The Cliff House Strangler (40 page)

“Why do you suppose Sechrest didn’t destroy these letters?” asked Robert. “They point the finger of guilt directly at him.”

“He may have kept them for insurance,” Papa ventured. “If he were caught, Sechrest could bring all the bigwigs down with him.” He gave a grim smile. “My guess, though, is that he was planning a bit of blackmail somewhere down the line.”

“I’ll be damned!”

We all looked at George Lewis, who was staring at one of the letters as if it had come from Beelzebub himself. Wordlessly, he handed it to Papa, who, in turn, held it out for the rest of us to read.

I stared at the paper. It was not until I’d read the addressee’s name at least three times that I finally believed my eyes. For several long moments, no one spoke, obviously as dumbstruck as I was. Finally, I shook myself, feeling as if I were awakening from a bad dream.

“Good Lord in heaven,” I said, my voice little more than a whisper. “It’s addressed to Lieutenant Frank Ahern!”

S
amuel read the letter aloud. Evidently, Luther Sechrest was advising Lieutenant Ahern that several tons of limestone would be delivered, free of charge, to the construction site of the Aherns’ new house on Russian Hill. He went on to tell the lieutenant that he was also including a bill of sale—spurious, of course—should anyone question the shipment.

As damaging as this letter was, even more incriminating were the letters that had been sent from Ahern to Sechrest, detailing how much he expected to be paid for looking the other way while Sechrest and other contractors raked in money from the new City Hall project. Each letter ended with a reminder to destroy all correspondence between them. That warning must have given Sechrest a good laugh, I thought. Judging by the amount of mail George had recovered from the safe, Sechrest had kept every letter he’d received!

When he was finished reading, Samuel turned to me. “You know what this means, don’t you, Sarah?”

“Yes,” I replied numbly. “Frank Ahern is the ‘Napoleon’ Darien Moss referred to in his notes.”

“I’m going to have to take these letters directly to the captain,”

George said. “He’ll have to decide what’s best to do about Lieutenant Ahern.”

Papa left as soon as he could flag down an unoccupied cab, while George, Samuel, and the patrolman left minutes later, intent on delivering the contents of Sechrest’s safe to Capt. Pete Gregory. I wasn’t sure what would happen after that. Hopefully, Gregory would issue a warrant for Ahern’s arrest, along with ones for Senator Gaylord, Luther Sechrest, and his motley band of associates. My focus remained squarely fixed on clearing Frederick’s name, and seeing that Alexandra regained custody of her boys.

After the search of the safe, I felt we were well on our way to accomplishing these first two objectives. Unfortunately, I wasn’t nearly as confident I could do the same for Madame Karpova. Despite recent developments, the circumstances surrounding Dmitry Serkov’s murder remained murky. I strongly suspected it was somehow connected to the City Hall scandal; I just wasn’t sure how.

For reasons best known to himself, Robert insisted on accompanying me to the city jail in Eddie’s brougham. We had not been long in traffic when he awkwardly cleared his throat.

“I feel I owe you an apology,” he said a bit gruffly. Since it was rare indeed to hear my colleague admit he was wrong, I sat quietly, waiting for him to go on. “You were right about Luther Sechrest,” he continued after several moments. “Only a coward and a bully would brutalize a woman as he did. He completely took me in.”

“As he did his pastor and his employer,” I replied. Now that Robert had expressed repentance for having sided with that dreadful man, I was surprised to feel the need to lessen his discomfiture. “You were in good company, Robert. And you didn’t see his wife’s bruises firsthand as I did.”

“Humph” was his only reply, and I knew he saw through my less than subtle attempt to diminish his guilt.

We were both silent for a time as Eddie threaded his dappled gray through the heavy late-afternoon traffic, jostling Robert and me from one side of the seat to the other in the process.

I started to speculate aloud about whom Dmitry Serkov might have been blackmailing, when Eddie swerved the brougham so sharply, I slid hard against the left-side door. As I gathered my wits, and my borrowed hat, back into some semblance of order, I happened to look outside at the people and shops we were passing. My breath caught in my throat.

“That’s him!” I cried out, banging my fist against the roof to catch Eddie’s attention. “Robert, tell Eddie to stop the carriage.”

For once, Robert did as I asked without demanding an explanation, and the moment the brougham was reined up, I was out the door. Tripping over my skirts, I started running toward the man I’d just spied leaving the Bush Street Saloon.

