Death in Saratoga Springs (22 page)

Harry quickly settled into his room, ate the soup, bread, and salad that Mrs. Taylor served him on a tray, and devised a plan to search Shaw's room. He could return at any time. A search could require at least a half hour. If he were to come unexpected, Harry would need a few minutes' warning. He would have to involve Mrs. Taylor.

She was in the kitchen with a scullery maid, cleaning the iron stove in the final stage of closing down for the night. She looked tired and was probably hoping to get off her feet.

Harry knocked lightly on the door to get her attention. “May I have a word with you, ma'am. It's important.”

She took off her apron and led him into the tiny anteroom of her apartment. “Captain Prescott said you had work to do here. How can I help?”

Harry thanked her for being willing. “All I'll ask of you, ma'am, is to lend me the key to Shaw's room. Ring a bell if he returns in the next hour while I'm searching his things.”

She agreed. He hastened up the stairs to Shaw's room on the top floor, opened the lock, and stepped inside. It was large, simply furnished with two wooden chairs and a table, and offered few opportunities for concealing things. Mrs. Taylor didn't take smokers, so the air was fresh, except for a faint scent of female perfume in the bedding, presumably left by Rachel two days ago. Otherwise, she had left no trace.

Shaw was a tidy man, a habit left over from years of service in a regiment of the British army. His clothes hung neatly in a row in a closet. His boots stood at attention on a mat by the door, cleaned and polished. A pencil and a pad of paper were perfectly centered on the table.

When Harry began to search the room, he didn't have a specific goal in mind. But he assumed that Shaw would lock up anything valuable or compromising. A stout trunk stood in a corner. Its lock was more secure than most and took several precious minutes to pick. Harry rapidly fingered his way through underclothes, toiletries, file boxes, and account books. At the bottom of the trunk he found a small, loaded pistol and a dagger. There was nothing else of pressing interest.

There were no letters. Odd, Harry thought. They must be hidden elsewhere. By this time, he feared that Shaw might return at any moment. He glanced up at the ceiling's unevenly plastered surface and noticed a hole where a lighting fixture must have once hung. He hurried out of the room, locking the door behind him, and ran upstairs to the attic. After removing a few loose planks, he found the hole. With the aid of a spyglass, he could view most of Shaw's room below. A few minutes later, he heard the bell and waited.

 

As a clock was striking nine in the evening, Shaw entered his room, sat at the table, and drew fistfuls of money out of his portfolio. Lady luck had been with him in Mitchell's gambling den. For a few minutes he played like a child with the money; then he opened the trunk, stuffed the money into a large bag, and closed the trunk. He quickly wrote a message, rang for the errand boy, and ordered him to take the message to the front desk at the Grand Union Hotel and bring back the reply.

Twenty minutes later, the boy returned with a message and received a tip, a generous one, to judge from the broad smile that lit up his face. When Shaw was alone, he quickly read the message, left it lying on the table, and hurried to the trunk. He pulled out the pistol, checked the bullets in the chamber, and thrust the pistol into his pocket. He raised his trouser leg and strapped the dagger to his calf. Then he hastened from the room, locking it behind him. Harry heard him running down the stairs and slamming the front door behind him.

Harry hurried to Shaw's room, opened the lock again, and dashed to the message lying on the table. It was from Rachel: She was pleased by his good fortune and looked forward to being with him again.
“With all my love and many kisses, Rachel.”

Uncertain where Shaw was headed and whether to try to follow him, Harry thought of the missing letters. He would enlist Mrs. Taylor in the search. She might have a different perspective on Shaw and could figure out where he would hide things.

Harry went to her parlor and approached her straightforward. “Ma'am, I strongly suspect that Mr. Shaw has killed Captain Crake and is about to kill his widow. Will you help me search his room?”

She looked him up and down with a playful smile and said, “Mr. Shaw has a sly manner and shifty eyes. He's off gambling now. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“Letters, ma'am. Hidden letters from Mrs. Crake.” They climbed upstairs to Shaw's room, and they began to search. Almost immediately, Mrs. Taylor discovered a packet of letters exchanged between Shaw and Rachel, hidden in a large Bible. Shaw had cut away the pages to form a receptacle.

