The Cliff House Strangler (22 page)

Assuring the boy that tomorrow would be fine, I started up the stairs, when Mrs. Goodman called out to me from the door of her millinery shop.

“You’ve someone here to see you,” she informed me—needlessly, as it turned out, for Robert came out of the store to stand behind her. Since he was the last person I cared to see after our row that morning at the courthouse, I turned on my heel and continued up the stairs.

“Do you have time for a nice cup of tea?” my neighbor called up to me.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Goodman, but I have a good deal of work to finish before I leave for the day. Perhaps tomorrow.”

“I suppose this work you have to do concerns the Sechrest divorce,” Robert said, following me up the stairs to my office.

“As a matter of fact, it does. Actually, I’d prefer that you leave now, so that I can get on with it in private.”

Naturally, the stubborn man paid no attention. Entering the room behind me, he said, “This isn’t a social call, Sarah. I’ve conferred with Mr. Sechrest and he has offered his wife a truly generous proposal. In lieu of her regrettable drinking problem, my client has promised to provide her with the finest medical care available. No matter how long the treatment lasts, he promises to welcome her home upon its completion.”

He smiled, seemingly proud of Luther Sechrest’s munificent proposal. “There now, Sarah, even you can’t find fault with such a benevolent offer.”

“Not only can I find fault with it,” I replied, barely able to contain my temper, “but I heartily reject it as arrogant, self-serving, and entirely without merit. You disappoint me, Robert. I accept that you subscribe to some of the more prevalent male prejudices against women, but I always considered you to be honorable and fair-minded. Today, you have succeeded in dashing that perception. Without the slightest attempt to learn Mrs. Sechrest’s side of this issue, you have summarily judged her and found her to be guilty. All on the say-so of the man who has violently mistreated the poor woman for the past twelve years.”

I sat behind my desk and angrily picked up Mrs. Sechrest’s divorce papers. “I’ve made an attempt to separate my personal life from my professional one and not allow a court case to affect our friendship. However, since, as you say, this is not a social call, I would appreciate it if you would leave. As Mr. Sechrest’s counsel, it’s highly unprofessional for you to be standing there while I work on my client’s case.”

“Sarah Woolson, you are the most stubborn, narrow-minded woman I have ever had occasion to meet. At least have the decency to put Mr. Sechrest’s proposal to his wife. It is her decision to make, after all, not yours.”

“Naturally, I will inform her of her husband’s gracious offer to place her in an asylum, perhaps for the rest of her life, while he continues, unchallenged, to carry on with his drunken and violent behavior.”

Robert’s face turned very red. “Blast you,” he snapped, then spun around on his heel and slammed out the door.

Finally, and thankfully, alone, I bent to my task. However, before I’d spent little more than an hour on Mrs. Sechrest’s brief, the door to my office flew open and Eddie Cooper came running inside.

“You’ll never guess what happened at the jail, Miss Sarah!” he exclaimed, trying to catch his breath. “The whole place is talkin’ about it.”

“Eddie, calm down,” I said, trying not to show my own growing alarm. “What’s happened?”

“It’s that Russki feller, the one with the black beard and the shifty eyes. You know, the one what said he didn’t need no lawyer.”

“Mr. Serkov? What about him?”

“He’s been attacked, miss,” Eddie announced, his expression a mixture of horror and fascination. “That Serkov feller’s gone and got hisself stabbed!”

I
n his excitement, Eddie raced his brougham through crowded downtown streets, taking corners on two wheels, hitting every pothole, and generally tossing me about like a bowling pin in a ten-pin alley. In our chaotic wake, we left scores of angry drivers and pedestrians, most of them shouting unrepeatable expletives. When Eddie pulled his poor horse to a stop in front of the jail, I exited the carriage, skirts twisted, my hat and hair askew.

“Eddie, we’re going to have to sit down and have a serious discussion about your driving habits,” I told the boy, pushing my hat back onto my head and patting, probably futilely, at my mussed hair. “Before you kill us both!”

I entered the station but was informed by the officer on duty that it would be impossible for me to see my client.

After several minutes of fruitless argument, I asked if Lieutenant Ahern was there, hoping he might prove more reasonable.

“No, ma’am,” the man replied. “The lieutenant left word he’d be at a meeting with the mayor and some other big shots.”

