The Cliff House Strangler Read online

  “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.

  “There was a woman asking for you this morning,” she informed me, straightening a perfectly orderly line of gloves displayed on one of the counters. “She seemed to be a timid sort. Looked real disappointed to find you were out, like it had taken all her nerve to come here in the first place.”

  My interest was immediately piqued. I’d had few enough clients—at least those who could afford to pay for my services—since leaving Joseph Shepard’s law firm. To have missed being here to greet my first real client was disheartening. “Did the woman leave her name?” I asked. “What did she look like?”

  “She wouldn’t leave her name, though I asked. But she was attractive and looked respectable enough.” Fanny sniffed as her trained eye surveyed the hats, bonnets, scarves, gloves, and other ladies’ accessories that were tastefully displayed throughout the tidy shop. “Her gown was plain but clean and neat, although her hat was from last season, and not a style I fancied, even when it was new. Still and all, she seemed nice. I told her to come back later this afternoon.” She gave me a conspiratorial wink. “I let on that you were out on an important case. Oh, I almost forgot. Your brother Samuel is waiting for you upstairs.”

  She rolled her eyes and smiled. “I swear that young man could charm the angels out of the heavens if he had a mind. I let him in with that spare key you gave me for safekeeping.” Her face grew suddenly worried. “I hope that was all right.”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you, Mrs. Goodman.”

  Leaving Eddie to enjoy his feast, I hurried upstairs to tell Samuel of the surprising happenings at the Cliff House the previous night. Expecting to find my brother waiting impatiently for my report, I was surprised to find him ensconced in my office chair, legs resting comfortably upon my desk, perusing the latest issue of the Police Gazette.

  “So, Lieutenant Ahern finally let you go,” he said, smiling at me from over a lurid picture of a female corpse, her scantily clad body drenched in blood, a long dagger protruding from her well-endowed chest.

  “You know about Darien Moss’s murder?” Once again, I was amazed by my brother’s apparently countless news sources. “Lieutenant Ahern wasn’t able to get a message out to the police until early this morning. I didn’t see George among the officers who responded.” I referred of course to George Lewis, Samuel’s good friend and fellow pugilist, who was a sergeant on the San Francisco police force.

  “No, he hasn’t been assigned to the case. But he managed to get word to me in time to get a few lines in this evening’s Chronicle. Now,” he went on, taking out his notebook and a pencil, “why don’t you give me all the gory details so that I can do a proper job of it.”

  I pulled a face at him, then moved one of the room’s two side chairs until I sat opposite him. This chair, I might add, was a good deal less comfortable than the generously padded cherry-wood armchair I had selected to go with my desk, and which Samuel currently occupied.

  “George tells me Moss was strangled?” Samuel’s bright blue eyes were alight with interest; nothing fascinated him more than the smell of a good story. Which was why he had chosen to become a journalist, rather than follow the law career our father had had his heart set on since his youngest son was a small boy.

  “Yes, he was. With a wire string from a balalaika.”

  He looked up from the notes he’d begun to scribble on his pad. “A what?”

  I described the unusual instrument Madame Karpova had “materialized” at the séance. Then, at his insistence, I proceeded to relate the evening’s events, starting with our arrival at the Cliff House. When I finished, he settled back in the armchair, regarding me speculatively.

  “You say you found another string, identical to the one used to garrote Moss, in Yelena Karpova’s room after she was attacked? Did you have an opportunity to examine the—what did you call that instrument again?”

  “A balalaika.”

  “Hmmm, yes. I’m just wondering if you had a chance to look at the balalaika again before you left the Cliff House this afternoon.”

  “I managed a quick glance as a police officer carried it out to the patrol wagon,” I told him. “Only one string remained out of the original three. I’m almost positive the second missing wire was the one I found in Yelena Karpova’s room.”

  “And that second string was still attached to the balalaika after the murder?”

  “Yes, I’m sure it was.”

  “So presumably the killer returned to the dining room after everyone else had left, and cut another string from the instrument. Which means Yelena’s attack was premeditated.” He tapped the end of his pencil against
the desktop, lost in thought. “But why would anyone want to kill Madame Karpova’s daughter?”

  “Why indeed?” I replied. “I spent half the night asking myself the same question. I can think of any number of reasons why someone might want to do away with Darien Moss, but what could anyone possibly have against a young Russian girl who’s been in San Francisco less than a month?”

  Samuel shook his head. “Perhaps the murderer thought that by killing Yelena he could hurt the girl’s mother, or her uncle.”

