Death in Saratoga Springs

by Charles O'Brien

  Before getting involved in Francesca’s predicament, Pamela would have liked to speak to Prescott, her boss. Unfortunately, she could reach him at his Berkshire cabin only in an emergency.

  As the train pulled out of the station, Pamela asked Harry, “What would Prescott think of our trip?”

  Harry reflected thoughtfully for a moment. “He’d approve of our good intentions but warn us to be realistic. Francesca’s arrest in Saratoga Springs wouldn’t greatly surprise him. At the time of her arrest at Macy’s he doubted that she would change her bad habits.”

  Pamela shook her head. “He might also fault my judgment in taking on responsibility for the girl. This investigation will have to win his approval and support.”

  During the ride north along the Hudson River, Pamela glanced sideways at her companion. He had fallen silent and looked sad, more than usual.

  “What’s the matter, Harry?” she asked gently.

  “My son William will be confirmed at church on Sunday. I’m not invited.” His lips seemed to quiver.

  She encouraged him with a sympathetic smile.

  “My ex-wife poisons the boy’s mind against me. He calls me a jailbird. That’s hard to take.” Miller stared out the window.

  Pamela was aware that the NYPD had dismissed Harry for protesting against the police cover-up of a murder involving Tammany Hall, the city’s Democratic organization. Harry was then falsely charged with trying to extort money from the organization. Wrongly convicted, he served four years in Sing Sing. His wife left him, taking their two children with her.

  Pamela reassured him. “As your son grows older, Harry, he’ll think for himself. Then he’ll learn the truth and be proud of your integrity and achievements. Prescott says you’re the best detective in the city.”

  Harry smiled wryly, leaned back, and closed his eyes. The train rumbled on.

  At noon, they arrived in Saratoga Springs’ busy D&H railroad station. Pamela and Harry engaged a carriage for a short ride to the Grand Union Hotel. At the last minute, Prescott’s clerk had reserved adjoining rooms for them, though it was near the height of the tourist season and the hotel claimed to be fully booked.

  From the sidewalk on Broadway, his eyes wide and arms akimbo, Harry looked up at the giant, six-story brick building. A three-story porch girded it, offering a shaded stage for hundreds of guests sitting in rocking chairs or walking about. A huge American flag flew over the central tower.

  “Have you been here before?” he asked Pamela.

  “Several years ago my husband and I stayed for a month on three occasions. He maintained it was the largest, finest hotel in the world. More big business deals were struck in the porch’s rocking chairs than in many Wall Street offices. While he smoked a cigar and talked finance on the porch, I listened to the Boston Symphony Orchestra in the garden, or watched the women’s fashion parade on Broadway, or walked with my daughter, Julia, in Congress Park. I feel nostalgic already.”

  After claiming their rooms, they hastened to the town jail to speak to Francesca Ricci. The officer on duty studied their credentials, glanced skeptically at Pamela, and looked up at a clock on the wall. “I’m short-handed and can’t leave the desk. Come back in an hour. The bitch will still be here.”

  Pamela sensed that Francesca wasn’t a model prisoner. Nonetheless, the officer was obnoxious. “We’ll wait.”

  He sighed impatiently, but after a few minutes he called a guard and told the visitors curtly, “Follow him.”

  Francesca was locked in a cell with three females awaiting arraignment. “Prostitutes,” the guard said. He moved Francesca to a small, bare, grimy room with a battered table and a few wooden chairs.

  Pamela sat at the table facing a sullen Francesca in handcuffs. Harry stood off to one side. The guard lounged against the wall near the door and picked his teeth. Francesca glared at him and banged the cuffs on the table. He tried to appear indifferent to her taunting, but his eyes smoldered with contempt and irritation.

  “Are you well treated?” asked Pamela.

  Francesca shrugged. “They don’t beat me.”

  “Did you steal jewelry from Mrs. Crake or kill her husband?”

  “No.”

  Pamela realized that the girl would not speak freely while the guard was listening. So she asked him, “Could you let us talk privately?”

  He frowned, but he left the room. The girl made a gesture to his departing back that Pamela suspected was a nasty Italian insult.

