Death in Saratoga Springs

by Charles O'Brien

  There was little that Pamela could do but sympathize with Prescott. He looked so dispirited. His best remedy was to distract himself in the Crake case and the fate of Francesca Ricci. His family problems could be put on hold.

  That evening, Tom Winn lent Prescott a key, and he and Pamela visited Crake’s cottage again. Still unoccupied, it would soon be emptied and thoroughly cleaned. They stood together silently in the middle of the parlor, Prescott studying the scene of the crime. Its emptiness was eerie. As Pamela’s gaze fixed on the sofa, an overpowering sense of what had happened there made her light-headed.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Yes, let’s take a closer look at this place.”

  Cleaned and pressed for the next veterans’ reunion, Crake’s uniform still hung in the armoire. His other belongings were packed neatly in drawers and cabinets. A large, mostly empty trunk stood in a closet.

  “What’s that?” A fancy framed document above the mantel had caught Prescott’s eye.

  “It’s the certificate accompanying his Medal of Honor,” Pamela replied. “I saw it in the War Room of his Fifth Avenue mansion. Congress honored him for conspicuous bravery near Savannah, Georgia, in December 1864. And here is the medal itself.” She opened the green velvet–covered case resting on the mantel.

  Prescott studied the medal and shook his head. “Even after thirty years and on vacation, the old soldier carried with him this memento of the greatest moment of his life.”

  As they left the cottage, Pamela asked Prescott, “What’s your thinking on the case thus far?” She was growing anxious, but she understood his situation and prodded him reluctantly.

  “The bracelet now seems less damaging to Francesca’s case than I thought. Crake might indeed have given it to her. Whether a jury would agree is another matter. Because she’s poor and foreign and has a petty criminal record, they might doubt her story. I will have to find a more plausible suspect than her. The hotel and the police won’t help and most likely will get in the way. The search could be complicated, drawn out, and expensive.”

  “You aren’t going to give up now, are you?”

  Her question appeared to sting. “Not yet, Pamela. With help from you and Harry, I’ll devote the weekend to observing the three known suspects—Metzger, Dunn, and Shaw; there could be more. Then I’ll decide.”

  She couldn’t hide her disappointment.

  He noticed. “I’m sorry, Pamela. My resources are limited. Requests for pro bono work pour into my office almost daily. I must choose those I can handle best.”

  On Saturday morning, Prescott toured the hotel’s basement to see Karl Metzger cutting meat and to examine his knives. During the rest of the day and on Sunday, he watched Jason Dunn running errands and spoke to him on the hotel porch. He also talked to Tom Winn, to other hotel employees and guests, and to the police for a sense of the obstruction that a private investigation could expect. In the evening, he observed Robert Shaw, gambling at Canfield’s Casino.

  By Sunday evening, Prescott seemed to have gathered enough impressions and information, and he called Pamela and Harry to his room. His expression remained inscrutable while he summarized the facts of the case and listed the pros and cons of a possible investigation.

  Meanwhile, Pamela’s anxiety had grown unbearable. If he said no to this case, what would she do? Take leave from the firm and carry on the investigation alone? Impossible. She lacked the money and the skill. Her heart sank. She would have to abandon Francesca to an uncertain fate.

  When he finished speaking, he leaned back, stroking his chin. Through long minutes of suspense, his mind seemed to work toward a conclusion. Then his poker face began to relax into an enthusiastic smile.

  “This case has moral weight and intrigues me,” he said. “I’m impressed by Harry’s argument that Crake’s killer is expert in the use of a knife. Miss Ricci is not. Therefore, she appears wrongly charged with murder. The local police are distracted and will not help her or us. There are many suspects who could and would have killed Crake. So, I’ll commit the resources of my firm to solving Crake’s murder and freeing Miss Ricci.”

  Pamela breathed a deep sigh of relief. “How shall we proceed?” she managed to ask.

  “You will remain in Saratoga Springs and search among the suspects for Crake’s killer. Harry will help you here and in New York City, where I also have other work for him.”

  “And will you take part in this investigation?”

