The Cliff House Strangler

by Shirley Tallman

  “As a matter of fact, I was. The hansom driver claims the senator became impatient, paid his fare, and got out to walk, claiming he could make better time on foot.”

  “How far was he from Washington Square at that point?”

  “That’s what I wanted to know, so I checked it out.” He consulted his notes. “Gaylord left the cab on Clay and Grant streets, which is approximately two-thirds of a mile from Washington Square, and a straight shot down Stockton Street. Even with lunch-hour traffic, I managed to walk it in less than ten minutes. I’ll be generous and give Gaylord fifteen minutes at the outside.”

  I did some mental calculations. “So, fifteen minutes to walk to Washington Square, a few minutes to change into his Serkov outfit, another ten minutes to kill Mrs. Reade, then change back into his regular clothes and walk to the restaurant. Where was he meeting the congressmen, by the way?”

  “Giuseppe’s on Pacific Avenue. I walked there from Washington Square in fifteen minutes. Add up the times and—”

  “He could easily have murdered Theodora Reade and made it to the restaurant in an hour. So Senator Gaylord remains on the list. Dash it all, Samuel, I was hoping we’d be able to eliminate some of these people. What about Nicholas Bramwell? Can we at least rule him out?”

  “Possibly. I used the excuse that we belonged to the same club to visit his house—he still lives with his parents, by the way. He wasn’t home, but I did see his mother. I made up some story about his failing to show up for lunch with me the afternoon of Mrs. Reade’s death, and his mother informed me he’d been ill with fever and ague that day and was confined to his bed.”

  “Would she be willing to swear to that?”

  “Ah, therein lies the rub. Mrs. Bramwell admits she was at a charity affair most of the afternoon.”

  I threw up my hands in frustration. “So he could have evaded the servants, slipped from the house, murdered Mrs. Reade, and been back in his sickbed when his mother returned.” I felt a sudden ache developing between my eyes. “And Dmitry Serkov?” I asked with resignation.

  “According to the desk clerk at their hotel, the Russian went out in the morning and didn’t return until late that afternoon. For what it’s worth, he believes Madame Karpova and Yelena spent most of the day in their rooms.”

  He folded his notes and placed them back in his pocket. “That’s about it. I didn’t have time to check on the women. But I can’t seriously imagine any of them garroting either of the victims.”

  “No, I can’t, either. Well, so much for culling down our list of suspects.”

  He refilled our coffee cups, then leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “All right, little sister, enough about clairvoyants and murders. Tell me why you’re worried about dear old Frederick.”

  Briefly, I told him what Ahern had said about Frederick watching his political dealings. When I’d finished, Samuel was staring at me in amused disbelief. “He said that about Frederick? Our Frederick?”

  “I know, I had the same reaction. I spoke to Freddie about it that very night—actually last night. Good Lord! So much has happened since then that it seems ages ago. Anyway, he didn’t appear particularly upset. In fact, he accused me of making the whole thing up just to annoy him.”

  Samuel smiled. “Quite honestly, Sarah, if I didn’t know you better, I might think you’d made it up, too. The very idea of prim and proper Frederick getting himself involved in anything the slightest bit shady is ludicrous.”

  “I’m afraid there’s more.” I told him about finding Frederick’s name on the visitors’ list at city jail that afternoon. “I can’t believe he had anything to do with Serkov’s murder, but what could have prompted him to visit the jail in the first place? Taken with Ahern’s remark about his dubious political dealings, I have to wonder what Freddie’s gotten himself into. To be honest, I’m really worried. You know the old saying, Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

  “Actually, the correct quote is from John Lyly’s Euphues: ‘There can be no great smoke arise, but there must be some fire.’ But I take your meaning.”

  “I can’t believe he’d knowingly become involved in anything illegal. But what if he thought what he was doing was perfectly honest and aboveboard?”

  “Who knows,” Samuel said. “Sadly, it wouldn’t be the first time he’s allowed ambition to stand in the way of common sense. I gather you plan to confront him about it.”

  “Yes, tomorrow. I’m going to try to catch him at his office downtown; then I’ll go straight to the jail to see Madame Karpova.”

