The Cliff House Strangler (16 page)

“That’s all right. I don’t see how we could have gained access to Moss’s rooms anyway, at least legally. That’s all I need right now, to be arrested for breaking and entering. My law practice would be finished before it ever really began.” A woman seated in the row in front of us threw me a reproving look over her shoulder, and I
lowered my voice. “So what did George find when he went through Moss’s hotel rooms?”

“The killer apparently beat them there, as well. George couldn’t go into details, of course, but I received the impression that what little evidence he did find in the reporter’s hotel suite revealed that, as rumors indicated, Moss’s new City Hall exposé was more than an idle threat. George also hinted that Moss planned even more derogatory articles on Madame Karpova and, as he put it in one of his recent columns, “her preposterous circus sideshow act.” Unfortunately, that was about it, and neither of these stories come as much of a surprise.”

“It looks as if the killer walked off with the most incriminating files.” I was unable to mask my disappointment.

“Almost, but not quite. Evidently, Moss kept a few items in the hotel safe downstairs. At George’s insistence, the manager opened it. Inside, they discovered a small fortune in women’s jewelry, including two or three diamond rings, a ruby necklace and brooch, and several pairs of pearl and diamond earrings.”

“Unless he was keeping those pieces for a relative or a lady friend, that seems to bear out the speculations that he was accepting bribes. At least now we know how he was able to afford to live at the Baldwin Hotel.”

“That’s what George thought. But the next part of the story is even more interesting. They also found a small black leather diary inside the box containing the jewelry. It seems to have been written in some kind of peculiar language or code, so George couldn’t make head nor tail of it. However, because of the numbers listed next to some of the code words, he suspects, as do I, that it’s a list of the individuals Moss was planning to expose in his column, and very likely people who were paying him blackmail money.”

I fairly itched to get my hands on that book! “Samuel, where is that diary now?”

“It’s in a locked room at the police station, where they keep all the other evidence they’ve collected over the past few years.”

“Do you think George would allow me to have a look at it?” I asked with some excitement. “After all, I’m Dmitry Serkov’s attorney, and that book could very well provide us with vital evidence in his case.”

“I knew you were going to ask me that,” he said with that superior “big brother” smile of his. “I’ve already spoken to George about it. He says if you drop by the Central Station some afternoon this week, he’ll do his best to give you limited time alone with the diary. You won’t be able to remove it from the station, of course.”

“That’s fine, as long as he allows me enough time to read through it and take notes. If you see him, please tell him I’ll stop by the station in the next day or two.” I thought of something else. “Oh, and if you can, would you please see if you can find out where everyone was yesterday afternoon around the time Mrs. Reade was killed?”

“Surely the police are looking into that.”

“I sincerely doubt it. They’re too convinced they have their murderer in custody to bother investigating anyone else. Since I suspect the same killer murdered both Moss and Mrs. Reade, it would be a great help to find out who
couldn’t
have strangled the widow yesterday in the park. As it stands now, it could have been just about anybody. We need to narrow down our list of suspects.”

“
We,
” he repeated with a short laugh. “I might have known you’d find even more ways to rope me into this business. All right. No promises, mind you, but I’ll see what I can find out.”

“Samuel, thank you,” I told him sincerely. “I know I’m asking a great deal of you, and I really do appreciate it.”

“Oh, it’s not all altruism,” he said, giving me a cheerful wink. “Ian Fearless expects to get one hell of a story out of this. An
exclusive
story—a front-page, headline story.”

I laughed; Samuel’s good nature was contagious. “You know you will if I have anything to do with it,” I promised.

The same woman in the row ahead of ours once again turned in her seat to dart us an annoyed look. When she showed no inclination
of turning back around again, Samuel gave her one of his most ingratiating smiles.

“Good evening, madam,” he said pleasantly. “Allow me to compliment you on your lovely hat. That shade of mauve seems to be all the rage this season, doesn’t it? But not every woman can wear it with such panache. I must say that on you, madam, it is exceedingly becoming.”