  “Tell me, Francesca, what happened that night?”

  “When Mr. and Mrs. Crake went to the concert, I aired their rooms as usual. Then I returned to my room. Late that night, as I was reading in bed, a big, fat police detective and Mr. Winn, the hotel detective, came to my door. The officer questioned me, searched the room, and found Mrs. Crake’s bracelet in my mattress. He said she had reported it missing. I said it was a gift from Captain Crake. The officer said I was lying and took me to jail.”

  “Why would Crake give you his wife’s bracelet? That sounds farfetched.”

  Francesca reflected for a moment, the effort creasing her brow. “It’s strange, but it’s true. I often sang for him. That afternoon, he handed me the bracelet. I told him I couldn’t take it. He looked angry and insisted. I was afraid he would hurt me. He was old and sick but still a big, strong man. I was confused. I couldn’t sell it in a pawnshop. Even a dishonest dealer might turn me over to the police. So I hid the bracelet until I could figure out what to do with it.”

  “Isn’t it odd that he’d give away his wife’s bracelet without asking her?”

  “That’s what I thought,” Francesca replied. “Frankly, I think he was angry at her. They say he gave her the bracelet a month ago to make up after a quarrel. It’s engraved RC. There’s talk among the maids that Mrs. Crake is carrying on an affair with Mr. Shaw. If I’d given the bracelet back to her against his wishes, I might have found myself in the middle of a family fight.”

  Harry turned to Pamela. “By taking the bracelet away without asking his wife, Crake might have intended to punish her infidelity. Giving the bracelet to a chambermaid added insult to the injury.”

  Pamela added, “If Crake’s wife found out about the bracelet and later killed him, she could use it to implicate Francesca, a convenient scapegoat.”

  “That’s plausible,” Harry agreed. “Or, the police detective could have suspected Francesca simply because she was Crake’s chambermaid. By chance he might have found the bracelet in a routine search of her room. Crake’s killer could also share the detective’s preconception of chambermaids. He or she might know Francesca and found a way to steer the investigation toward her.”

  Pamela asked Francesca, “Does anyone seem to show special interest in you?”

  The maid struggled to recall. “Men sometimes stare at me with lust in their eyes, but there’s a bellboy whose eyes are especially intense. I shudder when he stares at me.” She described him as a slim, quick, clever man, maybe thirty years old, with curly blond hair, light complexion, and deep-set brown eyes. “He tries to talk to me; but I don’t like him, and I tell him to leave me alone.”

  Pamela made a mental note to search for the man. “Tomorrow, Francesca, you will be taken to the county courthouse in Ballston Spa, a few miles to the south of town, to hear the charges against you. You will have a lawyer. Plead innocent. The judge will set a date for your trial.” She smiled and spoke gently to the girl. “For your own sake, be polite to the police and to the magistrate. We will be there and try to keep you out of prison. Then we’ll find out what really happened. Unfortunately, the police seem to have made up their minds. We doubt that they will be helpful.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Initial Impressions

  Saratoga Springs

  Tuesday, July 10

  From the jail, Pamela and Harry went to the empty Crake cottage facing the hotel’s garden. A police officer blocked the entrance. Harry showed him their identification papers. Eyes squinting, he read th
em slowly.

  “Mr. Tom Winn, the hotel detective, is inside,” said the officer finally. “I’ll see if he can be disturbed.”

  “Have you met Winn?” Harry asked Pamela.

  “Yes, on previous visits to the hotel,” she replied. “He’s an approachable, decent man, well-known and liked in the town. For most of the year he runs a carriage and sign painting business. House detective is his summer job.”

  “Then he’s poorly qualified for a homicide investigation,” said Harry, frowning. “For Francesca’s sake, I hope he’s aware of his limitations.”

  “I’ve heard that he was a local part-time cop or watchman before going to work for the Grand Union.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

  At that moment, the officer returned with Winn, who beckoned them into the cottage. A stocky man about forty, he bowed to Pamela, appearing to recognize her.

  “Pamela Thompson, a friend of Helen Fisk,” she reminded him. An older widow, Helen was a tall, imposing figure and a rich, prominent patron of the hotel.

