The Cliff House Strangler (37 page)

Despite the lingering remains of a dull headache, I awoke the next morning feeling refreshed and eager to carry out the plans I had formulated while lying in bed. It was a glorious morning, and not entirely due to the weather. To my family’s profound relief, Frederick had been released from jail the previous evening. The presiding judge had denied the assistant district attorney’s request for bail, allowing my brother out on his own recognizance. Such had been my mother’s joy that she and Celia had departed first thing that morning to visit Frederick and assure themselves that he was truly well after his two-day confinement.

Not long afterward, I asked Samuel if I could share a ride downtown with him. There were a few rather sensitive questions I wished to ask him, and a hansom would provide the privacy I deemed necessary.

Staring at my hat, he somewhat reluctantly agreed. “If you’re sure you feel up to it, of course. But where in the world did you find that hat?”

“I borrowed it from Mama,” I explained. I’d chosen a large dark blue Gainsborough hat from the back of Mama’s armoire. I’d settled on this particular style not because I cared for the design (which I didn’t) but because it covered the entire top of my head, bandages and all. Above the wide brim, it was decorated with feathers and several enormous artificial flowers. It was far too frivolous to be worn with my tailored brown suit, but needs must. At the moment, it was more important to hide my injury than to appear stylish.

While we rode, I asked my brother for more details about Frederick and his arraignment hearing the previous afternoon.

“All things considered, he looks well enough,” Samuel told me. “More than anything, I think he’s mortified by the whole experience. Heaven only knows how this will affect his career in the state senate. I do know it’s going to be hard for him to show his face in public until he’s been cleared of these ridiculous charges.”

“Has he told anyone the real reason he went to see Vincenzo at the jail?” I asked, getting to the heart of what I wanted to know.

“Yes, he finally broke down and told Papa.” He smiled wryly. “I gather Father didn’t leave him much choice in the matter. Evidently, it’s all to do with Rudolph Hardin.”

“Hardin?” This was a surprise! “You mean Frederick’s political rival? The one who’s been leaking those awful stories to the newspapers?”

“That’s the one.” We were both jostled as our cab narrowly missed colliding with an omnibus that had careened recklessly around the corner. Samuel took a moment to resettle in his seat, then continued, “According to Freddie, Vincenzo sent a man to see him, claiming he was a good friend of Hardin’s footman. If Freddie bailed him out of jail, he promised to pass on some information that could ruin Hardin.”

“So that’s why he didn’t want to tell us,” I said thoughtfully.

“Exactly. And, as it turns out, Vincenzo did give Frederick an envelope. Only Freddie swears that it contained some cock-and-bull
story about Hardin buying up a string of bawdy houses along the Embarcadero and setting his sister Clara up as a madam in one of them.”

“Good Lord! Did Frederick actually believe him?”

There was a loud cry out on the street, followed by a string of curses from our hackman. Our hansom made an abrupt turn to the right, which took us over several large potholes. Each bounce made my head feel as if it were being hit by a sledgehammer. Observing my discomfort, Samuel leaned his head out the window and shouted at our driver to slow down, but as far as I could tell, it did little good.

“Freddie says he didn’t believe any of it,” Samuel said at length. “Given half a chance, though, I suspect he would have been happy to use it against Hardin. Which would have been disastrous, considering that Hardin’s sister Clara has been a Roman Catholic nun for the past fifteen years.”

Despite my throbbing head, and the gravity of our brother’s situation, I couldn’t help laughing at the mental picture this invoked. “That rather proves our theory about Frederick being set up, doesn’t it?”

A shadow crossed my brother’s face. “Yes, and that’s what worries me. Whoever is behind this has laid his plans very cleverly. Even if the charges can’t be conclusively proved, the suspicion and innuendos will be more than enough to ruin Frederick politically, not to mention socially. I doubt that any law firm in town would hire him after this.”

Suddenly, I felt tense and chilled inside. This kind of scandal would utterly destroy my eldest brother and his wife. It would also sully Papa’s good name, which would be horribly unfair; Papa was the most ethical man I knew!

“Samuel, we have to find the person who initiated this smear campaign. The only way to save Freddie is to prove without any doubt that he’s innocent of these charges.”