Harry asked Mrs. Taylor how she found it so quickly.

“Shaw is a smart aleck,” she replied. “From experience with his kind, I know how his mind works. His greatest joy in life is to fool other people and feel superior. Most people respect the Bible, even if they don't follow its precepts. I heard him speak of it with contempt. Yet, he kept a copy in his room. I wondered why. When you mentioned his missing correspondence with Mrs. Crake—another man's wife, mind you—I realized that he would think the Bible was the most appropriate place for it. He could insult the holy book, deceive other people, and feel superior in the bargain.”

Harry thanked Mrs. Taylor, took the letters to his own room, and sat down to read them. He had hardly begun when he realized that they were written in code. He would have to decipher them, quickly.

Pamela was eagerly waiting outside the hotel's ballroom when Prescott returned from Mrs. Taylor's boardinghouse. He whispered to her, “Hopefully, Harry will penetrate Shaw's secrets. Now, shall we dance?”

They walked into the ballroom. Helen Fisk was already there, moving gracefully about the room, chatting with virtually everyone, introducing Birgitta as her friend from Sweden, not only an expert in the latest scientific massage therapy but also an excellent dancer. That she was an attractive woman was obvious. Birgitta had quickly grown in Helen's estimation to become a friend as well as a valuable servant.

A few minutes later, Rachel arrived in her black silk gown and thin black veil, but that was the only mark of widowhood about her. As she entered, she drew the veil back. Summer guests near her appeared to titter, but many others smiled encouragement, overlooking her cunning and self-serving character.

Prescott noticed this, then turned to Pamela. “You have to grant that she's a witty, charming companion, eager to have fun and to share it with others.”

Pamela agreed. “I'm amazed. Saratoga in the summer is more tolerant than any other place I know.”

Rachel sat with a pair of courtesans whom Pamela recognized from Canfield's Casino. She observed them with a skeptical eye.

“Rachel is keeping bad company,” she said to Helen Fisk, who had just joined her.

“I share your concern.” Helen frowned. “Shortly before we came to the ballroom, she wrote a message. When I offered to send it for her, she became very agitated. So, I suspect she's up to her old tricks. She's hinted that she'd like a suite of her own—and have me pay for it. I told her flat out that I wouldn't consider it.”

The musicians had assembled on the podium and now began to tune their instruments. Helen moved on to chat with acquaintances and Pamela joined Prescott. She had just enough time to warn him about Rachel's message. The master of ceremonies announced the first schottische. The orchestra struck up a tune. Pamela and Prescott started out, hopping, then twirling together, an arm behind each other's back.

They had danced before in New York, but only infrequently. Now she was reminded how good he was. At the end, he bowed smartly. His face slightly pink from the exertion, his eyes shimmering with pleasure, he had shed ten years in his appearance.

The next dance was a waltz. Prescott paired with Birgitta. As Pamela turned to a new partner, she found herself facing Virgil Crawford.

“May I have this dance?” he asked politely.

“I would be delighted,” she replied, and she meant it, recalling the pleasure of yesterday's visit to the lake, the supper at Beaudry's, and the concert. His attentive manner brought out feelings of self-worth that she thought she had lost when her late husband had betrayed her. Then she noticed Edith and James Crawford in the front row of spectators, watching and smiling with approval.

Virgil was light on his feet, had an excellent sense of rhythm, and waltzed like a prince.

During the waltz their conversation was limited to brief, scattered comments mostly on the music. So, in the midst of a whirl, Pamela was startled when Virgil asked, “Have you and Prescott tracked down Crake's killer yet?”

She shook her head. “Not yet. We're still looking.” At the dance's conclusion, an intermission was called. Pamela sensed that Virgil wanted to pursue the topic. At that moment, she suddenly recalled Harry Miller's observation that a guilty person can become obsessed with his or her crime and thus prone to bring it up at odd or inappropriate times. Was that the case with Virgil's question? In her thinking about suspects in Crake's murder, she had come to focus on the possible conspiracy of Metzger, Dunn, and Shaw. She had lost sight of the Crawfords, whose motive for revenge was probably the most compelling of all.

