Harry glanced quizzically in Pamela’s direction.
Prescott took the hint and said to her, “You remain here. I hope to persuade Winn and the Saratoga police detective Michael Brophy to include you meaningfully in the ongoing search for Crake’s killer. That’s the only way we can establish Francesca’s innocence. Both men are busy and not as helpful as we would like. They may also feel uncomfortable working with a private investigator, especially a woman. Should you need help, Harry will be a phone call away in New York.” He met her eye. “Do you feel up to the challenge?”
Pamela was indeed uneasy, but she replied in a teasing voice, “I believe I can manage, sir. And, if I may ask, what are your plans?”
“Tomorrow morning, you and I will confer with Winn and Detective Brophy. I hope to persuade them that Francesca Ricci is only one among several potential suspects. They all should be thoroughly investigated.”
“And after the meeting, what will you do?”
Prescott smiled thoughtfully. “I’ll catch a late train to Lenox and visit Edward at Ventfort. He may need counsel and encouragement. And, as you know, I’m eager to settle certain issues with his mother. You and I will be in touch by telephone and telegraph.”
“I’ll be thinking of you.” She meant it more than she dared to say.
CHAPTER 18
Police Detective
Monday, July 23
Before breakfast, Pamela and Prescott walked Harry to the station to catch the early train to New York. As they waited for the call to board, they discussed how to pry the secret of Ruth Colt’s disappearance from Emil Schmidt. “He’ll still be skittish,” remarked Harry. “I’ll have to charm him.” The train arrived and they waved Harry off.
After breakfast, they went to Tom Winn’s office. Police detective Michael Brophy frowned when he saw Pamela, then averted his eyes. A tall, heavy man, about forty, with a red face, thick black bristling eyebrows, and a drooping moustache, he chewed on a large, unlit cigar. A black bowler hat perched on his bald head. Pamela wisely suppressed a temptation to snicker. Brophy resembled the popular parody of the uncouth policeman, but the intelligence in his eyes told her that he was nobody’s fool.
To appear businesslike, Pamela wore a simple light blue summer dress with a few lace frills on the cuffs and the collar. The detective darted a glance at her but avoided eye contact. After an uncomfortable moment, Winn made the introductions. Brophy tipped his hat to Pamela but didn’t remove it and continued to chew on his cigar.
They sat around a conference table cluttered with loose papers and file boxes. With Pamela to his right, adding comments, Prescott briefly identified several potential suspects in the murder of Captain Crake: Jason Dunn, the Crawford brother and sister, Karl and Erika Metzger, and Rachel and her lover, Shaw. Then he examined their motives and suggested how each of them could have killed Crake or hired someone else to do it.
“Francesca Ricci,” he concluded, “remains a suspect, but not the only one.”
Throughout Prescott’s account Detective Brophy sat stony-faced, head tilted at a skeptical angle. Pamela grew anxious that he might be obstinate and uncooperative by nature and resent even the appearance of an attempt to bypass him in this criminal investigation.
Brophy now leaned forward, his thick index finger tapping the table. “Prescott, you’ve given us clever speculation but little fact. But then you didn’t claim to have solved the case, only opened up ways to proceed. My prime suspect is still Miss Ricci, a petty thief of shady background, with the stolen bracelet in her possession. She was observed near the scene of the crime and has no alibi. I’ve checked all your suspects and they have alibis.”
Prescott started to protest.
“Right,” Brophy snapped. “A maid is too easily assumed to be larcenous. Who knows, Crake could have given her the bracelet and forgot to tell his wife. No one saw the maid kill him, and she hasn’t confessed. Still, Mr. Person, our D.A., thinks he has enough evidence to convict her.”
“I’m curious,” Prescott asked politely, “who among the other suspects could you imagine might have killed Crake?”
Brophy reflected thoughtfully for a moment. “If one stands out in my mind, it’s the German butcher, Metzger. He’s an angry rabble-rouser with a grudge against Crake and knows how to use a boning knife.”
