Death in Saratoga Springs (16 page)

New York City
Monday, July 23

 

E
arly in the afternoon, Harry Miller approached a low, brick building on West Twelfth Street, in the city's produce district. Emil Schmidt lived there alone in a rented room above O'Leary's saloon. During the five months while the investigation was suspended, Prescott's clerks had kept track of him. March 1, he had retired from the Crake Meatpacking Company and now worked at odd jobs in the markets. Most of his spare time was spent in the saloon.

“Where can I find him today?” Harry asked the barman, handing him a coin.

He explained that Schmidt was working in the West Washington Market, the vast buildings where fruits and vegetables came by ship on the Hudson River. “He's unloading a ship of the Savannah Line and has promised me a bag of fresh Georgia peaches in exchange for a pint of Ruppert's ale.”

Late in the afternoon, when the Savannah ship was empty and the crowd of merchants in the halls had thinned out, Harry found Schmidt stacking boxes of peaches in a wholesaler's stall. Tired and sweaty from hours of hard labor, he seemed downcast. When he picked up a bag of peaches and was about to leave, Harry approached him.

“Would you join me for a cool drink, Mr. Schmidt. I'd like a word with you.”

Schmidt stared at Harry. “Do I know you? Your face looks familiar.”

“We've met. I wore a beard then.”

The man's lips parted slightly. A light of recognition slowly appeared in his eyes. “Months ago, you and that smart lady with all the questions toured my night shift.” He frowned. “Crake warned me afterward never to talk to you.”

“Crake is dead.”

“So I've heard.” He closed the stall. “I knew you'd get back to me. Where shall we have that cool drink?”

“At Amy's on Twelfth Street,” Harry replied.

It was a simple, quiet restaurant a few steps from the market. They sat at a secluded table and ordered beer, bread, and cheese. Harry raised his glass. “Here's to Crake.”

“May he be damned for what he did to that girl in January.” Schmidt clinked Harry's glass and settled back in his chair. “I've been thinking about her ever since.”

“Why did you cover up for him?”

Schmidt took a draught of his beer and smacked his lips. For a long moment he gazed thoughtfully at Harry. “We had served together in Sherman's March to the Sea, and I owed him my job. I thought we were friends, but that changed in January.” He hesitated, lowered his eyes, and seemed to struggle with a bad memory.

“What happened then?”

“It's hard to talk about it.” Schmidt seemed to choke up, then spoke softly. “Late at night, Crake showed up at the factory door with that girl's body in a cart. I hardly recognized him in shabby clothes and wearing a fake beard. He looked fearful and exhausted, like he'd been through hell. I'd never seen him like that, even in the worst of times in Georgia. Adversity was his natural element. He had such a forceful personality.”

“How did you deal with him?”

“I led him and his cart into a storeroom. We were alone. He let me uncover the girl's face. I saw her bulging eyes and the marks of his hands on her throat. I asked him what happened.

“He mumbled something I couldn't understand. Finally, he said, ‘I couldn't get it up. She thought that was funny and began to laugh. I warned her. She laughed even more. Called me a silly old man with a burned-out candle. I grabbed her by the throat and shook her and then . . . I choked her.'

“For a minute, Crake and I just stood there, staring at the body. I could sense that he was gaining control of himself. I should have called the police, but I felt paralyzed. Crake began to stare at me. He had figured out what I was thinking. Then he said, ‘Schmidt, if you go to the police, my men will chase you to the end of the earth and kill you.' ”

Schmidt met Harry's eye. “I knew he'd kill me as easily as one of his hogs. Like a coward, I gave in. For that I can't forgive him.”

Harry gave Schmidt a sympathetic nod. “How did you two dispose of the girl's body?”

