The Cliff House Strangler Page 5

  “What—what’s wrong? Where am I?” she asked weakly, her pale gray eyes going from me to Nora Ahern.

  “You fainted, Mrs. Reade,” I replied, gently rubbing her hands in an effort to increase circulation. “You’re lying on a sofa in the Cliff House saloon. I fear you’ve suffered a terrible shock.”

  She continued to look at me blankly; then I watched as the awful memory came flooding back. Her already-pale face blanched nearly white. “Oh dear! I remember now. That nasty newspaper man. He was—he was—” Nervously, she licked her dry lips. “You’ll think me a foolish old woman, but I have to know. That Moss person—is he really dead?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid he is,” I replied, gently squeezing her hands. “Try not to think about it, Mrs. Reade. Everything is being taken care of. There’s no need to distress yourself.”

  I doubted she heard my words. Her eyes remained contracted and unfocused. Then she shook her head, as if trying to clear her mind. “It’s all such a muddle, like a bad dream. And of course my eyes aren’t as good as they used to be. I just cannot make sense of it.”

  “That’s hardly surprising, dear,” Mrs. Ahern said, kneeling beside me. “It gave us all a terrible fright, I can tell you.”

  It was clear by the strained look on Nora’s face that this was nothing short of the truth. The lieutenant’s wife appeared as if she, too, was finding Moss’s death difficult to take in. The freckles liberally sprinkled across her nose stood out in stark contrast to her pale skin.

  “I’ve never seen the likes of what went on here tonight,” Mrs. Ahern continued, closing her eyes with a little shiver.

  “Have you attended other séances given by Madame Karpova?” I asked.

  She hesitated, then nodded, as if the need to share these experiences overcame her natural reticence. “I have indeed, Miss Woolson. And they weren’t anything like this! I’d been suffering something fearful from dyspepsia during Mam’s last illness. One or two sittings with Madame Karpova, and my stomach felt right as rain again. She seemed to have a knack for making me sleep better at night, too. I’d leave her rooms feeling so relaxed, like I was floating on air. She had a real knack for making my troubles just seem to disappear.”

  “Was anyone else ever present at those private readings, Mrs. Ahern?” I asked.

  She thought for a moment. “The senator’s wife, Mrs. Gaylord, was there once or twice. And Mrs. Reade here. Oh, and I remember Mrs. Bramwell attended a few times. Always very comforting the readings were, for whoever was present.”

  “I gather from tonight’s séance that your mother recently passed away,” I said gently. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  Her blue eyes filled with tears. “Yes, last month it was. And me not there when it happened! I only went to the market, but when I came back, she was gone.” She paused to dab at her eyes with a plain white handkerchief. “Madame Karpova said it might make me feel better if I came here tonight. She said I could say good-bye to Mam, you know, proper like. And it did help. I truly felt as if she were here. But I should have known better than to bring my husband along. He doesn’t take to such things.” She dried her face and blew her nose. “Although I suppose with that reporter’s death and all, it’s as well Frank was here. I wonder, has he learned anything about who killed that dreadful man?”

  “He’s conducted a cursory interview,” I told her. “Unfortunately, it’s unearthed few hard facts. Everyone claims to have had their eyes fixed on Madame Karpova when Mr. Moss was attacked.”

  “That was when Madame Karpova conjured up the spirit, wasn’t it?” Mrs. Reade asked in a small voice. The elderly widow had been so quiet, I had nearly forgotten she was there.

  “Oh, wasn’t that something?” Nora Ahern put in before I could respond. “I remember wondering if it was gonna speak.” She gave a nervous giggle. “I don’t mind telling you I was hoping it wouldn’t.” The laughter quickly died away and her eyes once again grew serious. “Then that lightning flashed and made everything so bright, and Mrs. Bramwell screamed.” She blinked her eyes. “Mr. Moss wasn’t a nice man. Still, he didn’t deserve to end his days like that.”

  “It must have been awful for you, Mrs. Ahern,” I said. “You were seated directly next to Mr. Moss. Did he say anything before he, ah, before the candle was relit?”

  For the first time since I’d entered the saloon, Nora Ahern’s expression became guarded. “No, I don’t think so. But then, like everyone else, I was busy watching Madame Karpova. Besides, Mr. Ahern and I hardly knew Mr. Moss, so I didn’t pay him much mind.”

  Nora Ahern was a terrible liar. I watched the color creep back into her pale cheeks as she diverted her eyes.

  “Oh?” I said, allowing my skepticism to be reflected in my voice. “When you said Mr. Moss wasn’t a nice man, I thought perhaps you knew him personally. He did write a popular newspaper column. Surely you must have seen it.”

  “Mr. Ahern says that paper is nothing but trash and he won’t allow it in the house,” she said in a rush, then looked down at her hands, which she was twisting and untwisting in her lap. As if realizing this uneasy movement revealed the state of her nerves more than was prudent, she hastily folded her hands and held them still. Raising her eyes to meet mine, she even attempted a wan smile. “Now that you mention it, I believe I have seen Mr. Moss’s paper once or twice.”

  “But you didn’t know him personally?”

  “Oh my, no. Mr. Ahern doesn’t hold with reporters. Always getting hold of the wrong end of the stick, he says. Making the police look like a pack of idiots.”

  “Lieutenant Ahern didn’t seem pleased to see Mr. Moss.” Nora laughed nervously. “Trust me, Miss Woolson, it was nothing personal. Just Mr. Moss’s work and all.” She looked toward the door, clearly anxious to leave the saloon—and, I thought, to escape my questions. “Now that you’re here to watch Mrs. Reade, I’ll just go and find Mr. Ahern. That is, if you don’t mind.”

  “Yes, of course I’ll be happy to—” I began. But with a rustle of skirts, Nora Ahern had already swept hastily out of the room.

  Ishould have known I’d get no sleep until you had rehashed the entire evening,” Robert lamented as Eddie Cooper and I crowded into his small bedroom.

  I seated myself in the room’s only chair, while Eddie sank onto the bed, which took up most of the limited space. A small table—upon which had been placed a kerosene lamp, a towel, and a washbowl filled with water—and a black-walnut wardrobe cabinet completed the room’s simple decor. All the essentials, I thought, without any frills.

  I’d waited in the saloon until Robert and the cook had assisted Mrs. Reade to her room, which was located next to the Aherns’, in case she required assistance during the night. Afterward, Eddie and I—for of course the lad was determined not to be left out—had followed the Scot to his room.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Robert, but there are one or two things I’d like to discuss while they’re fresh in my mind.” I hurried on before he could voice another objection. “To begin with, I’m sure you realize Dmitry Serkov was lying about going outside for a cigarette. His clothing was hardly damp. He may have gone outside, but he could not have remained there for more than a few minutes, or he would have been drenched.”

  “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 i
ts 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.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The 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 th
ere 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.