CHAPTER 26
Friend or Killer
Friday, July 27
Early in the morning before breakfast, Pamela received a message from Tom Winn.
The police arrested Robert Shaw late yesterday in his boardinghouse and lodged him in the town jail. Brophy will charge him with battery on Rachel Crake. Unfortunately, a magistrate will soon set him free on bail. Caution Mrs. Crake.
Pamela breakfasted with Birgitta and Rachel in the dining hall and repeated the warning from the police. Rachel listened intently. “Robert must fear that I’ve exposed him. I can imagine his mood. When he’s angry, he becomes very quiet. Right now, he’s plotting how to get out of prison and kill me. Then he’ll flee to South America or wherever, change his name, and go on gambling.”
“Don’t worry,” said Pamela. “He can’t touch you if you remain in the hotel with Birgitta.”
When Pamela returned to her room, a message lay on the floor.
Mrs. Thompson, would you care to visit Saratoga Lake with me this afternoon? If you are so inclined, you can reach me at the Crawford suite.
The message was signed, “Virgil.”
Pamela sat down to consider his request. Did Virgil wish to become a male friend, the fourth after Prescott, Harry Miller, and Peter Yates? Why not? She and Virgil were both honestly employed, had no lofty social ambitions, and were happy to serve others. They shared an appreciation of music and the arts. She was a widow; Virgil was a widower. However, he was among the potential suspects of a murder she was investigating. That could become a problem only if she were to lose her objectivity.
She rose and began pacing the floor. What would Prescott say? He was a special friend. She admitted that his reaction would concern her. But why should it? They didn’t have exclusive rights over each other. He dined and danced with female friends. Granted, society held men and women to different rules of behavior. Nonetheless, why shouldn’t she go for a boat ride with Virgil on a fine summer afternoon? Besides, he was an attractive man, and she liked his kind, gentle spirit. She was pleased that he had asked her.
Granted, certain men and women might raise an eyebrow because of his race—he considered himself a black man. To begin with, how could they tell? In a boat on the lake he would appear as “white” as any man in Saratoga Springs. In view of his other qualities, why should his race matter? True, he was born a slave. But his servile origin was due to a social evil that all decent men and women had repudiated. It had been abolished thirty years ago at great cost.
She sat down at her writing table and wrote that she’d be delighted to go to the lake with him. They could meet in the foyer in half an hour.
He was waiting near a window, leaning lightly on his sword cane and looking out over the front porch toward Broadway. In a tan silk suit, his shirt open at the neck, a straw hat on his head, his slender, supple body was poised to move. He must have heard her footsteps on the marble floor, for he turned, removed his hat, and greeted her. She was wearing a simple yellow silk gown, her hair in a chignon. His appraising glance quickly turned to approval.
As they left the hotel, he pointed to the sky with his cane and announced, “The weather is sunny, but its heat is tempered by a moderate southerly breeze. The boating should be good.”
The ride to the lake was itself a joy. At the livery stable behind the hotel, the Crawfords had rented a simple but comfortable carriage for the season. Its canvas roof now sheltered Virgil and Pamela from the midday July sun. Two fine horses pulled them in steady traffic on Union Avenue, past several great mansions and the thoroughbred racetrack, and through a few miles of pretty farmland to the north end of the lake. At a marina, Virgil rented a canoe, and they joined dozens of small boats and sailboats milling about on the water. On this day, a section of the lake was set aside for college men in long, narrow racing shells practicing for the national regattas to be held here later in the summer.
Heat shimmered over the water, its surface rippling in a light, cool breeze. Pamela raised a parasol to ward off the sun’s rays. Virgil took off his coat and straw hat, and laid the cane by his side. He paddled effortlessly to the center of the lake, a large oval about six miles long and almost two miles wide. Then he stowed the paddle, put his hat back on, and let the canoe drift.
Pamela took out her opera glass and handed it to him.