“Crake left it all up to me. I had to act fast. In less than five hours the plant would open again. I couldn't bear to chop her up, so I tried to think of a burial place in the building. Then I remembered the former cooling system. It was still intact as a backup. Cold air from the ice room used to flow through ducts into the cooling room where we hung the carcasses. The new system used the old ducts. I found an open duct about six feet off the floor. The air inside was freezing cold. I hoisted the body into the duct, then bricked it up and rubbed on a little dirt and soot to match the rest of the wall.”

“Did anyone notice the duct was closed?”

He shook his head. “I finished the job maybe thirty minutes before the plant opened, and I let Crake and his cart out the service entrance. Still, I was nervous all day. No one seemed to notice my work or ask about it.”

Harry expressed surprise.

Schmidt explained, “The packing process is continuous and dangerous and demands your full attention. Once it begins, no one looks around to see if the old ducts are open or closed.”

Harry thought the moment was right. He looked Schmidt in the eye and asked, “Emil, are you ready to give Ruth Colt a proper burial?”

“Yes, I am.” His voice was barely audible. He cleared his throat. “Ever since I heard that Crake had died, I've been thinking about that girl. She shouldn't be lying there among slaughtered hogs. It's just not right.”

“Good,” said Harry. “Then I'll figure out a plan.”

On the way to his room on Irving Place, Harry stopped at a telegraph office. Pamela would be eager to know what had happened.

Saratoga Springs
Tuesday, July 24

 

A
knock on her door awakened Pamela. She threw on a robe and opened to face Jason Dunn. With a brusque gesture, he handed her a telegram and went quickly on his way. She rushed to the window and read Harry's message in the early-morning light.

She tried to fill out the message in her mind with what she already knew. Porter would be deathly afraid of scandal and might block Harry's plan. The police might feel embarrassed that a private investigator had done their job. Her hand trembled with excitement as she laid the message on her table and hurried her toilette. She would be anxious until she heard again from Harry of his plan's success.

As Pamela returned to the hotel from a morning walk in Congress Park, the reception desk clerk handed her a personal note from Edith Crawford. She proposed visiting the thoroughbred track on Union Street that afternoon, together with Mrs. Dunn and Virgil, then added,
“James and I have entered our horse, Savannah, in the first race. You would enjoy watching her.”

Pamela moved into a parlor and considered the invitation. This was an opportunity to become better acquainted with Edith, an avid rider, in a place where she felt comfortable rather than under investigation. Rob Shaw could also be observed in his natural element at the track.

They were to meet at the hotel's front door at one o'clock. Edith had arranged for a carriage to the track. Since the races began at two-thirty, they would have a full hour to visit the premises.

Pamela was tempted. Two years ago, Mr. Gottfried Walbaum, the track's new owner, had built a grandstand to accommodate up to 5,000 spectators, as well as a new clubhouse and a betting ring. Saratoga's track now rivaled the best in the country.

She wrote her acceptance and brought it to the clerk. “I'll see that she gets it, ma'am.”

Pamela spent the rest of the morning writing at her desk. In a message to Prescott, she forwarded the news that Emil Schmidt was to cooperate in the search for Ruth Colt's body. She also wrote an encouragement to Francesca in prison, promising to report on the fashionable men and women she would see at the racetrack.

Near one o'clock, she went downstairs. At the door, Edith was waiting, her expression a bit sad. “I'm sorry to report that my brother, James, will have to rest in his room this afternoon. He was really hoping to watch Savannah run. The excitement at the track, unfortunately, would be too tiring for him. In his place Virgil will escort us.”

Pamela was disappointed, but she would find another occasion to become acquainted with James. Despite his disability, he was clearly the leader of the family and would have had the last word in any measures concerning Crake.

On Broadway, the three ladies and their escort climbed into the carriage and set off for the track. In a few minutes the grandstand came into view with its distinctive row of steeples on the ridgeline of a slate-covered roof. Edith became their guide. “To the right is the clubhouse where we'll lunch while enjoying a view of the track. To the left is the betting pavilion for men. In the grandstand is a place where women may bet.”

