A New York Haunting: Pt. 04

(Note to admin: story contains bold and italics ------ please remove this line)

Author's note:

Due to the mystery/suspense plot, the individual parts of this novel are unlikely to make sense as stand-alone reads. Please see note at the beginning of Part 1 for more information.

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Chapter 15. THE GREEN FAIRY

Over the next several days, Anders, with a mix of confusion and hope, reviewed the encounter with Ondine in the park. Tongue-tied as he had been, his accounting to her of the surveillance seemed paltry --- and had not explained his troubled decision to selectively report some, but not all her activities to Dr. Schuller. But of course, it was not her responsibility to unburden his conscience.

If she was resentful towards him, her actions did not indicate so. Indeed, the spirited chase on the bicycles had seemed playful. Or had it been a test?

But it was all a moot point. It was useless to entertain any hopes of her gaining her affections. No matter how intense his attraction to her was, she was a patient --- nothing could ever develop between them. A thought occurred to him --- could she be meaning to exact some sort of revenge for his spying? What if she reported his behavior to the dean of the medical school?

His private lewd thoughts were one thing, but had he done anything truly inappropriate? He sighed, unable to deny the possibility that his actions might be construed as an attempt to cultivate an unethical, amorous connection with a patient.

On Wednesday and Friday, Anders again vacated Dr. Schuller's library when Ondine reported for her appointments. Schuller did not repeat his request for him to follow her, much to his relief --- but he could not escape a twinge of regret at not glimpsing her at all, knowing she was so near. After her Wednesday appointment, he ventured to inquire whether Dr. Schuller had sent a telegram to Dr. Freud about the case.

"Yes, I wired him on Monday," the doctor said. "I have not yet had a reply."

The week in clinic unfolded with a variety of fascinating patient cases and corresponding discussions with the psychoanalyst, however Anders' thoughts inevitably strayed again and again to the mysterious dark-haired girl. If Dr. Schuller had eventually received a reply from Dr. Freud, he did not share it with his student.

Friday afternoon at last arrived, and he left Dr. Schuller's mansion with a budding sense of anticipation. Today was his twenty-fourth birthday, and Fulton Fordyce had planned --- in his parlance --- a 'scorcher of a night' on the town.

Anders had continued to regularly see his old friend since their Rochester days. After graduating from Yale, Fulton had moved to Manhattan where he led a life of ease and recreation. But his charmed existence had not been entirely without troubles. Four years ago, the Fordyces had opened a second factory in the Bronx --- manufacturing leather bags --- and Fulton's older brother Grover had headed it. Then, a year and a half ago, Grover had shockingly perished from an attack of cholera. Mr. Fordyce had subsequently entrusted Fulton with the management of the Bronx factory.

If his friend had exulted over the untimely demise of his long-hated brother, it had not been discernable. The circumstances had been further clouded by Fulton's unsuccessful courtship, shortly after the tragedy, of a young lady from a prestigious New York family --- unsuccessful, as the lady had married another wealthy suitor. In the wake of these unlucky events, Fulton had bitterly redoubled his commitment to a life of dissipation, delegating the lion's share of his responsibilities at the factory to the plant manager.

Upon his return to the boardinghouse, Anders bathed and donned his tuxedo suit. He had not the spare coins for such luxuries as kid leather evening gloves or a walking stick. With a last tweak of his bowtie in the mirror, he grabbed his top hat and departed.

Arriving at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel where the Fordyces rented a grand, pre-furnished apartment, he entered the Astoria lobby and crossed to the elevator, passing a profusion of marble columns, statues, fine carpets, chandeliers, and high, ornate, molding-bedecked ceilings. Disembarking on the fourteenth floor, he made his way to the corner suite. A muffled voice responded to his knock, beckoning him inside.

Even after three years of stopping by, he was still amazed at the luxurious apartment in which Fulton resided. The brocade wall hangings and upholstery, plush rugs, paintings, piano, and bronze statuettes were all well and good, but Anders was most envious of the private bathroom with its large tub, hot and cold running water, and toilet. Among all these elegant trappings, he was always touched to see on the mantel the blue, copper sulfate crystal he had given his friend years ago for his birthday.

He found Fulton in the bedroom being shaved by his valet Simmons. The man paused with the razor as Fulton spoke. "Happy birthday, Norski!"

Simmons echoed the wishes.