“That’s right. Crake was also threatening his job at the hotel. So, how shall we proceed?”
“For the time being, you may continue to investigate potential suspects.” He raised a warning hand. “Don’t disturb the hotel’s routine or upset its guests. And don’t expect money or much help from me. I’m too busy clearing beggars, tramps, and drunks from our streets, chasing petty thieves, and settling domestic conflicts. I’m happy to leave further investigation of Crake’s murder to you and your lady associate. It looks like a fool’s errand. Prove me wrong.” For the first time, he looked directly at Pamela. “By the way, Mrs. Fisk speaks highly of you.”
He turned back to Prescott. “Today, I’ll meet Mrs. Crake and Robert Shaw, and order them to remain available for further questioning. My spies will keep an eye on them; otherwise, I’m sure they would skip town and never be seen again. I’ll give you and Mrs. Thompson all the authority you need to investigate them and the other suspects. Keep me informed. In September, the D.A. will bring Miss Ricci to trial unless you convince us of her innocence. That’s the plan.” He removed the cigar from his mouth and gave them a crooked smile.
“Walk me to the station, Pamela, and we’ll talk on the way. I left my bag there. Did anything in our conversation with Winn and Brophy surprise you?”
“I didn’t realize that a police detective would go to Helen Fisk for advice, though I’m grateful for what she gave. The tight limits he put on our investigation were to be expected. His reference to Francesca Ricci’s trial insinuates it’s a foregone conclusion.”
“I fear,” said Prescott, “that Brophy takes too much to heart the interests and opinions of wealthy visitors and the great hotels. How would he react if the evidence in Crake’s murder pointed to the rich, cultivated Crawfords, rather than to Metzger, the rabble-rousing German butcher, or the poor Italian immigrant girl?”
As the train arrived, the passengers surged toward the tracks. Prescott pressed Pamela’s hand. “I’m confident that you will solve the case if anyone can. Be brave and don’t let Brophy bully you.”
She smiled, pleased with his trust. “I wish you good fortune in Lenox and would like to meet your son, Edward, in the not-too-distant future.”
The train gave out a loud, piercing toot. A conductor called all aboard and Prescott jumped into a carriage. As the train pulled out, he waved from a window until the train turned a curve and disappeared. For a moment, Pamela felt a pang of loss. A tear dropped from her eye.
A few hours later, Pamela was back at the station to form a first impression of Mrs. Dunn. As Pamela expected, the Crawfords were waiting in the large, milling crowd. Jason Dunn wasn’t in sight. His duties at the hotel might have kept him away. This was the first day of the thoroughbred races in Saratoga, and a surge of new, eager visitors would need his services.
Edith Crawford leaned over the edge of the platform to peer down the track. Lines of concern creased her brow. The train was running late. Her brother, James, sat placidly in his wheelchair by the station house, away from the crowd. Virgil stood behind him, now in a servant’s role, as still and elegant as a Greek statue. Did the servant ever speak to his master in public, other than in response to simple questions or commands? And more intriguing, how much did the master confide in the servant behind closed doors?
Finally, the train arrived ten minutes late. It braked to a screeching halt and let off a cloud of steam, while porters rushed to the carriages and passengers hailed them. Most of the passengers had left the train when Edith walked up to an older woman coming out of a parlor car. Over the din, Pamela couldn’t hear what they said to each other. Edith’s greeting seemed polite but cool. Mrs. Du
nn looked sour and worried. Perhaps something was wrong in her relationship with the Crawfords.
Pamela’s impression was strengthened when Mrs. Dunn met James Crawford. Mrs. Dunn asked loud enough for Pamela to hear, “Where’s Jason?”
James appeared to excuse the delinquent bellboy. Mrs. Dunn huffed, unappeased, then called a porter and set off for the Grand Union. Pamela wondered how Jason had earned her displeasure.