“How clever! It has a swivel lens that gives a diagonal perspective, just what every professional investigator should have. A suspect wouldn’t realize she was being observed.” He aimed the glass toward the shore but turned the lens toward her. “Charming,” he murmured and returned the glass. “Worthy of its owner. Have you used it?”
“Thus far, only at the opera. Prescott gave it to me as a reward following a successful investigation last summer in the Berkshires.”
They continued to drift. Faint bursts of friendly shouts from other boats skipped across the water. Waves lapped against the canoe. The air was clean and fresh. Puffy white cumulus clouds moved slowly through the sky like a flock of sheep.
Pamela savored the moment, eyes closed. Then she gazed at Virgil as he looked toward the distant mountains, a hint of melancholy on his face.
“Are you sad?” she asked.
“Sorry. A passing sentiment. I shouldn’t let it spoil your pleasure.”
“You didn’t, I assure you.”
“I used to share moments like this with my wife, Mary. I miss her.” He brought forth a bright, kindly smile. “And I’m happy now to share them with you.”
After a moment of reflection, she remarked, “I’m struck by how close—in the best sense of the word—you three Crawfords are.”
He explained sagely, “As you’ve learned in your own experience, adversity brings out the best or the worst in human nature. We Crawfords went through hell during the war. In the horror of it all, God has taught us how to love each other. That has simply become our way of life. Each of us—Edith, James, and I—has been wounded, so we must care for each other.”
He brought a teasing smile to his lips. “You’ve discovered much about the Crawfords. Now would you reveal yourself? I know very little except that you call yourself a widow and a private investigator. You are obviously much more.”
She gave him a brief account of her life—privileged childhood, education in a women’s college, travel abroad, social work in city slums—up to the crisis in her marriage to a banker, Jack Thompson. “We had grown apart,” was all she could bring herself to say about his suicide a few years ago.
His eyes were sympathetic. “I read the story of his death in the newspapers. I can scarcely even imagine how much it must have hurt you.”
“Fortunately, true friendships and fulfilling work have helped to heal my spirit.”
“What led you into private investigation? It’s not regarded as women’s work.”
“I’m not the first female detective. Thirty years ago, Allan Pinkerton hired a young widow, Mrs. Kate Warne, as one of his operatives. She helped him thwart a plot to assassinate President Lincoln. I began at St. Barnabas Mission by investigating the dire conditions of children in poor families in the slums of Lower Manhattan. The next step was to investigate my own husband’s fraudulent behavior. Finally, my lawyer, Mr. Jeremiah Prescott, took me on as an apprentice, trained me in techniques of investigation, and sent me to guard Macy’s jewelry.”
“Do you enjoy your work?”
“I enjoy outwitting thieves, but my greatest satisfaction lies in helping someone like Francesca Ricci, a poor Italian immigrant, or anyone else, for that matter, who is wrongly suspected or accused of a crime. Prescott usually indulges me.”
For a moment Virgil appeared withdrawn, reflecting on her remarks. Then he picked up the paddle. The canoe had drifted near to shore. “Shall we have a lemonade on the terrace and watch a boat race?”
She agreed gladly. He paddled into the marina and tied up the canoe.
Nearby was a hotel with a terrace overlooking the lake. They took a table with
a view and ordered drinks. Below them on the water, two racing shells were lining up for a practice run, four oarsmen and a coxswain in each boat. In the crowd that had gathered on the terrace, young and old alike were furiously placing bets.
“Am I correct?” she asked Virgil, as their drinks arrived. “The young oarsmen in crimson shirts are from Harvard, the blue from Yale?”
“That’s what I’ve been told,” he replied. “I’ve never been to college.” He added softly, “When I grew up, no college in the North or South would have me.”
“You must have had an excellent tutor at home. You are a truly educated man.”
“Mr. Dawson was his name. To this day, I recall him fondly. He laid the foundation, a love of language, beginning with Greek and Latin. Thereafter, James, Edith, and I have tutored each other. I feel very fortunate to have packed a great store of knowledge into my poor head.”
