The Cliff House Strangler

by Shirley Tallman

  “However, I have a colleague who says Moss occasionally mentioned that his mother was a minor opera singer, and that his father was a minister. Using that information, one of my sources found a Daoud Moussa listed in the records of a New Jersey hospital at about the time Moss would have been born. Sure enough, Daoud’s mother is listed as Irena Moussa, who used to sing with a second-rate opera company, and his father as the Reverend Pasek Moussa. Daoud was an only child, and apparently he had some sort of runin with his father, which may be one of the reasons he left for California.”

  “Do you know if his family is still alive and residing in New Jersey? If they are, they should be notified of his death.”

  “I have someone looking into that. It seems that Moss—I’m having a hard time thinking of him as Daoud Moussa—worked at one or two newspapers before leaving the state, and we may find more information about him there.”

  “What about the articles he was working on before his death? Were you able to go through his office at the San Francisco Informer?”

  “Unfortunately, I was too late. Someone broke into Moss’s office the night after his death. His desk was ransacked, and according to one of his colleagues at the paper, several files were missing. None of the typesetters, or the handful of other people working that night, seems to remember seeing a stranger. No one even noticed the break-in until the police arrived the following morning. By then, George says there was little of interest to be found.”

  “Including, I take it, material for his upcoming exposés.”

  “I’m afraid so. Anything that even hinted at what he was planning to write was gone.” His blue eyes teased me over the flickering candlelight. “However, I’m happy to report that all is not lost. Your ever-resourceful brother managed to discover that the colleague I spoke to was also one of Moss’s few personal friends, and also a fellow member of the Bohemian Club. Consequently, in a selfless quest for knowledge, I spent last night in our club saloon, pumping the fellow for information and, I might add, buying him an astonishing amount of alcohol. The man must have a cast-iron stomach!”

  “What did you learn?” I asked, unable to curb a fresh wave of hope.

  “Actually, more than I expected. This fellow seemed perfectly content to toss back scotch whiskey and blabber on for hours about what a wonderful reporter Moss was, and how he had a way of digging up the most intimate details of people’s lives. He proceeded to prove this to me by describing all the really important scandals Moss was planning to expose in his upcoming columns.”

  “Such as?”

  “Patience, little sister, I’m getting there. Let’s see, where was I? Oh, yes, it seems the most damaging story Moss was planning was an exposé on the new City Hall debacle. According to my by nowinebriated source, he intended to name names, as well as list the companies and city officials involved in the fiasco.”

  “Good heavens.” My mind boggled at the repercussions this would almost certainly produce, possibly throughout the entire state! “The city’s newspapers have been hinting at some sort of collusion since they broke ground on the building ten years ago.”

  “And for good reason.” Samuel followed an oyster with a sip of really excellent chardonnay (as far as I’m concerned, my brother is one of the finest wine connoisseurs to be found in the whole of San Francisco). “Back in 1871, the project planners boasted that the new City Hall would be the largest, grandest, and most durable structure in San Francisco.”

  “Didn’t they also promise that it would be completed in four years, and for under two million dollars?”

  “One million five hundred thousand, actually,” he replied. “As you say, it’s now ten years later and the job is largely unfinished. And the cost has more than doubled, with no end in sight. Maurice Blake, Mayor Kalloch’s chief opponent in this year’s mayoral election, has made the new City Hall fiasco a major political issue. Pressure on city government to do something about the mess has been escalating every day, especially as the election grows closer.”

  “So, Moss’s corruption charges may have some basis in fact.” I paused as Samuel poured more wine into our glasses. “Presumably, he had evidence to back up these allegations, or he and his newspaper would run the risk of being sued for libel. I haven’t heard of any other newspapers threatening to name names.”

  “According to Moss’s friend, he had a boxful of documents, secret correspondence and even a few incriminating pictures. But don’t forget, Sarah, the fellow was feeling very little pain by this juncture in our conversation.”

  “Where is this box now?” I asked, barely able to control my excitement. “Do you think the killer found it when he broke into Moss’s office at the newspaper?”

  “According to my talkative drinking companion, no. He insists Moss kept few documents of any importance at his office.” He took a sip of wine and added with a dry chuckle, “Apparently, he didn’t trust his colleagues at the newspaper not to steal his stories. My informant seemed to think he stored most of his more sensitive material in his lodgings at the Baldwin Hotel.”

  “The Baldwin!” I said in surprise. “That’s one of the most expensive hotels in town. How could any journalist afford a room there?”

  “Rooms, plural. Darien Moss rented a suite. And you’re not the first person to ask that question. In fact, that’s partly what fueled the speculation he might have been engaging in a little blackmailing on the side.”

  “You mean people paid him to keep their names out of his column?”

  “That’s the rumor,” he said. “Mind you, it’s just speculation. No one was ever able to prove that he took so much as five cents to protect someone’s reputation.”

  Before I could question him further, my brother glanced at his watch and then said we’d better hurry if we wanted to be seated before the curtain went up. After using a piece of bread to soak up what was left of his oyster sauce, he finished his wine and called for our waiter.

