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Authors: Shirley Tallman
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upstairs to tell Samuel of the surprising happenings at the Cliff House the previous night. Expecting to find my brother waiting impatiently for my report, I was surprised to find him ensconced in my office chair, legs resting comfortably upon my desk, perusing the latest issue of the
Police Gazette.
“So, Lieutenant Ahern finally let you go,” he said, smiling at me from over a lurid picture of a female corpse, her scantily clad body drenched in blood, a long dagger protruding from her well-endowed chest.
“You know about Darien Moss’s murder?” Once again, I was amazed by my brother’s apparently countless news sources. “Lieutenant Ahern wasn’t able to get a message out to the police until early this morning. I didn’t see George among the officers who responded.” I referred of course to George Lewis, Samuel’s good friend and fellow pugilist, who was a sergeant on the San Francisco police force.
“No, he hasn’t been assigned to the case. But he managed to get word to me in time to get a few lines in this evening’s
Chronicle.
Now,” he went on, taking out his notebook and a pencil, “why don’t you give me all the gory details so that I can do a proper job of it.”
I pulled a face at him, then moved one of the room’s two side chairs until I sat opposite him. This chair, I might add, was a good deal less comfortable than the generously padded cherry-wood armchair I had selected to go with my desk, and which Samuel currently occupied.
“George tells me Moss was strangled?” Samuel’s bright blue eyeswere alight with interest; nothing fascinated him more than the smell of a good story. Which was why he had chosen to become a journalist, rather than follow the law career our father had had his heart set on since his youngest son was a small boy.
“Yes, he was. With a wire string from a balalaika.”
He looked up from the notes he’d begun to scribble on his pad. “A what?”
I described the unusual instrument Madame Karpova had “materialized” at the séance. Then, at his insistence, I proceeded to relate the evening’s events, starting with our arrival at the Cliff House. When I finished, he settled back in the armchair, regarding me speculatively.
“You say you found another string, identical to the one used to garrote Moss, in Yelena Karpova’s room after she was attacked? Did you have an opportunity to examine the—what did you call that instrument again?”
“A balalaika.”
“Hmmm, yes. I’m just wondering if you had a chance to look at the balalaika again before you left the Cliff House this afternoon.”
“I managed a quick glance as a police officer carried it out to the patrol wagon,” I told him. “Only one string remained out of the original three. I’m almost positive the second missing wire was the one I found in Yelena Karpova’s room.”
“And that second string was still attached to the balalaika after the murder?”
“Yes, I’m sure it was.”
“So presumably the killer returned to the dining room after everyone else had left, and cut another string from the instrument. Which means Yelena’s attack was premeditated.” He tapped the end of his pencil against the desktop, lost in thought. “But why would anyone want to kill Madame Karpova’s daughter?”
“Why indeed?” I replied. “I spent half the night asking myself the same question. I can think of any number of reasons why someone might want to do away with Darien Moss, but what couldanyone possibly have against a young Russian girl who’s been in San Francisco less than a month?”
Samuel shook his head. “Perhaps the murderer thought that by killing Yelena he could hurt the girl’s mother, or her uncle.”
“You think someone attacked Yelena because he didn’t approve of Olga Karpova’s so-called spirit manifestations? That seems far-fetched.”
“Yes, put that way, I suppose it does.” Samuel drew a few meaningless squiggles on his paper. “Tell me more about the people
Police Gazette.
“So, Lieutenant Ahern finally let you go,” he said, smiling at me from over a lurid picture of a female corpse, her scantily clad body drenched in blood, a long dagger protruding from her well-endowed chest.
“You know about Darien Moss’s murder?” Once again, I was amazed by my brother’s apparently countless news sources. “Lieutenant Ahern wasn’t able to get a message out to the police until early this morning. I didn’t see George among the officers who responded.” I referred of course to George Lewis, Samuel’s good friend and fellow pugilist, who was a sergeant on the San Francisco police force.
“No, he hasn’t been assigned to the case. But he managed to get word to me in time to get a few lines in this evening’s
Chronicle.
Now,” he went on, taking out his notebook and a pencil, “why don’t you give me all the gory details so that I can do a proper job of it.”
I pulled a face at him, then moved one of the room’s two side chairs until I sat opposite him. This chair, I might add, was a good deal less comfortable than the generously padded cherry-wood armchair I had selected to go with my desk, and which Samuel currently occupied.
“George tells me Moss was strangled?” Samuel’s bright blue eyeswere alight with interest; nothing fascinated him more than the smell of a good story. Which was why he had chosen to become a journalist, rather than follow the law career our father had had his heart set on since his youngest son was a small boy.
“Yes, he was. With a wire string from a balalaika.”
He looked up from the notes he’d begun to scribble on his pad. “A what?”
I described the unusual instrument Madame Karpova had “materialized” at the séance. Then, at his insistence, I proceeded to relate the evening’s events, starting with our arrival at the Cliff House. When I finished, he settled back in the armchair, regarding me speculatively.
“You say you found another string, identical to the one used to garrote Moss, in Yelena Karpova’s room after she was attacked? Did you have an opportunity to examine the—what did you call that instrument again?”
“A balalaika.”
“Hmmm, yes. I’m just wondering if you had a chance to look at the balalaika again before you left the Cliff House this afternoon.”
“I managed a quick glance as a police officer carried it out to the patrol wagon,” I told him. “Only one string remained out of the original three. I’m almost positive the second missing wire was the one I found in Yelena Karpova’s room.”
“And that second string was still attached to the balalaika after the murder?”
“Yes, I’m sure it was.”
“So presumably the killer returned to the dining room after everyone else had left, and cut another string from the instrument. Which means Yelena’s attack was premeditated.” He tapped the end of his pencil against the desktop, lost in thought. “But why would anyone want to kill Madame Karpova’s daughter?”
“Why indeed?” I replied. “I spent half the night asking myself the same question. I can think of any number of reasons why someone might want to do away with Darien Moss, but what couldanyone possibly have against a young Russian girl who’s been in San Francisco less than a month?”
Samuel shook his head. “Perhaps the murderer thought that by killing Yelena he could hurt the girl’s mother, or her uncle.”
“You think someone attacked Yelena because he didn’t approve of Olga Karpova’s so-called spirit manifestations? That seems far-fetched.”
“Yes, put that way, I suppose it does.” Samuel drew a few meaningless squiggles on his paper. “Tell me more about the people
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