A shout interrupted their conversation. She took out her opera glass again and gazed at the sight. The two college boats were now speeding out into the lake toward an official boat a half mile away. They made a wide turn around the boat and hurried back. Harvard beat Yale by a length, and bets were then settled.
A group of fashionable women at a nearby table, who had keenly watched the race and had bet heavily, stood up to leave, still chattering on about it. One of them was so absorbed that she failed to notice a gold coin fall from her purse. She and her companions walked away, leaving the coin on the floor. Both Pamela and Virgil had observed the scene. But before either of them could react, a young waiter dashed to the lady’s table, scooped up the coin, and furtively put it into his pocket. Instead of going after the lady, he quickly cleaned the table, then started off in the opposite direction toward the far end of the terrace. The victim was still in sight and still chattering away, oblivious to her lost coin.
Virgil leaped up, seized his cane, and confronted the waiter. “Are you going to return that coin, young man?”
The waiter put on a defiant face. “What coin?” he snarled. “And who are you?”
Virgil raised the cane. “Hold your bad mouth or I’ll give you a taste of this stick and haul you to the manager. You’ll be in jail within the hour. Go to the lady. Now!”
A terrified look came over the waiter’s face. He pulled the coin from his pocket and threw it on the floor. “I ain’t got no coin,” he whimpered.
“Then I’ll deal with you later.” Virgil picked up the coin, excused himself to Pamela, and hurried after the victim. At first startled, she thanked him profusely and tucked the coin into her purse.
When he returned to the table, Pamela asked what he would do about the waiter.
“On the way out, I’ll tell the manager that he may have a thief on his staff. If the manager asks, I’ll give him the details.” He glanced at the sky. “The sun is low in the west. Shall we dine? I know one of Saratoga’s best-kept secrets, an authentic French restaurant. The owner is a friend.”
“I’d be delighted.” She had a sense that she was being courted, and she enjoyed it.
Le Chat Qui Dort was in an old brick building up an alley off Caroline Street. The sign over the entrance depicted a sleeping cat. Pamela and Virgil were welcomed by the cat, wide awake and curious, and by a red-faced, sturdy, middle-aged woman.
“Monsieur Crawford, bon soir.” She wiped her hands on a towel, then glanced a question at Pamela.
“A friend, Mrs. Pamela Thompson,” he replied. “We have come to sample your husband’s cuisine and your pastry.”
When they were seated, Virgil explained that the chef, Jean-Luc Beaudry, owned a much larger gourmet restaurant in New York City. He closed during the summer and moved to this small one in Saratoga, open five nights a week in the tourist season. He and his wife lived upstairs.
“Why Saratoga?” Pamela asked. “He could have chosen Newport with its ocean views and rich patrons.”
“Saratoga fulfills Jean-Luc’s idea of a heavenly vacation. He delights in its mild summer weather and mineral springs, its thoroughbred track, and Canfield’s Casino. And he’s among friends. Many waiters from his New York restaurant work for Canfield in the summer.”
The interior reminded Pamela of a French country inn with its white plastered walls and exposed oak beams, wooden tables and chairs, and rustic crockery and tableware.
“How charming!” she exclaimed.
Virgil smiled. “From New York, Jean-Luc brings a selection of his finest French wines. We’ll order a meal and follow his recommendation for the wine.”
“Are we going to be his only patrons this evening?”
“We’re early and his first. In a few hours this room will be full, and the prices will go up. Diamond Jim Brady and Lillian Russell and other celebrities might come. We’ll be gone by then.”
In a few minutes Jean-Luc came out of the kitchen. He and Virgil entered into a brief discussion in French about the meal. Pamela had earlier mentioned that she would prefer something light and tasty in modest portions. Virgil had agreed. With advice from Madame Beaudry, the two men chose a cold cherry soup, a garden salad, and a vegetable omelet. The dessert would be her gooseberry tartlet and the wine, a Loire white from Saumur.
“This is a simple meal and should arrive shortly,” Virgil said. “For the more elaborate productions, Jean-Luc needs a day’s notice. He would have to shop in Albany.”