Another person on Pamela’s mind was Francesca Ricci. Freeing her was the main reason for being in Saratoga Springs. It was almost two weeks since she had been put in the county jail awaiting trial. Pamela owed her a visit.
The girl’s living conditions were far from dire. Mr. Barnes, the local lawyer, generally looked after her welfare. She had a small, clean cell to herself. Her food was plain but nourishing, mostly fresh vegetables and fruit, rice, and occasionally chicken. To keep up her spirits, Antonio Teti, a retired Italian tenor, and his wife, Magdalena, a soprano and versatile musician, visited her twice a week.
Pamela had hired the Tetis through Helen Fisk—they sang at her parties. “Delightful people and accomplished musicians,” Helen had said. “They’ll cheer up Francesca if anyone can.”
Near the courthouse in Ballston Spa, Pamela stopped at the Teti studio. “Our little canary is sad,” Antonio reported. “Magdalena plays the concertina, and we sing Italian hymns and songs. Francesca listens. Her eyes fill with tears. She wants to sing with us, but her spirit fails.”
Magdalena Teti explained that the jailor and the guards treated Francesca gently because the judge said they should, but they looked upon her as a convicted killer and disrespected her. In return, she smiled sweetly, while cursing them in Italian. They sensed her contempt and disliked her all the more. “We tell her to be prudent, but she can’t.”
Today, when Pamela sat down with Francesca, she was sullen. Nothing seemed to please her. The food was tiresome, the same every day. The mattress was lumpy; she couldn’t sleep. The guards were ignorant and unfriendly. She couldn’t talk to anyone. Even the musical visitors couldn’t cheer her up.
“Mrs. Thompson, is this what I should expect for the rest of my life?”
“No, Francesca. I’m sure we’ll soon find the person who killed Captain Crake. Then you’ll be freed. Our progress seems slow, but we now know a lot more about Crake and the people around him than we knew a couple of weeks ago. A few of them are strong suspects. Be patient.”
As Pamela rose to leave, Francesca began to sob. Pamela glanced at the guard. He looked the other way. She hugged Francesca and comforted her. “I love you like a daughter, Francesca. I promise I’ll get you out of here or die trying.” Pamela handed her a handkerchief.
The girl dabbed the tears from her face. “Thank you, Mrs. Thompson. I appreciate what you’re doing. The Tetis are kind and helpful. I’ll be all right.”
It was dark outside by the time Pamela returned to the Grand Union Hotel. The gaslights turned Broadway into a huge stage. Under the leafy canopy of tall elm trees, men and women of all ages and descriptions strolled up and down the broad sidewalks in fashionable summer dress. In the distance she heard a flute. At first, she couldn’t make out the melody. Then it became clear. Jason Dunn was in the hotel cupola playing “Garry Owen,” one of the favorite marches of New York’s Sixty-ninth Regiment. On the street a musician with a trumpet picked up the tune and voices joined in.
Pamela sat in a rocking chair on the hotel’s front porch to enjoy a cool evening breeze. She glanced at the spectacle on the street below her. A handsome pair caught her eye—Rachel Crake and her lover, Rob Shaw. If Detective Brophy’s short leash distressed them, they didn’t show it. Rachel still wore a widow’s black gown but was as frisky as a young girl without a care in the world. He was all smiles, a cock of the walk.
“Good evening, Pamela.” Helen Fisk sat next to her. “I heard that Shaw was incredibly lucky this evening in Caleb Mitchell’s gambling den. I suppose he’ll bet his winnings at the thoroughbred races tomorrow.”
“Thanks for the tip, Helen. I’ll find a way to watch him there.”
“Any word from Harry Miller in New York?”
Pamela had told Helen about Ruth Colt’s disappearance and the investigation that pointed toward Crake as the prime suspect. “Not yet,” Pamela replied. “I’m waiting eagerly to hear from Harry.”
CHAPTER 19
A Change of Heart
New York City
Monday, July 23
Early 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.”
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