The Cliff House Strangler (21 page)

“I might ask the same of you, Sarah,” he continued with that same annoying air of self-righteousness. “However,” he went on before I could interrupt, “Mr. Sechrest has directed me to inform Mrs. Sechrest’s attorney, which I now find is you, that he’s willing to accept his wife back without prejudice—under the condition that she return to him at once.”

“How magnanimous of him! And what is she to do when she gets there? Turn her cheek so he can blacken the other side of her face? Didn’t you hear what I said, Robert? This man is a drunkard. He’s also a bald-faced liar and an habitual wife beater. The next time he turns violent, he might very well kill her.”

Ignoring Robert’s protestations not only that I was being unreasonable but that I was too biased even to attempt to appreciate the husband’s side of the matter, I gathered up my papers and rose to my feet.

“I will see you in court,” I threw out over my shoulder, and left him sputtering behind me as I walked off.

A
fter successfully concluding my business at the courthouse, I returned to my office, to find that a note had been pushed beneath my door. It was from Madame Karpova, pleading with me to visit her brother, Dmitry once again at the city jail. Since I considered it unlikely that Serkov had changed his mind about hiring me to represent him, I delayed this errand until I had completed some necessary work on Mrs. Sechrest’s divorce case.

As luck would have it, Eddie came bounding up the stairs for
his reading lesson just as I was about to leave for the jail. After engaging him to drive me in his brougham, I handed the boy another Rollo book to read while I visited Serkov’s cell.

“I don’t suppose you have a copy of the
Police Gazette,
Miss Sarah?” he asked hopefully, helping me into the carriage.

“No, I do not, Eddie. I realize that Rollo’s adventures seem a good deal less colorful than the
Gazette,
but they are far better suited to your reading level.” At his disappointed look, I added, “Look, I’ll strike you a bargain. Once you’ve mastered the Rollo books, I’ll let you have
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer,
by Mark Twain, as your next challenge. I think I can safely promise that you’ll find it every bit as exciting as that disgusting rag sheet.”

Eddie did not appear convinced about this, but he said nothing more about the matter. Closing the carriage door, he leapt onto the driver’s seat and clicked his horse into the late-afternoon traffic.

We reached the jail in good time, and I left Eddie sitting atop the brougham, rather unenthusiastically perusing his new Rollo book. By now, the guards were growing more accustomed to my periodic visits to the facility. Some of them still regarded me with obvious, if unspoken, disapproval, but for the most part I was greeted with smiles, tolerably good manners, and even an occasional joke or gossip about various prisoners. As on my last visit to the jail, Cecil Vere, chattering nonstop, escorted me to Serkov’s cell.

“He’s in a good mood today, miss,” Vere announced as we started into the cold, dingy bowels of the detention center. “Not that he’s crackin’ jokes, mind, but at least he ain’t bitchin’—beggin’ yer pardon, miss—complainin’ about the food or the other prisoners. Most of the men don’t want no truck with Serkov, him bein’ a foreigner and all. And it don’t help matters any that he keeps cursin’ at them in Russian, or at least it sure as hell—beggin’ yer pardon, miss—sure as heck sounds like cursin’. Can’t swear to it, of course, but judgin’ by the look on the bugger’s face when he’s spoutin’ off, he sure ain’t sayin’ nothin’ nice.”

“How is your fiancée, Mr. Vere?” I managed to ask as he was forced to stop talking long enough to draw in a breath of air.

The jailer beamed. “Nice of you to ask after her, miss. Right as rain is my Annie. Works in a shop durin’ the day, then sews shirts at night. We’re both savin’ every penny so’s we can get married next year. You’d like my Annie, miss. She’s the prettiest little thing you ever did see.” He grinned at me. “But then I suppose I already told you that.”

I was about to answer that indeed he had, but we’d reached Serkov’s cell, and Vere rather importantly pulled the large ring of keys from his belt and placed one in the lock. As usual, it scraped and scratched in protest, then finally gave way, allowing the cell door to be pulled open. Every time I went to the jail, I itched to take along a can of oil to grease the locks. How the guards and prisoners could stand the incessant squealing of locks and banging of doors was beyond me.

