The Cliff House Strangler (35 page)

Where did Napoleon suddenly come up with money for new house on Russian Hill?

“I see what you mean,” Robert said at length. “First, he writes in Coptic, then assigns everyone a nickname. I assume the numbers signify one of his spies.”

“Of whom it seems he had many,” Samuel put in dryly.

“Sky god, Black Douglas, Janus, and Napoleon?” Robert mused. “And ten to twelve more on the other pages. Where do we begin?”

“With sky god,” I replied. “Although I haven’t the vaguest idea whom that might refer to.”

Eddie piped up from his seat on the windowsill. “Sky god? I know who that is. I read all about that sky god feller in the
Police Gazette.
”

“The
Police Gazette
?” The three of us said in unison.

Robert gave the boy a sidelong look. “What in Sam Hill is he going on about?”

“Wait a minute, Mr. Campbell. I’ll show you.” Eddie thumbed quickly through the well-worn pages of his current copy of the
Police Gazette
—which by now he probably could have recited by heart—stopping when he came to a grizzly picture of a man holding a knife over a very gory body. “See, here it is.” He squinted at the newsprint, then began reading aloud. “It says, ‘Like Horus, the Egyp—Egyp—’”

“Egyptian,” I said, helping him with the unfamiliar word.

“Yeah, that’s it, Egyptian. ‘Like Horus, the Egyptian sky god, Ruther—’”

“Rutherford,” I prompted.

Eddie shook his head quizzically. “That’s a dang funny name, ain’t it? Beats all what some folks will name their kids. Anyway, it goes on, ‘Like Horus, the Egyptian sky god, Rutherford Mills of Los Angles, Cali—California, slayed the man who murdered his father.’ There,” he declared proudly. “Told ya I’d read all about that sky god bloke.”

“Eddie, that’s wonderful!” I said in genuine amazement. Without thinking, I planted an impromptu kiss on the lad’s forehead, causing his face to turn bright red. “I think you’re onto something.”

“Very good, my boy,” Samuel seconded, much to Eddie’s delight. With a wink, he handed Eddie the latest copy of the
Police Gazette
. Grinning broadly, Eddie accepted it as if he’d just been given a priceless jewel.

“Thanks, Mr. Samuel. See you tomorrow, Miss Sarah. Wish I
could stay and help you with them other fellers, but I gotta finish my fares for the day.” Tucking the paper beneath his arm, he threw open the door and flew down the stairs.

I shook my head at my brother, but really, what could I have said? Even I had to admit that the boy’s reading skills were improving at a remarkable pace, no little thanks to that disgusting tabloid.

To my chagrin, I realized the two men were regarding me with broad grins. “Now then,” I said briskly, getting back to the task at hand. “Who could Horus refer to?”

“Hmmm,” Samuel said, “there’s Horus Duncan, who owns the bookstore on Gough Street, but since he’s well over seventy, I doubt he’s our man. Then there’s Horus Belcher, the fishmonger. No, that can’t be right, either.”

“Wait a minute,” Robert said, breaking in. “I’ll wager Moss is referring to Horus Spellman, the banker. Although I can’t think that his having a mistress would sell many newspaper copies. Now if Moss found a banker in this city who
didn’t
have a mistress, that might rate a front-page headline!”

We spent the next hour going over the three and a half sheets of Coptic translations. Of course it was all guesswork, but I was fairly sure we were on the right track. After some discussion, we decided that Black Douglas very likely referred to Kendal Douglas, a member of the city’s Board of Supervisors, and that Napoleon might be Fulton Bragg, the new fire chief. Bragg was a small, pushy, overbearing man who did, in fact, slightly resemble the fallen emperor. It was also rumored that he had political aspirations, which extended well beyond the fire department.

Oddly, as we went over the pages, I kept thinking there was something I was missing, some point about the case that I should remember. The harder I tried to focus on it, however, the more elusive it became. I finally decided to put it out of my mind, reasoning that it would come back to me when I least expected, as such things often do. Besides, I told myself, it probably wasn’t that
important—which, of course, turned out to be yet another of my famous last words!

We found ourselves stymied when we came to Janus, and someone Moss called “the Parrot.” In the end, however, we’d identified with some degree of certainty the deputy mayor, two more bankers, a city council member, and the city assessor.

