The Cliff House Strangler

by Shirley Tallman

  “I’m going to call the guard,” Robert uttered, sounding thoroughly annoyed. “We’re wasting our time here.”

  I raised a hand to restrain my impatient companion. “Wait. Let me at least try to reason with him.”

  Robert grunted and threw up his hands in disgust. “Go ahead, for all the good it’s likely to do. Personally, I wouldn’t spend another minute on this oaf. He’s nothing but a cold-blooded killer. It’s written all over his face.”

  “Ti idiot! I not kill lady,” Serkov declared, his booming voice startling us both. “Not kill reporter, too. Police lie!”

  “Mr. Serkov,” I said, searching for a way to reach this stubborn man. “You’ve been accused of committing two brutal murders. You claim you’re not guilty of these charges. However, if you’re to have any hope of proving your innocence, you’re going to require an attorney. Your sister has asked me to represent you.”

  “Not need attorney!” He gestured around the cell with contempt. “Police know they lie. Let me out of here.”

  This statement was so outrageous, I was temporarily struck dumb. Robert suffered no such inability to voice his opinion.

  “You’re talking complete rubbish, Serkov,” he bellowed, his Scottish r’s becoming ever more pronounced as his temper escalated. “Furthermore, you’re in total ignorance of our laws if you think the authorities are going to smile and allow you to walk out of here a free man.” He stepped forward, until he towered over the annoyingly self-assured man who sat unmoving on the cot. “Let me explain what’s going to happen to you. You’re going to be tried in a court of law, where you’ll almost certainly be found guilty. You’ll then be sentenced to hang for your crimes at the end of a rope.”

  Serkov dismissed Robert with a curt wave of his hand and what sounded like a rude Russian curse. “Durak! Go, both of you. I no need attorney. Police let me go.” As if to punctuate this declaration, Serkov dredged back in his throat, harked up some phlegm, and spat it at Robert. The disgusting spittle stuck to Robert’s coat, then began to run down his lapel.

  “Why, you miserable, no-account—” Robert shouted, lunging at the Russian.

  I hastily stepped between the two men, holding my irate companion back with two hands and a warning look. “Robert, stop! He isn’t worth the aggravation. You were right: We’re wasting our time here.” When I was certain he had his temper under control, I went to the cell door and called out for the jailer. “Mr. Vere, we’re ready to leave now.”

  When I heard Vere’s jaunty whistle coming toward the cell, I turned back to the prisoner. “Mr. Campbell’s right: You’re the fool, Mr. Serkov. You are in grave trouble, yet you choose to hide your head in the sand and hope that it will go away. I assure you, however, that much as you might wish it to be true, no one is going to allow you to walk out that door.”

  Behind me, I heard the scrape of a key in the lock, and once again the cell door clanged open.

  “Uydi ot suda. Throw them out!” Serkov ordered the jailer. “And bring food. I eat now.”

  “Like hell you will,” Vere told the Russian. “You’ll get your food at noon, like everyone else.”

  “Right annoying yob he is,” the guard said, ignoring Serkov’s angry leer. “Orders us around like he was the Emperor Norton hisself, God rest his soul,” he went on, referring to San Francisco’s most beloved character, the self-proclaimed Emperor of the United States and Protector of Mexico, who had died the previous year. “What did you go and say to this here lady, you ornery varmint?” he snapped at Serkov. “You just sit there nice and quiet like and shut yer cussed trap—beggin’ yer pardon, miss.”

  But Robert had already hustled me out of Serkov’s cell. We heard the door bang shut behind us, and once again our loquacious guard kept up a steady stream of conversation as he led us back to the front of the jail.

  “These damn foreigners—beggin’ yer pardon, miss—think they can come over here and take over the place. Well, they’re in fer a hell of a surprise, I’ll tell ya that—beggin’ yer pardon, miss. And that dad-blame sister of his—what calls herself a clair . . . clairvint or somethin’ like that—ain’t much better. Acts like she’s the bloody queen of Sheba.”

  “Clairvoyant,” I said, correcting him, but the jailer’s capricious mind had already changed directions.

