Death in Saratoga Springs (23 page)

 

The diary frequently referred to a secret place where Rachel and Shaw hid from her husband during romantic trysts.

“I know it's late,” Prescott granted, “but let's take a quick look before going back to the hotel.” They borrowed a lantern, caught a cab, and found the small cottage in a grove at the end of an alley off Circular Street, a five-minute ride from the Grand Union Hotel.

The grove was dark. The eerie screech of an owl pierced the early-morning silence. Pamela wondered if Shaw might be spending the night inside with Rachel. No lights or sounds came from the cottage.

Prescott knocked on the door several times with increasing vehemence. No one could have slept through it.

Pamela asked, “May I try to pick the lock?”

Prescott glanced at her with surprise.

“Harry has taught me. I can open simple locks with a hairpin.”

“Then try your skill on this one. I'll hold the lantern.”

It was an easy lock. Pamela picked it in a few minutes. Prescott pulled the door open, first a crack, then all the way. He held up the lantern and illuminated a small, fully furnished parlor. They stepped inside. Pamela detected the strong scent of Rachel's perfume in an upholstered chair and more of it in the drapes. Rachel and Shaw had used the cottage within the last few hours.

Off to one side behind the parlor was a small bedroom; on the other side, a tiny kitchen and a WC. There was no electricity and no telephone in the building, but it was clean and orderly. There was no sign of violence or conflict.

Prescott lit a kerosene lamp and knelt down to check the parlor's varnished hardwood floor. None of the boards seemed loose. The same was true in the bedroom. He opened a chest of women's clothes and sorted through them. “What's this?” he called out to Pamela. Among the dresses he had found a chambermaid's apron and bonnet.

She studied them carefully. “They must be the female disguise that Shaw wore as he left Crake's cottage, misleading Jason to think it was Francesca. She and Shaw are about the same size.”

Prescott added, “He came here from the casino, changed, then hurried to the hotel and killed Crake. He ran back to the cottage, changed again, and returned to the casino—all in the space of an hour.”

They returned to the parlor and continued searching. She lifted a pillow on the upholstered chair and found a fancy handkerchief, initialed
RC.
“It's wet with drops of red wine. Rachel has used it this evening.”

Prescott worked his way to the kitchen floor. He called Pamela. “There are drops of a liquid on the floor and a wet, wine-stained towel on the rack.”

She joined him. “And here's a half-empty bottle of red wine in the cabinet and two empty glasses in the sink.”

“We'll need a chemical test on their residue.” Prescott sniffed the glasses. “But it's certain that Shaw brought Rachel here from the Grand Union a few hours ago. He poured red wine into two glasses in the kitchen. They drank from them in the parlor. Afterward, he or she put them in the sink without rinsing them.”

“So, what happened next?” asked Pamela. “There's still no sign of violence. The bed hasn't been disturbed. They must have left.”

“They couldn't have gone far. Shaw returned to gamble at the casino within an hour of the time he left Mitchell's.”

As Pamela was leaving the kitchen, puzzling over these new clues to Rachel's disappearance, the front door suddenly opened. Robert Shaw stood in the entrance, glaring at her, a pistol in his hand.

Sunday, July 29

 

S
haw stepped inside. “What do we have here?” he asked in a mocking tone. “Breaking and entry and burglary are still crimes in New York, I believe. The law also allows me to use lethal force to protect my property.” His lips pressed tightly together. His gaze was as cold as ice. He raised the weapon.

Suddenly, a dark figure reared up behind him and swung a blackjack at his head. The gun fell to the floor. For a moment Shaw stood dazed, then crumpled.

Harry picked up the gun and stuck it in his pocket; then he searched the prostrate man for other weapons and found the dagger strapped to the calf of his leg.

“Shaw must have heard almost everything you said,” said Harry, taking charge. “He was outside watching you through the window. Rachel should be nearby, either dead or in danger of dying. We must act quickly. One of the town constables has a bloodhound that finds lost children, hikers, and wandering elderly folks. He lives only a few steps away. I'll wake him up. We'll be back shortly.”

Pamela found rope, and Prescott tied up the still-unconscious man. Soon he began to stir and to open his eyes. At first they didn't focus, but eventually he stared at Prescott. “You and your lady friend haven't found any proof of wrongdoing. You're more likely to go to prison than I.”

“Don't fret,” said Prescott. “We're bringing a bloodhound into this investigation. Finding Rachel should be child's play for him. You had better pray that he finds her alive; otherwise, you will burn in the electric chair like the unfortunate Mr. William Kemmler.”

For the first time since Pamela set eyes on Shaw, his lips trembled with fear.

Soon, Harry appeared, followed by Blue, a large black and tan bloodhound with a black, wrinkled snout and long, flapping ears. His big, gentle eyes calmly surveyed the humans gathered in the room while he waited for instructions from a sleepy-eyed constable. He turned to Pamela. “Ma'am, can you give Blue a scent of the missing woman?”