"Thanks." Anders set his top hat on the bedpost. "Are you just now shaving?" he teased.

"I only woke up an hour ago ... such is the life." Fulton winked. "When are you going to finish your blasted studying and start earning money?"

He shrugged. "I have one more year of medical school."

"Hey, take a look at the dippy book I found hidden in my father's library." Fulton pointed towards the writing desk.

Anders picked up a pocket-sized, black-covered book embossed with the gold-lettered title: The Gentleman's Directory. Thumbing through the fifty-page booklet, he realized what it was --- a guide to the brothels of New York City. "Wow!" he murmured. "When was this published?" He searched the front pages for a date.

"1870. Thirty years ago --- the same year my parents were married. Makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

Pausing on a page, Anders read aloud:

"127 W 26th St. is a ladies' boarding house of the second class, kept by Madame Buemont. There is a report of a bear being kept in the cellar, but for what reason may be inferred. There is not anything else attractive about the place."

The valet Simmons raised his eyebrows and shook his head. "I don't even want to know."

Anders read from another page:

"105 W 25th St. is kept by Mrs. Kate Woods, better known among the aristocracy as Hotel De Wood. This is a 2-story brownstone house, furnished with the most costly and newest improvements. Her gallery of oil paintings alone cost $10,000. Rosewood furniture, mimes mirrors, Parisian figures, etc ... The house is furnished at a cost of $70,000. She keeps three young ladies of rare personal attractions and her house receives the patronage of distinguished gentlemen from foreign countries. This is the best house in 25th St."

Anders looked up from the page. "Hmm. That was high praise, wasn't it?"

"Indeed, sir. Hotel De Wood sounded like the place to go," Simmons said without cracking a smile.

"Sounds jam-up," Fulton laughed. "Should I ask my father if he went?"

"I wonder if new editions of this book are issued regularly as with my Gray's Anatomy ."

"Don't worry about that --- with me, you don't need a guidebook," Fulton said. Shaving complete, he dried his face, dismissed Simmons, and began to dress.

Anders crossed to the window and gazed at the remarkable elevated prospect of Manhattan at dusk --- the myriad of electrical lights bursting into life, highlighting the maze of streets. To the south, atop the tower of Madison Square Garden, he could see the luminous, gilded statue of Diana the Huntress --- extolled as the first statue in the world illuminated by electric lighting and for having been the second tallest point in the New York skyline upon its completion nine years ago. The Cornelissen mansion was north of here --- not visible from the window. He wondered what Ondine was doing at this moment.

Soon Fulton was ready and they set out, walking north on Fifth Avenue to the first stop of the night: the Metropolitan Club, a men's social club to which Fulton and his father belonged. Mr. Fordyce was presently in the city and had arranged to meet his son here.

As they passed through the towering wrought-iron gates guarding the club's entrance, Anders noticed a bronze plaque on the side of the building that read: McKim, Mead and White 1893. The name recalled the conversation last week with Dr. Mullenix. "Was this building designed by Stanford White?" he asked.

Fulton nodded smugly. "J. P. Morgan and William Kissam Vanderbilt founded it after the old money crowd blackballed their friends from the Union Club. They commissioned Stanford White to build a slamming clubhouse that would make the bastards eat crow."

The capacious, white marble, two-story tall entryway certainly left no doubts as to the architect's success in that regard. There was the usual array of luxurious appointments including a grand double staircase, a polar bear rug, and potted palms the size of small trees. The white fur and black nose of the bear head reminded Anders of the dog Ondine had petted in the park while he had fixed her bicycle chain.

He followed Fulton into a large, equally lavish lounge, paradoxically rendered cozy by a lit fireplace, glowing lamps, and numerous velvet upholstered chairs. The hushed air was tinged with the pleasant aroma of cigar smoke and pipe tobacco. Scattered men in elegant evening attire smoked and sipped amber-colored liquor from crystal glasses as they read newspapers or conversed. Anders spotted Mr. Fordyce standing by the fireplace engrossed in conversation with another gentleman.

"The man himself," Fulton murmured as they approached.

"Hmmm?"

But there was no time for clarification --- they were now exchanging greetings and shaking hands with Fulton's father, who wished Anders a happy birthday. Mr. Fordyce introduced them to the gentleman at his side, who proved to be none other than William Kissam Vanderbilt himself. Anders maintained a dignified expression even as he shook hands in awe with one of the wealthiest men in America. A brief sensation of chagrin at his inexpensive suit subsided as Mr. Vanderbilt addressed him with cordiality.

