Death in Saratoga Springs (2 page)

“I know Captain Crake.” He spoke with an assurance that startled Pamela. “One of my duties in the Crawford family enterprise is to serve as my cousin James's eyes and ears in the jungle that is American business. In a sense, like you, I'm a private investigator. Years ago, when we expanded our shipping company and moved from Georgia to New York, I began to investigate Captain Crake and certain other cutthroat entrepreneurs with whom we had to deal. My search aimed especially at their hidden vices.

“A certain police inspector's unguarded remark led me to suspect Crake of a deeply flawed character. At stake was a contract to transport his company's meat all over the East Coast in refrigerated cargo ships. In our conversation over drinks, the inspector assured me that Crake's competitors exaggerated his faults. True, he drove a hard bargain, but he was at least as honest as they were. Then the inspector added offhandedly, ‘But let young women beware. He's a wolf in sheep's clothing.' A few seconds later, he suddenly looked embarrassed and said, ‘Forget I ever said that.' ”

Pamela was skeptical. “Like other men, Crake may have a wolf's instincts. Still, most of them never abduct a woman.”

“You're right about men,” Crawford quickly agreed. “Nonetheless, from the inspector's remark I sensed that Crake might have a deeper problem. I hired spies to follow him at night. Over several years, in various disguises and aliases, he left a trail of bruised and battered prostitutes. A young female employee also accused him of assaulting her. The police were paid off and didn't charge him. I've concluded that Crake is prone to episodic violence, primarily toward women.” He met Pamela's eye. “Is it farfetched to believe that Mr. Johnson and Crake are possibly the same person?”

“Perhaps not,” she replied. “So my task is to prove or disprove their identity, beginning with Captain Crake, and find out what happened to Ruth Colt.”

“Correct. But don't confront him or let him know that you're investigating him. His thugs could harm you. Also keep the Crawfords entirely out of the picture. And don't go to the police unless you have a case that would hold up in court.”

“You've prescribed a very challenging investigation. I'm flattered that you believe I can do it.” She glanced toward the file boxes. “May I assume that you've checked my credentials as thoroughly as the others?”

“Yes, of course.” He smiled kindly but seemed reluctant to say more. She asked him to continue even though he would stir up painful memories from her past.

With a shrug, he complied. “When I asked Prescott for an investigator, he highly recommended you. However, the gossip concerning your husband's embezzlement of bank funds and his suicide had cast a shadow over your reputation. So, first I had to clear that up in my own mind. I concluded you were innocent of any wrongdoing and went on to learn about you helping poor families at St. Barnabas Mission. After the loss of your home and inheritance, bruised but unbowed, you ran a boardinghouse for a year. Then Prescott hired you to fight theft at Macy's. And last summer you successfully investigated murders at a great estate in the Berkshires. In brief, your story is touching and fascinating, and it reassured me that you are an intrepid and resourceful detective. I'll stop there; I could say more to your credit.”

She took a moment to digest his remarks. Though they had only met twice, he probably knew her as well as almost anyone alive. She knew next to nothing about him. Still, he seemed utterly sincere. She felt good about working with him.

As she rose to leave, an afterthought came to her mind. She showed him the mysterious numbers from Ruth Colt's notebook.

For a long moment he studied them, then suddenly glanced up at Pamela. “That could be an address near Crake's meatpacking plants. Why should the missing woman have it?”

“I'll try to find out,” replied Pamela.

“Then report your progress directly to me at this office. I'll cover your expenses and your stipend. Good luck and be careful.”

Sunday, February 11

 

T
he sun was shining, the temperature mild for winter on this Sunday morning. Pamela waited across Fifth Avenue from the Crake mansion, a square brick building with a mansard roof. She impatiently shifted her walking stick from hand to hand. Finally, a servant came out and threw salt on icy patches on the steps. The housekeeper, Mrs. Kelly, would soon go to church.

