“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.
CHAPTER 20
At the Track
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.
GOOD NEWS. SCHMIDT WILL REVEAL
RC’S BODY AND TELL ALL. PORTER
AND POLICE ARE STILL PROBLEMS.
HARRY
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 th
e 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?
CHAPTER 21
A Cold Grave
New York City
Tuesday, July 24
Tuesday morning at five, Harry Miller and Emil Schmidt waited in the Butchers Bar near Crake’s meatpacking plants. Last night, Emil had mentioned that he often joined men from the cleaning crew for breakfast. They might have information that could be of use in retrieving Ruth Colt’s body from the pork-processing plant.
A few minutes after five, the cleaning crew drifted in. Emil introduced his acquaintances to Harry. Someone mentioned that the shift was shorthanded. Harry winked at Emil. Here was an opportunity to see whether the old air duct was still bricked up.
A little later, the night manager arrived, another acquaintance.
“My friend and I could use some extra money,” said Emil. “We’re available for the night shift.”
The manager thought for a moment. “I’m happy to find experienced workers, Emil. I’ll pay you and your assistant by the hour. Come to the plant at seven o’clock this evening. I can use you in the cooling room until midnight.”
After breakfast, Emil went back to work at the West Washington Market. Harry began looking for Sergeant White, the detective who initially investigated Crake’s assaults on young women. After closing the investigation, Inspector Williams had assigned him to a petty crimes unit on the other side of Manhattan.
Harry found him off-duty at home with his wife and two young daughters in a warm apartment on Fourteenth Street near Union Square. It was lunchtime, and Mrs. White insisted on setting a place for Harry. After a tasty meal of potato salad, brown bread and cheese, and peaches, the table was cleared. Mrs. White brought iced tea to the men and withdrew with her daughters to another room.
Sergeant White asked, “What brings you here, Harry?”
“Do you recall that you investigated Ruth Colt’s disappearance back in February?”
“Yes, the case was shut down when Captain Crake seemed involved.”
“Well, I’ve come to tell you that after five months there has been a break in the case. A credible witness claims to know that Colt’s body was hidden in Crake’s pork-packing plant, a mile from here.” Harry went on to describe the investigation up to now. “I need to check out the tip tonight. There’s an outside chance that Crake might have later moved the body.”
“Congratulations, Harry. What does this have to do with me?”
“If, in fact, I find the body, the police should be there to declare the site a crime scene and secure the evidence. Otherwise, the management might try to hide the body to avoid scandal.”
“If I were to do this, wouldn’t I first need permission from Inspector Williams?”
“I think so. He may like the idea better now than he did five months ago. Crake’s death cut the financial connection between them. The police reformers are also badgering him. Solving the Colt case would make him look good.”
“I’m interested, Harry. I think of that girl whenever I gaze at my daughters. When should the police move in?”
“Tonight at about midnight after the cleaning crew has left the building. The police should finish long before the plant opens again at five.”
“Harry, I’ll talk to the inspector this afternoon. He might refuse permission, but he just might do the right thing. Recently, he has seemed more thoughtful than usual, perhaps because he’s nearing retirement and concerned about his pension. Shall we face him together?”
Harry shuddered at the prospect. Williams had been involved in sending him to Sing Sing. Nonetheless, he muttered, “Let’s go.”
At three in the afternoon, Harry and the sergeant walked into police headquarters on Mulberry Street and made their way to the detective department. Harry felt a surge of bitterness. He had earned a detective badge there, but it was shamefully snatched away. He tried now to put aside resentment and focus on the meeting with Williams.
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A clerk showed them to the inspector’s office. “Come in,” said Williams in a detached voice, and gestured for them to sit facing him at his writing table. For a moment he assessed the two men without a flicker of a smile or any other sign of good will. “What’s on your mind?” he said, gazing coolly at them.
Harry replied, “I have received a credible tip concerning the missing girl Ruth Colt. The person who helped Mr. Jed Crake hide her body has agreed to reveal its location. He has not come forward earlier because of Crake’s threats to kill him. Since her body is prima facie evidence of a serious crime, I believe the police should be involved.”
“Where’s the body?”
“Hidden in one of Crake’s plants, a short distance from where he killed her.”
Williams leaned forward, arms resting on the table. “I know you, Miller, and your service in this department. I’ll ignore the prison record. In Prescott’s firm you’ve become a first-rate detective. I trust your judgment. What do you propose?”
For a long moment Harry was speechless. For whatever reason, Williams had affirmed him. Then he replied, “I’ll check on the tip this evening. If it’s true, as I expect, I’ll call in Sergeant White and the police detail shortly past midnight when the plant is empty. Retrieving the body and examining the site shouldn’t take them more than an hour or two and won’t cause a mess. The plant will resume operation at five o’clock as usual. The body will be frozen and should go directly to the morgue.”
“Why didn’t you give your tip to Mr. Porter, the company manager?”
“The girl’s body could be a nuisance, perhaps a scandal, for the company. If I gave the tip to Mr. Porter, he might choose to conceal or destroy the body. I didn’t want to take that risk. The body is first and foremost evidence of a serious crime.”
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