The Cliff House Strangler

by Shirley Tallman

  Getting to his feet, he said, “It’s a tragic situation for everyone involved.”

  “Yes, it is,” I agreed. “I’ll see you at five o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

  He nodded, then turned and, without another word, walked out the door.

  During the horsecar ride to city jail, I made an effort to push my concern over Madame Karpova, and, of course, my brother Frederick, to the back of my mind. Instead, I contemplated Luther Sechrest and this nasty turn of events. Was it possible my client had deliberately deceived me? I’d specifically asked her if there was anything in her past that her husband might use against her in a custody battle. She had assured me there was nothing. Either her husband was truly the lying, despicable beast she had described or Alexandra had allowed her shame over some indiscretion to override honesty. Either way, with the divorce hearing only a week away, we would have to discuss the situation frankly as soon as possible.

  All the tension of the previous day settled back upon me as I entered the jail. I wondered if any progress had been made in locating Serkov’s killer, then realized with a sinking heart that the police probably hadn’t even tried. As far as they were concerned, his murderer was already in custody. Why bother to look any further?

  I found an agitated Paul Alston on duty at the front desk. Without stating a reason, he once again denied me admittance. Really, I was in no mood to go through this nonsense again.

  “See here, Sergeant Alston,” I began. “I have every right to see my client. I insist that you—”

  The steel door leading to the cell blocks flew open and Sergeant Jackson came hurrying out. He was in such a rush that he seemed not to notice me standing at the desk.

  “Sergeant Jackson?” I called out. “What’s wrong? Has there been more trouble?”

  “Oh, it’s you, Miss Woolson,” he said, belatedly recognizing me. He regarded me in some distress. “Yes, miss. I’m afraid it’s Mrs. Karpova. She’s—”

  I did not wait to hear the rest, but pushed past him through the still-open door, all but running toward Olga Karpova’s cell. When I arrived there, I found her cell door wide open. I hurried forward, only to stop short, horrified by the scene spread out before me like a grisly illustration from the pink pages of the Police Gazette.

  It was Madame Karpova. She lay sprawled on the floor of her cell, eyes closed, face blue. A torn piece of white material was knotted tightly around her neck.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Auniformed officer knelt next to her body, his large square fingers fumbling to ease his penknife through the knots tied at her throat.

  “She tried to kill herself,” he said, glancing up at me, his broad face covered with perspiration. “Must have been feelin’ guilty for killin’ her brother. Still, she shouldn’t oughta have done this.”

  I stood frozen inside the doorway, my breath suspended as I stared down at the silent form. “Is she—” I couldn’t bring myself to say the word.

  “Dead? No, miss, least ways not yet.”

  His words seemed to release me from my spell, and I hurried inside and crouched down on the opposite side of the medium. “Here, let me help, Officer . . .”

  “Wolf, Miss, Jimmy Wolf.” Obviously grateful to be relieved of the responsibility, the guard handed me the knife. It was then I noticed how young he was, probably no more than nineteen or twenty. And his hands were shaking badly. No wonder he’d had so much difficulty trying to cut through the material; he was probably afraid he’d gouge her neck in the process.

  “How long has she been like this?” I asked, working my fingers between the twisted cloth and her throat in order to slice through the first knot.

  “I don’t know.” His voice was unsteady. “Sergeant Jackson cut her down soon as he saw her hangin’ from the window.” He nodded toward the barred window above our heads. The remainder of the stained white material, obviously the sheet covering the thin cot mattress, was hanging from one of the bars. “He’s gone to fetch the surgeon.”

  “Yes, I passed him as he was going out.” As I spoke, I cut the final knot and pulled the sheet free from Olga Karpova’s throat. The material appeared to have been hastily fastened, causing it to encircle her neck loosely. In all likelihood, I thought with a shiver, that was what saved her life. Instead of cutting off the air through her windpipe, the knot had lodged up against her throat. It was tight enough to render her unconscious, but not to end her life—at least not immediately.