  “I see myself exploring Crake’s military service. In four years of war, Crake must have had hundreds of opportunities to make deadly enemies. Did he assault women in the South during the war, as he did recently in New York City? If so, he may have left behind angry men and women, still eager to settle scores with him if they could. Tomorrow morning I’ll return to New York City and speak to Clarence Buel, an acquaintance who knows more about the war than any man alive. He’s surely acquainted with Crake, a decorated hero. I hope Buel will point me to the right path.”

  After Harry retired to his room, Prescott asked Pamela to join him for a walk in the hotel garden. The air was pleasantly warm and fresh. From the garden fountain came the soothing sound of splashing water. They spoke about friends and acquaintances he had just met in the Berkshires.

  She turned the conversation to what was pressing on her mind. “At lunch on Friday, you mentioned that Gloria and her banker, George Fisher, would be together at Ventfort. How are they getting along?”

  “They appear to suit each other. Both hope to shine in high society. He lacks manners, but he’s rich. She has manners but lacks money. According to gossip, they are discussing marriage.”

  “How shall they overcome the legal obstacle?”

  “She must divorce me, most likely in Connecticut. She established a legal residence there three years ago, obviously to meet the law’s requirement. She’ll probably charge me with ‘intolerable cruelty,’ a common legal device. I won’t contest the divorce—our marriage ended essentially years ago. And I shall ignore her accusations. Everyone knows they are legal fictions. My lawyer will represent me before the judge. It could be done soon.”

  They had come to a poorly lighted part of the garden and were alone. “Then would you be free?”

  “Yes, finally.” He took her hand. She drew near to him. For a long moment, they gazed at each other in the dark. Then they walked arm in arm back to the hotel.

  CHAPTER 11

  Grieving Widow

  Monday, July 16

  In the morning, Pamela went with Prescott to the railroad station. As she waved good-bye, she felt a catch in her throat. He would be away only a few days, but she would miss him. When the train rolled out of sight, she stared into the distance, reflecting on last night’s conversation in the garden. They had emotionally come another step closer together, but marriage remained far removed. Something could come up to prevent it. With a shake of her head, she turned her mind to today’s task: to determine what role, if any, Rachel Crake played in her husband’s death.

  At midmorning, as Pamela was walking in the hotel garden, Rachel emerged from the cottage in a simple black silk gown and bonnet but without a veil. Her face was pale and drawn. Accompanied by Birgitta, she walked to the nearby Bethesda Episcopal Church.

  Pamela followed them into the church, where a small congregation had gathered for Morning Prayer. The two women settled down apart from the others and didn’t appear to attend to the service. Usually outgoing and lively, Rachel sat quietly, perhaps calculating the next step in her gradual return to normal social life. Her visit to the church seemed meant to tell the world that her period of deep mourning was over. That was sufficient respect for the man who had paid her bills but gave her little genuine affection.

  After leaving the church, the two women walked in the hotel garden and heard a small orchestra playing popular tunes. Pamela sat nearby with her sketchbook and roughly drew Rachel’s features. The sketch would be finished later. She had a hunch it could pr
ove useful.

  As Rachel came out of seclusion, the need to investigate her grew more urgent. A major suspect, she might leave Saratoga Springs with her secrets and disappear forever. To keep track of her, Pamela sought help from her friend Helen Fisk. As a patron of St. Barnabas Mission, she would be sympathetic to Francesca Ricci and willing to help clear her name.

  Every summer, Helen rented one of the cottages at the Grand Union Hotel and entertained lavishly. In her leisure hours she studied the remarkable variety of people on Broadway, and on the hotel’s spacious porches and at its brilliant balls. A network of gossips kept her informed of the gambling dens, horse races, and regattas. In Saratoga Springs she knew everybody worth knowing, including the Crakes. She disliked both of them but found them intriguing.

  That afternoon, Pamela went to the Congress Spring to meet Helen. Young black waiters scurried about bringing trays of glasses to customers in summer dress. Helen arrived with her dog, a French poodle called Yvette. Serious conversation wasn’t possible in this bustling, noisy setting. Pamela and Helen drank their water, walked out into the park, and sat on a lonely shaded bench overlooking a pond. Yvette sat at Helen’s feet, observing a duck swimming among pink water lilies.

