A New York Haunting: Pt. 01

She turned west on 59^th Street, shortly thereafter stopping to look in a shop window. Anders halted and sidestepped closer to the curb, simulating looking for a cab as he kept her in his peripheral vision. He was immediately set upon by a newsboy with a bundle of papers under one arm, and a flapping newspaper in his other hand.

"New York Times, mister? Campaign news?"

Anders shook his head, his eyes darting over the heads of the passing people --- where was she? But the persistent lad only redoubled his pitch: "Yachting club scandal! Kaiser's war plans! Runaway train in Harpersville! Decapitations in China! Read all about it!"

Seized by an impulse of sympathy for a job he once had held, and fearful of losing his quarry or of the boy's shrill voice drawing her attention, he dug a coin from his pocket and purchased a paper. Ah! There she was, just stepping into the shop. His breath eased. The shop was headed by the sign Berenson Bookseller. Crossing the sidewalk, he leaned against the side of the adjacent building, where the newspaper now came in handy. One foot propped against the stone behind him, he held the open newspaper partially in front of his face as he kept an eye on the shop door.

She emerged fifteen minutes later bearing a large, flat, rectangular package wrapped in brown paper --- no doubt a book. As she paused on the sidewalk to consult a watch retrieved from her beaded purse, Anders now appreciated the row of small black buttons on the front of her bodice, running over the swell of her bosom to her incurved waist.

Her purposeful gait resumed, heading west until she reached Central Park. Here, she turned on East Drive, continuing north as carriages coursed past her. She walked steadily on, neither pausing nor looking back until she reached the Mall --- the long, wide walkway lined by stately elm trees. Anders hung back as she again checked her watch. Why did she keep checking her watch? Did she have an appointment with someone?

With the pleasant October weather, there were plenty of park goers strolling and sitting on the benches: couples, men and women alone or in pairs, nannies pushing prams, uniformed servants walking dogs --- doubtless from nearby mansions. Wheelers rolled by on bicycles. Children were running, playing with hoops, roller skating, and driving the little goat carts that could be rented there. Their laughter and shouts rose and fell in the cool air.

More slowly now did the young woman advance up the straight esplanade, her veiled head turning slightly as she surveyed the scenery. Anders slowed his pace to increase the distance between them.

The overarching, autumn canopy of gold leaves illuminated rather than shaded the promenade, and the girl's darkly clad figure seemed even more diminutive in the tunnel of glowing light. Golden leaves on the pavement tumbled and skidded in the wake of her swishing skirts. Two men smoking cigars paused in their conversation to watch her as she passed. When she reached the north end of the Mall, she descended the stone stairs to the short pedestrian arcade that crossed under the carriage roadway, Terrace Drive.

He hesitated to follow her into the tunnel, anticipating the angles for covert observation to be limited therein. In a swift decision, he took an alternate route, crossing the roadway up top and maintaining an elevated prospect from the upper level of Bethesda Terrace. Leaning on the stone balustrade at its edge, he looked down upon the lower-level of the terrace --- a wide, square, brick-paved patio featuring a magnificent central fountain.

A moment later, his quarry appeared directly below him, exiting the tunnel. Her head swiveled as she scanned the area around the fountain. There were fewer people here than on the Mall. Veering to the left, she seated herself on the stone bench that encompassed the perimeter of the patio, drew off her gloves, and began unwrapping the package from the bookstore.

His elevated position being in her sightline, Anders hastened to the further away of the two stairs and descended to the lower level where he took a circuitous route around the terrace, keeping the circular fountain between them. At length, he approached from her left side --- staying outside of her peripheral vision --- and found a seat on the stone bench approximately fifteen feet away. With the curved contour of the bench at this point, he was positioned to the side and slightly behind her as she faced the fountain.

He turned sideways on the bench, one bent leg on the seat, the other foot on the brick pavement, then unfolded his newspaper. The girl's package now unwrapped, he could see that she had purchased two books. The smaller one appeared to be a novel. What wouldn't he give to know its title! That knowledge alone would undoubtedly offer insight into her thoughts. The larger book was devoid of external lettering; when she opened it on her lap and extracted a pencil from her reticule, it was evident the folio was a sketchbook.

