “tell me the truth.”

“The truth.” She laughed, scornful, but when I joined her at the railing, she did as I asked. “The truth is that Robins was a nice man. Sweet. Tender.” She smiled. “Not like many of the others. We talked for a long time, and I said good-bye. But I left without the money.”

“So you met him in the dining cabin…”

“And he apologized, and said he would pay, and invited me to eat with him.”

“You had to be on stage right after the dinner hour, though, so you left before he did.”

“Yes.” She was crying —real tears this time. Before the captain had had her imprisoned, she could’ve written it off, could’ve moved on to another passenger. Not now, though. “He gave me a key to his cabin, told me to wait.”

“Why did you lie to me?” I asked. “Why not just tell me everything when I found you last night?”

She sniffed, a derisive noise. “You are the constable. Why would you believe me?”

I shook my head. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

“Where will I go?”

“My cabin, for starters. I’ll find you somewhere else to hide until I uncover the real killer.”

Iyarina touched my shoulder. “Thank you, Constable.”

I smiled. “Please. Call me Rebecca.”

I led her to the port-side door and opened it.

Something slammed into my shoulder. I shoved Iyarina out of the way and fell backward, avoiding another strike. “What the hell?” I blinked tears out of my eyes. “Tony?”

The chief steward had a long wrench in his hand. He swung again; I rolled, yanking my baton out of my jacket. The next time he tried to hit me, I was ready; I grabbed the wrench and pulled him to the deck, punching at his jaw with the fist clenched around the baton. He howled in pain as I got to my feet, legs still shaky from that first blow. “What are you doing?”

Peters managed to get up, holding his face, the wrench held out like a sword, as if he was some sort of fencer. I gripped the baton more tightly. “She told you, didn’t she.”

It wasn’t a question. “What the hell is going on?”

“She told you she didn’t kill Robins.”

Oh, my dear God. “You… you killed him?”

Peters stepped closer to Katya and pulled a clasp-knife from his pocket, then flicked it open. The morning sun glimmered on the blade. He pointed at the railing with the wrench; Katya dropped to her knees and huddled, making herself as small as possible. Then, to me, he said: “I had my orders.”

“Your… orders?”

He smiled and sketched a salute with the wrench. “Anton Petrovich, at your service. Or, more precisely, in service of the Tsar.”

“You’re the spy?”

Peters—Petrovich—laughed. “No, no, my dear Constable. Robins was most definitely the spy. And a very good one too; he stole classified information from the Russian Consulate. The telegram was very clear: kill him, recover the documents, find someone to take the blame.”

I looked more closely at the knife; it was about the right size for the stab wound in Robins’s stomach. “You were sloppy,” I told him. “I shouldn’t have gotten my hands on the information.”

“I didn’t have a lot of time.” Petrovich’s hand darted out; Katya cowered back and shielded herself with her arms. The knife left a bright line of blood on her skin. “And you were so damned efficient. You found the plans before I could get to Robins’s cabin that night.” His face went hard. “You ruined everything for me, Constable McDonald. Everything!” It was a furious shout.