The Cliff House Strangler

by Shirley Tallman

  I was annoyed to realize that Eddie was following closely behind the police van—this was hardly the time for the boy to indulge his fascination with crime and police detection. Then as we pulled to a stop behind the vehicle, I realized its destination and ours were one and the same: Washington Square.

  Apparently, I had spoken too soon about Eddie’s developing skills as a chauffeur. Abandoning the etiquette I had spent weeks attempting to instill in my young hackman, the boy leapt off the driver’s seat and, instead of opening the carriage door as he’d been taught, took off pell-mell after Sergeant Lewis and his band of policemen. Hastily deciding that this was hardly the time to recall the youth to his duties, Robert and I hurriedly exited the brougham and followed in the lad’s wake.

  Entering through a gate in the white picket fence that had been erected to prevent horseback riders from trampling the grass, we spied a group of people clustered around some park benches. As we made our way toward the center of the square (which, in reality, was a rectangle), the police were attempting to push back a curious group of onlookers—most notably a very excited Eddie, who kept slipping through their clutches like a slithery eel.

  As the area was finally cleared, I spied Sergeant Lewis leaning over to examine what appeared to be a pile of rags heaped onto one of the wooden benches. Drawing closer, I realized that the object of George Lewis’s attention was not a pile of rags at all, but the body of an elderly woman slumped over in her seat. My heart sank when I caught a clear view of the woman’s face. It was Theodora Reade!

  With Eddie practically hanging on to my skirt, I made short shrift of the uniformed men Sergeant Lewis had positioned to keep out idle spectators. I was no idle spectator. Moreover, I knew Samuel’s pugilistic partner would be eager to learn the identity of the victim, not to mention my assessment of the crime. Brushing aside the more determined of the men guarding the murder scene, I approached George Lewis as he stooped down to examine Mrs. Reade’s neck. Eddie, who was so close behind me that he was literally treading on my heels, cried out when he saw the woman’s face and promptly moved back from me as well as from the bench.

  Truth be told, even I was forced to repress a gasp at the sight of her darkened face, bulging eyes, and protruding tongue. Perhaps it was due to her advanced age, but Mrs. Reade made an even more macabre-looking corpse than had Darien Moss. Her appearance was so dreadful that it was several moments before I spied the wire digging into the poor woman’s gaunt and wrinkled neck.

  Taking my nerves in hand, I stooped down beside George in order to better examine the deep gauge marks made by the thin wire, a wire, I might add, which closely resembled the balalaika string used to strangle Moss. To my dismay, I felt tears well up in my eyes. It was true I hardly knew the woman, but to see her like this, crushed and motionless, the breath of life literally drained out of her slight body, touched upon a surprisingly raw nerve.

  This initial emotion was quickly replaced by a tide of rising anger. The unfortunate woman never had a chance; she’d been so frail, it would have required minimal strength to overpower her. Moreover, it must have happened so quickly that she’d had no time, or breath, to call for help. Once again, I was struck by the killer’s audacity. What a gamble he’d taken to strike like this, in broad daylight, and with at least a dozen potential witnesses present throughout the park.

  “Miss Sarah?” For the first time, I realized George had been speaking to me. I’d been so engrossed in poor Mrs. Reade that I’d failed to hear him. “Please, Miss Sarah, what are you doing here?”

  I lightly touched one of the elderly widow’s paper-thin hands, then sighed and rose to my feet. “We came here to warn her, George. And we were too late. If only—”

  “We got here as quickly as anyone could,” a voice said from over my shoulder. Turning, I found Robert standing behind me, his aquamarine eyes fastened not on the body but on my face. “It makes no sense to blame yourself, Sarah.” His normally gruff voice was surprisingly gentle. “You did everything possible to warn her.”

  “Mr. Campbell,” George said. I was startled that George knew Robert’s name; then I remembered they had met during the Russian Hill murders several months ago. “I take it you and Miss Sarah knew this woman?”

  “Yes,” Robert replied. soberly. “Her name is, or was, rather, Mrs. Theodora Reade.”