This train of thought annoyed her. She liked the Crawfords and had pushed back the idea that they could have murdered Crake. She also had come to this dance for pleasure. If anyone was obsessed by crime, it was she. Still, the urge to pursue this question dogged her and she followed Virgil to the spectators' section.

Edith and James welcomed her while Virgil brought her a chair and then took his place behind James. “We see that Mr. Prescott has returned,” Edith began. “Has anything developed in the Crake case?”

James added, “We were also wondering about Jason. Do you know how he is doing?”

“I've nothing dramatic to report about the case. We know a great deal more than when we began. Mr. Prescott is looking over the evidence that I've recently gathered. Tomorrow, we'll visit Dr. Carson's clinic and hope to learn about Jason's prospects for healing.” She added, “If he recovers his health, he may shed new light on the case. During the evening of Crake's death, Jason was uniquely positioned to observe what happened.”

While Pamela spoke, she studied the Crawford sister and brother. They seemed apprehensive. Were they concerned what a healthy Jason might say?

Pamela sat next to James. He leaned toward her and asked softly, “Would you or Mr. Prescott mind if Virgil and I went with you to speak with Dr. Carson?” He hesitated. “Edith would prefer to stay here. Perhaps she could be involved later.”

Pamela thought the request seemed reasonable. James was facing a large bill for Jason's therapy and should know what he would be getting for his money. Next to Edith, James was also Jason's closest blood relative.

“I think it would be a good idea,” Pamela replied. “But I'd better speak to Prescott.”

The intermission had ended and Prescott was now waltzing with Birgitta. When they finished, Pamela excused herself and asked for a few words with him. A young man already had Birgitta in his sights and was waiting to speak to her.

Prescott walked off the floor with Pamela. She passed James's request on to him and gave her reasons for agreeing with it.

“I share your opinion,” Prescott said. “At the first opportunity, I'll ask Dr. Carson if he wants Jason's family involved somehow in his therapy. Let's visit with the Crawfords now. I'll speak with James.”

“Afterward, we'll continue with the hop, right?”

He smiled eagerly.

Saturday, July 28

 

A
s they started walking toward the Crawfords, Pamela cast a glance over her shoulder and grew alarmed. She surveyed the hall and her heart sank. She tapped Prescott on the shoulder.

“Unfortunately, the Crawfords must wait. Rachel Crake has disappeared. We must find her.”

Her companions, the two courtesans, were still in their seats. Pamela hastened over to them and remarked, “I'm surprised that Rachel Crake left suddenly. Was she ill?”

“Oh no!” exclaimed one of the courtesans. “Rachel got a message and became ecstatic. She told us, ‘My friend just broke the bank at Mitchell's Saloon.' Then, she smiled like a little girl. ‘I've been naughty. I wasn't supposed to tell.' ”

At that moment, Helen entered the ballroom, a distracted look on her face. She hurried up to Pamela. “I've been looking for Rachel Crake. She has gone!”

“I've just noticed that,” Pamela replied. “What have you learned?”

“Not much,” she replied. During the hop Helen had kept an eye on Rachel. After the first schottische she had received a message. A few minutes later, she left the ballroom. When she didn't return, Helen went searching for her. Eventually, a chambermaid reported that Rachel had been to Helen's suite with a bellboy, threw her things into a trunk, and left bright-eyed and smiling.

“Of her own free will,” Helen concluded, “the foolish young woman has apparently gone back to Shaw.”

Pamela and Prescott started a search. The night clerk at the front desk said that Jimmy Cochrane, the young courier from Mrs. Taylor's boardinghouse, had delivered to the desk a message addressed to Rachel. The bellboy brought it to her in the ballroom, then assisted her to a side exit where a carriage from Dempsey's Livery was waiting. The coachman loaded her trunk on the rear rack, helped her into the carriage, and drove off.

“Shaw was carefully covering his tracks,” muttered Prescott. “Thus far we can only suspect that he's involved in her disappearance.”

Pamela was alarmed. “Why would he hide his face unless he intended to harm her?”

“I fear for her,” Prescott replied. “We should pick up Harry and then visit Brophy at the police station.”