“Wait!” I called out to him. “I want to speak to you.”

The man turned and blinked at me, as if his eyes had not yet adjusted to the bright daylight outside the saloon. Then he seemed to place me, and his watery eyes opened wide with alarm. Whipping around, he started running down the street.

“Sarah!” Robert yelled from behind me. “What’s gotten into you?”

I didn’t stop to answer, just hitched up my skirts to a decidedly immodest position just below my knees, elated to have so much more freedom of movement. Paying no attention to angry and scandalized passersby, I slowly gained on my prey, who was weaving a bit, undoubtedly as the result of the whiskey he’d imbibed.

By the time Robert caught up with me, the man had just collided with an outdoor vegetable display, which caused him to tumble onto the sidewalk.

“Damn it, Sarah,” Robert said breathlessly. “Who in hell are we chasing?”

Without lessening my pace, and keeping a firm hold of my skirts, I pointed my chin toward my intoxicated prey. “Him!” I managed to say, my own breath coming in shallow gasps.

Ahead of us, the man scrambled to his feet. Panicked to see that Robert and I were almost upon him, he dashed out into the street,
directly in front of an oncoming carriage. The driver swore, and did everything he could to stop, but it was too late. Veering his cabriolet sharply to the left, the driver managed to avoid a head-on collision, instead clipping my quarry on the side, probably saving his life, but causing him to fall within inches of the carriage wheels.

Before I could catch my breath, Robert raced by me and, lifting the unconscious man by the shoulders, pulled him over to the curb. While traffic sorted itself out with loud profanities mingled with looks of concern, I stared down at the fellow I’d been chasing. His pale face, white hair, and bushy white mustache were unmistakable. In a dramatic display of poetic justice, the villain who had tried to run me down in his carriage only days earlier had suffered the same fate he had tried so diligently to inflict on me!

R
ather more abruptly than necessary, Eddie pulled up in front of the city jail. A second later, he came flying out of the driver’s seat to open the carriage door. Eyes wide, he stared at our prisoner, who had by now regained consciousness.

“Has he confessed yet?” the boy asked. “I still got my cosh. If you or Mr. Campbell need help makin’ the bloke talk, just give a yell and I’ll get him to chatter like a magpie.”

“Thank you, Eddie,” I replied, allowing him to help me out of the carriage. “But I don’t think your cosh will be needed. You can, however, help Mr. Campbell get this fellow inside the station.”

The lad required no further prompting. Eagerly, he climbed inside the carriage and pushed on the man’s back as Robert pulled him out the door. Because we’d bound our prisoner’s hands behind his back with strips torn from my petticoat, he moved awkwardly. And not surprisingly, he kept dragging his feet, not at all eager to enter the jail.

I was pleased to see that Sgt. Paul Alston was on duty at the front desk. Since he knew who I was, I hoped there’d be less difficulty
turning the fellow over. As it turned out, our captive was no stranger to city jail. In fact, Sergeant Alston regarded him with open disdain.

“So you just couldn’t stay away, huh, Whitey?” Alston said. “What is it this time—robbery, assault, breaking and entering, or just being an all-around jackass?”

“It was an accident, Sergeant, I swear,” Whitey protested, squirming unsuccessfully to free himself from Robert’s and Eddie’s grip.

“Of course it was,” Alston said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “Miss Woolson, Mr. . . .”

“Campbell,” Robert answered. “Robert Campbell.”

“Well, Mr. Campbell, Miss Woolson, let me introduce you to Harry Gazo, better known to his friends here at the jail as ‘Whitey’ Gazo. Now then, why don’t you tell me how you came to meet up with this ornery plug-ugly.”

I explained the attempt on my life and assured Sergeant Alston I had a witness who had seen both the attack and Whitey watching my office for two days beforehand.”

“Still say it was an accident, Whitey?” Alston asked, filling out an arrest form. “Looks like this time you were caught red-handed. Attempted murder is a serious charge, b’hoy. It’ll go a lot easier for you if you own up to it now, instead of making us pull it out of you one piece at a time.”

Whitey looked around helplessly. Finding no sympathetic faces, he glumly admitted, “All right, I done it. But it warn’t my idea to go after the lady. Some big bug paid me to watch her office. Then when she come out, I was to run her over.”