  “And what led you to believe Mrs. Reade’s life was in danger?” George asked.

  This time, I answered. “Because she may very well have seen the person who killed Darien Moss last week at the Cliff House.”

  George started; obviously, this was not the answer he’d expected. “You mean the reporter who was strangled during that séance?” As he spoke, he pulled a small notebook and pencil from his uniform pocket and began to take notes.

  I nodded, then explained the happenings of the previous Thursday night. “So you see,” I concluded, “Mrs. Reade was seated opposite Mr. Moss when the sole candle illuminating the room was extinguished by a draft from the storm. When the candle was relit, and we discovered Darien Moss had been strangled, the poor woman fainted dead away.”

  George rubbed his square, clean-shaven chin. “And you think she may have seen the killer during the flash of lightning?”

  “Of course that’s what we think,” Robert said with annoyance, either because I had inadvertently left him out of the discussion describing Moss’s death or because he believed George Lewis to be slightly dim-witted. “Why else would someone go to the bother of murdering a harmless old lady?”

  George opened his mouth to reply to this reasonable statement but was prevented from doing so by one of his officers, the youngest one, I thought, and extremely eager to impress his sergeant. Behind him tailed a tall man in livery, appearing considerably distressed. He was staring wide-eyed at Mrs. Reade, a sickly look on his face.

  “This here’s the lady’s driver, Mr. Daniel,” the young officer said, indicating the man lagging behind him. “Says he drove her here about an hour ago, then went to run some errands. He just got back a few minutes ago, and was gonna take her back home.”

  George took one look at the footman’s green-tinged face and told his officer to take the lad aside, that he’d talk to him later.

  “And I been askin’ everyone in the park if they saw anyone near the victim, just like you said,” the policeman reported, nodding toward Mrs. Reade. “The lady and gent over there say they saw a man sitting next to her on the bench. Accordin’ to them, he was dressed in black and had a big bushy black beard. They didn’t pay him much mind, but the next time they happened to look over, the feller was gone and the old lady was slumped over on the bench, like she is now. They’re the ones what sent someone to fetch the police.”

  Robert and I looked at each other, he in triumph at having his suspicions proved correct, I with misgivings. Could Dmitry Serkov be so obtuse that he would chose to kill Mrs. Reade in a public park, then wear such conspicuous clothes that he would be sure to be noticed? The man was surly and uncommunicative, but he hadn’t struck me as stupid.

  “Did you get their names and addresses, Perkins?” George was asking his young subordinate.

  “That I did, sir. The lady’s pretty upset by what happened, and the gent wants to know if they can leave now, so’s he can take her home.”

  “Not just yet,” George told him. “I want to speak to them first.” He turned to Robert and me, his manner subtly getting across the message that it was time for us to take our leave, as well. “I’m sorry you weren’t able to warn Mrs. Reade in time, Miss Sarah. But Mr. Campbell’s right. There’s no cause to be blaming yourself for the poor woman’s death.”

  “Wait a minute, Lewis,” Robert said. “The man those people saw sitting with Mrs. Reade, I think I know who—”

  “Please, Robert, I, too, am distressed,” I said, giving him a pointed glare and nodding toward the brougham. “Let’s leave George to get on with his job.”

  Robert darted me a sour look, but I managed to stare hi
m down. Rather grumpily, he bid George good day, then allowed me to lead him to the carriage, where Eddie was already waiting. The boy’s face was very pale, and I knew he was mortified by his reaction to what had probably been his first encounter with a dead body. Without referring to the grizzly scene in the park, I instructed the lad to drive Robert to his office. Without a word, he nodded, climbed up to the driver’s seat, and clicked his dependable dappled gray horse into the afternoon traffic.

  “So, what’s all this nonsense about you being distressed?” Robert asked, looking considerably annoyed. “You’ve got one of the strongest constitutions of anyone I know, man or woman.”

  “Of course I wasn’t distressed, Robert, at least not in the way I meant it to sound. I deeply regret Mrs. Reade’s death, but I wanted to get you away from George before you mentioned Dmitry Serkov.”

