Death in Saratoga Springs

by Charles O'Brien

  Brophy blew out a loud sigh of exasperation. “You just told me she left the dance in good spirits. That means freely. In this country, we let people disappear if they want to. I need evidence that her life is at risk.” He tipped his hat to Pamela and rushed past them into a waiting coach.

  As they watched him drive off, Prescott remarked to Pamela and Harry, “We can’t count on the police. They don’t have time for Rachel. Pamela and I will search the town for her.” He turned to Harry. “Keep close track of Shaw. You will probably find him at Canfield’s Casino. We’ll meet you there.”

  They searched for Rachel throughout the town. Finding her seemed hopeless. This was now high season in Saratoga Springs. Guests filled all the hotel porches and occupied every rocking chair. Carriages and pedestrians flooded Broadway and moved at a snail’s pace. The restaurants and saloons were packed, and the gambling dens were doing a furious business.

  At Mitchell’s Saloon, Prescott found a waiter who could tell him that Shaw had come early in the evening and had persuaded Mitchell to give him a $100 credit.

  “Can you believe it?” the waiter exclaimed. “That rascal Shaw then walked into the back room, played roulette for an hour, and walked out with over a thousand dollars.”

  “Just in time to inform Rachel of his good fortune and entice her out of the hotel,” Prescott remarked to Pamela.

  She added, “At that point, Shaw needed a carriage to pick up Rachel.” Dempsey’s livery stable was behind Mitchell’s Saloon. The stableman glanced at Pamela’s sketch of Shaw, and said that he had rented a carriage and driven it out of the stable in the direction of Broadway. He returned it an hour later. The stableman pointed to Shaw’s name in the register.

  From the stable they went to Canfield’s Casino and joined Harry. While Pamela and Harry studied the guest list in the entrance, Prescott found Shaw observing a poker game. He drew him aside and asked about Rachel. “You rented a carriage from Dempsey’s livery stable, picked her up at the hotel’s side door, and drove away. Where did you take her?”

  With an impatient sigh, he replied, “If you must know, I took her and her trunk to the railroad station. A friend was supposed to pick her up, entertain her for a few hours, and send her off on the night train to New York. I gave her money to tide her over and checked her trunk through to the city. She said she was going back to the brothel where we first met. Then I returned the carriage and went back to the casino. I don’t know where she is now.”

  “Have you forgotten that the police ordered her, as well as you, to remain in Saratoga Springs?”

  Shaw shrugged and turned back to the poker game.

  Prescott returned to his assistants in the entrance hall. “Pamela, come with me. Harry, you follow Robert Shaw like a flea on his back. He may feel cornered and will be dangerous. Find out his hiding place and whether Rachel Crake is there. If he is Crake’s killer, she most likely knows how he did it and is our best potential witness. The sooner we find her, the more likely she’ll be alive. Are you armed?”

  Harry smiled and pulled a blackjack from his pocket.

  As they left the casino, Pamela suggested, “In a half hour the night train to New York should arrive. We may find Rachel at the station. In any case, we could check Shaw’s story with the station master.”

  The station’s platform was empty. Inside the hall, a single electric bulb cast a feeble light. A few tourists rested on the wooden benches, eyes shut. The telegraph office was closed. A light was on in the ticket office, but no one was there. Prescott rang the bell for service, jarring the tourists awake. A clerk appeared, looking cross.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  Prescott showed his papers. “We’re searching for a missing person, Mrs. Rachel Crake, who was supposed to take the night train to New York. She was here at about ten-thirty tonight with a man. He is said to have bought a one-way ticket and checked her trunk through to New York City. Have you seen them?”

  From her bag, Pamela pulled her sketched portraits of Rachel and Shaw, and showed them to the clerk.

  He held the pictures up to the light. “I remember them now. The man had an accent and inquired about the train being on time. You’re right. He bought a one-way ticket for the woman and checked in a trunk. They’d come back, he said, in time for her to catch the train.”

  “You should know,” said Prescott, “that both of them are under police orders not to leave Saratoga Springs. We’ll wait for them. If they don’t arrive, can you hold the trunk here?”

