Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [47]
Since the chain of hard evidence tended to be thin, a Soviet investigator was more dependent on softer clues, on social nuance and logic. Arkady knew investigators who believed that with a sufficiently clear understanding of the scene of a homicide, they could deduce a murderer’s sex, age, occupation and hobbies. The only place in the Soviet Union where psychological analysis was allowed to thrive was criminal investigation.
Of course Soviet investigators had always relied on confession, too. Confession solved everything. But confession really worked only with amateurs and innocents. Makhmud or Kim would no more confess to a crime than suddenly burst into Latin.
What had this apartment said so far? One thing: “Where is Red Square?”
Was Rosen religious? There were no menorahs, Torahs, prayer shawls or Sabbath candles. The portraits of his parents were the bare minimum of family history; generally Russian homes were photo galleries of sepia ancestors in oval frames. Where were Rudy’s pictures of himself or of friends? He was hygienic. The walls were smooth, scrubbed clean, not a nail hole to mar the blank space, as if he had effaced himself.
Arkady pulled books and magazines from the shelves. Business Week and Israel Trade were in English and indicated an international breadth of ambition. Did the stamp album speak of a solitary youth? Inside was a regular aquarium of outsized stamps of tropical fish issued by miniature nations and islands around the world. In a paper sleeve were loose stamps of nondescript variety: Czarist two-kopecks, French “Libertés,” American “Franklins.” No valuable red squares.
He stacked the books and moved to the bedroom, where he balanced the pile on the night table. The sleep mask had a poignant quality, suggesting that a combination of rich food and diet pills made for uneasy nights.
There was no chair in the bedroom. Arkady removed his shoes, sat on the bed and at once had the shock of hearing the complaint of springs that anticipated Rudy’s weight. He packed the pillows behind his back, the way Rudy would have, and flipped through the books.
Every home had a few classics just to prove literacy. Rudy read his. Arkady found underlined the humorous passage in the immortal Pushkin’s The Captain’s Daughter in which a hussar offers to teach a young man the game of billiards: “ ‘It’s quite essential to us soldiers,’ he said. ‘One can’t always be beating Jews, you know. So there is nothing to it but to go to the inn and play billiards; and to do that one must be able to play.’ ”
“Or beat Jews with cues,” was scribbled below the line. Arkady recognized Rudy’s handwriting from the bankbook.
Deep in Gogol’s Dead Souls, Rudy had marked “For some time, Chichikov made it impossible for smugglers to earn a living. In particular, he reduced Polish Jewry almost to despair, so invincible, so almost unnatural, was the rectitude, the incorruptibility which led him to refrain from converting himself into a small capitalist.” In the margin, Rudy had added, “Nothing changes.”
There had to be more, Arkady thought. Thanks to Jewish emigration, the Moscow mafia had good connections with Israeli criminals. He put on the television set and replayed the Jerusalem videotape, skipping from place to place, from Wailing Wall to casino.
His mind wandered to what Polina had said: “Too much blood.”
He agreed. If gasoline could be thickened with blood, it could also be thickened with a dozen other agents easier to get ahold of. He’d seen blood in some other strange form recently, but couldn’t remember where.
He looked at the Egyptian