Death in Saratoga Springs Read Online Free PDF

nearby?”
    â€œRight,” Harry replied. “I think he’d pull the cart west on Fourteenth Street, perhaps to his meatpacking plants or, a little farther on, to the Hudson River at the Fourteenth Street ferry to Hoboken.”
    â€œLet’s test that theory,” said Pamela. “Karl Metzger, the German butcher, might help us. I know him from St. Barnabas Mission. He worked for years in Crake’s plants on West Fourteenth Street until he opened a small shop nearby. As the union’s business agent, he protested against dangerous working conditions, low wages, arbitrary hiring and firing, and other abuses in Crake’s plants. The management ignored him. The union then began a strike.”
    â€œI recall the strike,” said Harry. “Crake fired the union members and hired scabs, mostly penniless Italian immigrants willing to work for low pay and in poor, unsafe conditions. The strike collapsed. What happened to Metzger?”
    â€œCrake’s thugs harassed Metzger’s employees and spread false rumors that his meat was bad. The police closed his shop. Crake blackballed him from the New York meatpacking business. Destitute, he came to St. Barnabas Mission. I found part-time work for him and his wife, Erika.”
    â€œMetzger owes you a favor, Pamela, and should be hungry for justice. Pay him a visit.”

C HAPTER 4
The Missing Body
    Friday, February 16
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    T he next morning, Pamela met the Metzgers in their tiny room near the mission. They seated her at a table and served her coffee and German sweet bread. Karl had a broad smile on his face and could hardly contain himself. “We have good news, Mrs. Thompson. A friend has found summer work for us at the Grand Union Hotel in Saratoga Springs. I’ll be cutting meat; Erika will do laundry.”
    â€œCongratulations. Is your friend a meat cutter or in the laundry?”
    â€œNeither,” Erika replied, smiling. “He’s a bellboy at the hotel.”
    â€œJason Dunn,” added Karl. “He used to work with me in Crake’s meatpacking plants on Fourteenth Street. During the strike he got a job in a restaurant and then in a hotel. He’s been at the Grand Union for a year. We’ve kept in touch.”
    Pamela congratulated them, wished them well, then turned to Karl. “A client of mine needs information about Crake’s plants. Can you help?”
    He frowned at Crake’s name, but he finished his coffee and said, “I’ll try.” He told her that the plants operated at full capacity from dawn to dusk six days a week. At night, they shut down, and a small shift of workers cleaned and repaired machinery and tools, and did other maintenance. The main entrance was locked. Workers and deliveries used a service entrance in the rear. Since the strike and the union’s collapse, only a few guards were needed to protect the plants.
    â€œHow shall I get inside?” asked Pamela.
    â€œContact the head manager, Mr. Jeffrey Porter.” Metzger warmed to his topic. “Porter’s a heartless bastard, but smart and efficient. Pretend you’re an important person. He will guide you himself and tell you that the noise, stench, and offal are the signs of profit and progress. The Italians will smile and look happy at their work. You may see enough to judge for yourself.”
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    Monday morning, Pamela and Harry took a cab to the pork-processing building, a large, brick, three-story, boxlike structure. Passageways connected it to several other buildings belonging to Crake’s company, but it was the one closest and most convenient to his secret room. Disguised with a beard, Harry posed as a philanthropic businessman and Pamela’s escort.
    In a letter to Porter she claimed to be a social worker and needed to see where her clients worked or might find work. She assured him that she wasn’t squeamish and knew the difference between a packing plant and a music