  I gently raised Madame Karpova’s head and brought it to rest in my lap. Then I felt beneath her chin for a pulse. It took several frighteningly long moments before I detected a faint beat. But it was there. Thank God it was there!

  The doctor arrived about ten minutes later, closely followed by Sergeant Jackson and Lieutenant Ahern, who silently stepped inside the cell and studied the scene.

  He gave me a slight nod of acknowledgment as I moved aside to allow the surgeon access to his patient, then turned his attention to the sergeant. “When did it happen?”

  “I found her about half an hour ago, sir,” Jackson said. “She was barely alive when I cut her down.”

  Ahern shook his head. “Guilt, of course. Couldn’t live with the fact that she’d killed her own brother. Sad, but it happens.”

  I opened my mouth to protest this rush to judgment, then realized this was neither the time nor the place. Besides, it would have done no good. Ahern had been convinced of Olga Karpova’s guilt since Serkov’s death. I was sure that finding her like this only served to strengthen this conviction.

  We all watched as the physician examined Madame Karpova, confirming that she had escaped death primarily because she’d made a poor job of tying the knot around her neck. That and the fact that she’d been discovered so quickly. As it was, he was confidant she would make a full recovery. And no, despite my objections, he didn’t think there was any need to take her to a hospital. However, he promised to leave medicine for her throat, as well as laudanum to help her sleep.

  Lieutenant Ahern lingered behind after Jackson and Wolf carried the clairvoyant to the cot, then departed to attend to other duties. “Guilt does terrible things,” he said, gravely regarding her prone and silent form.

  “Yes, I’m sure it does,” I replied noncommittally, unwilling to be drawn into an argument I had no hope of winning. I was also reluctant, for the moment, to correct his assumption that Serkov was Madame Karpova’s brother. “If you don’t mind, Lieutenant, I’d like to stay here with my client until she regains consciousness.”

  “Of course, Miss Woolson,” he replied, agreeing more readily than I had expected. Or perhaps he was simply concerned what legal steps I might initiate if Madame Karpova died alone in her cell due to lack of proper medical supervision. Sometimes, I thought, it is a decided advantage having a father who is a superior court judge for the county of San Francisco. “Under the circumstances I think we can relax the rules a bit,” he went on. “If you need anything, just call out for one of the jailers.”

  It was dark outside by the time Madame Karpova finally opened her eyes. Indeed, she had been unconscious for so long, I began to fear that the doctor’s nonchalance about her condition might yet end up costing her life. Each passing minute had seemed like a lifetime as I’d sat watching her from the wooden chair.

  “Gde ya? O moya sheya,” she said in a hoarse whisper, reverting to her native Russian. She looked around the dingy cell in growing panic. “Gde ya?” she repeated, her dark eyes dilated in fear.

  I had no idea what she’d said, but I could guess. “It will be all right, Madame Karpova,” I murmured soothingly, rushing to her side.

  She turned her head to look at me, her frightened eyes gradually clearing as she recognized my face. “Miss Woolson?” Her voice was so low and raspy, I had to move my ear close to her mouth in order to catch the words.

  “Yes, I’m right here.”

  “What happened?” she managed to ask.

  “You’ve had an accident,” I told her gently,
not wishing to add to her alarm. “You were unconscious for a while. But you’re going to be fine now.”

  She reached a hand to her neck, then looked at me in confusion. “My throat,” she croaked, and closed her eyes in obvious pain. “Hurts. Can’t swallow.”

  “Shh,” I told her. “Don’t try to talk. I have some water here and a little soup, although I’m afraid it’s cold by now.”

  I helped her sit up, and she took several sips of water. She refused the soup, indicating without words that she felt a bit nauseous; then she lay back down upon the cot and closed her eyes. Although she was still very pale and her skin felt clammy to the touch, her color had vastly improved since she’d lain unconscious beneath the window.

  She was still for so long that I thought she had fallen asleep. But when I started to get up to move back to the chair, she weakly reached for my arm.

