Death in Saratoga Springs (19 page)

When the tour ended, Carson brought Pamela and the Crawfords back to his office. “What you've seen are merely our tools. Skillful, highly motivated, and well-paid hands make them effective. Our staff understands mental illness, empathizes with patients, prompts and directs them with questions, and listens carefully to what they say.”

“What's your goal for the patients?” asked James Crawford.

“In a few words, we aim to bring patients to a lasting, healthy, realistic understanding of themselves and their relationship to others.”

Throughout the tour James had seemed attentive and asked pertinent questions. Now, he thanked the doctor. “Your facilities and your method impress me. You will be hearing from those of us concerned for Jason's recovery.” He gestured to Virgil that they were leaving and waved good-bye to Pamela.

Pamela remained behind and thanked the doctor. “Your approach seems appropriate for Mr. Dunn. I can imagine that the cost is high, but that's not an obstacle for his patron. I'll try to persuade Jason to meet you.” She wished him good-bye and left.

As she walked back to the hotel, she felt encouraged. Still, the Crawford family's problems were daunting. Edith needed better mental health almost as much as Jason. The root cause of their illness was the same person, Captain Crake. Pamela had almost lost sight of her task to find his killer and free Francesca Ricci from prison. Jason was still a major suspect.

Wednesday, July 25

 

J
ason had disappeared. Pamela couldn't find him at the reception desk. He hadn't reported for duty in the evening. At the concert in the garden there was no sign of him. Pamela returned to the reception desk. The clerk she knew had just come on duty.

“Could you tell me where Jason might be? I'm concerned about him.”

The clerk seemed embarrassed. “He's missing. On past evenings, I've noticed him on Washington Street, apparently looking for a female companion. Don't tell him that you heard it from me. He hates being spied on.”

Pamela promised discretion. The clerk was a dependable source of information. She needed to keep his good will. She went to her room and changed to plain street clothes and scuffed shoes, and rearranged her hair into a simple bun.

She needed to be inconspicuous. Washington Street was a mixed, lower-class district to the south of the hotel on the far side of the tracks. The Metzgers and other hotel employees lived there, together with railroad workers and transients. Visitors of modest means frequented the inexpensive prostitutes living upstairs above the cheap taverns.

Jason was lounging on a street corner in the light of a gas lantern outside Mickey's, ogling young women going in and out. To judge from their low-cut blouses and heavy makeup, they were looking for customers. When he spoke to them, they either shook their heads or simply ignored him. Finally, he looked at his watch. An alarmed expression came over his face. He set off in a hurry in Pamela's direction. She slipped into an alley so he wouldn't see her. He continued on toward the Grand Union.

Pamela walked into the tavern looking for a familiar face. Erika Metzger from the laundry sat alone in a corner, staring at the glass of beer in her hands. To judge from her heavy-lidded eyes, it wasn't the first glass. “May I join you?” Pamela asked in German.

Erika looked up, surprised to hear her own language, then recognized Pamela, smiled, and replied in German, “Please do.” She continued in German. “We live upstairs. It's not nice, but it's cheap. Right now the air's too warm, so I came down for a beer.” She hesitated, but asked anyway, “What brings you to this part of the village?”

“I wanted to talk to Jason Dunn and was told he was here.”

“He left just a minute ago. Said he was looking for my husband, Karl.” She took a long drink of her beer. “This summer he and my Karl have been thick as thieves. Business, they tell me. They were supposed to meet here tonight.”

Pamela showed interest.

“They talk a lot about Crake. He was trying to get Karl fired at the hotel and almost succeeded. That would have ruined us. Jason claimed he could help Karl. I don't know how. He's just a bellboy. But Karl seemed to appreciate the offer.” She drank again, nearly emptying the glass. “Have you found out yet who killed Crake?”

“No, I'm still looking.” But she felt she was now a step closer to the answer.

After Erika left the table, Pamela lingered for a few minutes, observing the tavern's patrons. She recognized waiters and maids from the hotel. A young woman named Molly, who worked in the hotel laundry, approached Pamela's table.