  “Busy day.” His look was quizzical. “By the way, George tells me you went to his station today and looked over Moss’s diary. What did you find?”

  “Good Lord! I can’t believe that totally slipped my mind.” I brought out my little notebook, opening it to where I’d copied Moss’s diary. The first page read:

  Samuel studied the page, then looked at me, baffled. “I’m not even sure what language this is written in. You don’t suppose he made it up, do you? As a kind of code?”

  “I don’t think so. Some of the characters remind me of the Greek alphabet, and vaguely of Egyptian hieroglyphics. Yet it’s different, too. I thought I’d show it to Mr. Ferrier at the public library tomorrow. Maybe he can make sense of it.”

  Samuel studied the page, then looked at me, baffled. “I’m not even sure what language this is written in. You don’t suppose he made it up, do you? As a kind of code?”

  “I don’t think so. Some of the characters remind me of the Greek alphabet, and vaguely of Egyptian hieroglyphics. Yet it’s different, too. I thought I’d show it to Mr. Ferrier at the public library tomorrow. Maybe he can make sense of it.”

  Samuel yawned. “You do have a full day. You’d better make an early night of it.”

  Naturally, that caused me to yawn, as well. Then, as I drew breath to ask him one last favor, he held up a hand and smiled.

  “Yes, little sister, you don’t even have to ask. First thing tomorrow morning I’ll start looking into the background of every person who was present at that séance, including Darien Moss.” He chuckled. “Especially Darien Moss. I can’t wait to find out how he came to write his notes in those glorified hen scratches. It ought to make a great story.”

  San Francisco’s first public library had opened just the year before, and was located on Bush Street, between Kearny and Dupont. The rented quarters were less commodious than one might have desired, but it was a decided improvement over having no library at all.

  It was my opinion that the best thing about the new facility was its librarian, Mr. Alvis Ferrier, a small, fussy man with horn-rimmed spectacles perched upon his sharp beak of a nose. A Harvard graduate, Mr. Ferrier was extremely knowledgeable and persevering, almost to a fault. The more obtuse and difficult the inquiry, the more he poured through his books, his “friends,” as he called them, until he came upon the desired information. I entered the library that morning, counting on the little man’s seemingly inexhaustible curiosity to decipher Darien Moss’s “hen scratches.”

  I was not disappointed. Almost immediately, Mr. Ferrier confirmed my guess that the notes had been written in a Semitic language. After thumbing through several of his ‘friends,’ he informed me with satisfaction that the text had been written in the Coptic language.

  “Coptic is the common colloquial language of Egypt,” he explained. “The Coptic alphabet is based on the Greek alphabet, but it contains extra letters for sounds that are not used in the former language. These are derived from the demotic script, which was used to write the Egyptian language.”

  Warming to the subject, he went on to narrate the history of the Coptic language, which dated back to the Hellenistic period, when Alexander the Great invaded Egypt in 322 B.C. After some ten minutes of this, I took advantage of a momentary break in this narrative to ask if the Coptic language was still used today.

  “It is almost exclusively employed now by the Coptic Church,” Mr. Ferrier said. “Alt
hough over the past decade, it has been experiencing something of a revival.”

  “Then would it be possible for you to translate this text for me?” I asked, showing him the rest of my notes.

  I thought for a moment he was actually going to rub his hands together in glee. Nodding his small birdlike head, he said, “When would you require them back?”

  “As soon as possible, Mr. Ferrier. I assure you it is a matter of the greatest urgency.”

  The eager gleam in his eyes reminded me of a child about to open his stocking on Christmas morning. “I shall give the matter my full attention,” he promised. “Would it be possible for you to come back for it, say Monday morning? That will give me the weekend to work on the translations.”

  “Yes, that would suit me very well,” I agreed, feeling the thrill of victory within my grasp. “I would appreciate it if you would keep these notes to yourself, however. They are of a very sensitive nature.”

  “Naturally, I will take no one into my confidence, Miss Woolson. You may set your mind at ease on that point.”