Yesterday, Pamela had studied the mansion for what it could tell her about its rich owner. She had expected a palace but found it to be one of the older, smaller, less impressive buildings in the neighborhood. Crake apparently drew more satisfaction from amassing wealth than from displaying it. The mansion had belonged to his wife, a rich widow he married in the first flush of his success in the meatpacking business. She died five years ago, leaving him also a large fortune in railroad investments. He married again a year later.

At last, Mrs. Kelly, a stout, cheerful, middle-aged woman, emerged in a black silk dress and a matching fancy bonnet. Pamela followed her at a distance into St. Patrick's Cathedral and sat near enough to observe her with a side-view opera glass. She met a few other servants and carried on a whispered conversation until the Mass began. After the service, Pamela followed them to a café where they drank tea, played cards, and chatted for a couple of hours.

Finally, they dispersed and the housekeeper walked alone in Central Park. Appearing to tire, she sat down on a bench and laid her purse loose in her lap. Her eyes half-closed, she didn't notice a thief sneak up to her and snatch the purse. The sudden movement woke her up, but he was already speeding away.

Pamela had observed the scene. The thief ran toward her and flashed a knife to warn her off. As he passed by, she deftly poked her walking stick between his legs and he crashed to the stone walkway. Blood streaming from his brow, he glanced up at her with a curse on his lips. But she brought the steel point of her stick to within an inch of his eye and held him in a steady gaze. “Drop the purse and the knife or I'll shove this stick into your brain.”

With shaking hands, he laid the purse and knife on the walkway.

“Now, get out of my sight.”

He scrambled to his feet and ran away.

Pamela picked up the purse, threw the knife into the bushes, and approached the housekeeper. She was trembling and on the verge of tears. Pamela returned the purse and introduced herself, then sat on the bench and said, “The thief is gone and you are safe now.”

“Thank you, dear. I'm most grateful to get my purse back.” She had a strong Irish accent.

“Do you need help? I could call your husband or your son.”

She shook her head. “I'll be all right. My husband and I married late and had no children. But we were best friends. He died ten years ago, and I still miss him.”

“Then it's hard being alone. A few years ago, I lost my husband and my only child, a lovely daughter.”

Mrs. Kelly gazed at Pamela with sympathy and interest. “How could you cope with the grief?”

“I have companions, my foster children, one at a time. Last year, an Irish girl lived with me. This year, it's an Italian girl. They keep me young and happy.”

Mrs. Kelly was listening attentively and clucking her approval.

“May I walk you home?” Pamela asked.

The housekeeper replied hesitantly, “I don't want to be a bother.” Still, the tone in her voice said she welcomed the offer.

“No trouble at all,” said Pamela cheerfully. “The sun is still up. I can use the walk.” Pamela helped the housekeeper to her feet. They set off together for the Crake residence.

 

Mrs. Kelly invited Pamela into the kitchen of her small apartment on the ground floor in the rear of the building. The house was very quiet, except for a canary in a cage and a clock ticking on the wall.

“Is anyone home?” Pamela asked. “I don't hear anyone stirring.”

“Not a soul but me,” Mrs. Kelly replied easily. “The servants have the day off while Mrs. Crake visits a friend's country house.”

“And Mr. Crake?”

“He left in the middle of January and will be back in a few weeks. His arthritis got so bad that it nearly crippled him, so he went to a hot springs spa in Georgia. He writes that the treatment relieves the pain.”

Pamela quickly calculated. Crake was still in New York at the time of Ruth Colt's disappearance. She asked, “If he's a sick man, can he go alone?”

“His nurse, Birgitta, actually one of our maids, goes along to massage him, administer his medicines, and help him move about.”

A look of surprise must have crept onto Pamela's face at the thought of a young female, probably blond and blue-eyed, traveling alone with Crake. She must be made of steel.

“Birgitta is Swedish, mature beyond her years, and has a way with the captain.” Mrs. Kelly smiled indulgently. “She knows how to keep him calm.” Putting a kettle on the stove, she added, “Would you like tea?”

“That would be lovely.” Pamela took off her coat, set aside her stick, and began to survey the room. It had a sleeping alcove, a small kitchen, and decent, plain furniture. A variety of photographs and shelves of mementos covered the walls. Her gaze fixed on a framed photograph of a young Union army officer.

