Eventually, Rachel and her companions seemed to tire of playing for pennies and beckoned the waiter. He hurried up to them, heard their request, then led them from the room.
Helen explained, “He’s taking them to an intimate upstairs parlor where they’ll buy drinks at inflated prices and play for high stakes for a couple of hours.”
“It’s said, Helen, that the company a person keeps reveals her character. What have we just learned about Rachel Crake?”
“She hasn’t burned her bridges. Years ago, in that New York brothel, Crake won her with an offer of money and social position she couldn’t refuse. Nonetheless, she didn’t fully trust him. So, she remained friends with these women, her path back to the brothel.”
“I wonder,” Pamela began, “about her alibi for the night of Crake’s murder. She said that she was here playing cards with them, and they vouched for her. Her name and Shaw’s are in the guest book together with theirs. Could she have slipped out with their connivance?”
“I think you need to speak to Mr. Canfield,” replied Helen. “He would know better than I. Tonight he’s too busy and distracted. Make an appointment to see him in the morning.”
Harry followed Shaw to a roulette wheel and watched him play. His mental concentration was intense, almost inhuman. Within minutes, he won a few hundred dollars; then he lost it all in a turn of the wheel. His expression scarcely changed. He studied the wheel. If it had even a slight tilt, it might favor certain numbers. Then he moved more money into play.
Harry sat down at an adjacent poker game and won a few dollars. As he left the game, he noticed a familiar face at a table: Mr. Wood, the gentleman whom he and Pamela had dined with on the day of their arrival.
“May I join you?” Harry asked.
The man brightened. “Of course, this drink is on me.” He beckoned a waiter. “Two whiskeys, please.”
Harry could see that this wasn’t Mr. Wood’s first drink and soon got him talking about Shaw. “He comes every night,” said Wood.
“Including Saturday, the seventh?” Harry asked.
“Yes, of course, I wasn’t watching him every minute. You can imagine that the casino was packed with people coming and going.”
So, Harry wondered, could Shaw have slipped out of the casino and stabbed Crake? Or, might he have hired someone else to do it?
Harry finished his drink, thanked Mr. Wood, and returned to the poker table. With sidelong glances he drew a picture of Shaw in his mind. Well mannered, his movements quick, his speech cultivated, he appeared the model of a gentleman gambler.
After winning enough to pay for the evening, Harry rejoined Helen and Pamela in the reading room.
He announced, “Mr. Wood just told me that Shaw was here at the gaming tables on the night of July seventh, as Rachel alleged to the police. However, the casino was crowded and busy. Could she have covered for him while he slipped away for an hour and killed her husband?”
Pamela replied, “We may find out when we meet Mr. Canfield tomorrow morning. I’ve made an appointment. At first he said he was too busy and had already told the police all that he knew. I pointed out that the police investigation had been hasty and was threatening a young woman’s life. Our investigation might unearth critical information that the police overlooked. Finally, he said, ‘Come to the casino for breakfast at eight and we’ll talk.’ ”
“You must have charmed him,” Harry remarked. “Canfield’s reluctance is understandable. What would happen to his reputation if we proved that Rachel and Shaw used the casino as cover for their murder of Crake? Reformers already call the casino a den of iniquity. They would demand that the police shutter the place.”
“You’re right. I’ll lower my expectations for tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 12
The Investigation Widens
Tuesday, July 17
The next morning at eight o’clock, Canfield led his visitors to an upstairs apartment for a conversation over breakfast. A table was tastefully set with fine china, silverware, and fresh-cut flowers. He had just come from his barber and was wearing a light silk maroon morning robe. A waiter appeared. Canfield ordered a fruit crepe with whipped cream. Pamela and Harry asked only for coffee and toast.
Harry brought the conversation around to Crake’s murder on the evening of July 7.
Canfield grimaced at the allusion to violence. “What do you need to know?”
Pamela asked about Rachel’s movements on July 7. “When she and her companions were in the private room upstairs, was a casino waiter present?”