Pamela pointed to the pillow that reeked of Rachel's perfume.

The constable led the dog to the pillow. He inhaled the scent and was instantly eager to begin tracking. At his handler's command, he started sniffing through the rooms, then out the door to the rear of the cottage and up to the edge of the grove to a pile of brush. There he stopped and pointed still as a statue. While Pamela held up a lantern, Harry and Prescott pulled the brush away to reveal a trapdoor. Blue advanced a step closer. There was no doubt in his mind.

For a moment they stood around the trapdoor, silently gazing down at it with respect and even sorrow, as if it were a person's newly dug grave. Then Harry sighed and pulled open the door, revealing a large pit. Blue strained at his leash. Pamela stepped forward and held the lantern over the opening.

The pit was stonewalled and about six feet deep. On the bottom lay a figure in a canvas sack. Harry and the constable climbed down a ladder, lifted the sack over their heads, and placed it on the ground at the edge of the pit. Prescott opened the sack, revealing Rachel's head. Pamela brought her lantern up close.

“Has she been strangled?” she asked.

“I can't see any marks,” he replied.

The constable climbed out of the pit and glanced at the body. “It looks like murder.” The words sounded so inadequate. He turned to Harry, who had followed him out of the pit. “Bring Detective Brophy here to study the scene while it's fresh. We'll need a coach for the woman's body and for Mr. Shaw. I must take Blue home, then I'll come right back.” As he was leaving, he said to Prescott with a teasing smile, “I'm putting you in charge while I'm gone.”

While these arrangements were being made, Pamela held the lantern close to Rachel's face. The pert, lively expression, so characteristic of the woman, was gone. A deep sorrow came over Pamela at the thought of a young life so brutally ended. It didn't help to reflect that Rachel had foolishly gone back to Shaw and tried to extort money from him. He denied her any chance to turn her life around.

Prescott approached. “I'd better check on Shaw in the cottage. Will you be all right out here alone?”

“Yes,” she replied, “it may sound odd, even morbid, but I feel I should stand by her side.”

He gazed at her for a long moment. “I understand.”

 

A short while later, Prescott joined her. “Shaw is secure, locked in his thoughts. He refused to speak.” For several minutes, Pamela and Prescott stood quietly by the body, absorbed in reflection. Then the stillness of the night was broken. Detective Brophy trudged out of the darkness, followed by Harry.

Brophy addressed Pamela and Prescott: “I'll take charge of the investigation now. It'll soon be dawn. You'd better get some sleep. Come to my office in the afternoon and give me your statements. Too bad we've lost her, the key to her husband's death.”

Pamela cast a last glance at the body and gasped, then dropped to her knees for a closer look. “Her eyelids flickered,” she shouted.

Prescott knelt beside her and felt the artery in Rachel's neck. “There's a very faint pulse. She must still be alive.”

In a few minutes, a medical examiner arrived. For a moment he stood by the woman, confused. He had expected a corpse. Then he pulled smelling salts from his bag and brought them to her nose. She began to stir and half-opened her eyes.

“Rachel,” Pamela said loudly into the woman's ear. Her lips moved.

“Amazing,” said the examiner. “I've never seen the likes of this. She may have overdosed on a drug. We'll take her to the hospital immediately.”

 

Pamela and Prescott walked back to their carriage. Harry remained behind with Brophy and the constable to study the scene and to question Shaw. When Pamela climbed into the carriage, a profound weakness overcame her. “Thank God for Harry,” she said. “Without him, this night could have had a sad ending.”

Prescott closed the carriage door. “We owe him a great deal. It was a close call. Shaw was preparing to shoot.”

Pamela added, “And had he shot us, who would then have known that Rachel was buried in the pit?”

Sunday, July 29

 

A
t midmorning, Pamela awoke fatigued, having tossed and turned during the night. Her mind had churned up a lurid vision of a dark pit, and Rachel's sightless eyes had stared at her. For a moment she felt that criminal investigation could be unhealthy for her. Then rays of sunlight slanting through the window banished her demons.

There was a knock on her door. Pamela opened it; it was Birgitta. “Mr. Prescott has just told Mrs. Fisk and me what happened last night. I thought you might need a lift. I'll draw a bath for you. It'll soak the fatigue out of your body. Then I'll give you a massage and bring you breakfast.”

Pamela felt greatly relieved. “Birgitta, you are an angel from Heaven.”