 

At the Taylor boardinghouse, they quickly gathered Harry into the carriage. He reported that Rachel was trying to extort money from Shaw. “In a packet of recent letters she threatened to tell the police that she had overheard him plotting with a couple of men to kill Crake. If the deed could be done before he changed the chief beneficiary in his will, he would give them $5,000 apiece and the satisfaction of killing the man whom they all hated.”

“According to Rachel, who were Shaw's accomplices?” asked Pamela, fearing that her suspicions would be confirmed.

“Metzger, the German butcher, was one. He hated Crake from their battles in the New York packinghouse and now feared that Crake would persuade Mr. Wooley to fire him. The other was Jason Dunn. His reasons were obscure to me, having to do with Crake's brutal treatment of women.”

“What did Rachel try to extract from Shaw in return for her silence?”

“The money he won at Canfield's Casino and an apartment on Union Square in New York City.”

“Apparently,” surmised Prescott, “Shaw has lured her from the ballroom and her safe room in the hotel. In his message he seems to have agreed to her terms and promised to send her safely back to New York. Her joy will soon be deceived, foolish woman.”

Within a few minutes their carriage reached the police station. They were fortunate to find Detective Brophy. He was at the door about to leave, his face lined with stress, his eyes dull with fatigue. Keeping the peace in Saratoga on a Saturday night had apparently stretched him and the rest of the police force to its limit.

“I'm on my way to a saloon brawl,” he growled. “Pickpockets and whores are back in business on Broadway. Just an hour ago, I arrested a few and chased the others away. So what do you want?”

“Rachel Crake has gone missing,” replied Prescott, and added the vital details. “We think her life is in danger.”

Brophy blew out a loud sigh of exasperation. “You just told me she left the dance in good spirits. That means freely. In this country, we let people disappear if they want to. I need evidence that her life is at risk.” He tipped his hat to Pamela and rushed past them into a waiting coach.

As they watched him drive off, Prescott remarked to Pamela and Harry, “We can't count on the police. They don't have time for Rachel. Pamela and I will search the town for her.” He turned to Harry. “Keep close track of Shaw. You will probably find him at Canfield's Casino. We'll meet you there.”

They searched for Rachel throughout the town. Finding her seemed hopeless. This was now high season in Saratoga Springs. Guests filled all the hotel porches and occupied every rocking chair. Carriages and pedestrians flooded Broadway and moved at a snail's pace. The restaurants and saloons were packed, and the gambling dens were doing a furious business.

At Mitchell's Saloon, Prescott found a waiter who could tell him that Shaw had come early in the evening and had persuaded Mitchell to give him a $100 credit.

“Can you believe it?” the waiter exclaimed. “That rascal Shaw then walked into the back room, played roulette for an hour, and walked out with over a thousand dollars.”

“Just in time to inform Rachel of his good fortune and entice her out of the hotel,” Prescott remarked to Pamela.

She added, “At that point, Shaw needed a carriage to pick up Rachel.” Dempsey's livery stable was behind Mitchell's Saloon. The stableman glanced at Pamela's sketch of Shaw, and said that he had rented a carriage and driven it out of the stable in the direction of Broadway. He returned it an hour later. The stableman pointed to Shaw's name in the register.

From the stable they went to Canfield's Casino and joined Harry. While Pamela and Harry studied the guest list in the entrance, Prescott found Shaw observing a poker game. He drew him aside and asked about Rachel. “You rented a carriage from Dempsey's livery stable, picked her up at the hotel's side door, and drove away. Where did you take her?”

With an impatient sigh, he replied, “If you must know, I took her and her trunk to the railroad station. A friend was supposed to pick her up, entertain her for a few hours, and send her off on the night train to New York. I gave her money to tide her over and checked her trunk through to the city. She said she was going back to the brothel where we first met. Then I returned the carriage and went back to the casino. I don't know where she is now.”

“Have you forgotten that the police ordered her, as well as you, to remain in Saratoga Springs?”

Shaw shrugged and turned back to the poker game.

Prescott returned to his assistants in the entrance hall. “Pamela, come with me. Harry, you follow Robert Shaw like a flea on his back. He may feel cornered and will be dangerous. Find out his hiding place and whether Rachel Crake is there. If he is Crake's killer, she most likely knows how he did it and is our best potential witness. The sooner we find her, the more likely she'll be alive. Are you armed?”