  The clerk frowned, then stammered, “I don’t know if I can. The man didn’t say that it absolutely had to go out tonight. But . . .”

  Prescott asked calmly, “May I use your phone to call for a constable?”

  The flustered clerk replied, “Yes, of course.”

  The constable arrived in a carriage just as the train pulled into the station from the north. Pamela and Prescott identified themselves. “We are waiting for Mrs. Crake. She intended to leave Saratoga Springs in violation of a police restraint. Could you prevent her trunk from being loaded onto the train?”

  He nodded. “Detective Brophy said I should take the trunk back to the police station. He also instructed me to prevent her from leaving, if she shows up.”

  They waited on the platform while passengers left the train amidst the usual clamor and hustle of the porters and hotel agents. As departing passengers boarded the train, Pamela, Prescott, and the constable stood close to the coaches to see if Rachel might have disguised herself. None of the passengers resembled her. The constable put her trunk onto the rack of his carriage.

  “Could we ride with you, Constable?” Prescott asked. “We’d like Detective Brophy to open the trunk and allow us to look at its contents.”

  The constable nodded. “He said he wanted a word with you.”

  “So, she didn’t show up.” Brophy was chewing on his cigar, feet up high on his desk, hat tilted back on his head. “Why would she leave her trunk at the station? Something’s fishy there.”

  “Open the trunk,” Pamela suggested. “You might find a clue.”

  “I should’ve thought of that myself, ma’am, though there’s probably a law against it.” Brophy gestured to the constable, who fingered through a rack of keys and found one that might open half the trunks in Saratoga. It worked. He lifted the lid.

  It had obviously been packed in a hurry. Rachel hadn’t folded her gowns before throwing them helter-skelter into the trunk on top of a mixed pile of shoes, gloves, and underclothing.

  Brophy announced to Prescott, “The constable and I must go out on the street for an hour to help rich drunks find their way back to their hotels and boardinghouses. You and Mrs. Thompson may search the trunk. The night officer will keep an eye on you.”

  When Brophy and the constable had gone, Prescott said to Pamela, “It’s well past midnight. Shall we give a half hour to the search and then go back to the hotel?”

  “Fair enough,” she replied. “I’ll be looking for a diary or other hidden papers.” She picked up a silk gown, quickly patted it in vain for secret pockets, and laid it aside. Prescott did the same with other clothing. They soon reached the bottom of the trunk. The remaining items were toiletries, brushes, handkerchiefs, and the like. Pamela fingered through them, then shook her head. “We haven’t found any jewelry or money yet. She must have packed them. Where?”

  “In the trunk itself,” Prescott replied. “We’ll check it for hidden compartments.”

  For a few minutes, they explored the trunk, a common, sturdy, traveler’s chest with a rounded lid. “It has a false bottom,” he exclaimed, and pulled it out. Small cases of jewelry lay interspersed with a diary and packets of letters. “We should study the most recent entries now. The rest can wait.”

  The diary frequently referred to a secret place where Rachel and Shaw hid from her husband during romantic trysts.

  “I know it’s late,” Prescott granted, “but let’s take a quick look before going back to the
hotel.” They borrowed a lantern, caught a cab, and found the small cottage in a grove at the end of an alley off Circular Street, a five-minute ride from the Grand Union Hotel.

  The grove was dark. The eerie screech of an owl pierced the early-morning silence. Pamela wondered if Shaw might be spending the night inside with Rachel. No lights or sounds came from the cottage.

  Prescott knocked on the door several times with increasing vehemence. No one could have slept through it.

  Pamela asked, “May I try to pick the lock?”

  Prescott glanced at her with surprise.

  “Harry has taught me. I can open simple locks with a hairpin.”

  “Then try your skill on this one. I’ll hold the lantern.”

  It was an easy lock. Pamela picked it in a few minutes. Prescott pulled the door open, first a crack, then all the way. He held up the lantern and illuminated a small, fully furnished parlor. They stepped inside. Pamela detected the strong scent of Rachel’s perfume in an upholstered chair and more of it in the drapes. Rachel and Shaw had used the cottage within the last few hours.

