Death in Saratoga Springs

by Charles O'Brien

  Harry shook his head. “Such a vulgar, irrational idea would repel Porter.”

  “Then perhaps Crake found an opportunity in the night shift when the plant would be largely dark and empty.”

  “That’s possible. We must contact the night manager at the time of Ruth Colt’s disappearance.”

  Through Mr. Porter, Pamela and Harry arranged to meet Mr. Emil Schmidt at seven that same evening at the service entrance for a glimpse of the night shift. He brought them into his small, cluttered office, brought out glasses, and offered them schnapps. “Against the cold,” he said. Harry accepted; Pamela took a cup of hot tea instead.

  Schmidt was a thin man in his mid-fifties with a wary look in his eyes. There was also alcohol on his breath, but he was sober enough to ask, “Why would you come here on a cold winter night to watch men clean a packing plant?”

  Pamela explained her interest in the conditions of the working poor. “With this experience I’ll better understand them and can be of more help.”

  The wariness in his eyes disappeared. “I’ve had a taste of poverty. Good luck.”

  “Tell me about yourself,” she asked in a kindly voice, suspecting that he drank to banish loneliness.

  “I came from Germany as a young man and worked as a mason. During the war, I served under Captain Crake in Sherman’s army. Afterward, we kept in touch at meetings of the G.A.R. A dozen years ago, I went to work for Crake and became night manager here.”

  “Would you show us what goes on here at night?”

  “Follow me,” he said. “We’ll visit the hog building you saw this morning.”

  From the gallery on each level they watched crews mopping the floors, mechanics greasing gears and repairing the trolleys, and cutlers cleaning and sharpening the knives and other tools. A mason and his assistant were fitting new bricks into a worn section of the floor. About a hundred men appeared to be at work under the insistent gaze and prodding of several foremen.

  “How long is this shift?” she asked Schmidt.

  “The men will finish here about midnight and work in the other buildings until five in the morning.”

  “When the buildings are empty at night, do watchmen patrol them?”

  “Yes, they look out for fires and for thieves who would steal the knives and other moveable equipment. I’m here as well. There is also a pair of guards at the service entrance as long as it’s unlocked.”

  “Who handles special deliveries during the night shift?” asked Harry.

  The question seemed to surprise and annoy Schmidt. “Why, I do,” he replied, testily, “and I take them to their proper destination.”

  “Are there many?”

  “A few.”

  Harry seemed to be fishing for an indication that Crake brought Ruth Colt’s body here, concealed as a special delivery, in the early-morning hours after the cleaning crew had left and the building was empty.

  Schmidt might have suspected the drift of Harry’s questions. He looked increasingly uncomfortable, his replies short.

  At a wink from Harry, Pamela declared their visit at an end. She thanked Schmidt and remarked how she wished that other workplaces in the city were as clean and well organized as Captain Crake’s.

  Schmidt mumbled a thank you and a good-bye.

  Suspicions had also grown in Pamela’s mind. “Mr. Schmidt knew more than he was willing to admit.” She and Harry walked in the dark toward their carriage on Fourteenth Street. A bitter cold wind gusted from the west. She shivered.

  “He owes loyalty to Crake, who keeps him on the job. I sensed that the foremen didn’t respect him. They smirked and rolled their eyes when his back was turned. He probably tipples through the night.”

  Pamela added, “I can imagine Crake arriving in disguise with Ruth’s body. He forces Schmidt to help him. They wait until the watchmen have settled down with a bottle of whiskey. Then he and Crake find a place to hide the body. Crake warns him never to tell anyone what happened.”

  “That’s a plausible scenario. I’ll take you home, get a little sleep, then return here at five with one of my spies. When Schmidt leaves the plant, I’ll point him out and the spy will keep track of him. I fear he will go to Crake and they’ll talk about us. He’ll become alarmed and react.”

  “That’s unfortunate, Harry. Our investigation of Crake was supposed to be secret. Nonetheless, we must confront Mr. Schmidt.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Counterattack

  Tuesday, February 20

  As his train pulled into Grand Central Station, Captain Crake was out of sorts. The warm baths and the Georgia sun had made him feel good. But the long, bumpy, jerky train ride exhausted him and triggered blinding arthritic pains. He also worried about what his enemies, known and unknown, were doing while he was away and no longer in control.