It was amusing to watch the woman—who must have been at least sixty—dissolve into girlish simpering in the wave of my brother’s considerable charm. When she began coyly batting her eyelashes at him, I’d had about all I could stand of this stomach-turning display. I was about to say so to Samuel, when the words died on my lips.

As the lights in the theater dimmed, I glimpsed out of the corner of my eye an usher hurriedly guiding a couple to their seats across the aisle from ours. It was with some surprise that I recognized the man as Nicholas Bramwell, the young lawyer who had escorted his mother, Philippa, to the Cliff House séance.

But it was his companion who caused my mouth to open in unabashed astonishment. The lovely young lady holding fast to Nicholas’s arm, and wearing a modest but exceedingly becoming green silk gown, was none other than Madame Olga Karpova’s lovely daughter, Yelena!

H
onoring my promise that I would speak to Madame Karpova’s brother as soon as possible, I had Eddie drop me off at city jail the following morning. To my astonishment, I found Robert pacing back and forth in front of the building.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I’m waiting for you, of course.”

I darted him a suspicious look. “How did you know I’d be here this morning? I certainly didn’t mention it to you.”

He had the good grace to flush in what I took to be embarrassment. Stumbling to excuse his actions, he finally gave up and blurted, “I was several blocks away yesterday afternoon when I realized I’d left my briefcase just outside your office door. I walked back in time to see that Karpova woman and her daughter walk down the stairs to the street. I couldn’t help but overhear you mention that you planned to visit Dmitry Serkov this morning.”

“And you feared I was incapable of conducting this interview without your strong arm to lean upon?” I said with what I considered justifiable sarcasm.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s your safety that concerns me. This
man has very probably killed two people within the past week, and God knows how many more he did away with back in Russia. If he were to attack you in his cell, you’d be dead before the guard could come to your defense.”

I thought about this, then agreed that he should go with me. Not, of course, because I feared the Russian might accost me, but because I sensed I might get more out of the prisoner if I were accompanied by a man, especially a man of Robert’s muscular proportions. On the night of the séance, I’d received the impression that Dmitry Serkov had little respect for women, excluding his sister, to whom he seemed steadfastly devoted. Whether or not he retained me as his attorney was of secondary importance. I was primarily concerned about how much information I might glean from him. For reasons best known to himself, I was convinced Serkov knew a great deal he was not divulging.

Lest Robert misunderstand my ready agreement to allow him to accompany me to interview Serkov, I explained my reasons as we entered the jailhouse.

“And you think he’s going to open up to either of us?” He sounded scornful. “Sarah, the man is a cold-blooded murderer. He’s not going to tell you anything incriminating, whether I’m with you or not.”

“You may be right, Robert,” I said as we reached the front desk in the cold, damp building I had grown to hate. “But we have to try.”

I presented my credentials to a skeptical uniformed officer—no matter how often I was obliged to visit the dreadful place, I was forced to go through the same maddening exercise in order to convince the guards that I was an accredited attorney. After cooling our heels for a good quarter of an hour, a wiry jailer of medium height and in his mid-thirties arrived to escort us to Serkov’s cell.

“You give a yell when you’ve had enough of this Russki,” he told us, choosing a large key and placing it into the lock. “Mean as a mad dog this feller is, miss. If I was you, I wouldn’t go within a
mile of the bugger. Don’t know why they let these foreigners into the country in the first place. The sooner he sees the end of a rope the better is what I say!” He turned the key and, accompanied by protesting squeaks, pushed open the door. “The name’s Cecil Vere. When you’ve had enough of this nutter, just call out.”

The door clanged shut behind us, and we could hear Vere whistling a popular dance-hall song as he walked back down the row of cells. In front of us, Dmitry Serkov sat tall and stiff on his cot. He paid scant attention to Robert or me as we entered, just continued to stare over our heads at the room’s solitary barred window, which was located high up on one wall.

“Mr. Serkov,” I said, flashing him a professional-looking smile. “Perhaps you remember us from Madame Karpova’s séance last Thursday night. I’m Sarah Woolson, and this is my colleague, Mr. Robert Campbell. I have come here today at your sister’s request. She indicated that you wished me to represent you against these murder charges.”