Unlike my last visit, this time Dmitry Serkov looked up as Vere held the door open so that I might enter. The Russian was sitting on his cot, staring at nothing in particular, but at least he wasn’t rudely ordering me to leave.

“Call out if you need me, miss,” Cecil Vere said cheerfully, then clanged the door shut and whistled his way down the hall.

“Good day, Mr. Serkov,” I said, smiling politely, in the hope that today’s visit would proceed more amicably than the one that had preceded it. Sadly, this was not to be.

Serkov nodded his craggy head but didn’t speak.

Wishing to waste no more time on this surly man, I decided then and there upon a direct approach. “I have come to ask if you’ve changed your mind about my representing you on these murder charges.”

“Nyet,”
he said, a self-satisfied expression on his homely face. “Tomorrow, I am out this place.”

“‘Out this place’? You mean they’re releasing you from jail?
Tomorrow?” I regarded him skeptically. “Who told you that, Mr. Serkov?”

“My business, no yours.”

I was sorely tempted to take the disagreeable man at his word and be done with the entire affair. On the other hand, what if Papa was right and his poor understanding of the English language had led to this gross misinterpretation of his present circumstances?

“Mr. Serkov, you will not be allowed to leave the jail tomorrow, or any day in the near future,” I explained. “I don’t know who gave you that idea, but it is incorrect. The murder charges against you are not going to be withdrawn, and you will be forced to remain in this cell until you have been tried for the deaths of Darien Moss and Mrs. Theodora Reade. When you go to court, you’re going to need an attorney—if not me, then someone else. If you’d like, I could arrange for you to speak to another lawyer.”

“No need lawyer.
Uydi ot suda!
You go now.”

“Mr. Serkov,” I said, trying again. “I don’t how they do these things in Russia, but in the United States, you must abide by our laws.”

He started to say something else, when a key scraped in the cell door and Madame Karpova entered.

“Miss Woolson,” she announced. “I am glad to see you. I have come to help you speak to Dmitry. His English is not good.”

“Thank you, Madame Karpova, but I was about to leave. Your brother has once again declined my services.”

“Nonsense, you misunderstood him. It is good that I am here.”

I started to tell her that I had no difficulty understanding the words
no
and
get out,
but she had already turned to Dmitry and was speaking to him in rapid Russian.

After several minutes of this obvious harangue, he waved a hand at her and said, “
Uzamolchi.
All right, all right. Have your way. But I out tomorrow.”

Madame Karpova flashed me a triumphant smile. “There, you
see? I told you he would see reason. Now, when can you get Dmitry out of this place?”

I had already explained the matter of bail money to her in my office, but clearly she still did not comprehend the system. Once again, I told her I had no control over when Mr. Serkov would be released. He would first have to be arraigned, and then very likely he’d be held over for trial.

Madame Karpova was not a woman to give up easily, and it required a further quarter hour before I finally convinced her that although I would do everything in my power to help her brother, I could not change the law.

I left brother and sister speaking to each other in heated Russian, and Cecil Vere led me out to the front of the jail. Taking advantage of a momentary lull in his nearly nonstop chatter, I asked the guard if anyone had been to visit Mr. Serkov other than his sister and myself.

“Not him, miss. No one wants to be near the feller.” He gave a dry chuckle. “Truth be told, there’s more than one of ’em would be happy enough to slit the Russki’s throat, just to shut his trap.”

“What about Lieutenant Ahern? Has he been to see Mr. Serkov?”

“I reckon he’s questioned the bugger once or twice, but we always bring Serkov to the lieutenant, not the other ways around.” He gave me a sidelong look. “If you think we’ve roughed him up, miss, we ain’t. When he behaves hisself, we treat him just like any of the others prisoners.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that I thought Mr. Serkov was being mistreated,” I assured him. “I was just curious if he’d had any other visitors. He still seems convinced he’s going to be released tomorrow.”

He laughed shortly. “Not a chance of that happenin’, miss. The only way that Russki’s gettin’ outta here is when they take him to the gallows and put a noose around his scrawny neck.”

