Russian Roulette (16 page)

‘Lying in a drunken stupor somewhere,' said Simon acidly to Liz, then, as if to confound him, a relatively jaunty Michael Shaw appeared. He looked quite respectable for once, his beard combed and his red hair temporarily tidy. He even wore a collar and tie instead of his usual rumpled T-shirt.

‘Top of the morning, Oberleutenant!' he said to Pudovkin. ‘The diwil if I didn't nearly forget about this little parley.'

Once more he facetiously exaggerated his brogue, but it was lost on Alexei, who gathered the gist of his words, but not the details.

Shaw dropped down on to the settee alongside Elizabeth and pretended to go to sleep.

Pudovkin scowled at him, but began his address to the rest of the group, who were gazing expectantly at him as if waiting to start some innocent party game.

‘I regret having to call you together again so soon, but I have grave news that concerns you all – especially one of your number.'

There was a silence so profound that it could almost be reached for and grasped. If Alexei Pudovkin had wanted to start putting the screw on, he could hardly have done better – even the Irishman opened his eyes.

‘I have to tell you that your fellow-traveller did not die as the result of an accident – he did not project himself from the window by self-desire.' He paused.

There was only one alternative explanation now, but they all waited like statues to hear the inevitable words fall from his lips.

‘Monsieur Fragonard was murdered.'

The detective said this quietly, in slow measured tones, but the effect was profound, especially as he went on, ‘I have reason to think … I must think … that the assassin is at present amongst this party.'

There was a silence, then a variety of quiet sounds as the suspects reacted in their various ways.

A few deep sighs, a hysterical twitter from Liz and a muffled curse from Shaw were cut short by Pudovkin.

‘Certain examinations have been made and others are to be carried out. I must ask you to co-operate with me and I will do all I can to avoid unpleasantness, which the officials of the Soviet Union wish to do at all times.' He paused and gave each one a piercing look from his dark eyes.

‘However, the criminal must be found and will be found. I wish to obtain a sample of each person's fingerprints, please. I have arranged for you all to attend at Militia Headquarters in Petrovka Street at two o'clock. Lieutenant Moiseyenko here will lead you there after lunch. It is a short distance and will take only a few moments.'

He stopped to consult the sheaf of papers in his hands, which Simon recognised as the statements which were taken earlier that day.

Simon rapidly thought about fingerprints and how they might affect him. He had not touched anything in Fragonard's room, except the man's clothing, as far as he remembered, but could he be sure? He leant over to Gilbert who sat alongside the settee. ‘They can't take prints without charging somebody, can they? Or with a warrant or something … it's a bloody imposition!'

Gilbert looked uncomfortable. ‘I don't know – my prints are bound to be in the jolly room – I'm always in and out of 'em all with bumf and pep talks.'

‘Ask him – you're the courier,' urged Simon, clutching at straws.

Pudovkin heard the muttering and looked up sharply.

Gilbert, his tic worse than ever, beat him to the draw and began speaking in Russian. He changed to English after a few words, for the benefit of the others.

‘Is this taking of, er … fingerprints … is it legally permissible under the Criminal Code? … we do not have the same compulsion in Britain,' he added, with complete disregard for the truth.

Alexei looked irritated. ‘Of course it is legally permissible – I am already doing all I can to spare the innocent among you trouble and embarrassment. The normal procedure would be to conduct you all to Headquarters with a procurator's certificate and detain you there until I was satisfied with the completeness of the evidence.'

‘But the fingerprints …?' Gilbert fought doggedly for what he hoped might be their rights.

Pudovkin made short work of him. ‘I can also get a procurator's certificate within the hour, if you require this method of progress. If the Procurator's Office takes the case over from the militia – which is very likely in the near future – you will all be subject to more stringent examination.' He wasn't happy with that word ‘stringent', but it would have to do.

Alexei turned his eyes down to his papers again. ‘I wish to see each person alone, to repeat what is in these statements in the light of our new knowledge.'