  “You think someone attacked Yelena because he didn’t approve of Olga Karpova’s so-called spirit manifestations? That seems far-fetched.”

  “Yes, put that way, I suppose it does.” Samuel drew a few meaningless squiggles on his paper. “Tell me more about the people who were at the séance. You said Lieutenant Ahern and Senator Gaylord were upset when Moss turned up. Given Moss’s tattle sheet, that’s hardly surprising. But did anyone look especially disturbed—enough to kill the man, I mean? Let’s face it, Sarah, whoever tightened the wire around Moss’s neck was desperate enough to chance it with eleven other people in the room. Unless the killer is an accomplished actor, I have to believe hatred that intense would be difficult to hide.”

  I thought back to the night before, trying to remember everyone’s reaction when Darien Moss made his melodramatic appearance. I’d seen surprise, dismay, and anger. And something else, I realized. Fear! In fact, now that I put my mind to it, I decided fear had been the pervading emotion.

  “Have you read Moss’s columns lately?” I asked. “I was wondering if there was any particular person or issue he’s been focusing on over the past few weeks.”

  Samuel considered this. “I don’t remember any specific issue. Of course, he’s written one or two derogatory articles about spiritualism in general and Madame Karpova in particular. Let me see, what were his exact words? Oh, yes, he accused her of being a ‘self-proclaimed Russian aristocrat who performed circus tricks any child could see through.’ He went on to promise that he would personally expose her tomfoolery in an upcoming column.” He laughed. “I can see why Madame Karpova might have wanted to slit his throat.”

  “Or her brother, Dmitry Serkov,” I said thoughtfully. “He’s quite a character, by the way. He was dressed entirely in black, and looked like one of those villains pictured in your Police Gazettes. Robert is convinced Serkov is the culprit, and I have to admit the Russian certainly possessed motive and opportunity. Remember, he left the room when Moss arrived, and was free to move around the place pretty much at will. Yet, why in the world would he want to kill his niece?”

  “You’re assuming that whoever killed Moss also attacked Yelena.”

  “It seems a bit much to assume there were two murderers present last night,” I replied dryly. “By the way, what do you know about Madame Karpova and her family? You must have done some background work for this article you’re writing.”

  A look of frustration crossed my brother’s handsome face. “I tried to dig up information on them, but I didn’t have much luck. Following their trail since they arrived in the States six months ago was easy enough. And it appears they spent the previous three years traveling through England and Europe. Piecing together their earlier lives in Russia was another matter. I ran into one dead end after another.” He grinned. “Let me put it this way, Sarah, if those three are members of the Russian aristocracy, I’ll eat my hat.”

  “Moss certainly seemed to consider Madame Karpova a fake. But I’m not yet ready to place the blame on the Russians. Almost everyone at that séance had a motive to kill Moss.”

  “Popular fellow,” Samuel put in with a derisive smile. “As a matter of fact, I’d be hard-pressed to name one person who actually liked Darien Moss, and that includes his coworkers at the newspaper.”

  “There are ghosts in everyone’s closet, Samuel. That’s why journalists like Moss are so feared. As Rosencrantz says in Hamlet, ‘many wearing rapiers are afraid of goose-quills.’ ”

  “Yes, their pens wield an enormous amount of power. Perhaps too much power. Still, it took a lot of temerity to murder the man in front of so many potential witnesses. And since you claim no one knew Moss was going to attend the séance, his murder had to have been a crime of opportunity.”

  “I think you’re right. The problem, of course, is figuring out which one took advantage of the situation.” I thought for a moment, then asked, “Samuel, would you see what information you can find on Darien Moss? I’ve read his column a few times, but I know next to nothing about the man himself.”

  He smiled. “I’ve already started. As soon as George told me what happened last night, I did a quick search through the newspapers files. I didn’t find much, but then, I haven’t dug very far yet. I do know that Moss moved here from New Jersey about fifteen years ago. I’ll make a better job of it next week. If I have time, I’ll also see what I can find out about the other people who were at the séance.”

  “Good. In the meantime, I’ll do a little snooping myself, especially about Madame Karpova and her brother. Someone must know where—”

  I was interrupted mid-sentence by the door banging open and Eddie Cooper charging headlong into the room. His bright, lively eyes immediately fastened on my brother. The lad had taken quite a fancy to Samuel when he’d discovered, quite by accident, that my youngest sibling was the popular crime writer Ian Fearless. Since then, Eddie’s ambition to become a private-inquiry agent had waned considerably, and he’d begun to lean more toward a career in crime journalism. The fact that the lad had never attended school, or learned to read and write, was an obstacle he refused to let daunt him, and which Samuel and I were determined to rectify.