“See here, Mr. . . .”

“Alston, ma’am, Paul Alston.”

“Yes, Mr. Alston. I understand that my client has been injured.
Under the circumstances, I really must insist on seeing him immediately.”

I thought the guard was once again going to refuse me admittance, but he shrugged and called out to a young jailer, “Tilbert, show this lady to that Russki’s cell.”

“You mean now?” the boy said, looking appalled. “Considerin’ what just happened, I—”

“Now!” Alston ordered. “She says she’s his lawyer. I think we gotta let her in.”

The young man gave me a look heavy with surprise and curiosity. “A woman lawyer? Don’t that beat all!” Then, catching sight of Alston’s face, he hastily unlocked the door leading to the cell blocks. “This way, miss.”

The jailer led me down the same hall I had left only hours before. Ahead of us, I could hear the sound of voices; then we turned a corner and I saw several uniformed men gathered around Serkov’s open door. Inside, two men were standing over a man’s prone body. The victim, whom I could not get close enough to identify, was lying facedown on the cot, his head turned toward the wall. It was only when one of the men moved away from the cot that I made out the riot of white-streaked black hair and beard. I stared in horror. The wounded man was Dmitry Serkov!

“Miss Woolson, what are you doing here?”

I whirled around, to find Cecil Vere standing behind me, his face pale and drawn.

“I heard about the attack on Mr. Serkov,” I said breathlessly. “How is he, Cecil? Is he going to be all right?”

His Adam’s apple moved up and down as he swallowed. “I don’t think so, miss. The police surgeon’s in with him now. But I’m pretty sure the Russki’s dead.”

My heart lurched, and for a dizzying moment I wondered if I had understood Vere correctly. “When did it happen?” I asked, my voice not entirely steady.

“He was stabbed, miss.” Vere’s own voice sounded strained and
flat. “I don’t rightly know when. He was lyin’ on his cot when I come to let his sister out, but I didn’t think nothin’ about it. When I come back a few minutes later, I realized he weren’t movin’, so I went inside and pulled back the blanket.“ Once again, he swallowed hard and his face took on a pasty look. “It was then I seen the blood, and the dirk stickin’ out of his back.”

“But how is that possible? The man was locked in a jail cell. Of all places, he should have been safe in there!”

I realized that in my distress I was speaking more loudly than I’d intended. The men inside the cell turned to look at me, first in surprise, then in annoyance that I had been allowed to enter the cell block. Before they could order me to leave, I stepped away from the open door and out of their sight. Cecil followed, regarding me with concern. I had to admit my limbs seemed a bit wobbly, and I suddenly felt light-headed.

“You don’t look so good, miss,” Vere said, taking hold of my arm. “Why don’t you come over here where you can sit down.” Without waiting for me to agree, he led me to a room down the corridor from Dmitry’s cell. It was furnished with a table and several chairs. The guard guided me to the nearest seat and gently lowered me into it. He perched on the edge of the table, still watching me, as if he feared that at any moment I might slip over and onto the floor.

When he finally decided I wasn’t going to keel over after all, he said, “If you think you’ll be all right for a minute, miss, I’ll fetch you a glass of water.”

“Yes, thank you,” I told him weakly.

By the time he returned, I was feeling more like my old self. I was not proud of my momentary weakness—normally, I was made of sterner stuff. However, seeing the poor Russian lying there on his cot like that, a knife sticking out of his back, would be enough to unnerve anyone. It’s the last thing I expected, I thought in growing fury, with my client supposedly locked safely inside a jail cell! Again I wondered how something like this could happen?

I inhaled a deep, bracing breath and slowly felt my head begin
to clear. Anger, however justified, would have to wait. It was time to pull myself together, to think clearly, to decide how best to proceed. Certainly, Madame Karpova and her daughter would have to be notified, but what could I possibly tell them? How could one explain something that was utterly inexplicable?

The first thing I had to do, I decided, was learn as much about Dmitry’s death as possible. Somehow I had to try to make sense of this tragedy.

“When I left the jail earlier this afternoon,” I said, placing my empty water glass on the table, “Madame Karpova was in the cell talking with her brother. Did Mr. Serkov receive any other visitors after that?”