The next moment, she lifted her veil.

Over the top of his newspaper, Anders caught a first glimpse of her face. At least, a partial side view of her face which disclosed the hint of a graceful profile and dainty ear. There was a sudden cacophony of honking geese on the adjacent lake, and her head turned in his direction. Abruptly, he raised the newspaper. A few minutes later, when he dared again peer around the paper, she was engrossed in her sketching, her book on her lap, her nape and ear in his direction.

Her head shifted between the fountain and the sketchpad, her pencil moving in swift, agitated strokes that seemed incongruous with the serene setting. Before them, a beautiful, bronze angel topped the fountain, her calm countenance looking down over the softly flowing water. Pigeons cooed, their heads bobbing as they walked about on the bricks. An intermittent breeze rustled the glorious, sunlit autumn foliage around the terrace, sending occasional orange and yellow leaves fluttering to the ground.

A leaf landed on the girl's sketchbook, and she impatiently brushed it away. Intermittently, her hand paused, and she appeared lost in thought, her pencil tip tapping a staccato rhythm on the paper and her knee restlessly shaking.

A feeling of unease grew in Anders as he watched her. What was the cause of her agitation? Was she yet distressed by her husband's death? She seemed so young to have already been married and widowed ... and Dr. Schuller's nurse had alluded to some "bizarre circumstances" surrounding the death. What might they have been? His brows drew together. Was his curiosity an indelicate intrusion? He reassured himself he only wished to aid her in her troubles.

A child's wail interrupted his thoughts. By the fountain, a young boy, perhaps three years old, was attempting to climb onto the stone wall that enclosed the fountain's pool, while a woman with a baby in a sling on her chest restrained him.

"The string broke, mama!" he cried, struggling against her grip. Anders perceived that the child's toy sailboat had capsized out of reach in the pool, near the tiered bronze fountain.

"The water's too deep. Now behave yourself, Charlie!" she scolded, taking his small hand. To the boy's credit, his audible wails ceased. But his free hand held fast to the stone wall as he stared forlornly at his little boat. From their garments and the absence of a pram for the baby, it was apparent they were of modest means.

The mother attempted to pull him away but was forestalled by a passing gentleman halting and offering his assistance. With his outstretched arm and walking stick, he attempted to snag the toy, but was unsuccessful. Anders was on the brink of jumping up to assist, but stopped himself with the reminder that he should not call attention to himself in the presence of the subject of his reconnaissance.

When he glanced back at 'Mrs. Smith', he saw that she had set aside her sketchbook and was bending forward, oddly rummaging under her skirts with one hand --- lace-trimmed petticoats showing in startling white flashes under her dark gown. Then he saw her empty black shoes on the ground before her and realized in astonishment she was removing her stockings!

A moment later, she was hastening to the fountain --- her purse swinging from her wrist, her black silk stockings crumpled on the stone bench behind her, and her bare, white feet pattering over the bricks. "I'll get it for you," she called.

The trio by the fountain turned in surprise. With a complete absence of fuss, she sat upon the stone wall, gathered her skirts to her knees, and rotated, swinging her legs over and into the pool. Anders had a brief glimpse of her shapely calves and ankles before her back was towards him. When she stood up, the water just covered her knees.

She waded some twenty feet across the pool and --- holding her bunched skirts with one hand --- retrieved the boat from where it was being battered by the cascading water. Between the pool water and the pouffed bundle of gray and white fabric, he could see a couple inches of pale thighs.

He was beset with an unfamiliar mix of sensations. On the one hand, he felt the full broadside of the shocking scene, even as his rational mind disputed that such an innocent, generous act should in any way be shocking.

But he had lived long enough in his adopted country to be cognizant of the puritanical censure visited upon a woman who behaved in such a manner --- notwithstanding the fact that she had uncovered nothing more than what innumerable children and laboring men revealed as they played and worked. The gulf between the unclad legs of a lady and those of the former persons was evidently as wide as that between an elephant and a gnat. Indeed, the faces of the scattered witnesses on the terrace bore scandalized expressions.