The man’s black eyes flickered over Robert’s tall frame without expression, then went back to staring at the window. He did not look at me at all.

“Serkov!” Robert’s voice boomed through the small cell, the sound so loud and unexpected that I gave a little jump. The prisoner, on the other hand, scarcely moved a muscle. “Miss Woolson is addressing you. Have you no manners, man? It’s common courtesy to stand when a lady enters the room.”

Dmitry Serkov apparently did not possess any manners, nor did he appear to be interested in acquiring any now. His dark eyes remained glued to the window, as if expecting something, or someone, to miraculously separate the bars and come floating in to save him.

“I’m going to call the guard,” Robert uttered, sounding thoroughly annoyed. “We’re wasting our time here.”

I raised a hand to restrain my impatient companion. “Wait. Let me at least try to reason with him.”

Robert grunted and threw up his hands in disgust. “Go ahead, for all the good it’s likely to do. Personally, I wouldn’t spend another minute on this oaf. He’s nothing but a cold-blooded killer. It’s written all over his face.”

“
Ti idiot!
I not kill lady,” Serkov declared, his booming voice startling us both. “Not kill reporter, too. Police lie!”

“Mr. Serkov,” I said, searching for a way to reach this stubborn man. “You’ve been accused of committing two brutal murders. You claim you’re not guilty of these charges. However, if you’re to have any hope of proving your innocence, you’re going to require an attorney. Your sister has asked me to represent you.”

“Not need attorney!” He gestured around the cell with contempt. “Police know they lie. Let me out of here.”

This statement was so outrageous, I was temporarily struck dumb. Robert suffered no such inability to voice his opinion.

“You’re talking complete rubbish, Serkov,” he bellowed, his Scottish
r’
s becoming ever more pronounced as his temper escalated. “Furthermore, you’re in total ignorance of our laws if you think the authorities are going to smile and allow you to walk out of here a free man.” He stepped forward, until he towered over the annoyingly self-assured man who sat unmoving on the cot. “Let me explain what’s going to happen to you. You’re going to be tried in a court of law, where you’ll almost certainly be found guilty. You’ll then be sentenced to hang for your crimes at the end of a rope.”

Serkov dismissed Robert with a curt wave of his hand and what sounded like a rude Russian curse. “
Durak!
Go, both of you. I no need attorney. Police let me go.” As if to punctuate this declaration, Serkov dredged back in his throat, harked up some phlegm, and spat it at Robert. The disgusting spittle stuck to Robert’s coat, then began to run down his lapel.

“Why, you miserable, no-account—” Robert shouted, lunging at the Russian.

I hastily stepped between the two men, holding my irate companion back with two hands and a warning look. “Robert, stop!
He isn’t worth the aggravation. You were right: We’re wasting our time here.” When I was certain he had his temper under control, I went to the cell door and called out for the jailer. “Mr. Vere, we’re ready to leave now.”

When I heard Vere’s jaunty whistle coming toward the cell, I turned back to the prisoner. “Mr. Campbell’s right: You’re the fool, Mr. Serkov. You are in grave trouble, yet you choose to hide your head in the sand and hope that it will go away. I assure you, however, that much as you might wish it to be true, no one is going to allow you to walk out that door.”

Behind me, I heard the scrape of a key in the lock, and once again the cell door clanged open.

“
Uydi ot suda.
Throw them out!” Serkov ordered the jailer. “And bring food. I eat now.”

“Like hell you will,” Vere told the Russian. “You’ll get your food at noon, like everyone else.”

“Right annoying yob he is,” the guard said, ignoring Serkov’s angry leer. “Orders us around like he was the Emperor Norton hisself, God rest his soul,” he went on, referring to San Francisco’s most beloved character, the self-proclaimed Emperor of the United States and Protector of Mexico, who had died the previous year. “What did you go and say to this here lady, you ornery varmint?” he snapped at Serkov. “You just sit there nice and quiet like and shut yer cussed trap—beggin’ yer pardon, miss.”

But Robert had already hustled me out of Serkov’s cell. We heard the door bang shut behind us, and once again our loquacious guard kept up a steady stream of conversation as he led us back to the front of the jail.