“Could we talk?” she asked.

Pamela recalled that the woman had just spoken with Jason at the tavern door. “Yes, then may I buy you a drink? I'd like one.”

Molly agreed to a beer. Pamela signaled a waiter for two glasses. Molly began, “I've seen you talking to Erika Metzger in the laundry and again here. I don't understand German, but I heard Jason's name. Why are you interested in him?”

“As you may know, I'm investigating the death of Captain Crake and have to speak to all the people connected to him. That includes Jason. What can you tell me?”

“I've gone out with him a few times and listened to his flute. He's strange and recently getting worse. Tonight, he came to my room and tried to get me into bed with him. I refused. The girls say he's very rough and is likely to kill one of them. Well, he kept on asking and offering me money. I became really annoyed and I insulted him.”

She stopped when the waiter arrived with the beer. When he left, Pamela pressed Molly. “What did you say to Jason?”

“If the truth must be told, I said, ‘I'd rather sleep with a jackass than with you.' Jason grew red in the face and warned I'd be sorry. He'd get even with me like he did with Francesca Ricci. I said he was a liar and just making things up. He grew angry and shouted, ‘Who do you think told the police he had seen her leaving Crake's cottage the night he was killed?' He pointed to himself. ‘As far as I'm concerned,' he said, ‘she can hang or rot in jail for the rest of her life.'

“I asked him, ‘So, did you kill the captain?' Jason stared at me in his odd way. Then he said in a low, nasty voice, ‘Wouldn't you like to know?' ”

 

Pamela walked back to the hotel, puzzled by Jason's behavior. The garden concert had ended. Many of the men had scattered into the barroom and the billiards room. Other men and women had settled into the rocking chairs on the porches, or had left the hotel for Canfield's Casino or any one of a dozen gambling dens on Broadway. Winn was standing at the reception desk talking to a clerk.

He looked tired and worried, but he became alert when he noticed Pamela approaching. Before she could even greet him and mention her concern, he said, “We have a problem with Jason Dunn. The management fired him privately this evening for reporting late to work, that coming on top of other recent poor performance. He began raving incoherently about his misfortunes and abuse. Dr. Carson sedated him, and we put him into a secure room for the night. I delayed moving him to Dr. Carson's clinic until I heard from you. Will his acquaintances agree to commit him and pay the costs?”

“I'll go to them immediately and find out.”

 

The Crawfords had attended the hotel's evening concert. When it was over, they had remained in the garden to enjoy the fresh summer-evening breezes. They had just returned to their suite when Pamela knocked on the door.

Virgil opened, glanced at Pamela, and murmured, “Trouble again?”

“I'm afraid so.” She added, “I may have found a solution as well.”

“I've just served an herbal tea and toast. Would you join us?”

“Yes, my message can be discussed over tea.”

She followed him to the parlor. Mrs. Dunn had already gone to her room, but Edith and James were seated by a tea table with cups in their hands. As Pamela entered the room, they turned toward her and gasped in unison, brows furrowed.

“What have we now?” exclaimed Edith.

James motioned to Virgil to pull a chair up to the table, then turned in his wheelchair to face Pamela. “At this late hour, you must have news to do with Jason.”

“Correct. The hotel has fired him, and he has had a mental breakdown. At present, he is sedated and resting in a secure room. The time has come to decide what should be done for him. Do you wish to bring Mrs. Dunn into this conversation?”

“No,” James replied. “It would only upset her. She has left the matter in my hands.”

“This afternoon, you saw Dr. Carson's clinic and the therapy that it offers to patients. Were you satisfied?”

“Yes, indeed. He inspires confidence and respect. Could you give us an idea of the commitment we would have to make?”

“The first step is to agree to move Jason to the clinic. His initial examination would then begin tomorrow and could take from a few days to a week. During that time, you could become more familiar with the doctor, his clinic, and his therapy. At the end of the examination, he should tell you whether he could treat Jason and, if so, what the treatment would involve.”

