A New York Haunting: Pt. 09

As for Marjorie Montrose as a suspect, all evidence suggested the affair with Peter Van der Veen had ended on an acrimonious note. The lady certainly had motive --- her lover had spurned her for a Society girl, seemingly in a most callous fashion.

But again, the problem was one of opportunity --- access to Peter's champagne glass and to the autopsy specimen jar.

Anders raised his head from the disorderly array of newspapers around his bed and desk. It was a dark outside, and the clock informed him he was late for dinner. Pinkerton detective "Spencer Lawton" needed to yield the field to Anders Røkke so he could feed himself and prepare for surgery tomorrow.

Chapter 35. A ROSY FUTURE

The next day at the hospital passed in a blur. Every unclaimed minute of Anders' day was consumed in rehashing what he knew so far about Peter's murder. Again and again, his thoughts turned to Hugo, Bram, the Cornelissens, and --- most frequently --- Marjorie Montrose. Should he attempt to question the actress? Buy a ticket to whatever show she was currently playing in, and --- following Fulton's oft-witnessed example --- seek her out backstage?

If he truly intended to pursue such an endeavor, he would need a better plan than when he had encountered Hugo Van der Veen the day before yesterday (he was now certain it had indeed been he). Remembering the detective stories he used to love years ago --- Edgar Allan Poe's Dupin stories, Sherlock Holmes, and various dime novels --- Anders supposed the key was a skillful interview technique which led the suspect to unwittingly betray themselves.

Miss Montrose likely harbored significant resentment against Van der Veen --- perhaps if he encouraged her to talk --- to "free associate" as Dr. Schuller would call it --- she would reveal something important.

But why would she talk to him, a complete stranger? The tactic worked for Fulton because he was rich (and it wasn't talking he was interested in). But he was not Fulton. Should he employ the Pinkerton detective ruse again? Or claim to be a reporter?

The other nagging thought throughout the day was Izzy's unanswered message from last week --- he needed to respond to it sooner than later. Again, in a protective impulse towards Ondine, he hesitated to disclose the positive arsenic result of the Marsh test. He would tell his friend soon --- not just yet.

When he returned home in the evening, he glumly noted the absence of any envelopes on the hall table. Hearing the landlady in the kitchen, he proceeded thence. "Good evening, Mrs. Sullivan."

She looked up from dicing potatoes. "Evening to yerself, Dr. Røkke."

"Did any messages arrive for me?"

"No. Are ye expecting one?"

He shrugged. "Maybe." Glimpsing the bundles of newspapers in the adjacent pantry, an idea occurred to him. "Do you know what show the actress Marjorie Montrose is in currently?"

"If you're wanting to see her, you're out of luck. She's on tour in London."

He frowned.

"Och, there's a long face!" A sly twinkle appeared in her eye. "Fancy the lady, do ye?" Mrs. Sullivan shook her head as she added the potatoes to a steaming pot. "If ye ask me, she's a bit too much of an adventuress for a good lad such as yerself. But you wouldn't be the first doctor to fall for her charms."

Anders blinked. "Not the first doctor --- what do you mean?"

Her eyebrows rose. "You didn't hear about it?"

He shook his head.

"Well, last year she was --- the convenient, if ye please --- of a rich factory owner. Peter Van der Veen, his name was." The landlady spoke in an animated tone even as she chopped carrots. "Then he threw her aside and married a girl from old money --- a Cornelissen, no less. Maybe ye heard about him dying at his own wedding? It was in all the newspapers."

He nodded.

"After that Marjorie Montrose took up with a doctor at Bellevue, so she did. What was his name again? Something that also ended in "rose" --- the papers were funning with it. Dr. Penrose? No, Pemrose." She chuckled. "That was it: Montrose and Pemrose. Maybe ye know him?"

Anders stood frozen, staring at her. At last, he regained his voice. "How soon after Van der Veen's death did she take up with this doctor?"

"Sure, it was right quick. She's a fast worker, so she is." Mrs. Sullivan slid the carrots into the pot. "But who can blame her? Peter Van der Veen treated her shabby --- not like a true gentleman."

"Is she still, erm, friends with Dr. Pemrose?"

"I don't think so. Their affair was in the papers for a few months, but I haven't read anything about it recently."

His mind reeled with this new information. As the landlady bustled around him, retrieving items from the icebox, he roused himself and said in an offhanded tone, "Well, I suppose I shall have to find a different show to see."