By far the most disturbing entry we found concerned Frederick and Bramwell’s construction company. The notation implied that the two of them had arranged a series of kickbacks having to do with the new City Hall project.

After reading the item over a second time, Samuel gave a low whistle. “What in God’s name has Frederick blundered into? Do you suppose Moss passed his suspicions on to the police before he died, or did Lieutenant Ahern figure it out on his own? That is, if there really is anything to figure out.”

“How was this bribery scheme supposed to have worked?” asked Robert.

“The police maintain that Frederick colluded with Bramwell to overcharge the city for work that was never done, and for materials that were never used,” Samuel explained. “He was supposedly paid handsomely for turning a blind eye to the fraud.”

“Can they prove these allegations?” Robert asked.

“Ahern gave a statement earlier today claiming they can,” Samuel replied. “For one thing, a number of unexplained checks have been deposited in Frederick’s bank account over the past few weeks, money far in excess of what he earns as a state senator. Ahern also says he has witnesses who saw money exchange hands, with Frederick as the recipient.”

“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, shocked that the evidence against Frederick was so extensive. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

My brother shrugged. “What good would it have done? There’s nothing you can do about it. Besides, you have more than enough to deal with at the moment.”

“That may be, but you should know by now that I’d prefer to be told the truth than to be cosseted like a child.” Much as I disliked Samuel playing the protective big brother, I realized this was not the time to fuss over injured pride. “I’m sorry, Samuel,” I said in a calmer voice, then asked, “Do we know yet whom Frederick visited at the jail that afternoon?”

Soberly, Samuel nodded. “Here’s where everything goes from bad to disastrous. According to Freddie, he went there to visit a man by the name of Joseph Vincenzo, who’d been arrested for drunkenness and creating a public disturbance.” He paused and looked each of us in the eye. “The problem is, Vincenzo works as a wagoner for Bramwell Construction.”

Robert and I stared at Samuel, shocked. When neither of us spoke, Samuel went on.

“Freddie maintains Vincenzo sent a friend to his Van Ness office, claiming he’d been arrested for a crime he didn’t commit.” His voice grew sardonic. “As one of Frederick’s constituents, he wanted his senator to post bond for him.”

“That’s complete balderdash!” Robert exclaimed. “Who ever heard of asking a senator to bail you out of jail?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Samuel agreed. “Freddie swears that all he did was talk to Vincenzo, put up bail, and leave. He insists the man gave him nothing, much less an envelope containing money.”

“What about the bank deposits?” I asked.

Samuel held up both hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Frederick says he knows nothing whatsoever about them.

“And Vincenzo?” Robert asked. “What does he have to say about all this?”

Samuel looked weary, and suddenly older than his thirty years. I could see that he was considerably more worried about our elder brother than he was prepared to admit.

“He claims Frederick showed up to collect his latest bribe payment. According to him, they were supposed to meet at some
park or other. But when Vincenzo got arrested for being drunk and disorderly, he sent a friend to tell Freddie to pick up his money at the jail instead.”

“Very clever,” I said. “By sending a messenger, he avoided leaving a paper trail. But wouldn’t the guards have discovered the money when they booked Vincenzo into jail?”

“Not necessarily,” Samuel replied. “When it comes to drunks and vagrants, I don’t think they search too carefully. Mainly, they look for bottles and weapons, I should imagine.”

Robert’s expression was grim. “Has Edgar Bramwell been taken into custody along with your brother?”

“According to George, they arrested him early this morning.”

I felt dreadful. Frederick and I rarely, if ever, saw eye to eye on any subject, yet he was my brother. It was painful to think of him sitting alone in a jail cell. The reputation he and Henrietta had worked so painstakingly to cultivate was unraveling faster than a snagged sweater.

“Do you think the judge will grant Frederick bail tomorrow?” I asked.

“I don’t see why not.” Samuel’s lips drew together in a tight, humorless smile. “He’s a state senator, the son of a judge, has a family, and owns a home on Nob Hill. Hardly a flight risk.” He sighed. “Anyway, there’s not much more we can do until Freddie decides to tell us the truth about Vincenzo.”

With less enthusiasm than before, we turned our attention back to Mr. Ferrier’s translations. The final page listed what we took to be bribe money paid to Darien Moss in order to prevent certain stories from appearing in his column. Although his blackmail victims were again referred to by their nicknames, the sums had not been disguised.

