Lopatin nodded. Big deal. There were enough handguns in Moscow to reequip the army and his chances of finding the gun that fired the bullet, let alone the owner of the hand on the gun, were about zero and he knew it. Out on Kiselny Boulevard he had established that the woman who apparently saw the killing had disappeared. It seemed she had seen two killers and a car. No descriptions.
On the gurney the ginger beard jutted angrily upward above the pale freckled body. The expression on the face was of mild surprise. An orderly pulled a green sheet across the cadaver to blot out the glare from the overhead lights on to the eyes that could see nothing anyway.
The body was naked now. On a side table lay the clothes and in a steel kidney dish a few personal effects. The detective walked over and took the jacket, looking at the label inside the collar. His heart sank. It was foreign.
“Can you read this?” he asked the surgeon.
The doctor peered at the embroidered tag in the jacket.
“L-a-n-d-a-u,” he read slowly, then, underneath the outfitter’s name, “Bond Street.”
“And this?” Lopatin pointed at the shirt.
“Marks and Spencer,” read the surgeon. “That’s in London,” he added helpfully. “I think Bond Street is, too.”
There are over twenty words in Russian for human excrement and parts of the male and female genitalia. Mentally Lopatin ran through them all. A British tourist, oh God. A mugging that went wrong, and it had to be a British tourist.
He went over to the personal effects. There were few of them. No coins of course; Russian coins were long since valueless. A neatly folded white handkerchief, a small clear plastic bag, a signet ring, and a watch. He assumed the screaming woman had prevented the muggers from taking the watch off the left wrist or the ring off the pinkie finger.
But neither had any identification. Worst of all, no wallet. He went back to the clothes. The shoes had the word Church inside them; plain black lace-ups. The socks, dark gray, had nothing, and the words Marks and Spencer were repeated in the undershorts. The tie, according to the doctor, was from somewhere called Turnbull and Asser in Jermyn Street; London again, no doubt.
More in desperation than in hope, Lopatin returned to the blazer. The medical orderly had missed something. Something hard in the top pocket where some men kept their spectacles. He withdrew it, a card of hard plastic, perforated.
It was a hotel room key, not the old-fashioned type but the computer-fashioned kind. For security it bore no room number—that was the point, to prevent room thieves—but it had the logo of the National Hotel.
“Where is there a phone?” he asked.
Had it not been August Benny Svenson, the manager of the National, would have been at home. But tourists were many and two of the staff were off with summer colds. He was working late when his own operator came through.
“It’s the police, Mr. Svenson.”
He depressed the “connect” switch and Lopatin came on the line.
“Yes?”
“Is that the manager?”
“Yes, Svenson here. Who is this?”
“Inspector Lopatin, Homicide, Moscow militia.”
Svenson’s heart sank. The man had said Homicide.
“Do you have a British tourist staying with you?”
“Of course. Several. A dozen at least. Why?”
“Do you recognize this description? One meter seventy tall, short ginger hair, ginger beard, dark blue double-breasted jacket, tie with horrible stripes.”
Svenson closed his eyes and swallowed. Oh no, it could only be Mr. Jefferson. He had come across him in the lobby that very evening, waiting for a car.
“Why do you ask?”
“He’s been mugged. He’s at the Botkin. You know it? Up near the Hippodrome?”
“Yes, of course. But you mentioned homicide.”
“I’m afraid he’s dead. His wallet and all identification papers seem to have been stolen, but they left a plastic room key with your logo on it.”