The Cliff House Strangler (7 page)

“Then, dash it all, where was he the rest of the—” Robert’s face lit with sudden comprehension. “Of course. He must have slipped back into the dining room to help his sister with the séance. And since I didn’t hear the main door open, he must have used the second entrance, the one hidden behind the Japanese screen.”

“I was sure you’d noticed it,” I said, pleased with his perception.
“If you recall, Mr. Serkov was dressed entirely in black. It would have been simplicity itself for a dark figure to avoid detection in the dim light.”

Robert sank down next to Eddie, who was still sprawled on the bed, eagerly soaking in every word of our conversation. “Which would account for that strange-looking guitar—the balalaika, wasn’t it?—apparently playing music on its own.”

“A guitar what plays all by itself?” Eddie sat up straight, his eyes wide in amazement. “Dang it all, I’d ’ave traded my best shootin’ aggie to see that!”

I gave the boy a look but refrained from correcting his language. “It was meant to appear as if it was playing on its own, Eddie. But I rather think Madame Karpova achieved that effect by attaching a small music box to the inside of the instrument. Her brother undoubtedly wound up the mechanism and ‘floated’ the balalaika around the room on the end of a black pole, or reaching rod. Of course, he must have donned a black mask and gloves to complete his camouflage. Since our attention was on the instrument, Serkov ran little risk of being seen.”

Robert’s brow creased. “But Lieutenant Ahern examined the balalaika. There was no sign of a music box inside.”

“By then, I’m sure it had been removed,” I said. “Either by Serkov or by Madame Karpova herself. Yelena admitted she released her mother’s hand when the candle went out, although I suspect she’d let go of it long before then.”

“You mean when that white smoke started to come out of her dress?” Robert asked.

I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Eddie’s eyes grew even larger at the mention of this incredible feat of magic. “Man alive! How in tarnation did that medium lady go and make smoke come out of her dress? Was she on fire?”

“It’s called ectoplasm. Some magicians achieve the effect by using dry ice,” I explained to the boy, then remarked to Robert,
“That’s undoubtedly why Yelena sat to her mother’s right. I noticed that Madame Karpova is right-handed.”

Robert’s blue-green eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute. I thought you bought into all this spiritualist nonsense.”

“I merely said I was attending tonight’s séance with an open mind. And so I did. However, that did not preclude me from researching some of the more obvious tricks of the trade beforehand.”

Naturally, my colleague did not hesitate to pounce on this innocent disclosure. “So you admit it’s all a bunch of hocus-pocus.”

“At least part of it is, yes,” I replied. “But that’s hardly the point. Obviously, no spirit or psychic phenomenon tightened the wire around Darien Moss’s neck. A very real flesh and blood individual is responsible. The question is, which one?”

“If we’re right and Serkov did sneak back into the dining room, then he must be the killer,” Robert theorized. “After all, he wasn’t holding anyone’s hand. And as you pointed out, he’d be free to move unseen about the room. If Moss wrote an article exposing Karpova as a fraud, that would pretty much finish her in this town.”

“Yes, it probably would. The problem is, just about everyone at that table had an equally valid reason for not wanting to see their names in Darien Moss’s column. Including me, I’m ashamed to say.”

“I can understand that. But surely no one was desperate enough to commit murder in order to stop him.”

“Hmmm. I wonder.” I removed Samuel’s list of names from my reticule and smoothed it out on my lap. I was silently considering it when a loud scream shattered the quiet of Robert’s room.

“What the hell?” Robert exclaimed, jumping up from the bed.

“I think it came from down the hall.” Without waiting for a reply, I grabbed the kerosene lamp off the table and rushed to the door, Robert on my heels.

“Wait for me,” Eddie cried, springing out into the corridor behind us.

I was right: The scream had come from the last room at the end of the hall. As I ran, I saw Madame Karpova dart into the room ahead of me. From the spill of light from the hall, I could make out the psychic as she gathered her daughter into her arms. The girl was sobbing uncontrollably, her small hands frantically rubbing at her throat.

“What is it?” I asked the girl, placing my kerosene lamp down and hurrying to her side. “Are you all right?”

“
O, bozche!
There was—man in room,” she stammered. “I come in, he—he jump, knock me down, try to choke me. I scream and he run.” Yelena started to cough through her tears. In a few moments, she was gasping for breath.