  “I recall your face. You were here together with your daughter, Julia, a lively, beautiful girl. How is she?”

  The question nearly brought Pamela to tears. Would she ever get over the loss? For a moment she struggled, then replied evenly, “Julia died of influenza in 1890, shortly after our last visit to Saratoga. My life turned upside down for a few years.”

  “I’m truly sorry.” He gazed at her, then remarked softly, “For a parent to lose a child in the bloom of youth is the worst thing I can imagine.”

  “Thank you, I’m back on track and working as a private investigator.”

  “I’m acquainted with your Jeremiah Prescott, a clever lawyer. If he takes on the maid’s defense, he’ll have an uphill struggle. Granted, she hasn’t confessed, and the evidence against her is circumstantial, but it’s convincing. The hotel management wants the case to be prosecuted with the least possible disturbance to the guests. The local authorities are of the same mind.”

  “If Prescott takes the case, he’ll mount a vigorous defense,” said Pamela. “That’s what Miss Ricci is entitled to.”

  “I agree,” remarked Winn. “Follow me to the crime scene.”

  As they entered the ground-floor parlor, the detective pointed to a sofa. “Mrs. Crake found him lying there.”

  “Any sign of struggle?” Harry asked.

  “No, Crake had taken a drug and was probably semiconscious at best. In his wife’s bedroom, her jewelry case was open and a bracelet missing. It was hidden in the maid’s room.”

  “What led you to suspect her?”

  “She was the last person to see Crake alive, though she claims to have left the cottage before he returned from the concert. A bellboy contradicts her. He saw her leave after Crake had returned. She doesn’t have an alibi and claims Crake gave the bracelet to her. Mrs. Crake insists that’s a lie.”

  Pamela asked for the bellboy’s name.

  “Jason Dunn. I questioned him. In the evening Dunn often ran errands in the garden.”

  “When did Mrs. Crake discover the body?”

  “Near midnight. She had been playing cards at Canfield’s Casino. When she returned to the cottage, she found the room dark and her husband dead. I was called immediately. After confirming the crime, I summoned the police.”

  “Do you have any questions about this case?” Harry asked.

  Winn hesitated before replying. “I wish I knew precisely when the murder took place. From the time Crake left the concert until his wife discovered his body is about four hours. We found no bloodstains in the maid’s room or on her clothes. She had enough time to clean up.”

  “You just mentioned Crake’s body. Could we see it?”

  Winn glanced at Pamela. “Are you really prepared for this?”

  “I’ve seen murdered men’s bodies before. I won’t faint.”

  Winn flashed her a thin smile. “It’s in the basement ice room now and will go to the morgue later this afternoon. Follow me.”

  They descended to the basement. Winn unlocked the ice room. Crake’s body was laid out on a wooden table and covered with a cloth. Winn pulled back the cloth from the torso, revealing a single knife wound to the heart. “He bled copiously. I mopped up most of the blood to make the body appear less horrific to his wife. She fainted anyway.”

  Miller asked, “Where’s the knife?”

  “The police haven’t found it,” replied Winn. “They think it was an eight-inch boning knife from the meat-cutting room in the basement. Miss Ricci could have picked up one while visiting Italian women next door in the laundry and returned it afterward.”

  Miller bent over the body and inspected the wound. “The blade was thin and single-edged like a boning knife, but narrower. The weapon could have been a dagger.” He stepped back and stared at the corpse. “As I imagine the scene in that dark cottage, the killer’s single blow hit the heart with incredible luck or an expert’s skill. Even with light, a nervous sixteen-year-old girl would have stabbed Crake wildly and have missed the heart.”

  “Are you insinuating that this crime might be an assassin’s work?”

  “That’s how it looks to me.”

  “The thought crossed my mind,” Winn admitted. “But, who hired the assassin? I can’t think of anyone.”

  “Have you looked?” Harry asked evenly.

  “That’s a job for the police detective.” Winn glared at Harry for a moment, then explained that the medical examiner would finish his work the next day. The body would be sent to the military cemetery in Erie, Pennsylvania, where Crake wanted to be buried. He came from the area and had relatives there.