Vere shook his head. “I didn’t bring no one else in, miss. After you left, the Russki and his sister started fightin’ pretty good. She was yellin’ at him and givin’ the bloke bloody hell—beggin’ yer pardon, miss. I didn’t come back to his cell until she banged on the door for me to let her out.”

“But how did his killer bring a knife into the jail?” I was still shaken, and it required effort to keep my voice even. “All packages and bags are searched before they’re allowed to be brought in, aren’t they? My briefcase is always inspected.”

“That’s right, miss. Only it ain’t that big a knife. Could’ve been hidden anywhere—in a gent’s pocket, or even under a lady’s skirts—beggin’ yer pardon, miss. We don’t usually search visitors unless they look shifty like.”

I looked at him disbelievingly and tried to shake off another attack of light-headedness. “You’re telling me that inside an allegedly secure facility, Mr. Serkov was stabbed and you have no idea who did it?”

“Oh, but we do, miss,” Cecil Vere informed me. “It could’ave only been one person. Lieutenant Ahern left Sergeant Jackson in charge this afternoon while he went to some meetin’ or other. Jackson’s already sent out men to find the Russki’s sister—you know, that Madame Karpova. They’re gonna arrest her for his murder.”

______

M
adame Karpova was brought into the jail not long after I’d spoken to Vere. Not surprisingly, she was extremely agitated, although whether this was because she’d lost her brother or because she’d been charged with his murder wasn’t clear. The moment she set eyes on me, however, she seemed to quiet down, as if reassured by the sight of a friendly face. Then I realized it was more than just my face that had brought about the transformation; I represented a lifeline, someone to save her from the nightmare into which she’d been plunged. As they led her into the cell blocks, she cried out that I must defend her against these appalling accusations. In the end, I agreed to wait until she’d been settled into a cell, then promised to come back so that we might talk.

When Vere came to the jail’s anteroom to lead me to Madame Karpova’s cell about an hour later, I was shocked by how much his appearance had worsened in such a short time. In truth, the man looked wretched. His already-pale face had turned ashen, his features looked pinched and unusually sharp, and there was a heavy sheen of perspiration along his forehead and upper lip. Considering that he had held Serkov in such low esteem, I wondered why he seemed to be taking the Russian’s death so to heart.

When I commented to him about this, Vere said, “He was a right sharper, that Serkov, make no mistake. And sure as hell—beggin’ yer pardon, miss—he done the murders they tumbled him for. But I been thinkin’, and I figure he shouldn’t have got done in like that. It was just plain wrong. I knew that the minute I seen him lyin’ there like that.”

This was obviously not the time to be tactful; the situation was too dire. Taking hold of the jailer’s sleeve, I forced him to stop walking and face me.

“Cecil, something tells me you know more about my client’s death than you’re admitting. Did you see the person who stabbed him? If you did, it’s very foolish of you to protect him. One woman
has already lost her life by not speaking up when she had the opportunity.”

He bit his lip, and I noticed his left eye exhibited a severe tic. “I . . .” He hesitated, then shook his head. “No, Miss Woolson, I didn’t see nothin’. It’s just that—well, I feel like it’s my fault is all. I shouldn’ta let it happen.”

With that, he turned and, refusing to say another word, led me to Madame Karpova’s cell. There, he fitted one of his many keys into the lock, gave it a scraping turn, and pulled open the door. To my surprise, Sergeant Jackson stepped out of the cell before I could enter.

“Are you Miss Woolson, Mrs. Karpova’s attorney? Vere here told me you were a woman, but I—” He cleared his throat, seeming embarrassed. “If you don’t mind, I’d like a brief word with you before you talk to your client.”

“Yes, of course.” I said, following the police officer a few yards away from the open cell door.

When we were out of Madame Karpova’s hearing, the sergeant stopped. “I’m sorry, Miss Woolson, but I thought you should know that the evidence against Mrs. Karpova is pretty cut-and-dried. She killed her brother, no doubt about it. Vere tells me he was alive and talking to his sister when he let you out of the cell this afternoon. Five minutes after she left, Vere found him dead as a doornail. It’s as simple as that.”

“How can you be sure no one else visited his cell during that five minutes?”

“I asked Vere about that, and he claims he didn’t let anyone else in. Besides, you and Serkov’s sister were the only ones who ever came to see the fellow.”