Harry smiled and pulled a blackjack from his pocket.

As they left the casino, Pamela suggested, “In a half hour the night train to New York should arrive. We may find Rachel at the station. In any case, we could check Shaw's story with the station master.”

The station's platform was empty. Inside the hall, a single electric bulb cast a feeble light. A few tourists rested on the wooden benches, eyes shut. The telegraph office was closed. A light was on in the ticket office, but no one was there. Prescott rang the bell for service, jarring the tourists awake. A clerk appeared, looking cross.

“What do you want?” he asked.

Prescott showed his papers. “We're searching for a missing person, Mrs. Rachel Crake, who was supposed to take the night train to New York. She was here at about ten-thirty tonight with a man. He is said to have bought a one-way ticket and checked her trunk through to New York City. Have you seen them?”

From her bag, Pamela pulled her sketched portraits of Rachel and Shaw, and showed them to the clerk.

He held the pictures up to the light. “I remember them now. The man had an accent and inquired about the train being on time. You're right. He bought a one-way ticket for the woman and checked in a trunk. They'd come back, he said, in time for her to catch the train.”

“You should know,” said Prescott, “that both of them are under police orders not to leave Saratoga Springs. We'll wait for them. If they don't arrive, can you hold the trunk here?”

The clerk frowned, then stammered, “I don't know if I can. The man didn't say that it absolutely had to go out tonight. But . . .”

Prescott asked calmly, “May I use your phone to call for a constable?”

The flustered clerk replied, “Yes, of course.”

 

The constable arrived in a carriage just as the train pulled into the station from the north. Pamela and Prescott identified themselves. “We are waiting for Mrs. Crake. She intended to leave Saratoga Springs in violation of a police restraint. Could you prevent her trunk from being loaded onto the train?”

He nodded. “Detective Brophy said I should take the trunk back to the police station. He also instructed me to prevent her from leaving, if she shows up.”

They waited on the platform while passengers left the train amidst the usual clamor and hustle of the porters and hotel agents. As departing passengers boarded the train, Pamela, Prescott, and the constable stood close to the coaches to see if Rachel might have disguised herself. None of the passengers resembled her. The constable put her trunk onto the rack of his carriage.

“Could we ride with you, Constable?” Prescott asked. “We'd like Detective Brophy to open the trunk and allow us to look at its contents.”

The constable nodded. “He said he wanted a word with you.”

“So, she didn't show up.” Brophy was chewing on his cigar, feet up high on his desk, hat tilted back on his head. “Why would she leave her trunk at the station? Something's fishy there.”

“Open the trunk,” Pamela suggested. “You might find a clue.”

“I should've thought of that myself, ma'am, though there's probably a law against it.” Brophy gestured to the constable, who fingered through a rack of keys and found one that might open half the trunks in Saratoga. It worked. He lifted the lid.

It had obviously been packed in a hurry. Rachel hadn't folded her gowns before throwing them helter-skelter into the trunk on top of a mixed pile of shoes, gloves, and underclothing.

Brophy announced to Prescott, “The constable and I must go out on the street for an hour to help rich drunks find their way back to their hotels and boardinghouses. You and Mrs. Thompson may search the trunk. The night officer will keep an eye on you.”

When Brophy and the constable had gone, Prescott said to Pamela, “It's well past midnight. Shall we give a half hour to the search and then go back to the hotel?”

“Fair enough,” she replied. “I'll be looking for a diary or other hidden papers.” She picked up a silk gown, quickly patted it in vain for secret pockets, and laid it aside. Prescott did the same with other clothing. They soon reached the bottom of the trunk. The remaining items were toiletries, brushes, handkerchiefs, and the like. Pamela fingered through them, then shook her head. “We haven't found any jewelry or money yet. She must have packed them. Where?”

“In the trunk itself,” Prescott replied. “We'll check it for hidden compartments.”

For a few minutes, they explored the trunk, a common, sturdy, traveler's chest with a rounded lid. “It has a false bottom,” he exclaimed, and pulled it out. Small cases of jewelry lay interspersed with a diary and packets of letters. “We should study the most recent entries now. The rest can wait.”