  “Please,” she whispered. “What happened?”

  I didn’t know what to say. If I told her she’d been found hanging by the neck from the bars on her cell window, how would she react? Would she suffer a relapse? It troubled me that she seemed to have no recollection of the attempted suicide. Surely if she’d been desperate enough to do away with herself, she’d remember tearing the mattress cover into strips, twisting them together, and tying them around her neck. She had kicked away the chair, until she’d hung helplessly a foot or so off the floor. How could anyone forget such an experience? On the other hand, perhaps memory loss was a common side effect when one came so close to death.

  “Tell me,” she repeated in a faint whisper.

  “Don’t you remember anything?”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, then slowly shook her head. “Ate lunch, then nothing.”

  “You don’t remember removing the mattress cover from your cot?”

  She looked at me blankly. “What?” She tried to raise her head, but the exertion proved too much, and she fell back down with a thin little cry. I wondered if the disgrace of trying to take her own life had pushed the ordeal out of her mind. If so, I thought it best if it stayed forgotten, at least until she was stronger.

  “Don’t upset yourself, Madame Karpova. We can discuss this later. Right now, you should try to get some sleep.”

  “Have to know!”

  “Shh. I’ll be back in the morning. We can talk about it then.”

  “Now!” Her voice, still very hoarse, was growing stronger, as was her grip on my arm. Despite her recent brush with death, her dominant personality was reasserting itself. I sighed. Obviously, she was going to be just as upset if I didn’t tell her.

  “Very well,” I said. “A guard found you hanging from the bars of your window, your mattress sheet tied around your neck. Everyone assumes you attempted suicide.”

  This time, she managed to pull herself nearly upright, staring at me in disbelief and mounting anger. “No!”

  Concerned that she would further harm her throat by this outburst, I reached for the bottle of laudanum the police surgeon had left. But before I could remove the stopper, she once again took hold of my arm, causing me to drop the spoon onto the floor.

  “No suicide!” she repeated.

  “Please, Madame Karpova, don’t excite yourself. I realize this is hard to take in, but that’s why your throat is so painful, and why it’s difficult for you to speak.”

  Without taking her eyes off me, she ran trembling fingers along her neck. When they reached the spot directly below her chin, she stopped. “Ah, bolit! Hurts.” She stared at me with wide eyes. “You are telling truth?”

  “Yes, I am.” Is it possible, I wondered, that she didn’t attempt suicide? But what other explanation could there be for what happened? Unless—Could it be that someone else tied those strips of sheet around her neck? “Tell me, Madame Karpova, what’s the last thing you remember?”

  She thought for a moment, then said in a breathy croak, “Eat lunch. Then sleepy—lay down to rest.”

  I considered this, but it made no sense. Even if she’d fallen asleep, surely she would have instantly awakened if someone had pulled her off the bed and tied the sheeting around her neck.

  “Are you a particularly sound sleeper, Madame Karpova?”

  “No,” she whispered. “Light. Hear every sound.”

  Stranger and stranger, I thought. No one could sleep through something like that. Yet if she was telling the truth about not attempting suicide, then someone had managed to pull off a very challenging maneuver. I was struck by a sudden idea. “What did you have for lunch?”

  “Jailer call it stew. And bread.”

  “Were you given something to drink?” I asked, pressing her for more information.

  She nodded painfully. “Coffee—strong coffee.”

  “And it was after eating and drinking your coffee that you became sleepy?”

  Again she nodded, but this time she did not attempt to speak.

  Good Lord, I thought. That must be why she has no memory of what happened. Whoever did this probably drugged the stew, or, more likely, her coffee. Then, when she was unconscious, they set the stage to make it appear as if she’d committed suicide. I said none of this aloud, of course, but she seemed to come to the same realization herself.

  “Who do this to me?”

  “That’s what I intend to find out.” I took one of her hands in my own. It was very cold and still trembling.