  “Mr. Samuel!” the boy exclaimed, skidding to a halt in front of my desk. “I just heard you was here. Are you workin’ on a new story, then?”

  “A good newspaperman is always working on a new story, Eddie,” Samuel told him, clearly enjoying his newfound celebrity, at least as seen through the worshiping eyes of a fifteen-year-old boy. “Speaking of which, it’s high time I was about my business. Thanks to you, little sister, Ian Fearless’s latest submission may make tomorrow’s front page.”

  As he gathered up his things, he picked a children’s storybook off the desk. “By the way, Sarah, where did you find this old copy of Rollo Learning to Read? I thought I got rid of all those old Rollo books when I was ten.”

  “I’m using it to teach Eddie his letters,” I explained. “Mama found it stored in a box in the attic, along with some of your old toys and copybooks from school. It seemed a logical choice.”

  “It is if you want to bore the lad to death. Sarah, have you ever actually read any of the Rollo books? They may be fine for a five- or six-year-old, but for a boy of fifteen?” He chuckled as he opened the book. “ ‘Tick, tick, tick, I wonder what o’clock it is?’ ” he read. Then: “ ‘Oh it is a fine thing to be a cow.’ ” With a “What were you thinking?” look, he tossed the book back onto the desk.

  Eddie, a foolish grin on his thin face, was nodding his head in joyful agreement. Then, catching my expression, he muttered, “I’m sure Miss Sarah was just tryin’ to help me, Mr. Samuel. And the story about that Rollo fellow climbin’ up the mountain weren’t so bad.”

  “Yes, that does sound exciting,” Samuel replied, not bothering to hide his sarcasm. He picked up his copy of the Police Gazette and, before I could object, handed it to Eddie. “See if you don’t find this a bit more interesting than little Rollo Holiday wondering what it’s like to be a cow.”

  “Samuel, he can’t read well enough yet to attempt a newspaper,” I protested. “Even a rag like the Police Gazette.”

  “You’ll be surprised by how fast he’ll learn,” my brother countered with a chuckle.

  Eddie beamed, as if he’d been given all the ice cream he could eat. It wasn’t just the reading challenge the paper presented that concerned me; it was also its content. Aware that the Police Gazette spent far more time covering brutal murders, b
oxing matches, and houses of ill repute—including coarse engravings and photographs of barely clad women—than it did on everyday police affairs, I felt obliged to object. Which, of course, did not the slightest good.

  As if deaf to my protestations, the boy settled himself in the straight chair by the window, buried his nose in the tawdry tabloid, and began to read—avidly. Which brought me up short. Upset as I was about Samuel’s choice of reading material, I had never seen Eddie exhibit even a fraction as much interest in the Rollo books, despite their popularity. In fact, coaxing him to read the Jacob Abbott series was becoming a decidedly unpleasant chore.

  “If you want to teach someone to read, Sarah,” Samuel said with maddening superiority, “you must first capture their interest.”

  Directing a jaunty salute at Eddie, my brother gave me a wink and sauntered cheerfully out the door.

  I confess I spent the remainder of the afternoon creating busywork for myself, trying to keep alive the fading dream that I could make a go of my own law firm. Two months earlier, I had marched into the office of Joseph Shepard, senior partner of Shepard, Shepard, McNaughton and Hall, and with profound delight had tendered my resignation. My erstwhile employer had turned very red in the face, torn between relief that I would be out of his life and disbelief that I would relinquish my position in his prestigious law firm. He’d sputtered that no reputable law firm in the city would hire a woman attorney, a warning that caused me little concern, since I planned on establishing my own law practice.

  Famous last words, you might say, and if you did, you would be correct. Seven weeks after opening my Sutter Street law office, I had yet to entertain one client—one paying client, that is. So far, the only business I’d conducted had been for several of Eddie’s friends (who had paid for my services with pennies, a deck of playing cards minus all four aces—which, I feared, might still be lodged up the boy’s sleeve—and some moldy cheese), along with a drunken derelict who was determined to sue a local saloon for refusing to serve him any more whiskey until he paid his bill. If it were not for the money generously given to me by Li Ying, an infamous and mysterious Chinese tong lord, following the Russian Hill murders, I would have been forced to close my office door weeks ago.