"Røkke here is in medical school. He's going to be one of the finest surgeons in in the country," Fulton avowed.

"Indeed?" Vanderbilt said with a smile. "In the future, if I am ever in need of a surgeon, I shall remember your name."

After a few more pleasantries, Mr. Vanderbilt excused himself. A moment later, Mr. Fordyce begged Anders' pardon --- he needed to have a private pow-wow with his son. The pair withdrew to a window alcove while Anders picked up a newspaper. His unseeing eyes passed over the headlines as he again thought about the encounter with Ondine in the park.

Some ten minutes later, Fulton interrupted his reverie. "Let's go." He did not look happy. In the hansom cab, Anders inquired if all was well, to which Fulton muttered, "There was an incident at the factory --- just a damned misunderstanding."

"Ah." After a moment's silence, Anders mused, "I guess it wasn't the best time to ask him about the Hotel De Wood."

His friend stubbornly maintained his sullen expression for as long as he could, then he dissolved in laughter. "Damn it, Norski --- I should have!"

As the carriage headed south, the tower of Madison Square Garden --- another of Stanford White's creations --- loomed larger and larger. The golden statue of Diana the Huntress Anders had seen from Fulton's apartment glowed in the night sky. Balanced atop the tower on the toes of one foot, the nude goddess held a drawn bow, aiming her arrow into the ether.

Her nudity naturally had caused a scandal, outraging Anthony Comstock --- the commissioner of the New York Society for the Suppression of Vice. He had railed against her, prompting a conciliatory cloth to be draped over her figure. But Nature had her way in the end, carrying the garment off in the wind and leaving Diana naked and triumphant.

Fulton had fully recovered his spirits upon arriving at the next destination, the Hoffman House Hotel. Opening the door to the Grand Saloon, he said with excitement, "Looks like we're getting in this time!" For some time now, Fulton had been eager to show Anders a famous Bouguereau painting in the hotel bar room --- so famous that people visiting New York City made a special trip to the Hoffman House to see it, or so Fulton had claimed.

To Anders' question as to what made the painting remarkable, Fulton had insisted he had to see it in person. The first evening they had stopped in, the saloon was closed for a private party. The second time, it was so crowded they couldn't get in, and Fulton had been too impatient to wait.

Now, they were early enough that the bar room was not overly crowded. Immediately upon entering, they encountered a tobacconist's counter. While Fulton selected cigars, Anders surveyed the saloon. The much-publicized painting must be the large canvas on the wall under a red velvet canopy. From the present angle, nothing more could he discern about it. Otherwise, the place appeared to be a typical, elegant drinking establishment with a massive, carved mahogany bar, gilded columns, and chandeliers.

But with a few more minutes of perusal, he realized the hotel's owner evidently had more than a passing acquaintance with a taxidermist. Above the tobacconist's counter was the mounted head of a brown bear, flanked by those of two gray wolves. A stuffed green parrot was perched on a leafy wreath hanging from the ceiling. At the two opposite ends of the bar were a pair of matching lamps consisting of a standing bear cub with its front paws grasping the lamp post. Idly, Anders wondered if the three unfortunate bears in the room were from one family.

At last, they advanced into the saloon, Anders' attention fixing upon the acclaimed painting on the wall opposite the bar. In a moment, they were standing directly before it, and his eyes widened in astonishment.

Fulton waved his arm with a flourish. "The famous Nymphs and Satyr, Norski."

The painting was truly remarkable. Almost twelve feet tall, it depicted a woodland scene in which four naked nymphs frolicked next to a stream, playfully forcing a reluctant, bearded satyr into the water --- his resisting hooves braced on the bank. The nymph closest in the foreground was facing away, presenting the glorious sight of her unclad back, waist, ass, and legs to the viewer. Her shapely buttocks in particular had been lovingly rendered in a pink and golden glow by the painter's skillful brush.

"Wow! How has this managed to escape Comstock's morality crusade?"

Fulton shrugged. "No clue. Enjoy it while you can. Here, let's order something to drink --- we can still see it in the mirror."

At the bar, the painting was indeed visible in a large mirror. A barkeeper appeared before them, prompting Anders to survey the bottles on the shelves.