  Pamela described Francesca’s situation and added, “To free her, we must find Captain Crake’s killer.”

  “What can I do, my dear Pamela?”

  “As a start, could you tell me about Rachel Crake? I need to know her better.”

  “Gladly,” Helen replied, her eyes brightening at the opportunity. “She was born, in fact, a Crake, the captain’s distant niece. Raised in genteel poverty, she was educated in a young women’s finishing school. Since her divorced parents largely ignored her, she settled down in a luxurious New York City brothel.”

  Pamela remarked, “I have learned that Rachel and the captain met there, married shortly afterward in a private ceremony, and lived together for four years.”

  “That’s correct. But she tired of Crake, a much older man, crippled by arthritis and absorbed in business. She kept up an appearance of marital fidelity until she met Robert Shaw and then gradually put aside the pretense.”

  “What can you tell me about Shaw?”

  “There’s a whiff of scandal on him. The youngest son of a prominent Scottish family, he enlisted in the British army and took part in colonial wars in South Africa. His gambling and sexual adventures got him into trouble, and he apparently killed a man. He fled to New York, where he swindled money from wealthy women with promises of marriage. The New York police charged him with fraud, but the women refused to testify. Most recently, he worked for the police as an informant in brothels and gambling dens.”

  “Had the Saratoga police known his story of seduction and fraud,” Pamela remarked, “they might have taken a closer look at him before hastily arresting my Francesca.”

  Pamela idly tossed a crumb from her pocket to a waiting sparrow. In seconds a flock of sparrows had gathered at her feet. Suddenly alert, Yvette stared at the birds for a few moments, then ignored them. Pamela emptied the rest of the crumbs from her pocket and met Helen’s eye.

  “If Rachel wanted to rid herself of her husband, she found the right accomplice in Robert Shaw. Did she have a sufficient motive for the captain’s murder?”

  “That depends,” Helen replied. “If Rachel was a beneficiary of his will or life insurance, she and Shaw might have conspired to kill him for the money.”

  “That’s hardly a novel idea,” Pamela remarked.

  Helen smiled wryly. “I’ll ask a clever lawyer friend in New York for Crake’s beneficiary. Meanwhile, approach Rachel with caution. Her flighty appearance masks a cunning intelligence and a ruthless pursuit of money and prominence. I suggest starting with her servant, a Swedish woman.”

  “I’ve heard of her, Birgitta Mattsson. Why would she be helpful?”

  “Since Crake’s death, Rachel pays her poorly and treats her dismissively. When she thinks no one is watching, she looks unhappy. But she doesn’t dare betray her mistress or she would lose her livelihood, poor as it is. You might find a way to bribe her, or she might unwittingly give you clues to Rachel’s possible role in her husband’s death.”

  “Miss Mattsson is understandably skittish. I’ll find a discreet way to approach her,” Pamela said.

  “Meanwhile, I suggest that this evening we visit Canfield’s Casino, Rachel’s favorite haunt in Saratoga. She was there, together with Shaw, on the night of the captain’s murder. Could you bring along a male escort? Canfield requires female guests to have one.”

  “Will Mr. Miller be satisfactory?”

  “Yes, he will do, but you must dress him up. Canfield measures guests by their money, their clothes, and their manners, in that order. Character doesn’t matter. Meet me in the hotel foyer at nine.” She rose from the bench and set off, Yvette at her heel.

  Pamela and Harry were waiting in the foyer five minutes early. He looked distinguished in a gentleman’s formal evening costume. His chin was up, his back was straight, his expression was confident. Gone was the hangdog look, the disguise he sometimes put on when he didn’t want to be noticed. Before leaving New York, she had persuaded him to bring the costume along.

  “I’ll have to rent it,” he had complained.

  “Charge it to Prescott’s account, Harry. You may need it to mingle in Saratoga society.”

  She walked across the foyer and back, and stood in front of a mirror. “Harry, how do I look?” She was wearing a blue silk evening gown to match the color of her eyes. Her black hair was in a chignon.