Edith waved a warning hand. Her voice was high-pitched and strained. “James, we must ask ourselves, Why are we getting more deeply involved with Jason Dunn? He's kin only in the most vulgar, physical sense, due to a dreadful accident in my life. And Mrs. Dunn is right: He's the author of his own misery. I say, let the state of New York care for him. Otherwise, he'll be fretting us for the rest of our lives.”

James gazed at her, his eyes beginning to tear. “I share your concern, Edith. But I still believe that healing Jason is possible and is the best outcome for us. Untreated, Jason could bring his complaints to the public. Inevitably, our tragedy would be tied to Crake's murder and become front-page news. I simply can't bear to see you unfairly maligned, the butt of snide remarks.”

Edith sank back in her chair, a defeated expression on her pallid face.

Virgil reached out a hand as if to console her but checked himself and drew it back. His face was creased with sorrow.

James turned to Pamela. “We should proceed with Jason's initial examination. When we understand his condition and the prospects for the future, we'll come to a decision. What's the next step?”

Pamela replied, “Tom Winn will contact you tomorrow morning about the legal issues. With your approval, he'll make the arrangements for moving Jason to Dr. Carson's clinic. Then let's hope for the best.”

Virgil escorted her to the door.

“I fear for Edith,” said Pamela. “She may hurt herself. Watch her closely.”

Thursday, July 26

 

E
dith Crawford stood alone on a desolate beach, pale and haggard, tearing at her hair, screaming silently. Then she waded out into the dark water until only her hair was floating on the surface. Pamela woke in a sweat, heart pounding. She jumped out of bed and paced the floor for several minutes. The crisis in the Crawford family was beginning to obsess her. Finally, she banished her fears with the thought that Virgil could be trusted to look after Edith.

After breakfast, Pamela made the ritual visit to the Congress Park spring to pick up useful gossip about her suspects. Helen Fisk soon arrived with Yvette on a leash. “I must thank you, my dear, for Birgitta, my new Swedish maid. She's a jewel. Her massages make me feel years younger.”

Pamela was pleased to hear good news for a change. Then she noticed a petite woman in a black silk widow's garb, her face concealed by a black lace veil. “Look, Helen, I believe that's Rachel Crake.”

Helen frowned. “The fact that she's alone and veiled tells me that something is amiss. Last night on the front porch, I heard that Shaw lost heavily at the track yesterday and declared he'd win it all back at Canfield's Casino if he had to bet until dawn.”

Pamela added, “I saw him at the track on Tuesday. He had lost a thousand by the time I left after the first race. His mood was already ugly. He blamed Rachel for his bad luck. Perhaps she sees through him now and may help us investigate him.”

With a shaky hand, Rachel lifted her veil to drink a glass of the spring water. Then she spoke briefly with the young black waiter and walked out into the park.

Helen whispered, “Follow her, Pamela. I'll have another glass of water and pick up a few more bits of news here. We'll meet later in my rooms. Watch out for Shaw. Keep him at a distance.”

Rachel walked as far as the decorative fountain and sat on a bench. After glancing left and right, and seeing no one near, she folded the veil back, closed her eyes, and exposed her face to the sun's rays and a light breeze.

Pamela had followed her from a distance. She waited a few minutes, then quietly walked up to the young widow. Her once-pretty face was swollen and discolored with bruises. Pamela softly gasped. Rachel woke with a start. Pamela apologized, but added, “You shouldn't allow him to beat you. It will only get worse. Leave him.”

Rachel pouted. “You've no right to sneak up on me like that.” In the next second, she began to sob. “What can I do, Mrs. Thompson? I've given him my money, and he has lost it all. We can't pay the rent or buy food. The police won't let us leave town. Their spies follow us wherever we go.”

“Where's Shaw?”

“With our last dollar he went to breakfast on Phila Street. He said he's going to borrow money and go back to Mitchell's den. Maybe he'll leave town. If I complain to the police, he'll track me down and break my neck.”

