Death in Saratoga Springs (7 page)

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.”

Saratoga Springs
Tuesday, July 10

 

F
rom 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 them 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.”

Months ago, Pamela had already formed an unflattering impression of the victim: a ruthless businessman suspected of assaulting young women. Now she added the image of a cuckolded husband and false hero. “I wouldn't be surprised,” Pamela began, “if the Crake you described might have made enemies along the way. Could one of them have done him in and shifted the blame to the maid?”

Mr. Wood shrugged. “How is that possible? Before the police arrested her, they must have thought of other suspects.” His voice now seemed uncertain.

Pamela persisted. “No one saw her kill Crake, and she has denied doing it. True, the circumstantial evidence seems compelling, but it should be tested. For example, the maid claims Captain Crake
gave
Mrs. Crake's bracelet to her. It could be true. We should take care. If the maid didn't kill Crake, then the killer is still among us.”

“That's a sobering thought,” remarked Mrs. Wood. “But here comes a meat course, spring lamb with mint sauce. Let's leave Crake's murder for another day.”

 

After dinner, Pamela called Harry to her room to meet the bellboy Jason Dunn. She had already learned that this was his second season at the Grand Union. According to the hotel's manager, Jason came with sterling recommendations from hotels in New York City. Raised in South Carolina, he had moved to New York as a young man looking for work. He was trustworthy, resourceful, and well mannered.

There was a knock on the door. Pamela opened and found a handsome man in a smartly pressed bellboy's uniform.

“Jason Dunn, at your service, ma'am.”

For a fraction of a second, she was speechless, struck by his golden brown eyes. Then she invited him in and gestured to a chair. He looked puzzled. She explained who they were and added, “We have a few questions.”

He immediately became wary. “Mr. Winn and the police detective have already questioned me. What more can I say?” His English had retained a Southern accent.

“That was then,” Pamela replied. “Tell the story again. Perhaps you'll think of a new detail or two. That's how the mind works.”

He reflected for a moment, then began in a tentative voice. At dusk in the evening of the seventh of July, the front desk sent him to the hotel garden to deliver a message. When he arrived, the orchestra was playing. So he stood behind the crowd, off to one side, looking for the person to whom the message was addressed. His gaze drifted to the nearby hotel cottages. Captain Crake was entering his. That was close to 7:00. Near the end of the concert, about 9:00, Jason was back in the garden and saw a young woman hurry from the Crake cottage toward the service stairway.

“That woman was Miss Ricci in a chambermaid's apron and bonnet.” His tone was now firm.

“Are you sure, Jason?” Pamela asked. “By that time, it was dark. The garden lanterns throw a weak light and only a short distance. Could you see her face?”

He wavered. “In that light her features weren't distinct. But I knew she served those cottages in the evening. And the person I saw had Miss Ricci's size and shape, and her way of walking. No maid is quite as beautiful.”

Pamela turned to Harry. “Any questions?”

He shook his head. “Thank you, Jason. You may go. We'll speak to you later.”

After he left, Harry said, “Jason's attitude toward Francesca appears suspect to me. He probably has made advances to her and she rebuffed him. Now he's punishing her. His description of her is vague. A clever killer could dress and act as a chambermaid. We need to know more about him to challenge his testimony in court.”