“Now I understand how Moss was able to afford a suite of rooms at the Baldwin Hotel,” I said, my mind boggling at the amount of payoff he had collected over the past ten years.

Robert grunted in disgust. “And those who could not, or would not, pay could look forward to seeing their names blackened in Moss’s newspaper.”

“You’ve got to hand it to him,” Samuel said. “Moss had it arranged so that no matter what happened, he couldn’t lose.”

“Until someone throttled him,” I put in dryly.

“Someone? You mean Serkov, don’t you?” Robert said. “We’ve been over this a hundred times. Serkov killed Moss and Mrs. Reade, and Madame Karpova killed Serkov. Now, once and for all, there’s an end to it!”

“If that’s true,” I asked with deliberate calm, “then who murdered Cecil Vere? Madame Karpova can’t have done it, since she was locked up in a jail cell.”

Both men stared at me, but Robert was the first to speak. “Damn it all, Sarah, what makes you think Cecil Vere’s death has anything to do with this? Vere was beaten to death after a night of drinking and gambling on the waterfront. I’m not saying it isn’t tragic, but it happens all the time.”

“What if he wasn’t gambling?” I put in. “Or even drinking, for that matter? Suppose he went to the waterfront to meet someone, and that person killed him.”

Robert rolled his eyes; Samuel regarded me speculatively. “You’re basing that on what his fiancée told you today?”

Realizing I had not told Robert of my visit with Vere’s fiancée, I described my conversation with Annie Fitzgerald.

“So, she swears Vere didn’t gamble,” Robert said, dismissing my story with a wave of his hand. “Be realistic, Sarah. How many men tell their wives or lady friends the truth when they go out at night? I feel genuinely sorry for the poor woman, but it just means she didn’t know her fiancé as well as she thought she did.”

“I’m convinced she was telling the truth,” I argued, angry to hear a defensive tone in my voice. “The night he died, Cecil told her he’d earned a substantial amount of money working overtime
and at odd jobs. Enough money, I might add, to move their wedding up by an entire year.”

“Sarah thinks that’s why Vere was murdered,” Samuel put in. “Because he saw whoever killed Serkov.”

“Not Madame Karpova, the
real
killer,” I added, pleased to see that we finally had Robert’s full attention. “Vere said he was making his usual rounds when it happened. But what if he was actually near Serkov’s cell when the murderer struck?”

Robert looked skeptical. “Was Vere the sort of man who would allow an innocent woman to hang for a crime he knew someone else had committed?”

“If he were paid enough, he might,” Samuel said, then had another thought. “What about Madame Karpova? If she really didn’t attempt suicide, then who attacked her? And why?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” I said. “If you accept that someone other than Olga Karpova killed Serkov, the answer is obvious: It was a deliberate setup. The killer frames Madame Karpova for Serkov’s murder, then makes it appear she’s taken her own life out of guilt and remorse. All the loose ends neatly tied up, and the real killer gets off scot-free.”

“The only problem with that theory,” Samuel said, “is that, other than Serkov, we have no likely candidates for the first two murders. Or have you been struck by a sudden brainstorm, little sister?”

Before I could answer, Robert stirred and spoke, almost as if he were thinking out loud. “If we rule out the women—and considering the way the victims were killed, I think we must—we’re left with Senator Gaylord, Nicholas Bramwell, and Lieutenant Ahern.”

“None of whom were at the jail the afternoon Dmitry Serkov was stabbed,” I reluctantly admitted.

Robert smiled faintly. “Which points the finger of guilt directly back to Madame Karpova. Nothing else makes sense.”

“We need to know more about Joseph Vincenzo,” I said, ignoring
Robert. “Samuel, can you do a little digging and see if he has a police record, and how long he’s worked for Bramwell’s construction company?”

Samuel nodded. “I’d already planned on doing that.”

I looked over my notes. “Oh, and if you happen to see George, will you ask him if Mr. Ferrier has had time to translate the rest of Moss’s diary? It might be helpful to read the entire book, not just the few pages I copied.”

At my brother’s ready agreement, I said, “That’s about it, then,” and started picking up the papers scattered about my desk. “I don’t know about you, but I’m more than ready to call it a day.”

Since Samuel was going directly to the Bohemian Club and Robert to his lodgings, which were in the same general direction, they decided to share a hansom. I opted to catch an omnibus to Rincon Hill.