out the psychic as she gathered her daughter into her arms. The girl was sobbing uncontrollably, her small hands frantically rubbing at her throat.
“What is it?” I asked the girl, placing my kerosene lamp down and hurrying to her side. “Are you all right?”
“
O, bozche!
There was—man in room,” she stammered. “I come in, he—he jump, knock me down, try to choke me. I scream and he run.” Yelena started to cough through her tears. In a few moments, she was gasping for breath.
“Shh,
moya malenkaya.
Don’t try to talk,” Olga Karpova said, gently removing her daughter’s hands from her throat.
I came closer, and was dismayed to see a dark red contusion ringing the girl’s slender neck. In several places, it had broken the skin.
Robert stepped through the crowd of onlookers who were anxiously gathering at the door. Several had thrown coats over their undergarments, which, I assumed, they planned to sleep in. Every face appeared white with shock and horror at the sight of the stricken girl. Even Dmitry Serkov’s dark expression had changed to one of alarm.
Striking a match, Robert lit the kerosene lamp that had been provided for Yelena’s room, then held it closer to the girl so that we might better examine her wounds. “Who did this to you, Miss Karpova? Did you get a look at his face?”
Yelena had begun to shake violently. “Room dark,” she managed to say through clattering teeth. “I not see.”
As Robert and Madame Karpova helped the hysterical girl to a chair, I surveyed the room. Holding my lamp lower, I spotted something glittering, half-hidden beneath the bed.
Raising the comforter, I picked up the object. It was a length of
wire. Turning it over in my hand, I saw that it was identical to the
one that had snuffed out the reporter’s life earlier that evening.
It seemed as though Darien Moss’s murderer had struck again.
CHAPTER FOUR
T he storm raged throughout the better part of the night, then finally subsided into a light drizzle, allowing the police access to the Cliff House by nine o’clock the following morning.
I was not surprised when neither Yelena nor her mother appeared for breakfast in the saloon, chosen over the dining room because the latter still held the remains of Darien Moss. Naturally, there was a good deal of speculation about the reporter’s murder, but most of the sympathy, and apprehension, was reserved for the young Russian girl. It was hardly a secret that just about everyone disliked the tell-all journalist, and for good reason. But none of us could comprehend why would anyone would attack the sweet and innocent Yelena Karpova! The poor girl could not possibly pose a threat to anyone. Or could she? I asked myself.
After breakfast, Lieutenant Ahern checked on the injured girl, then appropriated the manager’s office and set about interrogating everyone who had been present at the séance, this time interviewing the participants individually.
The first person to be taken in was Mrs. Theodora Reade, who insisted she was quite recovered from her faint the previous night.I did not believe she was being completely honest about her condition. Before she was settled into a hired carriage for the ride home, I was able to speak to her briefly, and I thought she still appeared troubled and unnaturally pale.
“Please, my dear, don’t fuss,” she told me when I tried to persuade her to wait until I could drive her back to the city in Eddie’s brougham. “I will be perfectly all right when I am in my own house.” She patted my hand as I assisted her into the hansom cab.
“You’re Judge Horace Woolson’s daughter, aren’t you, dear?” she asked.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Do you know him?”
“For years, my late husband and your father belonged to the same social club. They used to enjoy playing chess together.” She chuckled at the memory. “Very competitive they were, too.” She leaned closer in order to better study my
“What is it?” I asked the girl, placing my kerosene lamp down and hurrying to her side. “Are you all right?”
“
O, bozche!
There was—man in room,” she stammered. “I come in, he—he jump, knock me down, try to choke me. I scream and he run.” Yelena started to cough through her tears. In a few moments, she was gasping for breath.
“Shh,
moya malenkaya.
Don’t try to talk,” Olga Karpova said, gently removing her daughter’s hands from her throat.
I came closer, and was dismayed to see a dark red contusion ringing the girl’s slender neck. In several places, it had broken the skin.
Robert stepped through the crowd of onlookers who were anxiously gathering at the door. Several had thrown coats over their undergarments, which, I assumed, they planned to sleep in. Every face appeared white with shock and horror at the sight of the stricken girl. Even Dmitry Serkov’s dark expression had changed to one of alarm.
Striking a match, Robert lit the kerosene lamp that had been provided for Yelena’s room, then held it closer to the girl so that we might better examine her wounds. “Who did this to you, Miss Karpova? Did you get a look at his face?”
Yelena had begun to shake violently. “Room dark,” she managed to say through clattering teeth. “I not see.”
As Robert and Madame Karpova helped the hysterical girl to a chair, I surveyed the room. Holding my lamp lower, I spotted something glittering, half-hidden beneath the bed.
Raising the comforter, I picked up the object. It was a length of
wire. Turning it over in my hand, I saw that it was identical to the
one that had snuffed out the reporter’s life earlier that evening.
It seemed as though Darien Moss’s murderer had struck again.
CHAPTER FOUR
T he storm raged throughout the better part of the night, then finally subsided into a light drizzle, allowing the police access to the Cliff House by nine o’clock the following morning.
I was not surprised when neither Yelena nor her mother appeared for breakfast in the saloon, chosen over the dining room because the latter still held the remains of Darien Moss. Naturally, there was a good deal of speculation about the reporter’s murder, but most of the sympathy, and apprehension, was reserved for the young Russian girl. It was hardly a secret that just about everyone disliked the tell-all journalist, and for good reason. But none of us could comprehend why would anyone would attack the sweet and innocent Yelena Karpova! The poor girl could not possibly pose a threat to anyone. Or could she? I asked myself.
After breakfast, Lieutenant Ahern checked on the injured girl, then appropriated the manager’s office and set about interrogating everyone who had been present at the séance, this time interviewing the participants individually.
The first person to be taken in was Mrs. Theodora Reade, who insisted she was quite recovered from her faint the previous night.I did not believe she was being completely honest about her condition. Before she was settled into a hired carriage for the ride home, I was able to speak to her briefly, and I thought she still appeared troubled and unnaturally pale.
“Please, my dear, don’t fuss,” she told me when I tried to persuade her to wait until I could drive her back to the city in Eddie’s brougham. “I will be perfectly all right when I am in my own house.” She patted my hand as I assisted her into the hansom cab.
“You’re Judge Horace Woolson’s daughter, aren’t you, dear?” she asked.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Do you know him?”
“For years, my late husband and your father belonged to the same social club. They used to enjoy playing chess together.” She chuckled at the memory. “Very competitive they were, too.” She leaned closer in order to better study my
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