Voronov pulled back the landscape portrait of one of the endless Russian steppes and dialled the combination 21121879. The figures derived from a seminal birth date in Russian history. Of course, the Georgian sheepshagger didn’t really like the idea that he had done anything as humdrum as to be born – in his mind he had been hewn out of granite or, perhaps more appropriate to his current assumed name, forged in a steel mill. Stalin, Man of Steel – well, it rolled a lot more easily off the tongue than Dzhugashvili, that had to be said. Josef Dzhugashvili and he went back a long way – both young revolutionaries, both criminals, both ruthless and violent. Voronov kept his violent side well hidden these days, cloaked in a general air of bonhomie and laughter. But it was still there and he could feel it bubbling close to the surface tonight. There was no particular reason for it, but this side of him needed an airing every so often so that it did not explode out of him unbidden.
He reached into the safe and pulled out a bundle of notes, held together by a rubber band. Whistling tunelessly, he made his way back to his desk and fell into his chair. “Maksim, where are you?”
His servant appeared at the door.
“You are looking guilty, Maksim. What have you been up to?”
“Nothing, Kyril Ivanovitch. I was just having a cup of tea.”
“Laced with some of my best vodka, no doubt.”
“No, no. I’d never do that.”
“Do you take me for a complete idiot, Maksim? Anyway, I’m not going to get in to that now. I can’t find my Tokarev revolver in the desk. Where is it?”
Maksim shuffled to his feet and stared miserably at his master. “I took it out to give it a good clean.”
Voronov leaned back in his chair and belched loudly. He stared hard at Maksim. “You did, did you? And is the gun now cleaned and ready for use?”
The servant nervously picked at his nose. “And who might you want to use it on, Kyril Ivanovitch?”
Voronov banged his fist on the desk. “That’s none of your fucking business! And if you don’t bring it to me here tout de suite, it’ll be you I’ll be using as target practice.”
Maksim scurried away.
Voronov ran his hand through his beard under which the skin had started to itch as it usually did when he got irritated. To be truthful, he didn’t know what he was going to do with the revolver. He might take some pot shots out of the window at whatever domestic animals were foolish enough to come within range. He might just go for a walk in the park and shoot some birds. He needed to do something to relieve the violent tension he felt building in him. Was it Trubetskoi and his stupidity that had provoked this? Or the lack of progress on the gold? Perhaps he just needed another session with the Countess? She had seemed to enjoy the rough stuff or was he deluding himself? He rose from his chair. “Maksim, where the hell is that gun?”
*
Merlin arrived at the Junior Carlton Club just after five. He was shown by a porter to a large library cum bar at the far corner of which he recognised the eminent pathologist already sipping a small sherry. Sir Bernard Spilsbury rose briefly from his seat and extended a hand. Merlin shook it and took the only other seat at the table, which faced on to a busy Pall Mall.
“Chief Inspector Merlin? Have we met before?”
“Once, Sir Bernard. When I was a sergeant, I worked on the Brighton trunk murders.”
Sir Bernard’s hawk-like features, naturally bleak, became a little bleaker. “Ah, yes, the worm Mancini. Not one of my favourite cases as you may imagine, Chief Inspector.” The pathologist’s heavy-lidded eyes momentarily closed as he sipped his drink. “A travesty of justice. The man was guilty.”
“Yes, sir. I believe he was, but Norman Birkett—”
“Was on top form, I have to concede, and Mancini gave a wonderfully theatrical performance in the dock. However, he murdered the girl, without doubt. One day my evidence will be verified, mark my words.”
Merlin became aware of a strange smell, but then remembered that Sir Bernard famously carried everywhere with him a permanent scent of the formaldehyde and other chemicals associated with the investigation of dead bodies. He wondered what Lady Spilsbury thought about it.
Now he had a chance to look at Sir Bernard more closely, he realised that the scientist had aged considerably in the six or so years since he had last seen him. He had heard something about a stroke. The man’s voice and demeanour though were as firm and self-confident as always.
“So, Merlin, to this latest case. Pilot Officer Kilinski, Zygmunt, I think?”
“That’s the name we have, sir, although I think it might prove to be an alias.”
“Indeed. Well, that’s nothing to me, is it? I am here to give you the facts about the unfortunate man’s death.”