The clubhouse café was nearly full, but Edith had reserved a table overlooking the track. Wine flowed freely, and a few of the diners were tipsy. Edith's party ordered sandwiches. The women chose lemonade; Virgil had a glass of wine. During lunch, their conversation focused on the two-year-old filly, Savannah. This was her first race at a major track.

“My expectations for Savannah are modest,” said Edith. “She's eager and strong, but frisky and needs more training. I hope she doesn't injure herself. She will improve in the coming weeks.”

“How much are you involved in Savannah's training?” Pamela had noticed that the horse seemed to fill a deeply rooted desire in Edith to care for a living, sentient being. She also cared for her brother, James, but perhaps with less satisfaction. He seemed to turn largely to Virgil for companionship and service.

“She's my baby,” Edith replied. “James and I have hired a professional trainer for her. But while we're in Saratoga, I visit her every day, help with her feeding and grooming, and ride her around the paddock. Being close to her is one of my main reasons for coming here. Back in New York, of course, I can only see her on weekends and holidays at our farm on Long Island.”

When conversation drifted to local news of Charleston and New York, Pamela took the opportunity for a closer look at the dining room's interior. It was tastefully furnished with new café tables and bentwood chairs, and embellished with large flower boxes filled with sweet williams, petunias, begonias, and freesias. The clientele was female in the majority and socially mixed. All of them appeared to have money in abundance. Some were fashionably dressed and well-mannered like Edith and Mrs. Dunn; others were heavily painted, their gowns and hats vulgar or bizarre, and their speech and manners coarse. One woman was simply drunk.

After lunch, Edith announced, “It's time to place bets.” As Pamela and Mrs. Dunn were unacquainted with this track's procedure, she added, “Follow me to the paddock where the horses are being exercised. You should watch them for a while and then decide which one to bet on.”

At the paddock, Edith pointed to a large black horse and whispered to Pamela, “Keep an eye on Polly, the favorite in this race. Her jockey will wear a black silk shirt with a wide yellow diagonal bar across the front and the back. Polly belongs to the track's new owner, Mr. Walbaum from New Jersey, where he has a successful track.”

“I've heard of him,” Pamela remarked. “His jockeys are accused of bending the rules and winning more than their share of races. Some owners who used to race here aren't coming anymore because of Walbaum's bad reputation.”

Edith grimaced. “That's unfortunate for all of us. But there's my Savannah.” She pointed to a lively, chestnut brown filly. “Her jockey wears the Crawford colors, a blue silk shirt with a white St. Andrew's cross on the front and on the back.” Her youthful eagerness instantly appealed to Pamela and earned her bet.

When everyone was satisfied with their choice, Edith led the way to the women's betting ring. Virgil went off by himself to the main ring for men only. The three women climbed up to a room on the top landing in the rear of the grandstand. Edith remarked, “We could have sent up our bets with a messenger boy, but I thought you'd want to see the bookmakers at work.”

“And we needed the exercise,” Pamela added with a good-natured smile. Mrs. Dunn muttered a complaint beneath her breath.

Two bookmakers were at a counter at the far end of the room, together with ticket sellers and cashiers. Behind them on the wall was a blackboard with the names of the horses and their odds. Savannah was there in the first race at 50 to 1.

“She's a risky bet,” remarked Edith, staring at the board. “The bookies think she's unruly and may throw her rider or chase after a ghost.”

“I'll bet they're wrong,” Pamela remarked and placed a $1 bet on her to win.

Edith chuckled. “Aren't you brave! I must do no less.” She also bet a dollar to win. Mrs. Dunn looked on with interest but abstained.

“That's a businesswoman accustomed to watching her pennies,” Pamela said to herself.