Barely containing the urge to run upstairs, he retreated to his room where he at once pulled the notebook from his knapsack and wrote the name John Pemrose next to Marjorie Montrose.

He knew Dr. Pemrose! Dr. John Pemrose had been a senior surgery resident at Bellevue last year, and Anders had briefly worked with him while on his Venereal and Genito-Urinary Diseases clerkship. Compared to other residents, Anders recalled Pemrose as an impatient fellow of few words who was disinclined to instruct medical students.

It was indeed most remarkable that Marjorie Montrose's next lover after Peter had been a Bellevue doctor! Suddenly the problem of access to the autopsy suite storeroom was not so insurmountable! Of course, she would still have needed an accomplice at the wedding reception --- but in view of the lady's attractions, perhaps that was not so insurmountable either.

Anders delved in the stack of last year's newspapers for issues after the wedding. He found only four, and they were not complete. The edition from late October had the following small paragraph:

DOCTOR CURES BROKEN HEART

Marjorie Montrose --- famed soprano and present star of the comedy "Becky Sharp", whose recent unhappy love affair has been the subject of much talk --- has been sighted at the Eden Musée with a new fellow. Who is it, fair readers? No, not a waxwork, but the young physician, Dr. John Pemrose, surgeon in residence at Bellevue Hospital. The dashing doctor appears to have effected a miraculous cure upon the lady, for the attractive pair --- reported to be "dear friends" by a close confidante of Miss Montrose --- were also recently spotted strolling in an intimate tête-à-tête around Grant's Tomb. Montrose and Pemrose --- a rosy future ahead?

Or not, Anders thought. With a careful eye, he examined every page of the other three issues, but found no additional mention of Marjorie Montrose nor John Pemrose.

He stared at the two articles side-by-side on his desk: TWO'S COMPANY, THREE'S A CROWD? and DOCTOR CURES BROKEN HEART. Had he just identified the murderer and her accomplice? Were they still together? What had become of Dr. Pemrose after completing his residency? Anders had not heard his name in months --- he would have known if Pemrose had stayed on at Bellevue or had obtained a staff position at Roosevelt or Presbyterian hospitals.

The next day after lecture while walking with Dr. Mullenix, he broached the subject with him. "Sir, do you remember John Pemrose at Bellevue?"

"Of course. Proficient, if not inspired."

"What became of him?"

"I believe he joined a practice in Chicago."

"So far away?"

Mullenix nodded. "He may have had family there --- I don't recall. Why do you ask?"

Anders hesitated. "I was over at Bellevue last week and was wondering where all the senior surgery residents had ended up."

"It's a good surgical residency, if that's what you're asking." The surgeon motioned towards the stairs. "I read your final draft of the article --- excellent work. Now, all we are waiting for are the illustrations. Any word from our lovely collaborator?" Mullenix winked at him.

"I - I sent her a message and am waiting for a reply."

"Use the telephone in my office. You can reach her faster that way."

Anders was silent for a moment, then mumbled, "Well, sir, it's... erm... rather awkward. Her aunt and uncle don't know about our... erm... friendship."

Dr. Mullenix halted, his countenance suddenly serious. He shook his head slowly. "Anders... Anders. Watch your step. You're walking on thin ice."

The heat rose in Anders' cheeks. He looked away.

"Ah, the stubbornness of youth. God save you from its folly." The teasing note had returned to Mullenix's voice. "Very well --- we shall await the lady's pleasure. But we can't wait too long --- we need to submit this article for publication. If we don't get the illustrations soon, you'll have to draw them yourself. Even if you're no Leonardo da Vinci, they'll have to do."

*****

So Marjorie Montrose was in London, and John Pemrose was in Chicago. His best suspects were far beyond his reach and resources. But on the other hand, he now had a material lead to provide the police. Perhaps it was time to turn the matter over to them. Anders accordingly sent a message to Izzy at Bellevue:

I have news. I'll come find you there.

It being too late after rounds to head to the other hospital that night, he walked home --- his mind preoccupied with the affair between Marjorie Montrose and John Pemrose. Had the lady deliberately used her wiles to secure the doctor's assistance with the crime? Or had they been long time co-conspirators? Or had it been a coincidence --- with Pemrose himself improvising the theft of the specimen jar? And why had they parted ways?