  He shot her a shy, brotherly smile. “You look great.”

  In a few minutes, Helen Fisk arrived, gave an approving glance to both of them, and called for a cab, though the casino was only a leisurely five-minute walk away.

  In the casino’s entrance hall, they entered their names into a register lying open on a high desk while a burly clerk scrutinized them. Harry paid a membership fee and explained that the two women were his guests.

  Pamela glanced to the right to catch a glimpse of the barroom, reserved for men. A blue haze of cigar smoke drifted from the room together with bursts of raucous male laughter. A waiter led her and her companions into the reading room on the left, where women could be served.

  It was elegantly furnished with highly polished mahogany tables, upholstered chairs and sofas, a giant Oriental rug, and crystal chandeliers. Fine lace curtains covered the windows. The most recent New York and local newspapers hung on a rack near long shelves of books. Pamela and Helen sat at a table and ordered tea. Miller sauntered into the barroom and a few minutes later returned with a glass of whiskey.

  He toasted his companions, took a sip, and smacked his lips. “The finest whiskey I’ve ever tasted. And I paid a small fortune for it.”

  “The proprietor, Mr. Richard Canfield, will be pleased,” Helen remarked. “He bought the casino late last year and has refurnished it at great expense. He also hired Monsieur Jean Columbin, a renowned French chef, to offer a menu that some say is superior to Delmonico’s in New York. You won’t find a more elegant casino anywhere in the country.”

  “How does Canfield pay for it?” asked Pamela.

  “He extracts what he needs, and more, from the casino’s patrons. Every summer, many of the wealthiest men in the country enjoy its elegant ambiance and outstanding amenities. Canfield extends easy credit to them and pays out their winnings in cash. In the end, the house wins, of course, but its guests leave pleased and return again and again. It’s said that Canfield will gain back his purchase money in two months.”

  Their waiter arrived with the tea and a tray of French pastries. Pamela puzzled over his strong accent. In French she asked for a Savarin. With a smile, he said in French, “You speak my language well, madame.” With a flourish, he put the pastry on her plate.

  Helen noticed the exchange and remarked, “On a recent trip to France, Canfield hired fifty professional waiters and a master waiter for this place.
By the way, he also collects art. His taste is remarkably good for a self-taught man.”

  In the next moment, Helen gave a little gasp. Rachel Crake entered the room in a simple black silk gown. A brilliant diamond-studded broach hung on a gold chain around her neck. Her companion was a clean-shaven, slender man in a formal black suit. All heads turned toward the couple. “Rachel and her friend, Robert Shaw,” whispered Helen.

  This was Pamela’s first opportunity to study Robert Shaw in the flesh. His features were delicate, his lips sensual, his complexion clear and pale, his hair the color of wheat. A few years older than Rachel, he looked much more presentable than her murdered husband.

  Pamela took out her sketchbook and began committing Shaw’s features to paper as well as to her memory. She would need a few more sittings, especially for his eyes. They were dark and hooded, concealing his thoughts and feelings.

  The newcomers approached a table where three fashionably dressed women sat. Shaw hurried off toward the gambling parlor.

  Harry leaned toward Pamela. “I’ll keep an eye on him while I play a few games to pay for this evening’s expenses. I’ve been shadowing him for a week. I hope he doesn’t recognize me.”

  The women at Rachel’s table welcomed her with a mixture of familiarity and solicitude. They ordered punch and a deck of cards, and were soon playing poker for pennies. Rachel appeared subdued, though hardly crushed or despondent.

  “Do you know her companions?” Pamela asked Helen.

  “Regular summer visitors from New York City.” Helen lowered her voice. “In fact, they’re prostitutes of the better sort, here on vacation but willing to practice their profession slyly on the side.”

  “Really? Here?”

  “Only at certain luxurious private residences in the town. Certainly not at all in the casino, nor in the main hotels. At the Grand Union, Tom Winn would watch them like a hawk. And Canfield doesn’t allow even a hint of sexual impropriety—bad for the casino’s reputation. He argues that gambling and playing on the stock market are honorable professions, but prostitution is not.”