“How do you feel about him after all this?”

“I hate him. Look what he's done.” She lightly touched her bruised face. “It's not the first time. And he's leaving me without a cent. I couldn't even pay the waiter at the spring just now. He looked at my face, saw me crying, and said, ‘Forget it. The water is on me.' I felt so miserable that I didn't even thank him.”

“I'll arrange protection for you, Rachel; then I'll alert the police to his assault. Later, when you feel safe, we'll have a conversation about Mr. Shaw.”

 

Pamela left Rachel in the care of Helen Fisk and went searching for Tom Winn. She met him as he returned to his office in the hotel. He and James Crawford had just arranged Jason's transport to the Carson clinic. James had remained in the background out of sight. Winn had accompanied Jason in a coach.

Pamela was surprised. “Didn't Jason resist? I thought I'd have to persuade him.”

“No, I told him that the hotel management thought he wasn't feeling good and needed help. Jason hadn't objected. His mind is quite confused, and his mood is now passive and depressed.”

“That's reassuring,” she said. “At least he's in capable hands. Now I'm on my way to the police station. Shaw has beaten Rachel and I must report him. Who knows if he might flee to New York and disappear into the underworld?”

“Right,” Winn replied. “We need to hold him here.”

 

At midmorning, Pamela found Brophy enjoying a cigar in his office. The room was full of pungent smoke. He laid the cigar aside and gestured her to a chair facing him. His mood seemed relaxed and friendly for a change. Following her report on Shaw's assault on Mrs. Crake, he said, “I'm not surprised that Shaw might try to skip town. He's a clever rascal and often eludes my spies. I'll charge him with assaulting Mrs. Crake and put him behind bars. First, I'll take a look at her face and have her sign a complaint.”

Pamela then related the comments of Molly, the laundry worker, on Jason. “In a moment of unsound mind, he seems to have admitted to falsely implicating Miss Ricci in Crake's death.”

“Sounds plausible,” Brophy remarked. “I'll talk to Molly and get a statement for the record. When we question him, we may have to make allowance for his mental state. He might be delusional.”

 

Early in the afternoon, Pamela went to Helen Fisk's suite. Birgitta let her into a small parlor and closed the door. “While Mrs. Fisk is away visiting friends and acquaintances, she has left me in charge of Rachel. Can you imagine it?”

Pamela was amused.

Birgitta smiled and crossed her fingers. “For the moment she's docile. Of course, that won't last. Late this morning, Detective Brophy came here to question her and saw the swelling on her face. She gave him the details of the beating and signed a complaint. After a massage, she now appears to be in good spirits.”

Pamela followed Birgitta to the breakfast room, where Rachel sat by a window overlooking the hotel garden. “Mrs. Thompson has come for tea,” said Birgitta, and set an extra place at the table. Rachel smiled a welcome, but her eyes were wary. The women raised their cups in a toast.

“Rachel,” Pamela began gently, “you told the police that Shaw was gambling at Canfield's Casino the night of your husband's murder and that you joined him at about eight. During the rest of the evening, was he ever out of your sight?”

“I didn't see him when he went to the bathroom or to Mr. Canfield's office on business.” She hesitated. “Seriously, it was a warm night. The casino was crowded, the air very stuffy. Rob said he needed fresh air, so we stepped outside. He left me standing by the door and walked into the park. I can't tell you exactly when he returned. I might not have seen him right away.”

“But in the police report, Rachel, you said, ‘Rob was with me at the casino all evening.' Why didn't you tell the truth?”

Rachel's face took on an expression of wounded innocence. “Rob told me that I shouldn't mention his walk in the park. It would only complicate matters.” She paused. “Anyway, the police didn't pursue the point. Frankly, I think they were already convinced that the Italian girl had killed the captain.”

“Have you ever thought that maybe Rob killed Crake?”