  At home, he secluded himself in his room and rested. The pains got worse. He summoned the Swedish maid, Birgitta Mattsson, to draw a bath for him and afterward give him a massage.

  Within hours he was feeling better and looked ahead to a summer of baths, massages, and mineral water in Saratoga Springs—with high-stakes gambling thrown in for good measure. He would leave his business in the capable hands of Mr. Porter.

  That evening, he dressed and sat down to supper with his young, pretty wife, Rachel. The atmosphere at the table was strained. His spies had reported to him in Georgia that Rachel seemed intimate with their mutual friend, Robert Shaw, during long sojourns in the countryside together.

  Now, over the soup course, he asked, “Rachel, do you think it wise to be seen frequently alone with Robert? People are talking.”

  “Oh, Jed,” she replied. “They will always find some reason to gossip. Pay no attention to them. Robert is just a good friend who escorted me to gambling casinos and dances while you were away. I would otherwise have died of boredom.” She gazed at him with guileless concern. “Did you miss me, Jed?”

  “Not really, dear. Birgitta looked after me.”

  “You’re fortunate to have her, Jed.” Rachel raised her wineglass and took a sip.

  Her expression was largely hidden, but he detected a line of concern on her brow.

  After supper, Jed went to his study and called in Mrs. Kelly, the housekeeper, one of the few persons in his life who had his interests at heart.

  “Anything worthy of note happen while I was gone?” he asked in a friendly way.

  “Here in the house we had no problems, but . . .” She hesitated.

  “What happened, Mrs. Kelly?” His interest was piqued.

  “I was attacked in Central Park on a bright Sunday afternoon.”

  “Really?” Crake started, then relaxed. His housekeeper had a taste for the dramatic. “Tell me about it.”

  She related the purse-snatching incident in the park and how a nice lady, named Pamela, recovered her purse and befriended her.

  “We had tea together in my apartment and then I showed her your trophies in the War Room. She seemed impressed. Was that all right?”

  “I trust your judgment, Mrs. Kelly. Still, in New York, as you know, we must always be cautious with strangers.”

  Later that night as he prepared for bed, Mrs. Kelly’s incident came back to his mind, and he pondered the friendly stranger who showed interest in the War Room. “What harm could come of it?” he asked himself. “None,” he replied. “Forget it.” But the question continued to itch until he fell asleep.

  The next morning, he felt well enough to return to work in his office at the pork-packing plant. He called Mr. Porter into his office. Their conversation reassured him that all was well. In particular, the workers were content despite the increased tempo of production that Porter had introduced. Though the country’s economy was in deep depression with banks failing and railroads going bankrupt, Crake’s meat business was thriving.

  Then, as Porter was about to leave, he mentioned the distinguished couple who toured the main plant, the day before yesterday.

  “They left with a
good impression of conditions here. That’s important. Our open door to discerning visitors costs nothing, builds good will, and counteracts the carping criticism of reformers.”

  “Did you get their names?” Crake put a hint of disapproval into his voice.

  “Mrs. Pamela Thompson and Mr. Harry Miller. I checked on their references. The detective at Macy’s said she’s fair-minded and trustworthy. Mrs. Fisk said she’s genuinely helpful to poor families, especially the children. I felt reassured. We have nothing to hide, do we?”

  Crake ignored the question. With a perfunctory, “Thank you, Porter,” and a wave of his hand, Crake sent the manager back to his office. Then he leaned forward in his chair, stroked his chin, and asked himself, “Why did this Pamela visit my study and tour my pork-packing plant? Should I be concerned?” Perhaps not, he thought. She might simply admire his military exploits or his success in business and want to know more about him. No harm could come of it.

  The rest of the morning Crake walked through his buildings, observing the packing process with a practiced eye, satisfying himself that it was working as well as Porter claimed. In his heart, Crake didn’t fully trust his manager. His obsessive focus on the efficiency of the packing process might ultimately prove wrongheaded. Crake couldn’t say why; he just felt uneasy.