“That's my Dennis during the war,” said Mrs. Kelly. “He served three years in the New York Sixty-ninth and won a medal for bravery, but his health suffered. After the war, he couldn't lift heavy things and tired easily. No one would hire him. Fortunately, Captain Crake has a soft spot in his heart for wounded veterans and hired Dennis anyway as butler—and hired another man as assistant for the heavy work.”

In Pamela's image of Crake there were no “soft spots,” certainly none in his heart. He was commonly said to be a pitiless man, especially toward anyone who stood in his way or showed disrespect. Thanks to Mrs. Kelly, his image had just become more complicated.

Mrs. Kelly must have read Pamela's mind, for she remarked, “Yes, I know what people say about the captain, but they don't know him like I do. Do you have time? I'll show you his study.”

“Yes, of course.” Pamela was eager to learn whatever she could about this house and its master.

Her hostess added tea leaves to the pot, poured in hot water, and let the tea steep. They climbed the servants' stairway to the next floor and entered a room that could hardly be called a study. The shelves held mainly mementos of the war: Union and Confederate weapons and insignia of rank. On a library table were fancy snuffboxes, gold bracelets, and other expensive jewelry probably looted from Georgia plantations. On the walls hung Union and Confederate battle flags, sabers, and pistols. Only one shelf was devoted to books, most of them dealing with military history. The most prominent was a richly bound edition of Buel's popular history of the war.

“The captain calls this the War Room,” said Mrs. Kelly. “He has a proper office on Fourteenth Street in the meatpacking factory.”

A framed document hung above the mantel. “That's the captain's certificate of heroic service near Savannah at the end of the war,” said Mrs. Kelly. “And this is his Medal of Honor.” She reverently opened a small green velvet–covered case. Inside lay the medal, its ribbon in pristine condition.

Photographs of men in uniform covered one wall, some taken during the war, others at veterans' encampments. “The captain calls it the Grand Army wall.” She pointed to a picture of two men in uniform. “That's the captain and my Dennis twenty years ago.”

Crake was a big, powerful man, clean-shaven and erect. He leaned protectively toward his smaller comrade. Pamela recorded in her mind every detail of Crake's features.

“Years ago,” Mrs. Kelly went on, “they raised money for pensions and relief of wounded veterans.”

Next, they passed through a richly furnished parlor. On the mantel stood a photograph of Crake in formal attire. His expression was lusty, with a touch of the wild. “That's the captain, four years ago, just before the wedding.”

Next to the captain's photograph was one of a beautiful young woman. “Mrs. Crake,” remarked Mrs. Kelly, a distinct note of reproach in her voice. Pamela hoped for a revealing or candid comment, but Mrs. Kelly's lips were drawn tightly together.

Back in the kitchen, they sat down to their tea. With an afterthought, she went to a cabinet and came back with a bottle of whiskey. “Will you have a nip of this juice in your cup?”

“Yes, as insurance against the cold.” She took a sip, then remarked, “Captain Crake must be a very busy man. Does he find time for anything besides meatpacking and investments?”

“He and Dennis used to go regularly to the Phil Kearny Post of the G.A.R. After Dennis passed away, the captain joined a gentlemen's club. These days, he goes out by himself to their meetings and other events.”

“But not with Mrs. Crake?”

Mrs. Kelly shook her head. “The club is for men only. I'll not speak ill of her, but she's much younger than he. They have different interests.”

On his desk in the study Pamela had noticed an ashtray from the Union League Club, which catered to wealthy, distinguished Union veterans like Crake. She needed to find a discreet way to determine if and when Crake was at the club. Prescott might be able to help. Though not a member, he might have contacts there.

The tea finished, Mrs. Kelly followed Pamela to the door and waved a friendly good-bye. Pamela waved back, carrying in her mind a sharp, disturbing picture of Captain Crake.