"I know what this night needs," Fulton proclaimed. "Let's smother a parrot! Two, sir."

The bartender nodded and turned towards the shelves.

Anders raised an eyebrow and pointed his chin towards the stuffed parrot above the bar. "I think we're too late."

"Ha! You dumbhead. It's absinthe, neat." Fulton cut the ends of the cigars, passed one to Anders, and lit a match.

Anders puffed slowly. The only time he smoked cigars was with Fulton. Notwithstanding his ambivalence about the taste in his mouth, he enjoyed the aroma and the camaraderie of smoking.

"They're Romeo y Julieta." To Anders' questioning look, Fulton added, "Cuban."

Crystal goblets of green liquor were placed before them. Fulton raised his glass. "To your birthday! And naked women!"

With a grin, Anders joined him in the toast. He had heard tales of the mysterious properties of the French wormwood spirit --- the rumors of it producing hallucinations in those who consumed it. Among his medical school classmates, most dismissed the notion of any magical ingredients and hypothesized that any unusual effects were simply attributable to its powerful proportion of alcohol.

Now tasting it, he discovered it to have a licorice flavor, which evoked a distant memory of Simone's kisses. Five years ago, that had been. Looking at his friend in the mirror, he wondered if Fulton had ever found out they had shared the French girl's favors.

Fulton was gazing at the reflection of the painting. "If you had to pick just one, which one would you fuck?"

Anders surveyed the painting again. "Well, the satyr looks to be a hot number ... but the hooves might hurt."

Fulton punched him in the arm.

Studying the four nymphs, Anders noted they all had lovely, modestly-sized but round breasts ... reminiscent of the sweet hillocks filling out Ondine's jacket. Strategic leaves and wisps of fabric obscured the view of their genitals. One of them had dark hair with braids atop her head, which also drew his wistful eye. The nymph whose face was most visible had a playful expression which echoed Ondine's merriment when she had been sitting in the leaves.

"I'd pick Sweet Cheeks," Fulton said. "I'd like to bend her over and plug her dog-fashion."

Anders nodded.

Fulton ordered a second round of absinthe, and they took their glasses and cigars to a small table from which they could still admire the painting. "Once a week, women are allowed in the bar to look at it," his friend commented. He twisted off the ash on the tip of his cigar in the ashtray. "Why the devil is that box-headed satyr resisting? Anything that four naked nymphs want me to do, I'm doing."

The dark-haired nymph captured Anders' gaze again. A thought occurred to him, and he glanced at Fulton. Clearing his throat, he asked, "Do you know the Cornelissen family?"

"Who doesn't know them?"

"I never heard of them until recently."

"Well, anyone moving in certain circles knows about them," Fulton allowed. "Why do you ask?"

"Some of my classmates were joshing me for not knowing about them." Anders sipped his drink. "So, you have some knowledge about them?"

"You might say that. Their company handles all the overseas shipments of Fordyce Footwear. My father was at Yale with the two Cornelissen brothers, Warren and Anton. And, one of the daughters was at Edith's finishing school."

Anders quickly calculated. Fulton's sister Edith was five years older than them. The daughter he referred to perhaps was one of Ondine's cousins. "Shipping is the source of the family's fortune?"

Fulton puffed on his cigar. "Yes. A great-great-grandfather founded the company. In the current generation, the older brother Warren runs it. He's grooming his sons-in-law to take over."

"Sons-in-law?" Anders was confused. "Are there no sons? I heard something about a Cornelissen who was an alumnus of the medical school."

"Ah, yes. The noble branch of the family." Fulton grimaced. "Both the younger brother Anton and his son Bram disavowed any interest in the family business and became doctors. Come to think of it, I do believe Grover overlapped with Bram at Yale."

Anders began to visualize a family tree. Anton must be Ondine's father, and Bram her brother. Warren would thus be her uncle. Finally, Fulton's unchecked chatter was proving useful. He prodded for more. "I understand the Cornelissens donated a large amount of money to Columbia medical school."

Fulton nodded. "That would have been Anton and his wife --- I don't remember her name. They both died in a horrible train wreck in Italy."

Anders' eyebrows lifted. "When was this?"

"About five years ago, I think. Bram was already an adult, an army surgeon. But his little sister became a ward of Warren and Adele."