  Off to one side behind the parlor was a small bedroom; on the other side, a tiny kitchen and a WC. There was no electricity and no telephone in the building, but it was clean and orderly. There was no sign of violence or conflict.

  Prescott lit a kerosene lamp and knelt down to check the parlor’s varnished hardwood floor. None of the boards seemed loose. The same was true in the bedroom. He opened a chest of women’s clothes and sorted through them. “What’s this?” he called out to Pamela. Among the dresses he had found a chambermaid’s apron and bonnet.

  She studied them carefully. “They must be the female disguise that Shaw wore as he left Crake’s cottage, misleading Jason to think it was Francesca. She and Shaw are about the same size.”

  Prescott added, “He came here from the casino, changed, then hurried to the hotel and killed Crake. He ran back to the cottage, changed again, and returned to the casino—all in the space of an hour.”

  They returned to the parlor and continued searching. She lifted a pillow on the upholstered chair and found a fancy handkerchief, initialed RC. “It’s wet with drops of red wine. Rachel has used it this evening.”

  Prescott worked his way to the kitchen floor. He called Pamela. “There are drops of a liquid on the floor and a wet, wine-stained towel on the rack.”

  She joined him. “And here’s a half-empty bottle of red wine in the cabinet and two empty glasses in the sink.”

  “We’ll need a chemical test on their residue.” Prescott sniffed the glasses. “But it’s certain that Shaw brought Rachel here from the Grand Union a few hours ago. He poured red wine into two glasses in the kitchen. They drank from them in the parlor. Afterward, he or she put them in the sink without rinsing them.”

  “So, what happened next?” asked Pamela. “There’s still no sign of violence. The bed hasn’t been disturbed. They must have left.”

  “They couldn’t have gone far. Shaw returned to gamble at the casino within an hour of the time he left Mitchell’s.”

  As Pamela was leaving the kitchen, puzzling over these new clues to Rachel’s disappearance, the front door suddenly opened. Robert Shaw stood in the entrance, glaring at her, a pistol in his hand.

  CHAPTER 29

  The Pit

  Sunday, July 29

  Shaw stepped inside. “What do we have here?” he asked in a mocking tone. “Breaking and entry and burglary are still crimes in New York, I believe. The law also allows me to use lethal force to protect my property.” His lips pressed tightly together. His gaze was as cold as ice. He raised the weapon.

  Suddenly, a dark figure reared up behind him and swung a blackjack at his head. The gun fell to the floor. For a moment Shaw stood dazed, then crumpled.

  Harry picked up the gun and stuck it in his pocket; then he searched the prostrate man for other weapons and found the dagger strapped to the calf of his leg.

  “Shaw must have heard almost everything you said,” said Harry, taking charge. “He was outside watching you through the window. Rachel should be nearby, either dead or in danger of dying. We must act quickly. One of the town constables has a bloodhound that finds lost children, hikers, and wandering elderly folks. He lives only a few steps away. I’ll wake him up. We’ll be back shortly.”

  Pamela found rope, and Prescott tied up the still-unconscious man. Soon he began to stir and to open his eyes. At first they didn’t focus, but eventually he stared at Prescott. “You and your lady friend haven’t found any proof of wrongdoing. You’re more likely to go to prison than I.”

  “Don’t fret,” said Prescott. “We’re bringing a bloodhound into this investigation. Finding Rachel should be child’s play for him. You had better pray that he finds her alive; otherwise, you will burn in the electric chair like the unfortunate Mr. William Kemmler.”

  For the first time since Pamela set eyes on Shaw, his lips trembled with fear.

  Soon, Harry appeared, followed by Blue, a large black and tan bloodhound with a black, wrinkled snout and long, flapping ears. His big, gentle eyes calmly surveyed the humans gathered in the room while he waited for instructions from a sleepy-eyed constable. He turned to Pamela. “Ma’am, can you give Blue a scent of the missing woman?”

  Pamela pointed to the pillow that reeked of Rachel’s perfume.