Again, she didn't take offense. “I didn't suspect him at first. He wasn't a violent man for as long as I had known him—that's about five years. He behaved like a clever, amusing gentleman. He took alcohol in moderation and didn't smoke nasty cigars or pipes, just an occasional cigarette. He liked to gamble for high stakes, but so did the captain and I. At that time, Rob was lucky and usually won.”

“When did you change your mind?”

“Eventually, his luck turned bad, and so did his attitude. He began to call me stupid and a whore. About the same time, the captain became suspicious of Rob and me, and threatened to cut me from his will. Rob said to me, ‘Crake should watch his step. He knows that I've killed a man before.' ”

“What could he have meant by that?” Pamela asked. “Was he referring to the black men he killed during Britain's war with the Zulus in South Africa?”

Rachel shook her head. “He was warning Crake that he had once killed a white man like himself at a gambling den in Kimberley, near the gold fields, in a quarrel over a woman.”

Pamela addressed both women. “Did Shaw ever say that he killed the captain?”

They exchanged glances. Then Birgitta shook her head. Rachel spoke tentatively. “You heard him say at the race track that he had risked his neck to get Crake's money for me. I asked him what he meant by that remark. Had he done something that he could be hanged for? He looked worried. ‘Oh, it's nothing, ' he said. ‘I lost my temper. Forget I ever said it.' Then he saw that you had heard him and he ran after you.”

 

Pamela left Rachel in Birgitta's care and returned to her room in an agitated mood. She paced back and forth, realizing that Rachel was a cunning young woman who knew how to play the role of an innocent victim. Under questioning, she had subtly shifted any responsibility for her husband's death onto Shaw. In fact, she had believed she would gain by her husband's death and could have told Shaw where he could be found.

Shaw emerged as a major suspect with a strong motive: to secure Crake's money for Rachel—and himself. He also had access through Jason or Metzger to a boning knife. And finally, when he left the casino and walked into the adjacent park, he could have hurried to the rear of the hotel and into the garden, then sneaked into Crake's suite during the concert. Jason could have given him a key as well as a knife.

So, Pamela began to see that a conspiracy of his enemies might have killed Crake. Fate had brought Shaw, Metzger, and Jason Dunn together with the captain in the summer at Saratoga Springs. Their individual roles, however, were obscure.

Metzger had the most convenient access to the alleged murder weapon, and he was expert in using it, though only on the carcasses of animals. However, he would be concerned that the knife could be traced back to him. Moreover, he was unfamiliar with the victim's rooms and his movements.

As a bellboy, Jason had easy access to almost any place in the hotel. While attending the evening concert in the garden, he was aware of the victim's movements. However, he would have had to borrow or steal the murder weapon from Metzger. Since he had worked with Metzger in a meatpacking plant, he had experience using boning knives on animals, but he had not yet killed a man.

Shaw, in contrast, was an expert swordsman and a trained, experienced killer. He could quickly and precisely deal the fatal blow even in a dark room and with an unfamiliar weapon. However, like Metzger, he would not know the victim's location or his movements unless Jason or someone else told him. Finally, someone—either Metzger or Jason—had to put the boning knife in his hands.

It was now late in the afternoon. Pamela threw herself into a chair. She hadn't eaten since breakfast. Tired and hungry, she stared at the wall. A telephone hung there. Prescott had insisted that she have a room with one. It was time to consult him about the next step.

 

It took a while. Prescott's cabin didn't have a phone. Pamela finally reached him through the Curtis Hotel in Lenox, a short distance from the cabin. She gave him a brief account of the investigation since he left.

When he heard her theory of a conspiracy to kill Crake, he remarked, “Good work. This is plausible speculation. I'll return to Saratoga Springs on Saturday at noon. Harry Miller will join us later in the afternoon.”

“How are things in Lenox?” She left it to him to bring up his family problems.

“We'll talk about them when we meet on Saturday. I'm looking forward to seeing you then. It's good to hear you.”

She slowly returned the receiver to its hook, trying to hold on to the sound of his voice as it faded in her mind.