  I exited the library with a sense of elation. I cautioned myself not to get my expectations up too high, but it was impossible not to hope that the notes held a vital key to Moss’s murder.

  In the meantime, I had several more errands to run, starting with a trip to my brother Frederick’s office on Market and Geary streets. Since his official headquarters were in Sacramento—California’s state capital—the Market Street accommodation was mainly utilized as a home base, where he and his supporters—unbelievably, he actually had a sizable group of followers, who should have known better but apparently didn’t—might plan election campaigns, entertain constituents, and meet with visiting dignitaries.

  It did, however, have the advantage of being located in what many San Franciscans considered to be the heart of the city. My brother’s front window boasted a view of Lotta’s Fountain—a gift from the volatile actress, Lotta Crabtree, who had fallen in love with our fair city—the new Geary Street cable car line, and the fashionable and exceedingly plush Palace Hotel.

  Unfortunately, it seemed that I had once again missed my brother. According to Mr. Whelan, who stood guard over Frederick’s domain with a glib tongue and a steel grip—for anyone foolish enough to try to push past him—my brother had left the previous day for Sacramento. (Why Woodbury hadn’t informed me of this the night before was anyone’s guess!) Senator Woolson was not expected back until the following Monday. I was free to call then if I wished. What I wished, I thought as I took my leave of Mr. Whelan, was to speak to my brother now, not next Monday!

  Since my Sutter Street office was only a few blocks away, I decided to walk instead of catching a horsecar. The morning was sunny and brisk, with no sign of the unseasonable fog that had plagued the city for the past several days. I took in a deep breath of fresh air and, despite the present difficulties which occupied my thoughts, felt a thrill of pleasure. It seemed as if autumn had finally arrived, and with it the warm, sun-drenched weeks San Franciscans looked forward to all year. Why was it, I wondered, that even our most dire problems seem more bearable when the sun is shining?

  While I walked, an idea began forming in my mind. It might achieve nothing, but there was always the possibility I might find something I had originally overlooked. The thought cheered me, as coming up with a plan of action always did. As far as I was concerned, a well-ordered offense was always preferable to sitting back and allowing fate to buffer one helplessly about.

  After a refreshing cup of coffee and mouth-watering apple pandowdy with my downstairs neighbor, Mrs. Goodman, I ascended the stairs to my office and settled down to work on the Sechrest case. With Papa’s permission, I had borrowed from his library several law books pertaining to divorce and child custody. Unfortunately, they were just as vague and ill-defined as those I had found at the courthouse. I decided that the state of California had much work to do if it were to reform and standardize these laws, particularly those affecting the children caught in the middle of their parents’ battles.

  I was jotting down notes on how we might best counter Luther Sechrest’s accusations concerning my client’s so-called drunkenness and erratic behavior, when there was a knock on the door and Robert peered in.

  “Truce?” he asked, waving a white handkerchief at me. “I come in peace.”

  The last thing I intended to do was laugh at the irritating man, so naturally that was precisely what I proceeded to do. “You’ve got a nerve, Robert Campbell,” I said, realizing I had pretty much ruined any chance of sounding annoyed. “Come in and sit down. Actually, I was thinking of sending you a note by messenger.”

  “Why?” He gave me a suspicious look. “I thought you weren’t speaking to me.”

  “Professionally, I’m not. But this is personal—well, in a manner of speaking at least. I was wondering if you’d care to ride out to the Cliff House with me tomorrow afternoon. I’d like to refresh my memory about one or two details from the other night. For obvious reasons, I’d prefer to have a gentleman accompany me.”

  “What sort of details?”

  “You needn’t look so worried. Everything was so chaotic the night Moss was strangled, I’m afraid I might have missed something. Since you were also there, I thought you could help me note any discrepancies.”

  “Do you really expect to find anything, Sarah, or is this a desperate last attempt to prove Dmitry Serkov innocent of Moss’s murder?” Before I could answer, he went on. “By the way, I was shocked to hear of his death yesterday, and that his sister had been arrested for his murder. I find the whole thing unbelievable.”

  “Actually, there’s more to the story than appeared in the papers,” I said. “But I’ll tell you about it on the drive to Land’s End. Will you accompany me?”