She shook her head. “I really enjoy helping people feel better. By the way, I asked Mrs. Fisk about getting into medical school. Would it be difficult for me, a woman? She said, ‘Don't worry. I'll help you.' ”

Early in the afternoon, Pamela and Prescott were shown into Brophy's office. It was stiflingly warm. He sat behind his desk in shirtsleeves and without a collar. His coat and hat hung on a hook on the wall; his cigar lay in a tray off to one side. He hadn't shaved or slept. Pamela feared that he might be irritable and difficult to deal with. To judge from the high pink color of his face, he risked having a stroke.

But he greeted them with a broad smile and gestured to a couple of chairs. For a moment, he gazed at them, then said, “Good work. You arrived at the cottage just in time and saved Mrs. Crake's life. The medical examiner figured that she probably wouldn't have lived through the night.”

“What happened to her?” Pamela asked.

“Shaw insists he didn't try to kill her. His story, for what it's worth, is that they were drinking wine in the parlor and she suddenly stopped breathing. When he couldn't find her pulse, he thought she had died and he'd be blamed. So he hid her in the pit and went back to the casino to win more money. He planned to take the early train to New York and catch the first boat to any place where he could make a living at gambling.”

“What do the medical doctors say about her?”

“She may have suffered a reaction from mixing a patent medicine and the wine. Shaw claims she often indulged in a tincture of laudanum. They say she should recover.”

“It might have been accidental,” said Prescott. “But Shaw could have done it to rid himself of her. She threatened him.”

“I agree,” Brophy said. “Would you like to interrogate him while I listen in?” He glanced at Pamela. “Mrs. Thompson can join us. A constable will take notes. You could touch on Shaw's role in the death of Captain Crake as well.”

“A good idea,” Prescott replied. “I look forward to dueling with Shaw.”

The interrogation room's walls were whitewashed and plain. A pair of high windows let sunlight into one side of the room. The other side was shadowed. Prescott sat at a wooden table in the sunlight; the constable scribe sat next to him. Pamela and Brophy remained in the shadows.

Shaw appeared at the door in plain, shapeless prison garb, his hands and feet in irons. A constable led him to the table, set him down, and sat behind him. His brow appeared still creased with pain from the blow that Harry had given him. Nonetheless, he looked confident and ready for battle.

Prescott began, “Tell us, sir, how Rachel Crake came to be in a cottage you rented and was found near death in a concealed pit on the property?”

“She wanted to return to New York. As I told you earlier, I drove her from the hotel to the railroad station, bought her a one-way ticket, and checked her trunk.”

“I recall that part of your story. I assume you're about to change the rest.”

His eyes flickered momentarily, possibly with embarrassment. “Rather than wait two hours in the station hall, we went to my cottage, drank wine, and chatted. She decided not to go to New York after all. I said she could stay in the cottage as long as she liked. I would go to the casino for a couple of hours of poker. At that point, she collapsed and looked dead. She must have slipped too much laudanum into her wine. I feared the police would blame me, so I hid her body.”

Prescott observed, “Your story is implausible. By trying to hide her body from the police, you've implicitly admitted your guilt. In fact, you attempted to kill her with a lethal mixture of wine and a patent medicine containing laudanum, ingredients that are readily available.”

“Why should I want to kill her? We were lovers.”

“Partners in crime would be closer to the truth. You and she conspired to kill her husband for his inheritance. That's clear in the messages you hid in the Bible at Mrs. Taylor's boardinghouse. My assistant, Harry Miller, has deciphered them, including the one in which Rachel demands a large sum of money in return for her silence about your role in the conspiracy. At first, she supported your alibi that you were gambling at the casino on the evening of July seventh. Recently, however, she stated before two witnesses that you left the casino for at least an hour, time enough to kill Captain Crake. We've also found the chambermaid's apron and bonnet that you wore. Which of Rachel's stories is true?”

“Her recent version is a lie. We had quarreled, so she was punishing me.”

“If her demand for money was based on a lie, why did you agree to her terms?”

“I thought if I paid her, she would stop spreading lies about me. Victims of extortion sometimes find it more convenient to pay off the extortioner.”

Throughout Prescott's indictment, Shaw remained calm and collected, his head tilted slightly at a skeptical angle. At the end, he remarked, “I'll refute you in court. I did not kill Crake. I have nothing more to say.”

After Shaw was led out of the room, Brophy remarked, “Shaw is sure that his luck will change and that he'll wiggle out of this situation as he has throughout his life. I'll charge him now with Mrs. Crake's attempted murder and move him to the jail in Ballston Spa.”

Pamela asked, “Will you now charge Rachel? Messages between her and Shaw reveal that they conspired to kill the captain.”

Brophy looked skeptical. “Was Rachel actually involved in the killing?”

“Yes, she was,” Pamela replied. “Rachel, not Jason, told Shaw that Crake had retired to the cottage. She, better than anyone, knew that he would take a drug and soon be incapable of defending himself. She provided Shaw with the chambermaid disguise. Metzger the butcher wasn't involved, either. Shaw used his own dagger, rather than a boning knife. And finally, Francesca Ricci had nothing to do with Crake's death. At the least, could we get her out on bail?”