  Pamela asked, “Wouldn’t his widow have a funeral for him in New York and bury him in a local military cemetery like Cypress Hills in Brooklyn?”

  Winn replied dryly, “She’s really not a grieving widow, just a clever courtesan intent on his money. She couldn’t care less about the burial of his body. Now, I must be going.”

  Harry thanked the detective and signaled Pamela that they, too, should leave. When they were alone in the garden, he asked, “What’s next?”

  She reflected. “Well, tomorrow we must visit Francesca again. Thanks to Tom Winn, I have some questions for her. In the meantime, let’s try to find that witness, Jason Dunn.”

  Late in the afternoon, Jason was standing near the reception desk, just as Francesca described him—a slim, handsome man, his eyes deep-set, golden brown, and intense. Pamela started toward him, but the desk clerk gave him an errand and he was off in a flash.

  Harry beckoned her and patted his stomach. They hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Nonetheless, she signed for him to wait. She asked the clerk, “When could I speak to the bellboy Jason Dunn?”

  “I’ll send him to your room after dinner.”

  Pamela joined Harry at the entrance to the dining hall. A crowd had gathered, waiting for the master waiter to seat them.

  “Gossip must flourish like weeds here,” Harry observed. “We might pick up useful news.”

  They eavesdropped and gathered public opinion on the recent murder. Predictably, most visitors were relieved that the police had taken the maid into custody. No one doubted she was guilty. Conversations quickly turned to afternoon events, the forthcoming food, and the evening music.

  In due course, the master waiter opened the door, causing a stir in the crowd. “Don’t worry, ladies and gentlemen. Our hall can accommodate a thousand diners.”

  A small army of black waiters in black coats and stiff white shirts stood at attention by the tables. Each table was covered with white linen, decorated with cut flowers, and set with silverware for four persons. As he seated Pamela and Harry, the master waiter said with pride, “You will find that our menu compares favorably with the best restaurants in New York City.”

  A middle-aged couple, Mr. and Mrs. Wood, arrived late, when most seats were occupied or reserved. The master waiter seated them with Harry and Pamela. The Woods proved
to be affable and well-educated people. They had come to the hotel already in June and had a trove of local gossip. The first course, clam chowder, diverted everyone’s attention to the food.

  After the chowder, Pamela brought up the topic of Crake’s murder. Mrs. Wood was impressed that the local police had solved the case so quickly. She and her husband held the general opinion that the maid was guilty.

  There was a break for the next course, broiled pompano, a fish from Florida, with potatoes julienne. The Woods had ordered a bottle of white wine and now offered some to Pamela and Harry. Out of politeness, they agreed to a glass each.

  Pretending ignorance, Pamela asked, “What sort of man was the victim, Captain Crake?”

  “Actually,” Mrs. Wood replied, “he’s rather well-known. During the past three or four summers he has come here for his health—severe arthritis, I believe—and frequented the springs and the baths. He gambled a great deal and usually won. We occasionally dined with him and his wife. His speech and manners were rough on the edges, if you know what I mean. She’s a lively, cultivated, attractive young woman who loves to shine and amuse herself.”

  “And spend his money,” Mr. Wood added. “Crake was a ruthless, successful businessman and made a fortune in meatpacking and railroads.”

  “I’ve noticed,” said Harry, feigning ignorance, “that Crake is referred to as a captain. Was he involved in the war?”

  “Yes,” replied Mr. Wood. “He distinguished himself in Georgia late in sixty-four. A captain of cavalry, he routed a company of rebels, single-handedly, or so the story goes. The army gave him a Medal of Honor. After the war, he touted his exploits at reunions of the Grand Army of the Republic.”

  His wife waved a hand. “A rumor is making the rounds that his military service wasn’t as glorious as he loudly claimed. While in Sherman’s army, he did skirmish with Confederate cavalry. But mostly he chased after the Georgia militia of untrained young boys and feeble old men, and he slaughtered rebel cattle, burned rebel barns, and terrorized rebel women and children.”