A New York Haunting: Pt. 09

Upon his return to the boardinghouse, Anders remedied the lecherous urges left unsatisfied by his row --- after which, in a state of glazed exhaustion, he lingered at the dinner table absorbing the soporific chatter of his fellow lodgers.

Back in his room, his eyes shifted between his textbooks and the stack of newspapers. After a moment's hesitation, he scooped up the latter along with his notebook and reclined on the bed, propped against the pillow. Picking up where he had left off, he proceeded in chronological order with the incomplete collection, scouring each page for clues.

Ondine's coming-out reception had been in May 1899. No announcement or story about it did he find, but he only had two May issues. Numerous other receptions, charity luncheons, teas, and dances were reported in the Saunterings section of the paper. These mostly were uninteresting lists of distinguished guests and descriptions of ladies' gowns. Among these lists, he saw several instances of Ondine's name, as well as that of her aunt and her friend, Lillian Barclay. No noteworthy happenings were reported.

The relocation of wealthy families to Newport in June was evidenced by the shift in location of the various social events --- the stories were otherwise a similar litany of superficial details.

As he turned the pages of a late June issue, his eyes fell upon a cartoon leading the Saunterings section. Anders stared at it in confused recognition.

In his few days so far of perusing of the gossip rag, he had encountered multiple cartoons --- caricatures of various people of renown from politicians to actresses to Fifth Avenue millionaires. It was the subject of this one that acutely fixed his attention. At the top was the title:

THE DEBUTANTE'S DILEMMA

The subject of the cartoon was instantly recognizable as Ondine --- big eyes and lush, dark hair piled high. The talented artist had captured the strange, innocent sensuality of the girl's beauty. Her forefinger lay alongside her chin and her head was cocked slightly --- eyes cast skywards in an attitude of pensive calculation. The caption at the bottom was: "Eeny meeny miny mo..."

Caricatures of three young men surrounded her, their heads overly large for their bodies. Each was posed on one knee, hands outstretched with an offering. The first man had hooded eyes and a mustache. In his hands was a segment of railroad track. The second man, drawn with a broad rectangular face and wide mouth, presented her an oil derrick. They were clearly the scions of the Vanderbilt and Rockefeller families.

The third man had curly black hair and a sulky mouth. He held an elegant shoe.

It was Fulton Fordyce.

Anders sat bolt upright. Herregud!

Springing to his feet, he spread the newspaper on the desk close to the lamp. No, he had not been mistaken. What the devil?! There was no article accompanying it, but he didn't need the confirmation of a name --- the artist had captured his old friend's essence to perfection. He reeled in confusion, ransacking his memory.

That Fulton had courted a Society girl last year, Anders knew --- but he struggled to recall anything he had told him about her. A memory came back of Fulton's prolonged sullen reticence after being rejected in favor of a rival --- but that was the extent of his recollection. Nonetheless, he was certain Fulton had discussed her with him on several occasions, but his habit of only half-listening to his friend's incessant jabbering had no doubt been exacerbated by chronic exhaustion from the medical school curriculum. If Ondine had ever been mentioned by name, he did not remember it.

This deficiency in attention was no one's fault but his own --- but what was the explanation for Fulton failing to mention his courtship when they had discussed Ondine the night of Anders' birthday last month?

They had been at the Hoffman House drinking absinthe and smoking cigars. Fulton had spent no small amount of time telling him about the Cornelissen family and Ondine's wedding --- which the Fordyces had attended. Could the omission be ascribed to Fulton's wounded vanity over his rejection --- a feigned nonchalance about the matter?

Or was there a more nefarious explanation?

He scrambled in the stack of newspapers for the next issue --- mid July. In the descriptions of various social events in Newport, he now picked out the names of the three "sanctioned suitors" to whom Ondine had alluded, but not named: scions of the Vanderbilt and Rockefeller families, and Fulton Fordyce.

The next two issues offered no new information. But the Town Topics from mid-August featured an article that riveted Anders' gaze.