Madame Beaudry returned with a bottle and poured into a glass. Virgil swirled the wine, sniffed from the glass, and drank a thoughtful sip.
“That will do nicely,” he said. She filled their glasses, and they toasted each other.
Then he leaned back, cocked his head, and asked Pamela, “Would you tell me what you did during the war?”
His interest seemed genuine and pleased her. “In the early years, my parents shielded me from its violence. Father thought I was too young and impressionable. Mother, however, believed I should have a taste of it. She herself was deeply involved. Her family came from Virginia. Many relatives still lived there and supported the Southern cause. Almost from the beginning she volunteered as a nurse in military hospitals. After Gettysburg in sixty-three, she took me along to visit the thousands of Confederate wounded left behind by Lee’s retreating army. Her cousin, an officer, was among them. Because he had been blinded, Mother managed to save him from prison and brought him to our home on parole. For the rest of the war, I helped care for him. He was a thoughtful patient and taught me how to deal with suffering. I’ve been caring for people in need ever since.”
“Then we have something else in common. My cousin James is also an exemplary patient. He rarely complains and is grateful for services and mindful of others. Captain Crake and Sergeant Tower nearly killed his body, but that only strengthened his spirit. He is determined to make the most out of life and disdains revenge, a primitive passion.”
“So what does he think of Crake?”
“A man of unsound mind, perhaps marginally insane but functional enough to run a large business and earn a lot of money. Speaking like a scientist, James would say that Crake suffered from diminished ability to control a deep, abiding, irrational anger at whatever opposed his will. In less scientific moments, James likens Crake to a rabid dog.”
“Might James consent to putting Crake down, as a menace to society?”
“Yes, I imagine he would. And I would agree. After the plundering of the Crawford plantation, Crake went with Sherman’s army to Columbia, South Carolina, where he joined other soldiers in attacking black women. To the end of his life he remained free to commit similar crimes. A few months ago, you discovered that he killed Ruth Colt. Beyond a doubt, he had committed many assaults and rapes in New York City against young female employees and prostitutes. In a few cases, he may have killed his victims and destroyed their bodies. To avoid arrest, he either paid off the victims or threatened them with reprisals, and they refused to testify against him. Or, he paid off the police and they refused to investigate.”
“You’ve raised a
serious question. May a private person presume to eliminate such a menace?”
His expression darkened. “I think so, if the public authorities are unwilling or unable to do it. I would have killed Crake years ago, but James disapproved. Instead, he hired the Prescott agency in the hope that you could gather sufficient evidence to send Crake to the gallows. That effort failed. Fortunately, on July seventh, someone tried and succeeded.” He glanced toward the kitchen and his eyes brightened.
Madame Beaudry approached with the cold cherry soup. Pamela murmured to Virgil, “We must now honor the chef and not allow Crake to spoil our supper.”
The meal was worthy of the chef’s reputation. The conversation was pleasant. After the omelet, Pamela proposed a toast to the chef. The freshly baked gooseberry tartlet arrived, followed by coffee. The room began to fill up as they left.
“A concert will soon begin in the hotel garden. Are you game for it?” Virgil helped Pamela into the carriage.
“Jean-Luc has restored my energy. I would enjoy the concert. Victor Herbert will conduct—again. Do you realize that it’s nearly three weeks since Crake died during one of Herbert’s concerts?”
“I hadn’t made that connection. Is it unseemly?”
“It needn’t be. Mr. Herbert isn’t likely to allude to it. The hotel management would prefer that we all thought of something else.”
“Then we’ll return the carriage to the livery stable. We can walk the short distance to the garden’s rear entrance.”
As they sat down, the orchestra was already on the platform and tuning their instruments. Victor Herbert simply welcomed everyone and announced: “To open the program, we’ll give you ‘Garry Owen,’ the ever popular march of New York’s own ‘Fighting Sixty-ninth.’ You may clap with the music when I give the signal.” The following tunes were equally lively, putting the audience into a joyous, carefree mood.
Death in Saratoga Springs Page 20