Sunday, February 11

 

“S
o you've sneaked into the lion's den, have you?” Prescott smiled at Pamela, a twinkle in his eye. It was Sunday evening. He was at the University Athletic Club resting after an hour of racquetball. His face had a fresh, scrubbed look that took a decade off his fifty-odd years. Pamela met him in the visitors' parlor. Women weren't allowed elsewhere in the building.

“No need to worry, sir. The lion is still in Georgia, warming his aching body. I could safely inspect his lair.”

“And what did you learn?”

“Thirty years after the war, he's still a common soldier at heart, most at ease with old comrades drinking whiskey from a tin cup during G.A.R. encampments. But he goes out alone at night, dressed like a gentleman, and says he's going to his club.”

“How is that suspicious?”

“He apparently belongs to the Union League Club through his wealth and business connections, but I can't imagine him dining or conversing evening after evening with gilded plutocrats like J. P. Morgan. So, does he have a secret life at night that might account for the disappearance of Ruth Colt?”

“Really? Would he tell Mrs. Kelly, ‘I'm on my way to a brothel'? Still, you might have a point.”

When she suggested that he check Crake's alibi at the Union League Club, Prescott stopped her. “The Union League Club wouldn't open its attendance records to a stranger and would bring my request to Crake's attention. You wouldn't want that. Nonetheless, I'll privately ask an acquaintance how frequently Crake attends club functions, if at all.”

 

When Pamela left the parlor, Prescott immediately telephoned Donald MacDonald, the chairman of the club's membership committee and a former comrade in arms. He was among the first to volunteer at the outbreak of the war. Four years later, having lost a leg in Virginia, he left the army with the rank of major. Now a wealthy corporation lawyer, he worked with Prescott pro bono for veterans on pension cases.

“I have a few questions related to the Union League Club,” said Prescott. “Could we meet?”

“How about lunch at the club tomorrow?” MacDonald said heartily. “Be my guest.”

The next day, Prescott arrived a few minutes early and waited in the visitors' parlor. MacDonald came on crutches but without apology. A lively man with silver hair and a ready smile, he had canny eyes and could not be fooled.

They sat at a table in an alcove off the main dining room. “For greater privacy,” MacDonald said. “From our conversation I sensed that your questions might be delicate.”

“Possibly, but they will be appropriate.”

The waiter arrived and took their orders. Both ate lightly at lunch and chose the soup of the day: corn chowder. When the waiter left, they exchanged personal remarks. MacDonald was considering retirement.

Prescott showed interest. “Are you thinking of quiet country life? Try the Berkshires, where I have a cabin.”

“Tell me more. I understand that Anson Phelps Stokes, investment banker, will build a cottage there.”

“Yes, he'll call it Shadow Brook. When finished, though still a ‘cottage,' it will be the largest private residence in the country.” Prescott went on, briefly describing the area's lovely landscape, its charming villages, and the congenial society of its wealthy, cultivated summer visitors. “Take your pick. In the Berkshires you'll find something to your taste, from a cabin in the woods to a mansion that rivals anything on Fifth Avenue.”

With the coffee, MacDonald offered a cigar and a brandy. Prescott politely declined the smoke. MacDonald put his away.

“A brandy, then?” he asked.

“Gladly,” Prescott replied.

“Now, my good friend, what are your questions?”

Prescott took a sip of the brandy. “A client of mine is considering a sensitive, personal relationship with Captain Crake. While looking into his credentials, she was told that he belonged to this select club. May I ask, is he in fact a member? And, if so, is he in good standing?” He raised a warning finger. “I must add that my client doesn't want Crake to know that she is asking about him.”

MacDonald smiled. “You speak circumspectly, Prescott, as you should in this case. The captain is hard on people who talk about him with disrespect. I also must choose my words carefully. He is a member of the club and technically in good standing—that is, he pays his dues and hasn't been convicted of a felony.”

Though he soon might be, thought Prescott. “Is he active?”

MacDonald shrugged. “He attends two or three major events per year, such as the annual banquet and a royal or presidential visit.”

“So he never simply drops in for an evening drink or game of cards.”