  While Samuel settled the bill, I excused myself and did what I could with my hair in the ladies’ water closet. Smoothing my skirts, I regarded myself critically in the looking glass. Samuel was right, I decided: I would never be noted as a lady of fashion. Ah, well, I had done the best I could with what I had to work with. And as Mama was fond of saying, at least I would not shame myself or my family if, God forbid, I should have an accident and be taken to the hospital.

  Samuel was waiting for me outside the restaurant, having just hailed a hansom cab for the short ride to the theater. Again, my questions had to wait until Samuel had paid the driver and we’d been shown to our seats in the theater. Once we were comfortably settled, I used what little time we had before the curtain rose to find out what else my brother had learned.

  “Samuel, please, finish the story. Have the police searched Darien Moss’s hotel rooms yet?”

  My brother darted me an amused look, and I knew at once he’d anticipated this question. Of my three older brothers, I have always been closest to Samuel, not only in age but also in personality. Mama used to complain that between the two of us we caused more mischief than all four of her children put together, while Papa often marveled that our house was still standing by the time we’d reached our majority.

  “Sorry, little sister, but if you hoped to get there first, you’re too late. George and some of his men conducted a search of Moss’s rooms over the weekend.”

  “That’s all right. I don’t see how we could have gained access to Moss’s rooms anyway, at least legally. That’s all I need right now, to be arrested for breaking and entering. My law practice would be finished before it ever really began.” A woman seated in the row in front of us threw me a reproving look over her shoulder, and I lowered my voice. “So what did George find when he went through Moss’s hotel rooms?”

  “The killer apparently beat them there, as well. George couldn’t go into details, of course, but I received the impression that what little evidence he did find in the reporter’s hotel suite revealed that, as rumors indic
ated, Moss’s new City Hall exposé was more than an idle threat. George also hinted that Moss planned even more derogatory articles on Madame Karpova and, as he put it in one of his recent columns, “her preposterous circus sideshow act.” Unfortunately, that was about it, and neither of these stories come as much of a surprise.”

  “It looks as if the killer walked off with the most incriminating files.” I was unable to mask my disappointment.

  “Almost, but not quite. Evidently, Moss kept a few items in the hotel safe downstairs. At George’s insistence, the manager opened it. Inside, they discovered a small fortune in women’s jewelry, including two or three diamond rings, a ruby necklace and brooch, and several pairs of pearl and diamond earrings.”

  “Unless he was keeping those pieces for a relative or a lady friend, that seems to bear out the speculations that he was accepting bribes. At least now we know how he was able to afford to live at the Baldwin Hotel.”

  “That’s what George thought. But the next part of the story is even more interesting. They also found a small black leather diary inside the box containing the jewelry. It seems to have been written in some kind of peculiar language or code, so George couldn’t make head nor tail of it. However, because of the numbers listed next to some of the code words, he suspects, as do I, that it’s a list of the individuals Moss was planning to expose in his column, and very likely people who were paying him blackmail money.”

  I fairly itched to get my hands on that book! “Samuel, where is that diary now?”

  “It’s in a locked room at the police station, where they keep all the other evidence they’ve collected over the past few years.”

  “Do you think George would allow me to have a look at it?” I asked with some excitement. “After all, I’m Dmitry Serkov’s attorney, and that book could very well provide us with vital evidence in his case.”

  “I knew you were going to ask me that,” he said with that superior “big brother” smile of his. “I’ve already spoken to George about it. He says if you drop by the Central Station some afternoon this week, he’ll do his best to give you limited time alone with the diary. You won’t be able to remove it from the station, of course.”

  “That’s fine, as long as he allows me enough time to read through it and take notes. If you see him, please tell him I’ll stop by the station in the next day or two.” I thought of something else. “Oh, and if you can, would you please see if you can find out where everyone was yesterday afternoon around the time Mrs. Reade was killed?”

  “Surely the police are looking into that.”

  “I sincerely doubt it. They’re too convinced they have their murderer in custody to bother investigating anyone else. Since I suspect the same killer murdered both Moss and Mrs. Reade, it would be a great help to find out who couldn’t have strangled the widow yesterday in the park. As it stands now, it could have been just about anybody. We need to narrow down our list of suspects.”

  “We,” he repeated with a short laugh. “I might have known you’d find even more ways to rope me into this business. All right. No promises, mind you, but I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Samuel, thank you,” I told him sincerely. “I know I’m asking a great deal of you, and I really do appreciate it.”

  “Oh, it’s not all altruism,” he said, giving me a cheerful wink. “Ian Fearless expects to get one hell of a story out of this. An exclusive story—a front-page, headline story.”

  I laughed; Samuel’s good nature was contagious. “You know you will if I have anything to do with it,” I promised.

  The same woman in the row ahead of ours once again turned in her seat to dart us an annoyed look. When she showed no inclination of turning back around again, Samuel gave her one of his most ingratiating smiles.