  The constable led the dog to the pillow. He inhaled the scent and was instantly eager to begin tracking. At his handler’s command, he started sniffing through the rooms, then out the door to the rear of the cottage and up to the edge of the grove to a pile of brush. There he stopped and pointed still as a statue. While Pamela held up a lantern, Harry and Prescott pulled the brush away to reveal a trapdoor. Blue advanced a step closer. There was no doubt in his mind.

  For a moment they stood around the trapdoor, silently gazing down at it with respect and even sorrow, as if it were a person’s newly dug grave. Then Harry sighed and pulled open the door, revealing a large pit. Blue strained at his leash. Pamela stepped forward and held the lantern over the opening.

  The pit was stonewalled and about six feet deep. On the bottom lay a figure in a canvas sack. Harry and the constable climbed down a ladder, lifted the sack over their heads, and placed it on the ground at the edge of the pit. Prescott opened the sack, revealing Rachel’s head. Pamela brought her lantern up close.

  “Has she been strangled?” she asked.

  “I can’t see any marks,” he replied.

  The constable climbed out of the pit and glanced at the body. “It looks like murder.” The words sounded so inadequate. He turned to Harry, who had followed him out of the pit. “Bring Detective Brophy here to study the scene while it’s fresh. We’ll need a coach for the woman’s body and for Mr. Shaw. I must take Blue home, then I’ll come right back.” As he was leaving, he said to Prescott with a teasing smile, “I’m putting you in charge while I’m gone.”

  While these arrangements were being made, Pamela held the lantern close to Rachel’s face. The pert, lively expression, so characteristic of the woman, was gone. A deep sorrow came over Pamela at the thought of a young life so brutally ended. It didn’t help to reflect that Rachel had foolishly gone back to Shaw and tried to extort money from him. He denied her any chance to turn her life around.

  Prescott approached. “I’d better check on Shaw in the cottage. Will you be all right out here alone?”

  “Yes,” she replied, “it may sound odd, even morbid, but I feel I should stand by her side.”

  He gazed at her for a long moment. “I understand.”

  A short while later, Prescott joined her. “Shaw is secure, locked in his thoughts. He refused to speak.” For several minutes, Pamela and Prescott stood quietly by the body, absorbed in reflection. Then the stillness of the night was broken. Detective Brophy trudged out of the darkness, followed by Harry.

  Brophy addressed Pamela and Prescott: “I’ll take charge of the investigation now. It’ll soon be dawn. You’
d better get some sleep. Come to my office in the afternoon and give me your statements. Too bad we’ve lost her, the key to her husband’s death.”

  Pamela cast a last glance at the body and gasped, then dropped to her knees for a closer look. “Her eyelids flickered,” she shouted.

  Prescott knelt beside her and felt the artery in Rachel’s neck. “There’s a very faint pulse. She must still be alive.”

  In a few minutes, a medical examiner arrived. For a moment he stood by the woman, confused. He had expected a corpse. Then he pulled smelling salts from his bag and brought them to her nose. She began to stir and half-opened her eyes.

  “Rachel,” Pamela said loudly into the woman’s ear. Her lips moved.

  “Amazing,” said the examiner. “I’ve never seen the likes of this. She may have overdosed on a drug. We’ll take her to the hospital immediately.”

  Pamela and Prescott walked back to their carriage. Harry remained behind with Brophy and the constable to study the scene and to question Shaw. When Pamela climbed into the carriage, a profound weakness overcame her. “Thank God for Harry,” she said. “Without him, this night could have had a sad ending.”

  Prescott closed the carriage door. “We owe him a great deal. It was a close call. Shaw was preparing to shoot.”

  Pamela added, “And had he shot us, who would then have known that Rachel was buried in the pit?”

  CHAPTER 30

  Aftermath

  Sunday, July 29

  At midmorning, Pamela awoke fatigued, having tossed and turned during the night. Her mind had churned up a lurid vision of a dark pit, and Rachel’s sightless eyes had stared at her. For a moment she felt that criminal investigation could be unhealthy for her. Then rays of sunlight slanting through the window banished her demons.