The Cliff House Strangler (15 page)

Madame Karpova drew herself bolt upright in her chair. “I tell you
I
make the decision. And I have chosen you!”

I decided that a compromise was in order. “Why don’t I visit your brother tomorrow morning, Madame Karpova. After we’ve discussed the charges against him, we can decide on how best to plan his defense.”

“But you will act as his attorney,” she persisted.

“Yes, if that’s what he wishes,” I replied.

“Good. It is what he desires. I tell you so.” She reached into her reticule and took out a lovely gold medallion attached to what appeared to be a solid gold chain. “Here,” she said, pushing it across my desk. “This belonged to my mother. Now you will take it to represent Dmitry.”

I picked up the pendant. The piece was surprisingly heavy and appeared to be very old. The front was beautifully decorated with
hand-engraved filigree, while the back had been inscribed with several words I did not recognize.

Noticing my confusion, the woman explained proudly, “It was a gift from Maria Alexandrovna, the wife of Czar Alexander, Lord have mercy upon his soul.” Executing a hasty sign of the cross, she continued. “The czar was brutally murdered earlier this year by a student revolutionary. That is Alexandrovna’s name on the back of the pendant, engraved in Russian.” She beamed triumphantly. “You see, I am willing to pay very well to free my brother from prison.”

“I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that, Madame Karpova. Bail is almost never set in murder cases. And as I said, I will have to speak to Mr. Serkov before anything is settled.” I tried to give her back the pendant, but she stood, indicating to her daughter that the interview was at an end.

“If you must speak to my brother before taking his case, you will please do so first thing tomorrow morning.” She made this pronouncement as if issuing a royal command. “It is my wish that you keep the medallion. Dmitry will agree that you are the best attorney for him, and then it will be settled, as you say.”

She rose to her feet, then suddenly paused, staring at the wall behind my desk as if in some sort of trance. “You will please tell your sister that her new child will be a boy,” she unexpectedly proclaimed. “And that he will be healthy and very clever.” She chuckled, as if she found this amusing. “Yes, just like his papa. Very clever and very generous.”

With that, the psychic swept out of my office, pulling her daughter, who had not uttered a single word throughout the entire consultation, behind her.

T
he last visitor of the day walked through my office door just as I was about to depart for Rincon Hill, and what I hoped would be a quiet evening given to constructive contemplation of the day’s surprising events.

“Samuel,” I said with some surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Good evening to you, too, little sister,” he said, grinning as he helped me on with my wrap. “I have come to take you to Gobey’s Oyster Parlor for dinner, and then to the theater.”

Straightening my wrap evenly across my shoulders, I eyed my brother with fond amusement. “That can only mean one thing. Whatever lady you currently favor has canceled at the last moment, forcing you to beg the company of your spinster sister. What’s the name of the play, by the way?”

“It’s a revival of
Snowflake and the Seven Pigmies
,” he said, holding the door open for me. “The reviews caution young ladies who are ‘faint of heart’ not to attend, as the ‘tragic story will tear at the soul of all but the most stalwart.’ ”

“What? For God’s sake, Samuel, tell me you’re not serious.”

“As a matter of fact, I’m not,” he said, laughing that his joke had brought about such a splendid response. “Although that old saw really has been taken out of its well-deserved mothballs and is showing at the Tivoli Gardens. Actually, I have tickets to
Richard the Third
at the California Theatre. It’s supposed to be an excellent production.”

“Yes, that’s what I’ve heard.” I felt a thrill of excitement. Suddenly, a quiet evening at home had lost its appeal. I hadn’t been to the theater in months, and, brother or not, Samuel was excellent company. “But look at me,” I said, indicating my office attire. “I’m hardly dressed for the theater, especially the California Theatre.”

He cast a critical eye over my dark green two-piece suit, one of several garments in varying styles and colors I’d had specially made to coincide with the opening of my new office.

“Hmmm. It’s true you aren’t going to set any fashion trends, but if you redo your hair a bit—and wash that ink off your fingers—I think you’ll be passable. At any rate, there’s no time to go home and change. As it is, we have to hurry if we’re to have dinner before the performance. Unless you’d prefer to catch a late supper after the play.”

I shook my head; I was far too hungry (having missed my lunch
with Robert) to wait until nearly midnight to eat. “No, Gobey’s it is. I’m famished!”

Dinner at Gobey’s “Ladies and Gents Oyster Parlor” was always a treat, and my boiled terrapin was excellent. While we ate, I told Samuel about Madame Karpova’s strange prediction that afternoon concerning Charles and Celia’s new baby.

“Has she ever met either of them?” my brother asked, looking surprised.

“No, I’m sure she hasn’t.”

“Then where in the world did she—”

“I have no idea, Samuel. Frankly, I find it a little chilling—the way she just came out with it, I mean. We hadn’t been talking about my family, or the baby, or anything of a personal nature. She just blurted it out, like it was the most natural thing in the world.”

“Are you going to tell Celia?”

I thought about this. Everything Madame Karpova had said about the new baby was positive. Yet somehow I hesitated to say anything about it to our sister-in-law. Things had been going so smoothly during her pregnancy; I didn’t want to risk upsetting her over something that might well turn out to be complete drivel, as Robert would say.

“I don’t think so. At least not yet.” I smiled at my brother, suddenly anxious to change the subject. “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been able to learn about Darien Moss.”

My brother shook his head. “All I can say is that you live a very interesting life, Sarah, especially for a woman.” He laughed and held up his hand to stave off my retort. “All right, all right, to business, then. I’ve wired several friends in New York about the fellow, but they’re having a difficult time piecing together his background. It seems clear that at some point preceding his relocating to California, Moss must have changed his name. There’s certainly no record of a Darien Moss being born in New Jersey within the time lines we’ve established. Of course, he may have been born in another state, or outside the United States, for that matter.

“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.”