  “Good evening, madam,” he said pleasantly. “Allow me to compliment you on your lovely hat. That shade of mauve seems to be all the rage this season, doesn’t it? But not every woman can wear it with such panache. I must say that on you, madam, it is exceedingly becoming.”

  It was amusing to watch the woman—who must have been at least sixty—dissolve into girlish simpering in the wave of my brother’s considerable charm. When she began coyly batting her eyelashes at him, I’d had about all I could stand of this stomach-turning display. I was about to say so to Samuel, when the words died on my lips.

  As the lights in the theater dimmed, I glimpsed out of the corner of my eye an usher hurriedly guiding a couple to their seats across the aisle from ours. It was with some surprise that I recognized the man as Nicholas Bramwell, the young lawyer who had escorted his mother, Philippa, to the Cliff House séance.

  But it was his companion who caused my mouth to open in unabashed astonishment. The lovely young lady holding fast to Nicholas’s arm, and wearing a modest but exceedingly becoming green silk gown, was none other than Madame Olga Karpova’s lovely daughter, Yelena!

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Honoring my promise that I would speak to Madame Karpova’s brother as soon as possible, I had Eddie drop me off at city jail the following morning. To my astonishment, I found Robert pacing back and forth in front of the building.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I’m waiting for you, of course.”

  I darted him a suspicious look. “How did you know I’d be here this morning? I certainly didn’t mention it to you.”

  He had the good grace to flush in what I took to be embarrassment. Stumbling to excuse his actions, he finally gave up and blurted, “I was several blocks away yesterday afternoon when I realized I’d left my briefcase just outside your office door. I walked back in time to see that Karpova woman and her daughter walk down the stairs to the street. I couldn’t help but overhear you mention that you planned to visit Dmitry Serkov this morning.”

  “And you feared I was incapable of conducting this interview without your strong arm to lean upon?” I said with what I considered justifiable sarcasm.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s your safety that concerns me. This man has very probably killed two people within the past week, and God knows how many more he did away with back in Russia. If he were to attack you in his cell, you’d be dead before the guard could come to your defense.”

  I thought about this, then agreed that he should go with me. Not, of course, because I feared the Russian might accost me, but because I sensed I might get more out of the prisoner if I were accompanied by a man, especially a man of Robert’s muscular proportions. On the night of the séance, I’d received the impression that Dmitry Serkov had little respect for women, excluding his sister, to whom he seemed steadfastly devoted. Whether or not he retained me as his attorney was of secondary importance. I was primarily concerned about how much information I might glean from him. For reasons best known to himself, I was convinced Serkov knew a great deal he was not divulging.

  Lest Robert misunderstand my ready agreement to allow him to accompany me to interview Serkov, I explained my reasons as we entered the jailhouse.

  “And you think he’s going to open up to either of us?” He sounded scornful. “Sarah, the man is a cold-blooded murderer. He’s not going to tell you anything incriminating, whether I’m with you or not.”

  “You may be right, Robert,” I said as we reached the front desk in the cold, damp building I had grown to hate. “But we have to try.”

  I presented my credentials to a skeptical uniformed officer—no matter how often I was obliged to visit the dreadful place, I was forced to go through the same maddening exercise in order to convince the guards that I was an accredited attorney. After cooling our heels for a good quarter of an hour, a wiry jailer of medium height and in his mid-thirties arrived to escort us to Serkov’s cell.

  “You give a yell when you’ve had enough of this Russki,” he told us, choosing a large key and placing it into the lock. “Mean as a mad dog this feller is, miss. If I was you, I wouldn’t go within a mile of the bugger. Don’t know why they let these foreigners
into the country in the first place. The sooner he sees the end of a rope the better is what I say!” He turned the key and, accompanied by protesting squeaks, pushed open the door. “The name’s Cecil Vere. When you’ve had enough of this nutter, just call out.”

  The door clanged shut behind us, and we could hear Vere whistling a popular dance-hall song as he walked back down the row of cells. In front of us, Dmitry Serkov sat tall and stiff on his cot. He paid scant attention to Robert or me as we entered, just continued to stare over our heads at the room’s solitary barred window, which was located high up on one wall.

  “Mr. Serkov,” I said, flashing him a professional-looking smile. “Perhaps you remember us from Madame Karpova’s séance last Thursday night. I’m Sarah Woolson, and this is my colleague, Mr. Robert Campbell. I have come here today at your sister’s request. She indicated that you wished me to represent you against these murder charges.”

  The man’s black eyes flickered over Robert’s tall frame without expression, then went back to staring at the window. He did not look at me at all.

  “Serkov!” Robert’s voice boomed through the small cell, the sound so loud and unexpected that I gave a little jump. The prisoner, on the other hand, scarcely moved a muscle. “Miss Woolson is addressing you. Have you no manners, man? It’s common courtesy to stand when a lady enters the room.”

  Dmitry Serkov apparently did not possess any manners, nor did he appear to be interested in acquiring any now. His dark eyes remained glued to the window, as if expecting something, or someone, to miraculously separate the bars and come floating in to save him.