Samuel gave me an ironic smile. “What do you think I’ve been
trying to do since Frederick was arrested? Do you suppose I could just sit back and watch our entire family being thrown to the wolves, simply because our big brother is so damn gullible?” He sighed. “I’m sorry, Sarah. I shouldn’t have said that. Freddie means well, I suppose. He just can’t seem to see beyond his own self-importance.”

I nodded. “He can be unbearably annoying at times. Still, we’ve got to find a way to get him out of this mess.”

We’d just reached the city jail when I remembered to ask Samuel the question I’d placed uppermost on my list the day before.

His eyebrows rose in surprise. “You want to know what? How did you even hear about that place?” Laughing, he raised a hand to cut me off before I could explain. “Never mind, I haven’t time to hear it now. But you have to promise to give me all the gruesome details later.”

Still shaking his head in bemusement, he gave me the information I’d requested, then helped me out of the carriage and instructed the driver to take him on to the offices of the
San Francisco Examiner
.

Entering the jail, I was shown to Madame Karpova’s cell by Sergeant Jackson, who updated me on my client’s state of mind since her arraignment hearing two days earlier.

“She’s been a real pest, asking for you over and over,” he said. “Other than that, she’s doing all right. I’ve been keeping a close eye on her, although I still can’t believe anyone is out to hurt her.”

Madame Karpova was beginning to show the strain of her incarceration. Her face was pale and pinched, her already volatile temper frayed. The moment I entered the cell, she commenced berating me for not visiting her the day before. She went on to complain about the dreadful food, the surly guards, the lumpy cot, the cold temperature, and the lack of adequate blankets. She was especially upset that everyone at the jail treated her like a criminal, when she was completely innocent of wrongdoing. When I was finally able to get in a word, I explained that I had been ill the day before and thus unable to journey outside my house.

To my considerable surprise, she closed her eyes, then blurted, “You were injured in an accident.” Her black eyes studied my face. “You have a head wound, have you not? That is why you were unable to come to me yesterday.”

I felt tiny goose bumps rise on my arms. “How did you know?”

“I, Madame Karpova, know these things,” she proclaimed, as she had so many times before. This morning, however, she lacked much of her earlier arrogance, and I thought this illustrated the strain of her confinement far more than her litany of complaints. Still, what she’d said about my head was uncanny. I lifted a hand to my hat, thinking that perhaps it had slipped and revealed my bandages, but it had not. I would have liked to question her further about this strange insight, but unfortunately there was no time.

Pulling the chair closer to the cot, I told her I had an important matter to discuss. “It’s vital that you’re completely honest with me. Your life may well depend upon it.”

She regarded me warily, then slowly nodded her agreement. “Very well, I will attempt to do so.”

“Where did Dmitry go when he left your hotel all day?”

She looked startled. “Why do you ask such a thing? What possible difference does it make now that he is dead?”

“It might help me find his killer,” I said. “Please, Madame Karpova, just answer the question,.”

She sat very still on the edge of the cot, regarding me with slightly veiled eyes. “He would tell me only that he was going for a walk.”

“Come now, Madame, the two of you were very close,” I chided, not bothering to hide my incredulity. “You must have some idea where he went and what he was doing for all those hours. It can’t hurt him now, and it might help solve his murder.”

Still, she hesitated to speak. Why, I wondered, was the woman being so obstinate? I was about to take her to task, when she let out a long breath and said, “He followed people, Miss Woolson. I am
not proud of it, but in hard times it put food on the table and a roof over our heads.”

“ ‘Followed people’?” I repeated. “You mean in order to rob or blackmail them?”

She nodded. “I made him stop thieving when we left Russia, but some habits are difficult to change. Sometimes he would eavesdrop when I did private readings. If he heard something promising, he would follow the person to see what else he could discover.”

“And who was he following here in San Francisco?”

“I do not know,” she said. “No, truly, Miss Woolson, he wouldn’t tell me. All I know is that he was watching two men, both of them prominent and possessing political power.”

“But you don’t know their names?” I urged in growing frustration.

“No. Dmitry would not tell me.” I was watching her face, and I thought she was telling me the truth. “We spoke freely about everything, except that. But he gave me money every week,” she continued, a note of pride in her deep voice. “He always ensured that Yelena and I were well cared for.”