“Shh,
moya malenkaya.
Don’t try to talk,” Olga Karpova said, gently removing her daughter’s hands from her throat.

I came closer, and was dismayed to see a dark red contusion ringing the girl’s slender neck. In several places, it had broken the skin.

Robert stepped through the crowd of onlookers who were anxiously gathering at the door. Several had thrown coats over their undergarments, which, I assumed, they planned to sleep in. Every face appeared white with shock and horror at the sight of the stricken girl. Even Dmitry Serkov’s dark expression had changed to one of alarm.

Striking a match, Robert lit the kerosene lamp that had been provided for Yelena’s room, then held it closer to the girl so that we might better examine her wounds. “Who did this to you, Miss Karpova? Did you get a look at his face?”

Yelena had begun to shake violently. “Room dark,” she managed to say through clattering teeth. “I not see.”

As Robert and Madame Karpova helped the hysterical girl to a chair, I surveyed the room. Holding my lamp lower, I spotted something glittering, half-hidden beneath the bed.

Raising the comforter, I picked up the object. It was a length of
wire. Turning it over in my hand, I saw that it was identical to the
one that had snuffed out the reporter’s life earlier that evening.
It seemed as though Darien Moss’s murderer had struck again.

T
he storm raged throughout the better part of the night, then finally subsided into a light drizzle, allowing the police access to the Cliff House by nine o’clock the following morning.

I was not surprised when neither Yelena nor her mother appeared for breakfast in the saloon, chosen over the dining room because the latter still held the remains of Darien Moss. Naturally, there was a good deal of speculation about the reporter’s murder, but most of the sympathy, and apprehension, was reserved for the young Russian girl. It was hardly a secret that just about everyone disliked the tell-all journalist, and for good reason. But none of us could comprehend why would anyone would attack the sweet and innocent Yelena Karpova! The poor girl could not possibly pose a threat to anyone. Or could she? I asked myself.

After breakfast, Lieutenant Ahern checked on the injured girl, then appropriated the manager’s office and set about interrogating everyone who had been present at the séance, this time interviewing the participants individually.

The first person to be taken in was Mrs. Theodora Reade, who insisted she was quite recovered from her faint the previous night.
I did not believe she was being completely honest about her condition. Before she was settled into a hired carriage for the ride home, I was able to speak to her briefly, and I thought she still appeared troubled and unnaturally pale.

“Please, my dear, don’t fuss,” she told me when I tried to persuade her to wait until I could drive her back to the city in Eddie’s brougham. “I will be perfectly all right when I am in my own house.” She patted my hand as I assisted her into the hansom cab.

“You’re Judge Horace Woolson’s daughter, aren’t you, dear?” she asked.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Do you know him?”

“For years, my late husband and your father belonged to the same social club. They used to enjoy playing chess together.” She chuckled at the memory. “Very competitive they were, too.” She leaned closer in order to better study my face. “Yes, I see something of your father in you. The same strong chin and bright, intelligent eyes. And now you’ve followed him into the law. My, my, women lawyers. Who would have thought?” She sat back, looking very tired. “Well, I’d best be on my way. It has been a distressing affair. One cannot deny that. Simply horrible. I just wish . . .”

Her thin voice trailed off, and she wore the same faraway expression I’d noticed the previous night in the saloon.

“What is it you wish, Mrs. Reade?” I asked. “Is there something I can get you? A glass of water, perhaps, or another blanket for your lap? It’s chilly this morning.”

The old woman sighed and gave me a wan smile. “No, my dear, I require nothing more than to be away from here. I never thought to see such wickedness. And as I mentioned, my eyesight is not what it used to be. It is difficult to know what to make of it all.”

“You’re quite right. The sort of evil we witnessed last night is very hard to understand.” I bade the widow good-bye, then stood back as the driver closed the folding carriage door and climbed up to his elevated seat at the rear of the vehicle. “Take care of yourself, Mrs. Reade,” I called out as the man clicked his horse forward. She
waved her hand at me, then leaned back in her seat for the long drive home.