Yet, beneath his mind's intellectual debate, Anders felt a more primal stirring at the unexpected, taboo sight of her enticing naked limbs ... and a fuddled fascination as to the question of where the devil her drawers were?! His past experiences with female undergarments told him that with the degree to which her skirts were hiked, some glimpse of lace or ruffle on said garment's legs should be visible just above the knee. Had the fashion changed to a shorter length? His eager eyes feasted upon the beauteous display as she reversed the sequence of motions to climb out of the pool and hand the toy back to the joyful child.

The mother, with evident unease as to the Samaritan's reputable character, made what appeared to be a flustered expression of gratitude, grabbed her son's hand, and decamped on a path leading away from the terrace.

The girl --- yet sitting on the fountain wall with her wet legs exposed to the level of her pressed-together knees --- searched in her reticule on her lap, seeming oblivious to the man who had initially attempted to assist the boy.

He was standing next to the fountain, grinning at her. Then he addressed her, tipping his hat when she looked up. With the sound of the flowing water, Anders could not hear what the man said, but the young lady responded by curtly snapping her purse shut and standing, her skirts dropping back over her legs. Undaunted, the man's grin widened, and he lewdly stroked the head of his walking stick up and down. She stalked away, heading for the bench where she had left her belongings.

As she approached, Anders raised his long-since lowered newspaper, becoming aware of his rapid heartbeat. Åh, vakker jente! Beautiful girl! He had a full view of her over the top of the paper and could not help staring. Between the black velvet collar and lifted veil, her face was an alluring pale canvas embellished with rare and lovely things --- a plump, pink, bow-shaped mouth, spots of indignant color upon her cheeks, lush dark eyebrows and lashes, and large luminous eyes, the color of which he could not quite discern at this distance.

She returned to the bench without looking in Anders' direction. Picking up her stockings, she hesitated and glanced back over her shoulder. The continued scrutiny of her would-be admirer evidently decided her --- she thrust the stockings into the reticule and her bare feet into the shoes.

Anders exhaled in relief --- with the perturbed state of his body, he was dubious of his cock's continued self-control had she proceeded to don her stockings a few feet away ... one pretty, arched foot then the other resting on the bench as she stretched the black silk over her creamy calves and knees ... ah, God! Was she wearing anything under her frilly petticoats?

He shifted on the bench. Herregud! Stop --- just stop!

She had now collected her books, drawn down her veil, and marched off towards the stairs up to the road. The man with the walking stick, still standing by the fountain, continued to watch her. Anders rose to his feet, torn between following her and monitoring the man lest he further attempt to force his attentions on her. When she disappeared at the top of the stairs, the man remained motionless for a moment, then glanced around and checked his pocket watch. He departed on a path at the opposite end of the terrace.

Anders started after her, only to halt when he realized she had dropped something by the bench --- a little crumpled heap of black fabric. Crouching and picking it up, he saw it was one of her stockings. After a disconcerted moment, he shoved it into his coat pocket and hastened to the stairs.

Ascending cautiously, he scanned the environs. Ah, there she was. She had crossed the roadway and was standing on the Mall with her back to him. He swiftly betook himself several paces down the road until he could observe her with a screen of tree trunks between them.

'Mrs. Smith' paced back and forth, intermittently consulting her watch and glancing in the direction of the road where occasional carriages and mounted riders passed. All signs suggested a prearranged appointment. Checking his own watch, Anders saw it was one o'clock. After several minutes, she halted and opened her folio. Bracing it against her belly, she resumed sketching, her impatient foot tapping upon the path. Not long thereafter, a hansom cab pulled to a stop along the curb, and a man descended from inside.

At the sound, the girl's hand paused. Her veiled head followed the man as he crossed the roadway and approached her.

Although he was stylishly dressed, there was something about his appearance that struck Anders as odd. He was a clean-shaven chap of about thirty with black hair under his bowler. Not being adroit in the finer points of social distinctions, he was hard put to identify what constituted the man's oddness. Perhaps it was his suit which was of a more vivid blue hue than was typically worn by dignified New York men.