“Just what ‘big bug’ was that?” Robert asked, his voice tight as he held the hoodlum by the scruff of his neck.

“Dunno his name,” Whitey whined. “I met him in Shakey’s Saloon. Bought me a few bald-face whiskeys and asked if I wanted to make some easy money.”

“And naturally you said yes,” Alston put in dryly.

Staring up at Robert, who looked as though he’d love nothing better than to tear the thug apart with his bare hands, he reluctantly nodded.

Sergeant Alston had just called the young jailer, Jimmy Wolf, to process the prisoner before locking him in a cell, when Lieutenant Ahern entered the jail. He looked taken aback to see me, and clearly stunned at the sight of Whitey Gazo being led toward the cell blocks.

Spotting the plainclothes police lieutenant, Whitey cried out, “That’s him! That there’s the sharper what paid me to run down this lady. You outta be pinchin’ him, not me.”

Robert and I stared at Whitey in shock. “Lieutenant Ahern?” I said to the hooligan. “Are you sure this is the man who paid you to . . . to kill me?”

“It surely is, miss,” Whitey confirmed. “He paid me a double eagle to flatten you out.” Obviously, the offer of a twenty-dollar gold piece had been too good to turn down.

For a split second, I read panic in Ahern’s eyes, but it was gone in a flash. He gave the desk sergeant an easy smile, dismissing the accusation as too preposterous to bother disputing. “The man’s obviously inebriated, Alston. Lock him up in the drunk tank until he sleeps it off.”

Lieutenant Ahern was so preoccupied dealing with Whitey Gazo, he seemed not to hear Samuel, George Lewis, and Capt. Pete Gregory enter the station behind him. With them were two patrolmen.

Pete Gregory wasn’t a particularly big man, but he carried himself with so much authority and confidence that he appeared much larger than his actual size. His dark brown hair was turning gray, while his mustache was nearly white, as were his bushy eyebrows. His sharp, intelligent eyes took in the situation before he was halfway into the lobby.

“Not so fast, Sergeant Alston,” he said. “I want to question that man before he’s placed in a cell.”

At the sound of Gregory’s voice, Ahern spun around, blanching
to see his captain standing behind him. He watched openmouthed, as Gregory nodded to George Lewis and the two men approached him.

“Lieutenant Ahern,” Captain Gregory said in a sober voice. “I arrest you for accepting bribes from Leighton Mining Company, and other contractors—as yet unnamed—involved in the construction of the new City Hall building. You are advised that anything you say will be duly noted and may be used against you in a court of law.”

“Lord Almighty,” Eddie murmured, staring at the two police officers. “They’ve gone and tumbled the lieutenant.”

“What!” Ahern exclaimed. He was grinning foolishly at his superior officer, as if the latter had just told a joke he didn’t quite understand. “What’s going on, Pete?”

Captain Gregory regarded his lieutenant for several moments, his strong round face expressing a deep personal sadness. “We came through the ranks together, Frank,” he said at last, his voice heavy with regret. “I’ve known you for over twenty years. You were the best of the best. What happened to you? When did things start going wrong?”

Ahern gave a nervous laugh, as if he couldn’t yet accept what was happening to him. “You’re making a terrible mistake, Pete. I’ve spent my whole career fighting bribery and corruption in this city. How can you even suggest that I might be part of it?”

Captain Gregory silently removed Ahern’s letters to Luther Sechrest from his breast pocket. “We have it in writing, Frank,” Gregory said unhappily. “I would never have believed it if I hadn’t seen the evidence for myself.”

Ahern’s sharp blue eyes darted nervously about the room. Looking for a means of escape? I wondered. If so, there was none. The only way out of the jailhouse lobby was either through the front entrance, which was guarded by the two patrolmen, or through the door leading to the cell blocks, where Jimmy Wolf and his prisoner still stood, intrigued by the unfolding drama.

“Come on, Pete,” Ahern said with a conspiratorial smile. “Those
letters have to be forgeries. You know as well as I do that good cops make enemies. Somebody’s trying to set me up.”

Gregory shook his head. “I know your handwriting as well as I know my own, Frank. You wrote these letters all right; it’s no good saying you didn’t.”

At the captain’s nod, George stepped forward, holding a set of handcuffs. But before he could get close enough to slip them onto Ahern’s wrists, the lieutenant spun around, darted past Whitey and Jimmy Wolfe, and ran through the door to the cell blocks.