“I agree,” Brophy replied. “We need to revisit Captain Crake's murder. When I deliver Shaw to the county jail, I'll talk to the judge about your girl.”

Pamela saw a glimmer of hope for Francesca.

 

At supper that evening in the hotel dining hall, Harry joined Pamela and Prescott at their table. He had helped the town police prepare a report for the district attorney.

Pamela asked, “Was Brophy apologetic for charging Francesca with the death of Captain Crake?”

“The short answer is no,” Harry replied with a wry smile. “And I resisted the temptation to make him eat crow. Brophy knows he must do the investigation right this time. I made myself useful, and he seems grateful.”

At that moment, the waiter arrived to take their orders.

“Steak and potatoes for me,” Harry said, then added, “and a pint of Ruppert's ale.” Prescott ordered the same. Pamela chose broiled cod and white wine.

When the waiter left, Harry turned to Prescott. “To strengthen our case against Shaw, we'll have to address thorny legal issues. Your search of Rachel's trunk and later your forced entry into Shaw's cottage could be considered illegal. In each instance, you lacked a warrant to search private property. Shaw's attorney will most likely ask the judge to dismiss all charges.”

Pamela objected, “The idea that Shaw could escape punishment for murder is outrageous.” She turned to Prescott. “How do you think we should respond?”

Prescott replied, “I respect the Common Law and understand the need for a search warrant under ordinary circumstances. Last night, however, you and I rightly believed that Rachel was in imminent danger. We didn't have time to hunt for a magistrate and ask for a warrant. If challenged in court, I would invoke the law's principle of ‘exigent necessity,' which means simply that saving a person's life overruled respect for private property. I'm sure that the district attorney is familiar with the idea.”

“In view of that legal principle,” Pamela asked Harry, “how did you manage to find Shaw's messages from Rachel?”

“When I couldn't find them myself, I asked Mrs. Taylor to help me.”

“Did she faint? Or order you out of the house?”

“Not at all.” He winked at Prescott. “I had charmed her. She quickly found them hidden in a Bible.”

Pamela turned to Prescott. “In this instance, do we have a legal problem?”

“No,” he replied, “as the property owner, Mrs. Taylor has the right to search a suspicious renter's room and his things.”

“What will happen to Rachel, assuming she recovers?”

“In return for testifying against Shaw, she should be held less responsible than he, but she must not be exonerated. Otherwise, as Crake's widow, she could challenge his recent will and claim half of his estate.”

Harry asked, “How deeply, if at all, were the butcher Karl Metzger and the bellboy Jason Dunn implicated in Crake's death?”

“We'd better find out,” Prescott replied. “Shaw might try to shift the blame to them, as well as to Rachel.”

 

Since coming to Saratoga Springs, Harry had cultivated the acquaintance of the German butcher, sometimes drinking beer with him in neighborhood taverns. On Sunday evening, as the news of Rachel Crake's nearly fatal experience spread throughout the town, Harry wondered how Metzger was reacting. In her messages, Rachel had named him as a coconspirator in her husband's death.

Harry found him at his customary table in Mickey's. His companions were trading opinions about the incident. Karl seemed preoccupied and had little to say. Soon his companions moved on to another table and Karl sat alone, staring into his beer.

Harry approached with his usual “Mind if I join you?”

Karl lifted his gaze and grunted a tepid assent. Harry ordered a beer and asked softly, “What's the matter, Karl?”

“I can't bring myself to talk about it, Harry. Help me to get my mind on something else. Let's talk baseball. Did my favorites, the Baltimore Orioles, win this afternoon?”

Harry quickly shifted into his role as a baseball fan. His interest was genuine but not centered on a single team. He loved the game itself for its drama and the speed and skill of its players. In Sing Sing, a fellow convict, who had played briefly in the National League, was amused when Harry had asked if stealing bases was a felony? By the time Harry was released, his mind held a rich treasury of baseball lore. He had even learned to pitch a curve ball.

Harry put on a doleful face. “Sad to say, Karl, the Boston Beaneaters beat the Orioles again, this time eight to four. It was the Orioles' sixth loss in a row. They will also play Boston on Monday and should win. Do you want to bet?”

Metzger dug into his pocket and put a penny on the table. “The Orioles by four points or more!”

Harry put up a penny. “I'll bet they don't. You hold the stakes.”

Karl was now in a better mood. They chatted baseball and drank beer for an hour.

Harry was tempted to bring up Rachel Crake, but he sensed Metzger was still skittish. “I'll be going back to the hotel, Karl. Will I see you tomorrow?”

Metzger appeared to reflect for a moment. “Would you join Erika and me at an old-fashioned German festival behind our clubhouse tomorrow evening?”