  “And how about those crazy women who go around callin’ themselves a temper somethin’ or other?”

  “Are you referring to the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union?” I asked. The group had recently held their second annual convention at the Young Men’s Christian Association Hall here in the city, and were beginning to make a name for themselves—a most unpopular name in some quarters, I’m sorry to say.

  “That’s right,” Vere agreed with a wide grin. “Tryin’ to stop a bloke from havin’ a horn or two after a hard day’s work. Mind you now, I ain’t talkin’ about gettin’ corned or nothin’ like that. Just a grog or two, or maybe some old orchard is all I’m sayin’. I ask you now, where’s the harm in that? Now my Annie—that’s the girl I’m gonna marry soon as I’ve saved enough to rent us a decent room—no, my Annie don’t hold with all that temperance twaddle. A man deserves a taste of whiskey after workin’ ten, twelve hours, that’s what my Annie says. Finest, prettiest girl yer ever gonna find is my Annie.” He turned to Robert. “Now then, you agree with me, don’t you, sir? About havin’ a nip or two now and again, I mean?”

  Robert was about to answer (in support of Vere’s opinions on this subject, I’m sure), when we were met by Lieutenant Ahern, who appeared to be on his way to one of the cells.

  “Miss Woolson, Mr. Campbell.” He looked taken aback to find us there. “And what sort of business brings you to our fair jail, may I ask?”

  Before either Robert or I could answer, Cecil Vere piped up. “They been to see that worthless Russki. You know, the one what killed the old lady and the newspaper feller?”

  Lieutenant Ahern could not hide his surprise and growing misgivings. “Dmitry Serkov? Now why would you be wanting to visit that nasty piece of work?”

  I was in no mood to beat around the bush. The sooner Robert and I were out of this horrible place the better. “Are you quite certain that Dmitry Serkov is Darien Moss’s killer, Lieutenant? Or that he murdered Mrs. Reade in the park two days ago?”

  Lieutenant Ahern’s bushy eyebrow’s rose and he regarded me as if I’d suddenly gone mad. “Of course I’m sure. I wouldn’t have arrested the sod if I didn’t think he was guilty as sin!” He stopped and took a breath, obviously trying to contain his quick temper. When he continued, his voice took on a condescending tone. “You’re a proper young lady, Miss Woolson. Be grateful you’re not familiar with the seamier side of life that I’m forced to deal with every day. Believe me when I tell you that Serkov is as mean and ruthless a scoundrel as they come. But I’m giving you my word he’ll be getting exactly what’s coming to him. Oh, yes, he’ll pay dearly for his crimes.”

  I caught Robert’s eye and the obvious warning he was trying to send me. I chose to ignore it. “Does that mean you’ve closed the murder investigation, Lieutenant Ahern? You’re no longer looking at other suspects for Mrs. Reade’s and Mr. Moss’s murders?”

  “Now why in the name of all the saints should I be doing that?” he responded, once again showing signs of impatience. “Didn’t I just tell you that Dmitry Serkov is our murderer, plain and simple?”

  “He claims he’s innocent,” I said, unwilling to let the matter drop so easily. “In fact, Mr. Serkov seems convinced you’ll soon realize your mistake and allow him to go free.”

  Ahern’s face turned red. “Oh, he does, does he? Well, let me tell you that’s just so much claptrap, girlie. Mark my word, that man will be swinging from the end of a rope before Christmastime. And that’s a promise I mean to keep!”

  Despite his growing agitation, I doggedly pressed on. “All right, Lieutenant, but tell me this. Why would Dmitry Serkov attack his own niece?”

  “Sarah!” Robe
rt protested. He took my arm and tried to nudge me toward the door. “We’re taking up the lieutenant’s time. I’m sure he has other matters to attend to.”

  “And not one of them having to do with the murders Dmitry Serkov is accused of committing,” I retorted. “I’ll admit he’s not a particularly agreeable man, but that doesn’t necessarily make him a murderer.”

  Ahern was now thoroughly angry. I was standing in his domain, challenging his abilities as a police officer. That kind of audacity was too much for the man to endure without getting back some of his own.