“Not every minute,” Canfield replied. “He usually anticipated their requests for poker chips or drinks and so forth, then left them in peace. If they needed anything, they could ring a bell to call him.”
“Can a casino employee verify Rachel’s story that she was in the casino until midnight?”
Canfield sprinkled sugar on his crepe. “The police asked that question. I passed it on to my employees. None of them saw her leave the casino until shortly before closing at midnight.” A sardonic smile flashed on his face. “At any time in the evening, of course, she could have lowered herself on a rope from an upstairs window and later climbed back up. We might not have noticed.”
Harry brushed the taunt aside with a slight wave of his hand. “Do you know if Robert Shaw was away from the casino for an hour or two on that night?”
“We are as vigilant as possible without annoying the patrons. Shaw could have stepped outside for an interval and come back. The doorman might have been briefly distracted and didn’t notice him. On Saturday nights the casino is very busy.”
On the way back to the hotel, Pamela turned to Harry. “Canfield and his staff haven’t given Shaw a convincing alibi. On a busy Saturday night, he could have slipped away from the casino without being noticed. Unfortunately, the police didn’t challenge him. They had already fixed the blame on Francesca.”
While Harry went off to investigate Shaw, Pamela set out to make the acquaintance of Rachel Crake’s Swedish maid, Birgitta Mattsson. At midmorning, she observed her enter Congress Park, carrying a small basket. Pamela followed her on a winding, shaded path to an ornamental pool, circled by benches. In the center was a lovely decorative fountain. The maid chose a bench under a tall elm tree, set the basket beside her, closed her eyes, and breathed an audible sigh of relief.
After a few minutes listening to a concert of bird songs and trickling water, Birgitta opened her eyes, uncovered the basket, and pulled out a newspaper, a bottle wrapped in a cloth, a cup, and a sweet pastry. Pamela walked past the maid, engaged her with a casual smile, and got a smile in return. She was fair haired, blue eyed, and comely.
Pamela sat on a bench next to the maid’s, smiled again, and said, “I couldn’t help but notice your newspaper—it’s printed in a foreign language.”
“It’s Swedish,” said Birgitta, “and comes from New York. It keeps me in touch with the old country.” She hesitated to say more. Her shoulders sagged a little.
Pamela encouraged her with a sympathetic expression. “I know how hard it is to be lonely in a foreign country. Where do you come from in Sweden?”
“Stockholm, a beautiful city, the country’s capital.”
Pamela urged the maid on with questions. An educated woman, she knew English before she came to this country four years ago.
“They say Captain Crake used to sing your praises. Your massages made him feel well at least for a while. How did you learn to do it?”
“My father was a medical doctor in Stockholm and used massage in his practice. Some of his female patients preferred that a woman massage them, so he taught me the technique and put me to work. When he died, I wanted to continue. I was good at it, if I may say so. But I wanted to be paid and earn a decent living. That didn’t seem possible in Sweden. So I moved to New York and began to massage Captain Crake—and his wife as well.”
Pamela gestured to the basket. “I’m sorry to keep you from your picnic. I’ll be on my way.�
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“Please stay. I brought along an extra cup. Would you share the coffee and the pastry with me?”
“Delighted! I enjoy picnics in the park.”
They introduced each other, laid out a red-and-white-checkered cloth between them on the bench, and poured the coffee. Conversation was easy. The maid seemed starved for congenial company.
Eventually, Pamela ventured to ask, “Since the captain’s death, how has it been to serve his wife?”
“Difficult,” the maid replied. “I feel trapped. Since Captain Crake died, his wife and Mr. Shaw watch me closely, as if I’m likely to steal clothes, or jewelry, or the silverware and try to sell them in the village. She has also cut my wages, since I no longer nurse the captain. I’ve offered to resign, but she says she needs me for a while until she recovers from her husband’s death. She insists she’s too stressed to break in a new maid. If I were to leave, she wouldn’t give me a satisfactory recommendation and would spread malicious gossip about me. I’d be unable to find a suitable position, especially with so many men and women out of work.” Her lips began to quiver.