  After lunch with several plant supervisors, Crake returned to his office to discover that Inspector Williams had come for an unexpected visit and was waiting in the outer office. Crake held out his hand and gave the officer a cordial greeting.

  The two men had a business relationship of mutual convenience. It had been tested two years ago during the meatpackers’ strike. Crake paid Williams a large bribe. In return, Williams arrested the union’s leaders for conspiring to endanger public safety and to damage Crake’s property. Williams also allowed Crake’s thugs to beat up union organizers and vandalize the union’s office. Recently, Williams had arranged the dismissal of a female clerk’s accusation of assault against Crake.

  Why was Williams here today? Again, Crake felt uneasy. The inspector appeared only when there was trouble or he needed money.

  Williams began with a concerned expression. “Jed, I thought you should know that a pair of Jeremiah Prescott’s private investigators have searched your private room on Fourteenth Street, unlocked your cabinet, and found clothes and weapons that could implicate you in the disappearance of Ruth Colt several weeks ago.”

  Crake felt his heart begin to race. His brow broke out in a cold sweat. “How dare they!” he exclaimed weakly. He struggled to regain control of himself. “Did they have permission?”

  “Unfortunately, the owner’s son was present and agreed.” Williams raised a calming hand. “Prescott must know that even this evidence is circumstantial. Without the girl’s body he doesn’t have a case that would stand up in court. His investigators will continue searching, so be alert.” He smiled sympathetically, then rose to leave. “Let me know if I can be of any further assistance.”

  “You’ve been helpful, sir, beyond the call of duty,” said Crake. “My clerk will send you something for your expenses.”

  As soon as Williams was out of the building, Crake called in his clerk. “Find Emil Schmidt. Don’t wait until the night shift. I want him here immediately.”

  An hour later, Schmidt was ushered into Crake’s office, a bewildered look on his face.

  Crake asked levelly, “Did you show a Mrs. Thompson and Mr. Miller through the packing plant two nights ago?”

  Schmidt’s eyes widened in apprehension. “Why, yes, Mr. Porter referred them to me. Is something wrong?”

  “Indeed!” he replied through clenched teeth. “They intend to ruin us. Do you perceive my meaning? Keep them out.”

  Schmidt stammered, “Yes, sir.” Then he hurried from the room.

  Now thoroughly alarmed, Crake called in his clerk again. “Tell Jimmy Gilpin I need to speak to him urgently. I’ll go to him at seven this evening.” Gilpin could be relied on to put an end to Prescott’s private investigation and, if necessary, his investigators.

  Crake dressed for the occasion in a plain brown business suit and took a cab to the pool hall on Twenty-third Street. Gilpin was standing under a bright electric light in a haze of cigar smoke, watching a game of pool. He had a childlike smile on his smooth, round face. When he saw Crake, he gestured toward the door to his office.

  There was a slimy, reptilian quality about the man that made Crake squirm. But occasionally he had to rely on his services. Behind the façade of a busy pool hall, Gilpin ran a ruthless and very profitable protection racket among the area’s brothels and gambling dens. His services to Crake’s meatpacking company included severely beating union leaders during the recent strike. He spread terror among the union’s rank and file by threatening to harm their families and selectively assaulting a few to show that he was serious.

  “Have a cigar, Jed.” Gilpin reached into a gilded humidor on his writing table.

  Crake waved it away. “No, thanks, Jimmy. Doctor’s orders.”

  “Then what can I do for you, Jed?” Gilpin leaned forward in his leather chair, his brow furrowed slightly in feigned sympathetic concern.

  “Private investigators, named Mrs. Thompson and Mr. Miller, are poking around my packing plants.” He gave Gilpin a brief account of Prescott’s investigation. “I want it stopped. Do whatever it takes.”

  Gilpin pursed his lips. “Jed, that’s a tall order. Prescott is clever and tough. To take him on, I’ll have to hire smart, expensive operatives.”