I could hear Vere’s cheerful whistle as I let myself out of the
building. Remembering Sergeant George Lewis’s promise to allow me to examine Darien Moss’s diary, I instructed Eddie to take me to Central Station. When we arrived, I was pleased to learn that he was expected back at any minute, and that I was free to wait for him if I wished.

As it turned out, George walked into the station shortly after my own arrival. He smiled when he saw me and drew me aside.

“I guess you’re here about Moss’s diary,” he said, keeping his voice low. “I haven’t asked Lieutenant Davis yet if it’s all right to show it to you. But since he’s not in today, maybe I won’t have to. You’re not going to be too long at it, are you?”

“I’ll require enough time to page through it, and take notes, of course.” I tried to calculate how much time it would require, but it was impossible to guess until I’d actually seen the book. And eager as I was to examine Moss’s diary, I didn’t want to risk getting George into trouble with his superiors. “Perhaps an hour or so?”

“That should be all right,” he agreed. He turned and led me down a narrow, poorly lit hallway, then opened one of the doors and motioned me inside. Lighting a kerosene lamp, he closed the door behind us.

The room we entered was dusty and filled with boxes and file cabinets. As far as I could see, there appeared to be little rhyme or reason to the way evidence was stored, but George seemed to know exactly what he was looking for. Placing the lamp atop one of the file cabinets, he lifted a box down from its shelf and placed it on a table.

“We put the jewelry we found in a safe—can’t have that lying about. But Moss’s diary and some of his other papers are in this box. Go ahead and take notes if you like, Miss Sarah. But please don’t take anything from this room. It would mean my job if something went missing.”

After George left, I set to work. I went through the loose papers first, and found that several contained rough drafts of columns Moss had planned to write in the near future, including an exposé

on the unsavory practices of several local bankers. Another partially completed article was aimed at the scandal surrounding the new City Hall project.

The final page in the box—concerning Madame Karpova and Serkov—made me catch my breath. The previous articles he’d written about the Russians had been more sarcastic than rancorous. This one was a vicious attack. Moss not only accused Madame Karpova and her brother of being frauds but also went on to chronicle a long list of crimes Serkov supposedly had committed in Russia, including several brutal murders.

According to Moss, the pair were nothing but common Gypsies, traveling around the countryside in order to bilk gullible people out of their savings. He also cast doubts on their relationship, saying he’d been unable to find proof that the two were siblings. The piece came to an abrupt end with Moss promising to attend one of Madame Karpova’s much-publicized séances and then report his findings to his many readers.

I jotted down a few notes from each of the proposed articles, then turned my attention to the diary, excited to see that it was a duplicate of the black leather notebook Moss had brought out at the séance. Was it possible I had at last found the key to identifying the person who had murdered the reporter?

Eagerly, I opened the book, only to feel my heart sink. It was crammed with flowing yet precise handwriting, which filled both sides of each page. Unfortunately, as Samuel had warned me, it was written in a language, or code, I didn’t recognize. Some of the characters reminded me of the Greek alphabet, while others made no sense at all.

Since it was impossible to copy even a fraction of the diary in the time I’d been allotted, I turned to the last few pages, reasoning that these would be the ones most relevant to Moss’s murder. I made no attempt to decipher the writing, merely copying as many entries as I could manage. I would worry about making sense of them later.

True to his word, George came to retrieve me a little over an hour later, and I promised to inform him if and when I managed to make rhyme or reason of the entries.

I had told Eddie he was free to leave, since I had no idea how long I’d be inside the station, but he was waiting for me when I exited the building, his new Rollo book beside him on the seat as he calmly reread his well-worn copy of the
Police Gazette.
I started to reprove him for this, then thought better of it. At least the boy is reading, I told myself. And in truth, he had probably seen a good deal more of the world in his brief fifteen years than I had in my nearly twenty-eight. There seemed nothing for it but to admit I was fighting a losing battle.

Upon reaching my Sutter Street office, Eddie announced that he was driving back to the jail to visit an old friend who, as he put it, had been bagged for being a pickpocket.

“He and his ma have let me sleep in their kitchen many a night when Pa’s gone on a spree,” he explained. Fishing around next to him on the seat, he held up his new Rollo book. “Do ya mind if we do my readin’ lesson tomorrow?”