The man tipped his hat and addressed her, at which she closed her book and nodded. Their subsequent brief conversation was not intelligible from where Anders loitered. The girl opened her reticule and withdrew a stack of gold coins which she handed to him.

In return, he gave her a small package wrapped in gray cloth and tied with string. Into her reticule it went, just fitting inside the little purse. The strange exchange then terminated --- with another hat tip, the man strode back to his carriage, departing in a westerly direction. 'Mrs. Smith' headed east along the drive at her previous brisk pace.

Anders followed, perplexed by what he had seen. Who was that man? What had she purchased from him? The package had been about the size of a small book, but irregular and lumpy in shape; it otherwise betrayed no clue as to its contents. Meeting in a public place with no obvious effort made at secrecy --- did that not suggest there was nothing nefarious or untoward about the transaction? But what would a wealthy young lady purchase from a man in a park that she could not buy herself or send a servant to buy in the popular Ladies' Mile shopping district?

He had no answers.

Upon reaching Fifth Avenue, the young lady turned north, presently traversing the thoroughfare at an intersection. From across the street, he watched as she passed between two lion statues flanking the entryway of a palatial brownstone mansion. It was on Millionaires' Row, he realized --- the stretch of opulent residences along the park. Directly up the stairs to the grand door she went, disappearing inside.

Remaining on the opposite side of the avenue, Anders stepped back, taking a position closer to the stone wall along the park. From here, he noted the address and surveyed the house. House was scarcely the proper word for the lavish edifice. Four stories tall, it occupied almost a quarter of the block and was festooned with all manner of towers, turrets, gables, balconies, columns, and decorative balustrades. Was this where she lived?

After twenty more minutes of surveillance without further sighting the erstwhile patient, he ceded the field and set off on foot to the psychoanalyst's residence. He reviewed the events of the excursion. To be sure, several curious things had happened, starting with the young lady dismissing her coachman.

But was that indeed unusual? What did he know of the habits of wealthy young ladies? He pondered his own freedom to travel about the city by any means of transport he wished and considered the comparative restrictions to which respectable women were subjected. Judging by the harsh gossip in Society pages, critical scrutiny was especially relentless for upper-class females. Perhaps 'Mrs. Smith' had merely wanted privacy and independence in pursuing her perfectly blameless activities.

Anders felt a pang of discomfort at having followed her.

What of the incident at the fountain? Did her so-called scandalous act necessarily indicate a deranged mind? Not conclusively, by his estimation. Could it not be possible that a guileless impulse of sympathy for the distraught child had overridden all concerns for propriety? If she had instead jumped into the fountain to save a child's life, would people even then be shaking their heads over her immodest display? Or maybe her actions had been a deliberate flouting of convention in the name of female autonomy and equality --- in the manner of the suffragists and "New Women" whose demands and viewpoints were frequently debated in the newspapers.

When he considered it, there was nothing in her activities or behavior that suggested an ominous degree of despondency. Of course, not every melancholy person staggered about tearing their hair out and weeping. Moreover, Dr. Schuller likely had more knowledge of her state of mind from previous acquaintance with her or from something she had said in her clinic session.

All in all, the most concerning incident was the mysterious transaction with the strange man. What had she purchased, and could it in any way be connected to a suicidal urge?

Upon reaching Dr. Schuller's manse, he discovered the psychoanalyst to be presently in session with a patient. When at length the man emerged and spied Anders waiting in the drawing room, he beckoned him into the library. "Ah, Mr. Røkke, you have returned. Do come share your findings."

As he took a seat at the desk across from Schuller, Anders reached into his pocket for the money remaining from what he had been given and at once encountered the balled-up stocking. He managed to maintain a composed expression and launch into an account of the outing even as his nervous fingers extracted the coins from around the soft silk material. The doctor listened intently, asking intermittent questions.

When he arrived at the incident at the fountain, Anders hesitated, then made a swift decision. "--- and while she was sketching, her attention was diverted by a crying boy whose toy boat had capsized in the fountain. She helped him retrieve it." He felt the warmth of his pulse in his temples at the omission. Unless Dr. Schuller specifically asked him to elaborate, he was not going to betray her privacy over intimate details which seemed irrelevant to the question of her sanity.