Pamela nodded sympathetically and shifted her inquiry in a less emotional direction. “Rachel seems scarcely touched by her husband’s death. Was she really his wife?”
“Not at first.” The maid glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice. “She was his little tart. Then they made it legal.” The maid appeared to grow nervous and took a drink of her coffee.
“Don’t fret,” counseled Pamela. “Everyone knows her. She’s called ‘the merry widow.’ Still, you have to be careful. If you ever wanted to change jobs, I might be able to help you.”
“And what do you do for a living?” asked the maid, showing reasonable curiosity.
“I work for a lawyer who helps people find answers to difficult questions.”
“Can you give me an example?” Birgitta cocked her head in amused skepticism.
“Right now I’m helping Mr. Tom Winn at the Grand Union Hotel figure out who killed Captain Crake. Was it the chambermaid, Francesca Ricci, or someone else?”
Birgitta frowned. “Everyone thinks she’s guilty. Did the police make a mistake?”
“She’s not been tried yet, so we don’t know. Others could have done it.”
“Really? Do you suspect Rachel Crake?”
“No, she has a strong alibi. But I wonder about her friend Robert Shaw.”
Birgitta fell silent. “I think we should drop the subject for now, lest I get into serious trouble. I’ll think on these matters. For the time being, we shouldn’t be seen together.”
Pamela detected a frisson of fear in her companion’s voice.
Early in the afternoon, Pamela and Harry met Tom Winn in his office to arrange for their private investigation of certain hotel staff and a few guests.
“I’m a cautious man,” Winn said. “You’ll have to persuade me that it’s a sound idea. The hotel management insists above all else that I safeguard the hotel’s reputation and ensure a restful stay for our guests. What have you learned thus far?”
Harry described the affair between Rachel and Shaw, and added, “It’s common knowledge in the hotel. Witnesses saw Crake threatening Shaw in Mitchell’s gambling den. He might have decided to kill Crake to protect himself. The casino hasn’t given him a sufficient alibi. We’ve checked.”
“And I should point out,” said Pamela, “that Karl Metzger, the German butcher, also hated Crake. We need to check his alibi. Moreover, we haven’t precisely identified or found the murder weapon. It could be a dagger rather than the butcher’s boning knife. Finally, I’ll mention again that Francesca has neither the skill nor the temperament to have inflicted Crake’s wound.”
“Granted,” said Harry, “we’re far from accusing anyone, and it isn’t yet time to go to the police. Still, a killer might still be at large, possibly in the hotel.”
Winn frowned. “I admit to reservations concerning Miss Ricci’s guilt. There probably should be a wider investigation.”
Harry asked, “Then wouldn’t it be better that private professionals do it? The police would be much more disruptive.”
“You’re right,” Winn admitted. “Go ahead—discreetly.”
Pamela started out to resolve the issue of the murder weapon. If it was a boning knife, how could Crake’s killer have gotten hold of one? Clearly marked as hotel property, they were expensive and nearly new. When not in use, they were locked away in the meat cutters’ room in the basement. It wasn’t easy to steal one. A thief’s most convenient access to the room was through the laundry nearby.
Late in the afternoon, Pamela went down to the laundry to test the attitude there toward Crake. She spoke to an older woman who appeared to be in charge and learned that one of the new laundresses, Erika Metzger, openly expressed hostility to Crake. In an unguarded moment she had said, “May his soul rot in hell!”
Pamela wasn’t surprised. Back in February, Pamela had spoken to Erika and her husband, Karl, and was aware of their bitter feelings toward Crake. Now she wondered if the Metzgers could have conspired against him. Could their friend Jason the bellboy also be involved?
Late that evening, while walking in the hotel garden, Pamela shared her impressions of the Metzger family with Harry. She asked, “Was the old hostility between Karl Metzger and Crake still strong at the time of his death?”