“That's right. In that regard, Crake is typical of a majority of our members.” He gazed at his companion, a wry look on his face. “Have I been helpful, Prescott?”

“You have indeed, sir.” Prescott raised his brandy glass in a toast.

 

Late in the afternoon, Pamela was in her office and heard Prescott return. She called out to him. “What happened at the Union League Club?”

“Crake has apparently misled his housekeeper, the good Mrs. Kelly. He doesn't go there in the evening.”

“Where does he go?”

“Perhaps Harry can tell us. He's speaking to a former companion in the NYPD detective department and should return soon.”

Harry Miller, the other investigator in Prescott's firm, was Pamela's age and a former NYPD detective. Slim, plain in his features, with thin, sandy hair, he was easily overlooked in a crowd. At first Pamela resented his cool, opaque gray eyes and his searching gaze into her mind. His remarks to her were curt and almost rude. But, working together, she discovered his sterling compassion and integrity. He mellowed, and they became friends.

When Harry arrived late in the afternoon, Pamela and Prescott went to his office.

“I was amused,” he began. “The detective department is like a cage of scared rabbits. The state government in Albany is questioning them about corruption. Most of them are guilty, but they try to shift the blame to each other and suspect that I spy for the reformers. The clean ones are afraid to talk to me for fear of reprisals. Fortunately, I found an old friend who would speak in strict confidence.

“He said that when the Crawfords first reported the Colt girl missing late in January, Inspector Williams told him to look into the matter. His initial search of refuges, jails, brothels, and the morgue yielded no sign of her.”

Pamela remarked, “Isn't it strange that she would disappear without a trace, as if she'd fallen off the edge of the earth?”

“My friend thought so,” Harry agreed. “He's a conscientious detective, so he checked the files on other missing children for similar patterns of place, time, and other circumstances. A few petite young women, apparently prostitutes, vanished without a trace on the city's West Side between Fourteenth and Twenty-third streets. He also found a similar pattern of attempted abductions. One of those girls worked at Crake's meatpacking plants and claimed that Crake, wearing a false beard, had tried to seize her in the evening near the plants. His voice and arthritic gait gave him away. My friend reported his findings to Inspector Williams, who saw Crake's name and said, ‘Leave this affair to me. You're off the case. Don't speak about it to anyone or I'll have your hide.' ”

Pamela knew and disliked Alexander Williams. From his brutal methods of interrogation, he had earned the nickname “Clubber.” He had also become rich from the blackmail of gambling dens and brothels in Chelsea's notorious Tenderloin district. Last year, she had quarreled with him over the custody of Brenda Reilly, one of her foster children.

She asked Harry, “Would the inspector obstruct my investigation of Crake?”

“Crake pays Williams for protection. Enough said.”

“Why do you suppose your friend confided in you?” Prescott asked Harry.

“He finally realized that the inspector had walked away from the problem, perhaps because Crake had paid him off. Now that reformers are investigating the department, my friend fears that the inspector might shift the blame for corruption in the Colt case onto him. I think he's also bothered that Crake walks about at night, still free to prey on young women.”

Pamela asked, “Have you found a room that Crake might have secretly used?”

“No, I haven't. In the packinghouse area there must be hundreds of possibilities.”

She pressed on. “The address might be a combination of 14414, the mysterious numbers I found in the missing Colt girl's room.”

“Then begin on Fourteenth Street,” said Prescott to Pamela. “Harry will help you.”

“Let's hope this isn't a fool's errand,” said Harry.

 

Thursday morning, after a tedious search of the area, Pamela and Harry approached number 414 on West Fourteenth Street, a decrepit, five-story brick building. At the street level was a small butcher shop. A bald, shriveled old man was behind the counter, sharpening a knife.

Pamela asked, “Do you have rooms to rent upstairs?”

The old man studied her and Harry with a cynical eye. “By the hour?”

Pamela replied evenly, “It's not for us but for a friend and for a longer period. Could we see a room on the first floor?” With his arthritis, Crake wouldn't have wanted to climb any higher.