Simon wondered icily what the ‘new knowledge' was. The half-expected shock of learning that Fragonard had been murdered seemed somehow to be an anti-climax … his main worry now was that someone else was in on the act, and that Simon Smith, Esq., was again vulnerable.

Pudovkin waved a hand across the lounge. ‘I would like each one of you to come into that room when my lieutenant calls you.'

With a frosty smile and a jerky bow of the head, he strode towards an empty bedroom on the corner of the nearest corridor.

Simon watched him go, his wide blue trousers flapping against his legs, revolver bumping on his hip.

Moiseyenko went into the room after him and immediately bounced out again, to summon the nervous vicar to the ‘hot seat'.

‘Oh, my God, Simon!'

He had almost forgotten Liz's presence beside him, which spoke volumes for his own preoccupation.

‘Do you think they'll search our belongings now?' she whispered in a quavering voice. Not ‘How awful that he was murdered' or ‘I wonder who can have done it', but just this worry about her luggage. He found time to wonder if she was trying to smuggle the Romanov crown jewels out of Russia.

‘Search? … I don't know, I wouldn't be surprised. It would be the sensible thing to do, wouldn't it? As he said, most police forces would be only too eager to turn over every stone in a case like this. From what I've seen of the German
Polizei
, we're having it soft.'

‘
So
far, me old lad,' cut in Michael Shaw unexpectedly from the other end of the sofa. ‘They're like an iceberg, these lads … for every bit you see, there's another nine-tenths underground.'

‘Personal experience?' asked Simon sweetly, but he really wasn't in the right frame of mind for sarcasm.

He chewed his lip and wondered again what Pudovkin meant by ‘new knowledge.' They'd have had a post-mortem, of course – perhaps they were referring to that. He had to decide whether to stick to his story or not … he had to explain away his dodging the chap in the Metro, too. If he couldn't convince them that that was an accident, he was in it up to the armpits.

The vicar came out very quickly, looking so relieved that he almost danced across to the two old ladies to reassure them, but Moiseyenko politely steered him away and called one of them – a Miss Carruthers – into Pudovkin's room. She stayed in for an even shorter period than the vicar; so did her friend, the other aged lady.

Then it was the turn of Elizabeth Treasure. She went as pale as a corpse as Vasily called her name. Simon gave her hand a last squeeze and made a discreet ‘sssh' with his lips. She smiled weakly and nodded down at him. As he watched her wonderful body undulating across the lounge, he gave a quiet sigh of relief that she seemed intent on shielding him over the matter of his visit to Fragonard's room last night.

She was in the room appreciably longer than the others. Though the time seemed an eternity to Simon, his watch said that it was only four minutes before the door opened and Moiseyenko ushered her out.

Ideologies apart, it was obvious that the young bachelor lieutenant was quite impressed with her sophisticated charms.

She made as if to come over to Simon, but Moiseyenko touched her arm and pointed in the direction of her room. He said something to her and, with a little shrug of apology in Simon's direction, she vanished.

Gilbert went next, his mouth twitching in top gear. Simon timed him at only two minutes. He came out wiping his brow with a handkerchief and set off down the stairs in search of a stiff drink.

‘Like the “ten little nigger boys” – only there's seven of us!' observed Shaw heartily. He had been slumped in the corner of the big settee, but now he unwound his great hairy body and planted his hands on his knees in expectation. ‘Who's it going to be next – you or me?'

‘I'm always last when they're giving things away,' said Simon, in a poor attempt at nonchalance.

‘They're obviously taking us in reverse order of suspicion, me lad! So we'll soon know who's number one of their “Top of the Chops”.'

His facetiousness jarred horribly on Simon's nerves. Shaw's whole manner seemed out of character at the moment … normally inert, apathetic, sometimes sullen, he was now taking a whimsical interest in what was going on –
very odd
, thought Simon.

Moiseyenko came out of the bedroom door again like a cuckoo from a clock. ‘Mr Shaw!' he called across the lounge, deserted now except for the two men, the waiting militia sentry and the old woman.

Michael got up lazily.