At starting time for the first race, Virgil rejoined the party; he had also bet on Savannah to win. They moved to an area near the finish line reserved for wealthy owners. Edith was known there. The guards simply waved her party in. An usher brought them to seats with a clear view of the track. Several gentlemen tipped their hats to her and they exchanged opinions on the weather—it was pleasantly warm with a light breeze—and the condition of the dirt track, which was wet. Rain had fallen during the early-morning hours. Edith turned to Pamela. “This should be a muddy, untidy race. Savannah will enjoy it.”

As the horses were led past the grandstand, the crowd's excitement grew to fever pitch. At the start the horses took off with Savannah a flighty third, the owner's horse leading the pack. Soon, Savannah figured out what she was supposed to do and put all her youthful energy into getting ahead of the others. At the halfway post she pulled into second place half a length behind the owner's Polly. Then Savannah put on a burst of speed and came abreast of her.

Going into the final stretch she and Polly were neck and neck. Walbaum's jockey lashed out with his whip to distract Savannah. This was clearly a foul. But the trick failed. Savannah kept her eye on the prize and won by a head.

She trotted to the barrier and nuzzled Edith in a touching gesture of affection. “I'm so proud of you!” Edith exclaimed, caressing the filly's head. An exultant smile lit up the woman's face like Pamela had not seen before. Edith's two years of dedicated work had come to fruition. And terrible memories seemed at least momentarily forgotten.

 

At the women's ring, Pamela and Edith collected on their bets. As they were leaving the grandstand, Pamela noticed Rachel Crake in her black silk widow's weeds, sitting partially hidden behind a large flower box of nasturtiums. A moment later, Robert Shaw sat down beside her. He looked wrathful, waved a ticket in her face, then tore it up. Sheltered by the flower box, Pamela drew as close as she dared to eavesdrop.

“What's the matter, Rob?” asked Rachel.

“I got skinned in that race. You told me to bet a thousand dollars on Polly to win. It was a sure thing, you said.”

“That's what Mr. Walbaum told me. He should know. He owns the track, and Polly is his horse. I thought he would make sure she won. Well, he tried. You saw the trick his jockey pulled.”

“It did me no good,” Shaw complained. “I went back to Mitchell's den this morning and lost three thousand on the roulette wheel. At this rate, we'll soon be broke and can't afford to stay in our miserable boardinghouse.”

“It's not my fault,” she whined, “that Jed died
after
he signed the new will. Since then I've hocked most of my jewelry to pay your debts.”

Shaw snorted, “You bring me bad luck. I shouldn't have risked my neck for you.”

“Don't say that,” she pleaded, then caressed him. “Cheer up. Maybe you'll have better luck in the second race. Walbaum has a horse there too.”

“All right, I'll talk to the bookies. If I get a good tip, I'll lay down another thousand.”

Pamela immediately began to walk away. At the same time, Shaw got up to leave and noticed her. Their eyes met. “Bitch!” he growled, his eyes dark with fury.

She hurried down the stairs to the lawn between the grandstand and the track. He started to follow her, but she met Virgil Crawford, who had waited for her. Shaw gave up the chase and turned toward the men's betting ring.

“So, what was that all about?” Virgil murmured.

“I eavesdropped and nearly got caught.”

Virgil frowned. “Mr. Shaw is not a gentleman. Still, he wouldn't hurt you in broad daylight here in front of five thousand spectators. In the dark of night he might. So, be careful.”

“I shall. Thank you.”

“To judge from his angry reaction, you must have heard an intriguing conversation.”

“Yes, I believe I did.”

Unfortunately, Shaw's expression “risked my neck” was ambiguous, as well as intriguing. She would mull it over before drawing a conclusion and talking about it. She had also noticed the tension in Rachel's relationship with Shaw. That could lead to their breakup, and Rachel might then speak freely about her partner's role, if any, in Captain Crake's death.

As Pamela and Virgil walked toward Union Street and Edith's carriage, Pamela repeated Shaw's words silently:
“I shouldn't have risked my neck for you.”
She wondered if he was using a common figure of speech for the risky bets he was making. Or, was he thinking of the electric chair?