“Do you think Dmitry was counting on one of these men to get him out of jail?”

“Yes, I am sure he was. I tried to get him to tell me the mark’s name, but he refused. All he would say was that the man was in a position to have him released.”

“It seems he was also in a position to have Dmitry killed,” I said, letting out my breath. “I fear we’re up against a ruthless and very clever villain, Madame Karpova, a man who will stop at nothing to attain his goal.”

“Which is what, Miss Woolson?” Her husky voice was raised in anger. “Why has he chosen to do these terrible things to us?” She rose from the cot in sudden agitation and began pacing back and forth across the cell. “My poor, foolish
lubovnik.
I warned him that he was playing with fire, but he would not stop. Now he has been taken him from me.”

I was struck by a sudden thought. “Madame Karpova, you somehow knew that I’d been in an accident this past Tuesday. You even knew where I’d been injured. Why couldn’t you foresee when Dmitry would be killed, and by whom?”

“You do not know how many times I have longed to possess the ability to foretell these things,” she said unhappily. “Unfortunately, that which I can see in other’s lives, I cannot see in my own. It is as if a heavy black curtain hangs before my eyes whenever I attempt to look into my own future, or that of my daughter. I sit here in my cell waiting for the madman to strike again. I am like the defenseless mouse who is dropped into the snake’s cage, with nowhere to hide.”

I regretted that I had no comforting words to offer. Clearly, the only way I could get my client out of this cell was to see that Dmitry’s real murderer was arrested. In growing desperation, I begged her to try to remember the names of the two men Dmitry had been following here in San Francisco.

She was near tears, and I was no closer to identifying the men, when Yelena arrived half an hour later. Taking my leave of my client’s cell, I sought out Sergeant Jackson to ensure he’d remain vigilant in seeing to my client’s safety.

After that, I traveled by hansom cab to Annjenett’s safe house. The next morning was Alexandra Sechrest’s divorce hearing, and I wanted to reassure her and answer any questions she might have. I was relieved to hear that her mother and sister had arrived that afternoon from Sacramento, and were staying at a local hotel. Mrs. Jane Hardy, the neighbor who had taken her in the last time she’d been beaten by her husband, had also promised to be present.

Finally, I went to my office to gather up all the pertinent paperwork I would need for the hearing. As I was leaving some two hours later, my head once again pounding, Fanny Goodman invited me in for tea and a slice of apple pie still hot from the oven. I tried to tell her I must be getting home, but she refused to take no for an answer.

“Where in the world did you get that horrible hat?” she asked as I sat down at her kitchen table.

“It’s an old hat of my mother’s,” I explained. “I chose it because it covers my bandages.”

“Well, you can’t wear a thing like that to court tomorrow morning,” she said, motioning for me to take it off.

Dutifully, I handed it over, and she disappeared into her shop. A few minutes later, she bustled back carrying a dark gray velvet hat, subtly decorated with feathers and two or three small artificial flowers. It had a full crown, which would easily cover my bandages, but the brim was less extreme than the one on Mama’s hat and turned up at a jaunty angle on one side.

“This is the latest style from Paris,” Fanny said, fitting the hat expertly onto my head. She handed me a mirror. “There now, that’s much better, don’t you think?”

She was right. Even I had to admit that Fanny’s hat was most becoming. “It’s lovely, Mrs. Goodman,” I told her, tilting my head this way and that to make sure the bandages were well hidden. “But I can’t possibly afford it.”

“Don’t worry about that, dear. I’m simply lending it to you to wear to court tomorrow. You can return it to me on Monday morning.”

In spite of my protests that I couldn’t borrow anything so expensive, she carefully removed the hat from my head and placed it in a hatbox.

“Nonsense, of course you can. It does my heart good to see you dressed like the fine, lovely lady you are. With your face and figure, I swear you could outshine Lillie Langtry herself. Now, why haven’t you started on that pie?”

In truth, I’d become so absorbed with hats—which was most unlike me—I’d forgotten all about eating. Picking up my fork, I cut into the delicious apple pastry. As usual, it was excellent. Regrettably, my injury and fatigue seemed to have robbed me of an appetite.