As he presently strode down his street, Anders smiled to himself at the sight of the lamppost where the urchin 'Simon Sellers' had waited for him the night they had gone to Five Points --- she had been leaning there nonchalantly, hands in her pockets, soot on her pretty nose.

It was then that he saw it. There had been no other accomplice!

Marjorie Montrose was an actress. She had ready access to costumes and wigs and makeup! How hard would it have been for her return to the Waldorf-Astoria dressed in a man's black suit, white shirt, and wig? Not hard at all! She could have simply picked up a tray and followed another waiter into the room. With forty waiters busy serving 600 guests in a candlelit ballroom, it was unlikely that anyone would have spotted her for an imposter.

Yes! There must have been at least two hours between her initial dramatic appearance earlier in the evening and the point at which Ondine had witnessed the poisoning. Plenty of time for Miss Montrose to make the transformation and return to the hotel.

And Ondine had described the hand as "average" in size --- certainly compatible with a woman's hand.

Anders was giddy with excitement as he sprinted up the steps to the front door of the boardinghouse. He couldn't wait to tell Ondine what he had discovered!

As if in communion with his thoughts, Mrs. Sullivan's son Jimmy appeared in the kitchen door waving an envelope, "A message came for you, Dr. Røkke!"

Thanking the boy, he took it and raced upstairs to his room. Ondine had at last replied!

He dropped his knapsack on the floor and tore open the envelope; the enclosed paper read:

Hey Norski ---

No school Friday, right? Want to go sailing? I'll pick you up at eleven.

--- F

P.S. Your landlady needs to get a damn telephone!

What the devil was Fulton on about?! Friday? Then he remembered: it was the day after Thanksgiving --- he did indeed have no school or hospital duties. But of all the times to receive this invitation! Under normal circumstances, it would have been an excellent outing --- but with everything plaguing his mind at the moment, he had no time for diversion. Wryly, he tossed the message into the waste bin. He would send Fulton a message before Friday so he didn't waste his time coming to the Hell's Kitchen neighborhood.

And maybe he should send Ondine another message as well. It had been four days now since his last one.

He took his dinner plate to his room and forced himself to finish his studying before returning to the pile of gossip sheets. Starting at the beginning of 1899, he methodically turned through the newspaper pages.

The first finds were a couple unremarkable reports of social events attended by Mr. and Mrs. Cornelissen. Then, in the financial section, he noticed a mention of the Van der Veen Munitions Co. winning a contract to supply revolvers to the New York City police force.

In an April issue, he discovered an intriguing account of an altercation at the Harlem River Speedway between Peter Van der Veen and Samuel Joseph Bloomingdale of the Bloomingdale department store family. The dispute apparently concerned a buggy race between the men, and Peter's belligerent behavior prompted police intervention. Mr. Van der Veen was charged with drunk and disorderly conduct, but the charges were subsequently dropped. His attractive companion in the buggy was none other than Broadway star Miss Marjorie Montrose.

He blinked. Was this Bloomingdale fellow yet another suspect? How significant had the quarrel between the men been? And had Bloomingdale attended the wedding? Pulling out the article listing the wedding guests, he did not spy the name, however it was clearly only a partial accounting of all the guests. He added the name Samuel Joseph Bloomingdale to his suspect list with a note to ask Ondine if he had attended the reception.

Anders folded down the corner of the page to mark the article. Glancing at the clock, he realized he needed to try to sleep, even if he didn't presently feel tired. Tomorrow he would again attempt to contact Ondine and to return to Bellevue Hospital to inform Izzy of the arsenic.

Chapter 36. EENY MEENY MINY MO...

The following day was the day before Thanksgiving, and the Columbia medical students were pleasantly surprised with a generous decree from on high mandating truncated duties. For Anders and the other students on the surgery clerkship, work was completed after morning rounds, lecture, and a session of Operative Surgery on the Cadaver.

Setting off on foot from the medical school, he headed for Central Park. In the crisp, sunny weather, the place was lively with lunchtime park goers --- his eyes were on high alert as he scanned the surroundings for a briskly striding, dark-haired girl or bloomer-clad cyclist.

Frustrated in that quest, he exited the park a block north of the Cornelissen mansion and made his way back south on Madison Avenue, approaching the house from the rear along the side street --- as he had done for his last visit. Behind the tall, wrought-iron drive gate, the garden, stable, and carriage house were devoid of visible activity. Debating his next course of action, Anders stood for some time gazing abstractly over the property.