“I can't leave the shop.” He turned toward a back room. “Peter,” he shouted. “Come here.”

A young man appeared at the door, wiping his hands on a blood-smeared apron.

“Show these people the first-floor room.”

Peter took off his apron, pulled a ring of keys from a rack on the wall, and beckoned the visitors to follow. They climbed a rickety stairway to the first floor into a dark, narrow corridor. At the far end was another stairway. Crake could use it to come and go unobserved. Harry asked where it went.

“Down to the alley behind the building where they haul the trash.” Peter opened the door to the room and let them in. “It's the only room we rent on this floor.”

It was surprisingly large, furnished with a table and a couple of chairs. A bed was fitted into an alcove. There were no obvious signs of Crake. A clothes cabinet stood against a wall.

“I want to look inside,” said Harry.

“It's locked,” said Peter.

“I can open it. I just want to look.” Harry held out a coin and gazed at the young man.

For a few moments, he just stood there, his eyes dancing between Harry and the money. Finally, he took the coin and mumbled, “Yes.”

Harry quickly picked the lock and opened the cabinet door. Pamela looked over his shoulder. A businessman's suit hung on a hanger. A workman's clothes hung on a hook. The beard was in a box on a shelf. A small traveling bag stood on the floor. Pamela fingered through underclothing until she came to a small, loaded pistol and a sheathed knife. She held up the weapons.

Harry turned to the young man, who had begun to perspire. “Tell us about the man who rents this room.” Harry offered him another coin.

He took it with a trembling hand. “He's tall, broad in the shoulders, walks like he's stiff in the hips, and calls himself Mr. Anderson. He's used to bossing people. From time to time, he comes in the evening dressed up like a gentleman, changes his clothes, and goes out again. He comes back late and sometimes brings a young woman with him.” He hesitated. “Are you police?”

Pamela spoke gently to him. “We're only private investigators asking questions, not police. Just forget we were here and you won't get into any trouble.”

She put the traveling bag back in order. Harry locked the cabinet. As they were leaving, Pamela went back for a closer look at the bed. Nothing was hidden in the mattress. But when she pulled the bed from the wall, she found a fancy pink purse.

“Crake could have overlooked it when he was leaving,” said Pamela, opening the purse. Inside were coins, a kerchief, and a photograph of a young, light-complexioned black woman.

There was writing on the back side of the photograph. Harry read aloud, “ ‘Ruth Colt, Christmas 1893.' It proves she's been here after she left the Crawford household.”

“We'll take the purse with us,” said Pamela to the young man. “It belongs with her aunt.”

He started to object, then thought better of it.

On the way out, Harry told the old man downstairs that their friend wouldn't be interested in the room.

 

In a quiet coffee shop nearby, Pamela remarked to Harry, “That dressed-up gentleman who calls himself Mr. Anderson is certainly Crake. In his business clothes he is also the Mr. Johnson of the fictitious Madison Square address.”

“And Ruth Colt was with him in that room.” He shook his head. “But we saw no blood, no other signs of struggle.”

“Crake could have used his hands to strangle her or kill her with a single blow,” Pamela insisted.

Harry looked irritated. “We need to find a body, or at least solid evidence of her murder. Otherwise, we have no case to give to the police. Where could she have gone?”

Pamela offered a likely scenario. “Late at night, Ruth and Crake quarreled in the secret room and he strangled her. He wrapped her in a bedsheet, carried her down the back stairs to the alley, threw her into a cart, and pulled it through the alley to a side street off Fourteenth.”

“Plausible, so far,” Harry agreed. “But, to avoid a police investigation, he had to permanently hide or destroy the corpse.”

“That would be difficult,” agreed Pamela. “He was alone, short of time, and probably unprepared—he might have killed Ruth on an impulse. Wouldn't he go to a familiar place that was nearby?”

“Right,” Harry replied. “I think he'd pull the cart west on Fourteenth Street, perhaps to his meatpacking plants or, a little farther on, to the Hudson River at the Fourteenth Street ferry to Hoboken.”