  “Before they . . . try again?” she whispered.

  I wouldn’t have put it so bluntly, but I saw no reason at this point not to be equally frank. “Yes.”

  She started to say something else but was stopped by a sudden fit of coughing. Pouring some laudanum into a spoon, I carefully guided it into her mouth.

  “Shh, don’t try to talk. An officer has been sent to get your daughter,” I continued. “She should be here soon. And I’m going to see about having one of the guards keep an eye on you during the night.”

  She clutched at my hand. “But can we trust—”

  “I think we can trust Cecil Vere,” I told her reassuringly. “I’m sure he’ll do everything possible to see that you’re safe.”

  I waited until Yelena arrived, accompanied by the officer who had fetched her from the hotel. The poor child was nearly hysterical to find her mother in such a condition. It required all of my efforts, and some little time, before I could convince the girl that her mother would be all right. When she’d finally calmed down, I left her sitting by her mother’s bedside, while I went in search of Cecil Vere. I was frustrated to find no sign of the jailer. When I spoke to Sergeant Jackson, he said Vere hadn’t shown up that afternoon for his regular shift, nor had he sent word to the jail explaining his absence.

  He listened dubiously when I told him my concern about my client’s safety. According to the sergeant, he’d seen this sort of thing too many times to believe it was anything but a suicide attempt. In the end, I had to be satisfied with his assurance that he would look in on Madame Karpova regularly during the night. Which was fine, I thought, as long as Sergeant Jackson didn’t turn out to be the killer.

  Just to be on the safe side, I found the young jailer, Jimmy Wolf, and he readily agreed to watch Madame Karpova, as well. Finally satisfied that I had done everything I could to safeguard my client for that night at least, I wearily left the jail and boarded a horsecar for home.

  The following morning, I was back at city jail by nine o’clock. To my surprise, Yelena had arrived a few minutes earlier. With her was Nicholas Bramwell, who motioned me aside as I passed through the antechamber.

  “Please, I’d like a word with you before you go inside,” he said quietly.

  “What is it?” I asked, following the young man away from the guard’s desk.

  His handsome face was filled with anger and concern.

  “Yelena is extremely distraught,” he began. “I can’t believe her mother could be so cruel. If she dies, that poor girl will be left in a strange country, with no one to look after her. You don’t think Madame Karpova
will try anything that foolish again, do you?”

  I studied his face. “Mr. Bramwell, I hope you’ll forgive me for asking such a personal question, but just how serious is your friendship with Yelena Karpova?”

  He regarded me with an expression of such boyish charm and sincerity, I could understand how this man might sweep any woman off her feet, much less a vulnerable young girl like Yelena.

  “Actually, I’m very fond of her, Miss Woolson, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.”

  “But your mother—”

  “Ah, yes, my mother.” His face took on a pained look. “She’s been determined for some time that I marry Miss Radburn.”

  “It seems that her determination has born fruit, since the two of you are engaged.”

  “I’m afraid that’s no longer the case,” he said, feigning a regret I felt certain he didn’t feel. “Aldora—er, Miss Radburn, I mean—decided to call off our engagement. Yesterday, as a matter of fact.”

  “Because of Yelena?”

  “I’m afraid so.” He sighed; then, as if making up his mind, he said, “Look here, it’s no use trying to pretend that I’m sorry about breaking it off. It was never my idea to get married so soon after school in the first place. Miss Radburn is a wonderful woman—she would make any man a fine wife. I just—well, I’m simply not ready to settle down yet.”

  “What about Yelena? Have you explained this to her?”

  Now he looked sheepish. “Not exactly. She’s aware that I like her very much, but I haven’t led her to believe I want to get married. She’s just seventeen, Miss Woolson, far too young to think of marriage.”

  “I quite agree with you.” I looked him in the eye. “I would hate to see that girl hurt, by you or by any other man. For her sake, Mr. Bramwell, be very certain that she understands your feelings and isn’t looking for a commitment you’re not prepared to make.”