  “And why is that? You know as well as I do it must have been Serkov that couple saw with Mrs. Reade. He’d stand out in any crowd.”

  “Yes, I know. That’s precisely why I find it so hard to believe it was really him.”

  He threw up both hands in exasperation. “Curse it, Sarah. You’re making no sense whatsoever.”

  “I must say I’m disappointed in you, Robert.” I maintained my calm, refusing to be drawn into an argument. “Unless Serkov is a total dolt, which I doubt he is, why would he go out of his way to be seen with his victim right before he killed her?”

  “That’s simple enough. Obviously, Serkov was trying to discover how much the old woman knew about Moss’s death. When she realized he was the man she’d seen strangle the reporter, he had no choice but to silence her then and there. Another crime of opportunity. The man is becoming famous for them.”

  “Oh, really? And he just happened to have a length of wire in his pocket. How convenient.”

  “Good Lord, Sarah, he came prepared, that’s all.”

  “With a woman as old and fragile as Mrs. Reade, the only weapon the killer required were his bare hands.” When his expression remained skeptical, I grew frustrated. “Don’t you see? I believe the whole thing was a deliberate attempt to place the blame on Serkov. The impostor contrived to be seen speaking to Mrs.

  Reade, then strangled her with the same type of wire that had been used on Moss, thereby making it appear as if both victims had been killed by the same person.”

  “Which they had!” Robert exclaimed. “You’re proving my point for me, Sarah. Serkov murdered Moss, then was forced to kill the old woman before she could tell the police what she had seen.”

  “That’s certainly what we’re intended to believe. And I agree that one person is likely responsible for both deaths. What I question is whether Serkov is that individual.”

  Robert ran a hand through his unruly mop of red hair. “You’re making this too complicated, Sarah. I’ll be the first one to admit you’ve been damn clever in the past routing out unlikely scoundrels. Perhaps that’s what’s bothering you now. This time, the most likely suspect is almost certainly the killer. Why can’t you simply admit there’s no mystery here for you to solve?”

  I realized the fruitlessness of this conversation. I had no proof to bolster my theory that someone was trying to frame Serkov. And I was forced to admit that all the evidence we had obtained so far pointed directly to the Russian. Still, I could not rid myself of the conviction that the disagreeable man was being set up.

  “We’ll see,” I replied noncommittally. “As it is written in Hebrews, chapter twelve, verse one: ‘let us run with patience the race that is set before us.’ ” Really that was all I could do for the moment.

  After Eddie dropped Robert off at Shepard, Shepard, McNaughton and Hall, I directed the lad to take me to what was now coming to be know as San Francisco’s “old” City Hall, located on Kearny between Washington and Merchant streets. There, I hoped I might complete the errand I had originally planned for that morning, gathering information in order to prepare for Alexandra Sechrest’s divorce suit.

  I had to admit that Mrs. Reade’s murder had left me considerably shaken. Despite Robert’s insistence that there was nothing I could have done to prevent the tragedy, I continued to berate myself for not recognizing the widow’s danger earlier. From the beginning, I’d experienced a distinct uneasiness concerning the attack upon Yelena the night of the séance. If only I had trusted my instincts and made one or two simple inquiries concerning room assignments. If only I had taken a few more moments to ask this question of Mrs. Reade the following morning, or, indeed, of Yelena herself.

  If, if, if! The humbling truth was that I had not seen fit to act upon my intuition, and subjecting myself to further self-flagellation would merely drain away energy I sorely needed if I were to represent Mrs. Sechrest and her two small sons successfully. No matter how badly I wished I could set back the clock, I had to accept that there was nothing I could do to breathe life back into Theodora Reade.

  Entering the county supreme court building, I went to the second floor, where I spent the next few hours examining California’s divorce and custody laws. Unfortunately, it appeared that the state wasn’t altogether clear what its laws on these subjects encompassed. Even those few lawyers who thought they did understand had been uncertain how to interpret them.