  “I know,” said Crake impatiently. He hated to bargain with this savage. “I’ll meet your price. Here’s an advance.” He shoved a thick envelope across the table.

  Gilpin palmed the envelope into a drawer and smiled. “The project looks interesting, Jed. I’ll begin with the Thompson woman.”

  Over the weekend, Pamela and Harry tried to visit with men from the night shift. Metzger had given some names. However, none would speak to them, nor would Emil Schmidt. The management clearly had warned the men to avoid contact with private investigators or be fired. Harry and his spy followed Schmidt secretly, hoping to catch him drinking and trick him into a confession, but without success.

  On Monday afternoon, Pamela left her office and set off for home to meet Francesca, who needed help with schoolwork. At the door, the concierge gave Pamela an envelope and said, “An errand boy left this for you.”

  Pamela detected a note of apprehension in her voice.

  “He was a nasty little ruffian,” the concierge added.

  Pamela put the envelope into her purse, started up the stairs, then asked, “Has Miss Ricci come home from school yet?”

  “No, she hasn’t. Is something wrong?”

  “I hope not.”

  Once inside the apartment, Pamela tore open the envelope and gasped. A bloody fingerprint prefaced the single-page note.

  Unless you agree to stop investigating a certain decorated war hero within twenty-four hours, you will never see your Francesca alive. Post your answer in your front window. If you later renege on your promise, we will kill her and you for good measure.

  Pamela immediately rushed over to Prescott’s office.

  “Is something wrong?” he exclaimed as she burst into the room.

  “I’m distraught. Crake’s thugs have kidnapped my Francesca and threatened to kill her.” She handed him the bloody note.

  “I see the hand of Jimmy Gilpin. His lawyer has composed the note, the lawyer’s clerk has typed it, but it’s Jimmy’s idea to take a hostage. He orchestrated similar violence that broke the meat cutters’ union.”

  “What shall we do?”

  “Whatever he asks. We dare not risk Francesca’s life. Gilpin would surely kill her and drop her body on your doorstep. We’ll suspend the investigation for the time being. You may inform Virgil Crawford. He and I will settle the business details later.”

  Crawford met Pamela at the door to his office, a look of surprise on his face. H
e beckoned her in and asked what had happened.

  “Gilpin has kidnapped Francesca and demands that we stop our Crake investigation. Mr. Prescott says suspend it.”

  “I’m sorry to hear this, Mrs. Thompson, but I agree we shouldn’t risk Miss Ricci’s life.”

  They moved to his writing table. He sat upright, arms resting on the table, and listened attentively to Pamela’s detailed report on her investigation.

  “My colleagues and I are morally certain,” she concluded, “that Captain Crake killed Ruth Colt and perhaps other young women. But our evidence is circumstantial and wouldn’t prevail in a court of law where the burden of proof in a capital case is high, and even higher than usual where a wealthy, powerful man is concerned. I regret that we could not find the victim’s body. Crake must have found a way to hide or destroy it in his packing plant, or bury it in the river.”

  Virgil lowered his eyes for at least a minute, as if to study the desk’s polished surface. His lips pressed tightly together. He seemed to be fighting back tears. Then he drew a long, slow breath and looked up at her.

  “Dear Mrs. Thompson,” he began, “I’m not surprised that Crake cannot be convicted and properly punished for his crimes. You and your colleagues did all that is humanly possible. The fault lies in a corrupt judicial system where justice is for sale. It’s sad and outrageous that Crake is free to prey upon poor, young, naïve women.”

  “If it’s any consolation, sir, his housekeeper says that he has returned from the Georgia spa with less rather than more strength. Perhaps his predatory instincts have also weakened.”

  “What is his condition?” Crawford seemed curious.

  “His kidneys are failing; his arthritis has worsened. He plans to spend the entire summer season in Saratoga Springs, desperately hoping that the baths and the mineral springs will cure him.”

  Crawford appeared to thoughtfully reflect. “I’m disappointed, Mrs. Thompson, but I’m also patient and hopeful. Your investigation hasn’t been in vain. There will be other opportunities to bring Crake to justice, of that I’m sure.”