  “You’d best see to the dirt that’s lying beneath your own prying nose, young lady,” he spat out, his face now scarlet with rage. “Starting with that know-it-all brother of yours—Frederick, is it?—the one who somehow managed to get himself elected to the state senate.”

  It was my turn to look startled. “Frederick? What about Frederick? I didn’t even realize you knew him?”

  “I’m happy to say I’ve so far managed to avoid meeting him,” Ahern shot back. “But I know of him, missy. And what I know can be summed up by saying the man’s a first-class idiot. I’m warning you that if that brother of yours isn’t more careful in his political dealings, he just may find himself a resident of city jail. Along with your good friend Dmitry Serkov!”

  It was only then that I realized Cecil Vere was still in our company, taking in every word we said with eager curiosity.

  “I swear you’re the beatingest female I ever met, Miss Woolson,” he declared as soon as Ahern was well out of hearing range. A broad grin extended across his jovial face. “Gosh dang it, you sure as hell settled his hash—beggin’ yer pardon, miss. By God if you didn’t!”

  With a snort of delight, he slapped his side as he left us to follow the lieutenant back into the bowels of the jailhouse. We could still hear his laughter echoing back to us as we excited the building.

  “What do you suppose Ahern meant by that remark about your brother Frederick?” Robert asked once we were outside. “Not that you didn’t provoke the man beyond endurance.”

  “If by provoking you mean demanding that our police force be held accountable for their actions, then I plead guilty.” I grew serious, unable to hide my concern about the lieutenant’s inexplicable warning. “I have no idea what he meant about Frederick, though. I wish I did.”

  “I admit Frederick isn’t my favorite member of your family, Sarah. Still, I find it hard to believe he’d be involved in anything criminal. To be honest, I’ve never considered him—”

  “Bright enough?” I said, finishing for him. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with Frederick’s brain. It’s just that his prejudices and consuming ambition all too often take precedence over good sense.”

  “So, what are you going to do about it?”

  “I’m going to pay a visit to my brother’s house tonight and ask him, of course.”

  Robert and I just had time for an early lunch before leaving for our respective offices, I for my second meeting with Mrs. Alexandra Sechrest, and Robert to work on the new case he’d been assigned. While we ate, I speculated aloud about Serkov’s insistence that he had no need for an attorney. Even more inexplicable was his belief that he was going to be let out of jail without so much as a hearing.

  “The man obviously has no idea about criminal procedure in this country,” Robert said. “Believe me, he’ll come to his senses quick enough when they handcuff him and lead him into the courtroom.”

  “Or maybe he just doesn’t want a female attorney,” I speculated dryly. “That certainly wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “Who knows? As far as I’m concerned, you’re damn lucky he turned you down. That’s a case even the most experienced lawyer in San Francisco couldn’t win, male or not.”

  Maybe Robert was right, I thought. I might not personally believe the disagreeable Russian was a murderer, but it might be impossible to convince a jury of his innocence. In any event, I didn’t look forward to informing Madame Karpova that her brother had declined my services.

  I decided to use what time we had left to update him on what Samuel had discovered about Darien Moss and his missing box of incriminating evidence.

  “So, presumably Serkov has them now,” Robert ventured over his second cup of coffee.

  “Perhaps—if he’s the murderer,” I countered. “Don’t forget, Samuel said no one noticed a stranger at the newspaper that night. I can’t imagine Serkov sneaking in there without being seen. Or into the Baldwin Hotel, for that matter. As far as I’m concerned, this provides us with even more reason to question his guilt.”

  “Not necessarily. Maybe the killer didn’t take them after all, but someone on the Informer staff. The papers Moss supposedly kept in that box would make for very interesting reading. I doubt there’s a reporter at that newspaper who wouldn’t pay a pretty price to step into Moss’s shoes now that he’s gone.”

  “You realize, of course, that information would also make for very profitable blackmail. On the other hand, anyone who attempted blackmail now, after two people have already been murdered, would have to be either very brave or very stupid.” I pushed aside my plate and sipped at my own coffee. “No, I think it’s more likely the killer got to that box first. The real killer, I mean. Not Serkov.”