  For one thing, there was little consistency in the court rulings I scrutinized. The outcome of these proceedings depended almost entirely upon which courtroom the case had been assigned. While one judge might have construed the law to favor the wife, just as many, if not more, had decided in favor of the husband.

  Child-custody rulings were even more arbitrary. After pouring over dozens of cases, it seemed to me that children were parceled out to whichever parent led the more “principled life,” whatever that happened to mean to the presiding judge. This laissez-faire interpretation of the custody laws resulted in widely divergent decisions. What I found most incomprehensible was that the child’s welfare rarely, if ever, influenced the final decision!

  Temporarily giving up this frustrating quest, I requested and received the forms I would need to file for Alexandra Sechrest’s divorce, them made my way out of the courthouse.

  The sun was setting in a dazzling blaze of red, orange, and gold as I came out onto the street and walked the two or three blocks to the nearest cable car line. Not only was I weary from my efforts to strategize a plan for Mrs. Sechrest, but the full impact of Theodora Reade’s murder once again overwhelmed me as I passed newsboys crying, “Call, Chronicle, Examiner! Read all about it! Shocking murder in Washington Square! Read all about it!”

  The news hawkers were besieged by customers, mostly well-dressed gentlemen on their way home from offices and shops, eager to obtain all the gruesome details of the city’s latest brutality. Hoping it might carry new information about Mrs. Reade’s death, I, too, purchased a newspaper—the Examiner, to be exact—which I planned to read on the cable car.

  Some minutes later, I opened the newspaper as the conveyance made its way northeast along Market Street. I did not have to search long for the story; Theodora Reade’s brutal murder was splashed in bold black headlines across the front page.

  But it was the subheadline that caught my attention. It read RUSSIAN ARRESTED FOR ELDERLY WIDOW’S DEATH! A surprisingly accurate and detailed account of the capture and arrest of this individual, along with his relationship to the famous Russian clairvoyant Madame Olga Karpova, followed.

  How had the reporter managed to gather so many intimate details so quickly, I wondered as I scanned down three columns of text, not only about the murders of Darien Moss and Theodora Reade, but about the villain himself?

  Then I noticed the familiar byline that appeared at the end of the piece, and I understood. The article, it appeared, had been written by none other than my brother, the inveterate crime reporter Ian Fearless!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Ifound Celia in the nursery when I arrived home, chatting with her two small children, Tom and Amanda, as they sat partaking of their evening meal.


  “Where is everyone?” I asked, picking several books and toy soldiers off the nursery rocking chair and pulling it over to join the homey little group.

  My sister-in-law fairly radiated good health and happiness. She’d had the same glow when carrying her older children and, as then, her inner joy had the power to light up every room she entered. I’ve never denied my critical opinions about the marital state, particularly as it affected women. However, my brother Charles and his lovely wife, Celia, were the exception that made up the rule. Remarkably, they gave every indication of being just as much in love now as they had been at their wedding nine years ago.

  If I could have been assured of the same marital bliss they had achieved, I might have reconsidered my views on this perilous institution. Unfortunately, the great majority of women ran a far greater risk of being treated as chattel—a husband’s property, to be dealt with as he saw fit—than becoming his helpmate and equal. Still . . . My thoughts drifted to the dashing and extremely handsome Pierce Godfrey, whom I’d met during the Russian Hill murders. Despite the grizzly killings, which had put even my own life in danger, we had enjoyed each other’s company immensely. And he’d been one of the few men to truly believe in my abilities as an attorney. He had so impressed me that I’d even wondered, if only briefly, what it would be like to become his wife.

  Much as I might take pleasure in having a husband and children, as well as a home of my own, however, the risk was simply too great. I had made my choice years earlier to do everything within my power to balance the scales of justice for women as well as for the downtrodden, be they male or female. I could not willingly do anything now that might countermand that vow.

  Celia’s lighthearted chuckle broke into my reverie. “You’re miles away again, Sarah. I was saying that Mama and Papa are dining at the Watsons’ house tonight. Charles is out on an emergency call, and I have no idea where Samuel is. Cook says dinner will be served in an hour. I hope you’ll be here to share it with me. I hate to dine alone.”