“More French,” said Colonel Fritch.
“Five more minutes,” said the lieutenant.
A warm wind blew down the corridor of buildings.
One of the two soldiers under arrest, a young man with wild hair and in need of a shave, muttered, “We are all equally responsible for what took place.”
“They mean to kill us,” said Marlovov with a shrug. “There is little we can do.”
The little man stood and began to pace slowly in front of the four young men.
“The murder happened only two days ago,” he said, “and you have refused to speak to a policeman or a lawyer.”
“And soon we will face a jury and judge,” said Marlovov, “who will convict us in rather short order.”
Fritch wished they were in his curtained office with the big desk. A little intimidation, with time to break down the suspects would work better than hurried talks in the square with a third-rate poet who was decidedly unlikable. Work on them individually. Find a weak one. But the czar had personally given Fritch his instructions, and there was to be no delay.
“Facts,” said the little German. “On the morning of July the third, there was a scream in the apartment of the baroness. It was heard by a maid, who came running into the lady’s chamber, where you stood nude over her equally naked body on the bed. In your hand was a knife covered in blood.”
“Rather damning evidence,” admitted Marlovov.
“And your three friends, all members of the new Decembrist movement, were described by witnesses as leaving the apartments of the baroness carrying something in a blanket. The famed golden wolf had been removed from its place on the marble pedestal in the bedroom.”
Marlovov sighed. “I was in the washroom undressing and bathing. I had to pay frequent sexual dues to the baroness in return for her patronage. The baroness, as you know, was well past sixty. She wore too much makeup. When I came out of the washroom, I saw her on the bed, a knife by her side. I realized she must have been murdered when I was bathing. I picked up the knife to protect myself from the killer. Then the maid came in.”
“Your story is ludicrous. If she was dead,” said Fritch, “how could she have let out the scream that brought the maid rushing in?”
The sigh this time was enormous.
“It was not she who screamed,” said Marlovov. “I screamed when I saw the body. Now you may add cowardice to the other traits of which you will accuse me and my friends. Besides, I’ve confessed to the crime.”
“How long were you in the washroom?” asked Fritch.
“Ten minutes, perhaps more, as long as I could prolong it and put off my duty to my patroness,” said Marlovov.
“Is there any other way in or out of the bedroom besides through the door the maid entered when she heard the scream?”
“A door to the balcony,” said the young man. “Three flights up. Another door to the corridor leading to the rear of the apartment, the kitchen.”
“How many servants were present in the apartment when the murder occurred?” asked Fritch.
“Surely, you must know that.”
“Humor me.”
“Just the maid,” he said.
“Could she have killed the baroness, gone out to the parlor, and rushed back in when she heard your scream?”
Marlovov began to laugh.
“I can see her now,” he said, “before the judge and jury, a frightened, skinny little dolt, half the size of the cow I bedded. The idea is ridiculous.”
“Do you know who else has apartments in the building where your … patroness was murdered?”
Again Marlovov shrugged.
“Five others. Each floor was a complete suite. I knew none of the other tenants except to exchange nods. I didn’t wish to. Anastasia did not wish me to.”
“Odd,” said Fritch, rubbing his forehead. “I would have thought that since she had paid for you she would want to show you off to everyone.”
“We had readings in her parlor. Her friends attended.”
“But none of her neighbors?”
Louis shrugged again.
“Who knows? They were all much the same. Eating what they could get, drinking what they could reach.”
“So,” said Fritch, “who murdered the baroness and who took the golden wolf?”
“Who knows?” said Louis. “We are all to be shot for it. I repeat, you have my confession.”
“You can save the lives of your friends,” said Fritch. “I am empowered to grant them immediate exile to Siberia if you turn over the wolf. Only you will be tried.”
“And shot,” said Marlovov.
Fritch looked at all four of the young men. The four men looked at one another, and in their look was an agreement. They would die together.
Fritch understood. These young men would die for a losing cause. The German was equally willing to die. He had sold his loyalty to the Russian monarch and the sale was final and he would honor it. The only difference between himself and the quartet of revolutionaries was the object of their loyalty.
Marlovov now stood. He towered over the little man. The guards flanked the young men and began to lead them off in the direction of the court. Fritch did not join them. He did not move till they were out of sight, though he could still hear the distant rattling of their chains.
He patted real and imaginary wrinkles in his uniform, adjusted his cap, and made his way to the chambers of General Androyanov. A tall young officer disappeared through a door and returned within a minute to usher Fritch into the large office. The tall man departed, closing the door behind him. The general’s chamber was a large office, much larger than Fritch’s office across the river.
The general was a tall, robust, imposing man in his sixties. He had pure white flowing hair. He stood at a mirror in the massive office adjusting his uniform. Androyanov was known to be a personal friend of the czar himself.
Satisfied with his appearance, the general turned to face the perspiring German. Fritch stood at rigid attention.
“I can see from your face that you have failed,” said the general in French.
“They are true believers,” answered Fritch in French.
“Torture?”
“We would take their dignity but would not obtain the wolf,” said Fritch.
The general nodded. He had come to accept the perceptions and talents of the German. He turned in his chair and looked out of his windows at the three-story yellow Menshikov Palace directly across the river from the Senate. The modest palace had been built by Aleksandr Menshikov, who rose from being a stable boy to become the best friend of Peter the Great and eventually the second most powerful man in all of Russia. The building was constructed in 1710, the first stone palace in a city of cathedrals and palaces.
“Do you know why I like this view?” the general said, actually pointing to the window.
“It is a historic and beautiful landmark,” said Fritch.
“I was a stable boy like Menshikov,” said the general. “Did you know that?”
“Yes, I know that. Your service to the czar, your many accomplishments are well known.”
The general adjusted his collar. Folding his large hands on his massive desk, he looked up at Fritch.
“The wolf is lost,” he said.
Fritch nodded.
“I shall tell the czar,” the general said, still in French, “and assure him that we will not rest till it is recovered and any others involved in this revolutionary pimple of a movement are squeezed until blood flows. Time will pass.