  “Come on, Sarah, Sergeant Lewis hinted he’d found evidence suggesting that Moss planned a series of damaging articles about Madame Karpova and her family.”

  “Yes, among others. We have no idea how many victims he was preparing to expose.” I leaned across the table and lowered my voice, although the restaurant was so crowded and noisy that it was doubtful anyone could have overheard our conversation. “Consider this. What if the killer stole any incriminating documents he found pertaining to himself, and deliberately left behind any evidence that pointed toward Dmitry as being the killer?”

  “That doesn’t sound very likely.”

  “Robert, admit it. It would be a very clever ploy to set the police off in the wrong direction.”

  “All right, I suppose it’s possible, although I still say it’s highly improbable.

  I was delighted he was at least willing to consider my theory. “That’s why I feel it’s so important to keep an open mind about the investigation. If Serkov does turn out to be the killer, I’ll be the first one to congratulate the police. If not—”

  “Then you won’t give up until you’ve found him. Or her,” he added with a smile. To my surprise, the smile turned into outright laughter. “To borrow a phrase from one of your admirers, Sarah, you really are the beatingest.”

  I had no idea what to make of this curious comment. “If you’re referring to Cecil Vere, I didn’t understand half of what that man said.”

  “Don’t be naïve. Cecil Vere heartily dislikes Serkov, but he finds you irresistible.” He finished his coffee and reached for the bill before I could snatch it up first. “As a matter of fact, despite your obstinacy, your infernal prying, and the fact that you invariably blurt out whatever comes into your head, regardless of the consequences, I admit that there are times when I find you irresistible, too.”

  I stared in astonishment at Robert’s back as he rose to pay the bill. What in heaven’s name, I wondered, did he mean by that?

  Mrs. Sechrest arrived at my office promptly at two o’clock. This time, I was ready to offer her fresh tea and a dish of assorted cookies and cakes. As she nibbled on a piece of peppermint cake, I took the opportunity to study my new client. I was not entirely happy with what I saw. For one thing, she appeared to have lost weight just in the few days since our last visit, and there were dark, puffy circles beneath her eyes. Her complexion was pale and drawn, and despite her efforts to cover them up with a brushing of powder, her right cheek and mouth showed unmistakable signs of recent bruising.

  “Are you still determined to go through with the divorce, Mrs. Sechrest?” I asked when she had finished picking at her cake.

  She hesitated, and I could see she was frightened. “A
ctually, I’m not sure. I just don’t know if I can do it.”

  “And why is that? Has something happened since our last meeting?”

  “Yes,” she replied in a small voice. “I’m afraid it has.” She rubbed a finger lightly across the purple discolorations on her face.

  “Is that the extent of your injuries?” I asked.

  Without answering, she undid the top four buttons on her shirtwaist. Pulling back the material, she exposed several dark red-and-purple bruises on her upper chest.

  I was so unnerved by this display of violence that it was necessary to clear my throat before I could speak. “Mrs. Sechrest, when did this happen?”

  “Two nights ago,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “There are more bruises on my stomach and upper thighs. Will you need to examine those, as well?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary.” I tried to keep the revulsion out of my voice. How could any man inflict injuries like this on a woman? “You said you were staying at Mrs. Fowler’s home for abused women. I assume you’re still there?”

  “Yes. I’d vowed never to see my husband alone again if I could possibly help it. But Luther sent a message to the safe house. It said he felt badly about taking the boys from me, and was willing to allow me to visit them.” There was a catch in Alexandra’s voice. “I tried to convince him to bring the children to see me at a nearby park, but he refused. In the end, I—” She looked up, as if willing me to understand. “I so longed to see them, Miss Woolson. In the end, I felt I must take the chance.”

  “And did Mr. Sechrest allow you to visit your boys?”

  She shook her head, no longer able to hold back the tears. “No. He just threatened me again that if I did not agree to remain at home, he’d ensure that I never saw my children again. When I refused, he—that’s when he tore off my clothes and beat me. He—he did other things, as well. He claimed I was his wife and that he could use me in any way he wished.”

  “What happened after that?” I asked, controlling with great effort the anger boiling inside me.