Presently, a motion at the rear of the manse caught his eye. A cellar door --- no doubt leading to the servants' area --- opened and a uniformed man ascended the short stairwell to the garden, heading towards the carriage house. It was Braddock!

"Mr. Braddock!" he called, waving when the man turned.

Braddock smiled, veering course to approach the gate. "Good day, sir," he said around a toothpick between his lips. "I've still got your message for Mrs. Van der Veen. The family has been in Boston the past week, but I'll give it to her as soon as she returns."

"Boston," Anders repeated, then remembered: her appointment with the new psychoanalyst to whom Dr. Schuller had referred her. His relief to know she was safe was intermingled with a renewed agitation at the knowledge that his wait to speak to her would be further prolonged.

"Yes, they went to visit Mrs. Cornelissen's cousin for the holiday."

"When are they expected back?"

Braddock chewed on the toothpick. "After Thanksgiving, but I'm not certain what day. No fear --- I'll give her your message as soon as I can."

Anders thanked him and turned away. After a moment's thought, he headed east, eventually finding a station for the Second Avenue El train. Some twenty minutes later, he was on the train heading south towards Bellevue Hospital.

Now he was eager to share his findings with Izzy --- the positive arsenic test on Peter's stomach contents, the motive and opportunity for suspect Marjorie Montrose, and her suspiciously convenient connection with Dr. Pemrose. He made a note to ask Izzy what he remembered about Pemrose --- after all, their residencies had overlapped. Even if in different departments, they had been at the same hospital.

Orville McGrady was typing like a madman when Anders entered the morgue antechamber. "Back again, Mr. Røkke?" he said, glancing up. "You just missed them. They did three autopsies and left early on account of the holiday. I'm leaving myself as soon as I finish this."

"Oh. Okay, thanks." He was about to leave when he paused and looked back. "Orville, do you keep a record of visitors to the morgue? For example, doctors from departments other than pathology?"

The orderly shook his head. "Only for police officers or families identifying bodies."

Anders nodded. Wishing Orville a happy Thanksgiving, he departed. Before leaving the hospital, he checked upstairs in the pathology department offices --- no Izzy. Well, he wasn't going to disturb his friend at home on a holiday. It would keep until Friday.

Standing on the sidewalk outside Bellevue Hospital --- all lines of investigation stymied --- Anders found himself at loose ends. After several silent agitated minutes, impulse seized him, directing him back to the train station. He took the train all the way to the northern end of the island.

The Nassau Club boathouse was unoccupied when he stepped inside, but he noted the double scull to be gone from its rack. A pair of fellow members must be out on the river. Changing into his rowing kit, he hoisted a single scull onto his shoulder and maneuvered the long, narrow boat out of the club house and down the ramp to the dock.

It was a glorious day on the Harlem River --- sunny and cold with only a light breeze rippling the water surface. Propelled by the frustration of thwarted urges, he rowed vigorously --- leg, arm, and shoulder muscles powerfully bunching and relaxing while the brisk air ruffled his hair and cooled the back of his neck.

The rhythmic sounds of the seat sliding back and forth on its tracks, the creak of the oar locks, and the rush of water past the hull all fortified his racing thoughts. In the blind focus of his exertions, he almost crashed into a small steam boat bearing down on him --- a calamity fortunately averted by a shouted warning from the vessel.

Passing the Harlem River Speedway, he wondered if he had been rowing on the river the very day when buggy-racer Peter Van der Veen --- in the company of his mistress Marjorie Montrose --- had been charged with drunk and disorderly conduct there.

When he reached the Washington Street bridge, he slowed and eventually halted the oar strokes altogether. The boat drifted, water lapping along the hull. Anders let go the oars and leaned back with his arms braced on the gunwale. He looked up at the bridge.

It had been here in his dream that Ondine had climbed down the giant Heinz 57 pickle... here that she had hung above his head, legs flailing agape... here that her cunny had pressed against his face and slid down his torso to be impaled on his cockstand.

Alas, only in his dream.

He was possessed by the sudden urge to pull out his cock and jerk himself to the oblivion of bliss. Grimacing wryly, he took hold of the oars once more. Although he was in the middle of the river, he was not invisible. For the moment, he had to content himself with the gratification of physical exhaustion --- that, and hopefully the satisfaction of helping bring justice to Peter's murderer and freeing Ondine from the ghost.