As I watched one person after another come out of Lieutenant Ahern’s temporary office, I saw that Mrs. Reade was not the only one who carried the signs of last night’s tragedy. I doubted that anyone had slept well; I knew I certainly hadn’t, and judging by the dark circles under Robert’s eyes, neither had he. Senator Gaylord appeared to be in a foul mood, and his wife looked as if she, too, had spent a restless night. Mrs. Philippa Bramwell and her son Nicholas were somber and barely spoke a dozen words between them as they departed from the Cliff House in their cabriolet.

After our own interrogations, Robert and I were allowed to leave, but it was midafternoon before Eddie’s brougham reined up in front of my Sutter Street office. We had dropped Robert off at his rooms so that he might freshen up before going to Joseph Shepard’s law firm. Since I had no clients scheduled for that day, I decided to go on as I was, without bothering to change from the gown I had been wearing the previous evening.

Fanny Goodman, the plump middle-aged widow who ran the ladies’ millinery shop downstairs, was outside washing her storm-muddied windows when I arrived. As soon as she saw me, she dropped her rags into a pail of vinegar water and dried her hands on the starched white apron protecting her dress. Tucking a few strands of graying hair into the knot at the nape of her neck, she greeted me with a warm smile.

“So there you are, Miss Woolson. When you didn’t come in this morning, I feared you might have taken ill. Seems like half the city is suffering from catarrh. I declare it’s all this wet weather we’ve been having. Seeps right through a body and into the chest.”

“My health is excellent, thank you, Mrs. Goodman,” I said, returning her smile. “I’m afraid I was unavoidably detained.”

It was obvious that Mrs. Goodman was dying to know what had been important enough to keep me from my law practice, such as it was. Although I’d grown to like and respect my downstairs
neighbor since establishing my Sutter Street practice two months earlier, I was loath to relate last night’s adventure, lest I open myself to a flood of questions. It was a relief when Eddie joined us, thus diverting the good woman’s ever keen curiosity.

“Good day, ma’am,” the lad said, tipping his cap courteously. His bright brown eyes gleamed mischievously. “I wonder, has it been a busy day for you, then, Mrs. Goodman?”

Mrs. Goodman shook her head in mock disapproval, all the while grinning fondly at the boy. The milliner had no children of her own, and she had taken an immediate liking to my young hackman from the day he and Robert had helped me move into the two upstairs rooms. Lately, she’d begun spoiling Eddie with treats from her homey kitchen, unaccustomed delicacies he had come to eagerly anticipate. Like several other tradespeople who kept shops along the street, Fanny Goodman occupied small living quarters behind the store. Since I had opened my law office upstairs, I’d found it a warm, cheery haven offering hot tea, fresh baked goods, and surprisingly stimulating conversation.

Mrs. Goodman might look like a typical old-fashioned grandmother, but in reality she was a shrewd businesswoman and a great advocate of women’s suffrage. Ten years earlier, she had been one of the organizers behind the first annual meeting of the California Women’s Suffrage Society here in San Francisco. It was a cause she continued to support with great energy and fervor. I could count on Mrs. Goodman to supply me with the latest letters and essays from the brave women championing this worthy movement.

“You’ve a nerve, Eddie Cooper,” she scolded good-naturedly. “What you mean is, have I had time to bake today.”

Eddie grinned a bit sheepishly but made no effort to deny the accusation. “Well, you do make the best pudding and cherry pie in the city, Mrs. Goodman. And that’s the gospel truth.”

“Listen to the boy,” Fanny tittered, looking enormously pleased. “You’re shameless, that’s what you are, Eddie Cooper. As a matter
of fact, I found a few minutes this morning to make up some brown Betty. You wouldn’t be interested in a bit of that now, would you?”

At the boy’s eager response, she led the way through her shop and into the tidy kitchen that comprised one of the three rooms—along with a bedroom and a sitting room—located behind the store. Eddie’s eyes grew very wide at the tray of apple dumplings cooling on the windowsill. With a brisk nod, Fanny Goodman motioned for him to take a seat at the kitchen table, where she promptly served up several pockets of dough filled with delicious-smelling baked apples with a dash of cinnamon. Lastly, she poured him a glass of fresh milk from the icebox.

“There now,” she pronounced. “That ought to fill even your stomach, Master Cooper.” Waiting only long enough to see his enraptured expression upon biting into the first dumpling, Fanny motioned me back into the millinery shop.