‘Hard luck, old feller … looks as if you're the one.' He drew a finger across his throat and made a revolting slashing sound. He sauntered across and disappeared into the bedroom.

As slowly as time had gone before, now it shot past as soon as the door closed behind Shaw. Though he did not have the heart to time it, it seemed only seconds before the bearded writer was out again and Moiseyenko was beckoning him across the carpet.

With a conscience feeling like a half a ton of lead in his stomach, he went into the spare bedroom and stood nervously facing Pudovkin. The detective sat behind the writing desk and waved a bony hand at a hard chair set opposite him.

Simon lowered himself gingerly, while Moiseyenko went around to stand at his captain's shoulder.

The prime suspect had a sudden mental flashback to twenty years before, when he had sat timidly before his headmaster and form master for some minor crime at his grammar school. Now the stakes were much higher – perhaps his liberty for a long time.

‘Mr Simon Smith,' stated Alexei, pondering over the inevitable papers. His head was bent down and Simon stared at his stubbly grey hair, sticking up over the crown like some moulting rooster. He lifted his head and looked the Englishman hard in the eyes. His face was stern, but no arrogance or cruelty showed itself.

‘I must tell you at the start that the criminal is one of your party – and of those, you are by far the most obvious suspect.'

The prime suspect felt no particular emotion at this, only a heightening of his wariness. He wondered with almost detached interest why the militia were giving him the shortest odds.

‘Have you anything you wish to tell me at this stage?' asked Pudovkin severely.
Obviously fishing for a confession
, thought Simon, shaking his head silently.

‘You are very sure of that?'

Alexei stared at Simon's face as if waiting for some sign of guilt to appear, but the Englishman managed to keep up his expression of injured innocence.

Pudovkin proceeded to fill him in with a few proofs of his villainy.

‘Before this tragedy occurred, you were already under surveillance – so it is only logical that we should be highly suspicious of you and your motives – a suspicion that has been strengthened by your recent actions.'

This roundabout speech seemed to have been a strain on Pudovkin's English and helped to break the tension that in any other circumstances would have been a useful tool in any interrogator's armoury.

Simon kept his impassive face, but it also was a strain. This was the first he knew of any surveillance
before
Fragonard's death – why the hell was that? Had ‘Tool Steel' been sprung to the Soviets in some way? Were they just playing him along before arresting him?

Pudovkin unconsciously put his mind at rest on that score, but threw yet another bombshell at him with his next speech.

‘When you returned to the
Yuri Dolgorukiy
in Helsinki after your unfortunate “accident”, the ship's doctor saw bruises on your neck which were undoubtedly the result of attempted strangulation. You did not report this, but lied about the nature of the injury. No criminal elements are welcome in the Soviet Union from outside, but as it seemed that you were the victim, rather than the perpetrator, we decided not to bar you.'

He stopped again and searched the Englishman's face for signs of remorse. Simon smiled back weakly and ran a nervous hand over his hair.

Pudovkin sighed quietly and went back to the attack.

‘Before the vessel could get to Leningrad, this was found in your cabin!'

He dipped in his battered briefcase as he spoke and tossed the automatic pistol across the desk. It fell with a clatter in front of Simon and lay menacingly on the dark wood, a luggage label still tied to the trigger guard.

If Alexei had been trying for some response, he got it this time. Simon went red in the face, his feelings genuinely outraged this time. ‘This is bloody ridiculous! I've never had a gun in my life, except in the Army. They didn't find this in my cabin, I can assure you!'

‘And I assure you they did – hidden beneath the mattress.'

Simon reached out and snatched up the pistol. Moiseyenko jerked into readiness, though he realized a second later that it was unloaded. Simon merely turned it over in his hand and slid it almost contemptuously back across the desk.

‘If it
was
found there, then someone planted it on me.'

His anger had temporarily driven out his uneasiness, but Alexei was still master of the interview.

‘Even if you tell the truth about this gun, the weapon was still placed there to incriminate you … so why? And why should someone want to kill you?'