  He hesitated, then nodded. “All right, I’ll go. It’s probably nothing but a wild-goose chase, but I agree that you shouldn’t go there alone.”

  “Excellent. I think you’ll find the experience far more pleasant on a clear evening than during a thunderstorm.” Consulting the gold timepiece pinned to my shirtwaist, I realized it was growing late. I still intended to visit the jail before returning home for the day.

  “Eddie and I will pick you up at your boardinghouse tomorrow afternoon at five,” I told him, rising from my chair. “Perhaps we should plan on dining at the Cliff House, since it will be well after the dinner hour by the time we return to the city. I’ve heard that their food is actually quite decent.”

  I was reaching for my wrap, when Robert cleared his throat. “Sarah, wait. There’s something I need to discuss with you. It’s about the Sechrest case.”

  “Oh?” I sank back into my seat. I didn’t like the tone of his voice. Nevertheless, I endeavored to keep my manner composed. “Has your client finally decided to behave responsibly and return the boys to their mother?”

  “I’m afraid not.” His naturally ruddy complexion had turned an even deeper shade of red, and his r’s had become more pronounced, which only increased my unease. Whenever Robert was angry or nervous, his Scottish brogue always became more noticeable. “You’re not going to like this, Sarah, but I thought you should know. In light of some unsavory news, Mr. Sechrest has reluctantly decided that he must alert the court to the fact that Mrs. Sechrest is an unfit mother.”

  “What!” I exclaimed. “That’s preposterous.”

  “Sarah, for God’s sake, calm down. Yelling at me isn’t going to change my client’s mind. Let’s try to discuss this rationally.”

  “How can I possibly remain calm when Luther Sechrest is accusing my client of being an incompetent mother? Mrs. Sechrest was right. Her husband is a cad of the lowest order.”

  “Believe me, he’s doing this in the best interests of his children.”

  “Of course he is,” I replied scornfully. “On what possible grounds is he basing this outrageous allegation?”

  Robert did not immediately answer. In fact, his expression clearly indicated that he
sincerely wished he could avoid giving me any answer at all. For the first time, I truly understood what Alexandra Sechrest had meant when she told me at our first meeting that we must prepare ourselves for a bitter battle. Thanks to Luther Sechrest, it seemed that the battle had now been engaged.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Robert, spit it out. Whatever Sechrest told you about his wife will certainly turn out to be false, so there’s no reason for you to beat about the bush.”

  His face grew even redder, but finally, reluctantly, his blue-green eyes met mine. “He claims he can produce several witnesses who will testify that they saw Mrs. Sechrest—er, that is, they’ll swear that she was carrying on an affair with the boys’ tutor, Mr. Gideon Manning.”

  I fought to hide my shock. At all cost, I could not allow him to see my growing alarm. “This goes beyond outrageous. First, he accuses her of drinking, when he is, in fact, the drunkard. And now he has the effrontery to claim she carried on an illicit affair with her sons’ tutor? Is there no end to the man’s lies and treachery?”

  “Sarah, I—”

  “No, Robert,” I said. “Don’t sit there and try to defend the brute.” I took in a deep breath, then went on in a more controlled tone, “Have you questioned Mr. Manning for yourself? Or the witnesses, for that matter?”

  “Not yet. But I will.”

  “Good. Be sure to watch their eyes when they give you their answers. Luther Sechrest has some very unsavory men in his employ. I’m sure they wouldn’t scruple to substantiate anything their employer asked of them.”

  “Don’t you think you’re being a bit overdramatic?”

  “Believe me, I wish I were. I understand the court date has been set for a week from today.”

  “Yes, that’s what I was told.” His eyes searched my face. “What about our trip to the Cliff House? Do you still want me to go with you?”

  “I won’t lie to you,” I told him, striving to keep my temper under control. “I find Mr. Sechrest’s behavior unpardonably cruel. However, Joseph Shepard has assigned you to his case, and there is little you can do about it. I’ll do my best to confine my anger to the courtroom. I just wish you could view the matter with a more open mind.”