“Apparently it was,” Harry replied. “Earlier this evening in Mickey’s, the hotel butchers told me about a recent confrontation. On the morning of the day he died, Crake was touring the hotel basement and, unawares, approached Metzger cutting meat. For a moment it looked like the German might lunge at Crake. Afterward, Crake denounced Metzger to the food manager as a radical troublemaker and demanded that the hotel fire him. The management is still discussing the matter with Mr. Wooley.”
Pamela recalled her conversation with Metzger, a German immigrant, back in February. His bitterness toward Crake was palpable. He had crushed the meat cutters’ strike at his Fourteenth Street plants and forced Metzger out of the business.
“I sympathize with Metzger,” Pamela said. “But we must consider him a suspect. He had a powerful motive for revenge and the boning knife to carry it out.” She reflected for a moment. “I have two questions for the Metzgers. First, do they have solid alibis for the evening of Crake’s murder? And second, if they did kill Crake, why did they shift the blame onto Francesca Ricci?”
Harry agreed. “Let’s question them separately and then compare notes.”
Wednesday, July 18
Late in the morning, Pamela found Erika Metzger at lunch, sad-eyed and alone at one end of a long table. Black women sat at the opposite end. In the middle, Italian women formed a cluster speaking their language, while a few local white women sat together, chatting in English. Metzger was the only German and spoke halting English. She understood the language well enough.
Pamela sat next to her but not too close, leaned toward her, and asked softly in rusty German, “Guten Tag, Frau Metzger. Darf ich mit Ihnen sprechen?” (“Good day. May I speak with you?”)
Metzger looked up, startled, then pleased. “Das würde mich sehr erfreuen, Frau Thompson. Es ist mir peinlich dass niemand hier spricht Deutsch.” (“That would please me very much. It pains me that nobody speaks German here.”)
Continuing in mixed German and English, they renewed their acquaintance. Erika complained that Crake’s conflict with her husband left the family destitute and homeless. Her eyes began to tear. “Karl feels humiliated. All his life he has worked hard, succeeded in whatever job he has taken, and earned the respect of his peers. He’s now moody and discouraged.
“When I try to cheer him up, he says, ‘I’m now an old man with a bad reputation. Who would hire me?’ ”
“How does he feel toward Captain Crake?” asked Pamela.
“He’s very angry.” Erika hurried to add, “But he didn’t kill him. The Italian girl did it.”
Pamela expressed surprise. “Why sho
uld she?”
“He caught her stealing. Her people are thieves and have no morals. They stole my husband’s job. We shouldn’t let them into the country.” She was growing upset and distrustful. “I have nothing more to say about Mr. Crake and, anyway, I don’t have time to talk.”
“Mrs. Metzger,” Pamela spoke gently, “I’m gathering information for Mr. Winn, the hotel’s detective. I don’t work for the police. Just tell me what your family was doing the evening of July seventh.”
The woman hesitated, chewing on her lower lip. “After work, we ate supper together in our room as usual—soup, bread, and fruit. Afterward, I went to St. Peter’s Church hall and played cards. My husband went to his favorite saloon to drink beer with other Germans. The next morning, we heard about Mr. Crake. Good riddance. They’ll probably hang the girl. They should give her a medal instead.”
Early in the evening, Harry found Karl Metzger at Mickey’s Tavern, sitting with the bellboy Jason Dunn and a couple of butchers. They were laughing and joking while they scraped pennies from the table. Robert Shaw was also there, picking up a pair of dice. It looked like the end of a friendly game of chance.
In a few minutes Metzger was sitting alone, staring into an empty beer glass. Family groups occupied the other tables.
“Mind if I join you?” Harry took care not to sound too friendly. He ordered a pitcher of beer. When it arrived, he offered some to Metzger.
He shrugged, then managed a thin smile and extended his glass. “Thanks. Warm weather builds up a man’s thirst.” He spoke English with a heavy German accent.
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