The headline QUIVER ME TIMBERS! arched over a cartoon of Ondine depicted as the Diana statue atop the tower of Madison Square Garden --- balanced on the toes of one foot and drawing her bow. Unlike the real statue, she was not naked --- the artist had added a wispy toga for modesty. The fair huntress was flanked by the photographs of Peter Van der Veen and Fulton Fordyce. The text read as follows:

A most outrageous spectacle unfolded this past Sunday during an archery competition hosted at Mr. and Mrs. Stuyvesant Fish's elegant Crossways estate. The renowned guests at the annual Newport event --- held in tribute to the lovely sportswomen of the Social Set --- were astonished to find themselves attending a boxing match instead of a dainty display of bow and arrow finesse.

The sequence of events began when Newport novice Mr. Peter Van der Veen, proprietor of the Newark-based, up-and-coming Van der Veen Munitions Co., sought to dispute Mr. Fulton Fordyce, heir to the Rochester Fordyce Footwear fortune, for the honor of carrying the quiver of celebrated debutante Miss Ondine Cornelissen to the match. Witnesses report that Mr. Van der Veen took exception to Mr. Fordyce's refusal to relinquish the young lady's prized quiver and --- evidently mistaking Newport for Newark --- responded with a right cross that would do His Fistic Holiness proud, knocking young Fordyce to the ground. The shocked guests were then treated to an unparalleled brawl replete with cuffs and commentary quite unfit to print.

With the combined efforts of Miss Cornelissen's brother, Dr. Bram Cornelissen, and other gentlemen in attendance, the combatants were separated. The much put-upon host was disinclined to summon the police --- so long as apologies were tendered on both sides. Mr. Fordyce graciously acquiesced, but it seemed the hotheaded Van der Veen was determined to "stick to his guns". At last, he was persuaded to respond in kind.

According to sources close to the family, this was not the first time these two rivals for Miss Cornelissen's affections had crossed swords. Mr. Van der Veen --- aspiring gentleman and sometime companion of Broadway soubrette Marjorie Montrose --- had reportedly been giving Miss Cornelissen a whirlwind rush since he had arrived in Newport two days previously. During Mrs. Caroline Astor's summer ball at Beechwood on Friday, he had attempted to walk in Fordyce's shoes --- instigating a quarrel over a waltz the young gentleman had already claimed with the lovely debutante.

Following the undignified exhibition at the archery competition, the essentially banned munitions entrepreneur was escorted from the estate and indeed from Newport altogether by Dr. Bram Cornelissen. If Van der Veen hopes to win Miss Cornelissen's regard now, he had better take heed and henceforth walk the straight and ARROW!

Anders collapsed onto the bed, heart pounding. Fulton?! No, it could not be! Unwillingly, his eyes were dragged to the notebook next to him, open to his list of suspects. The stark sentence stared up at him:

- Jealous former suitor of Ondine?

He could not bring himself to write Fulton's name next to the line.

Good God! Fulton had been right there in the circle of men around Peter at the wedding reception! According to Ondine, her former suitors had approached the head table in a "show of gentlemanly sportsmanship" to congratulate their rival.

No amount of love Anders bore his longtime friend could cloud his knowledge of his character. Although Fulton was absolutely capable of behaving in a "gentlemanly" manner when he wished, his natural tendencies when confronted with adversity were towards resentment and impulsivity. Indeed, he had ever been the quintessential sore loser.

Well indeed did Anders recall the years of animosity between Fulton and his older brother Grover --- the recurring quarrels that had usually ended with Fulton physically attacking his brother.

His brother. Fulton's brother.

Anders' body went rigid --- his unfocused eyes staring straight ahead. Then he was on his feet, pacing back and forth. A year and a half ago --- some six months prior to Peter Van der Veen's death --- Grover had suddenly perished from a bout of cholera, leaving Fulton the primary heir to the Fordyce fortune.

He gritted his teeth. When it came to poisons, the advantage of arsenic over cyanide and strychnine was the fact that the symptoms associated with a judicious dose of arsenic simulated natural intestinal ailments --- such as cholera.

Damn! Damn! Damn! A distant memory prodded him. Young Fulton and himself at the Fordyce factory in Rochester. Eager to show off his knowledge of chemistry, he had pointed out to Fulton that the green-colored cardboard of the shoeboxes contained arsenic. His friend had listened with keen interest and had commented that he might dispatch his brother someday. Of course, he had been joking! But had Anders planted the idea of poisoning Grover?

The horrific thought expanded in his resisting mind. Had Fulton poisoned his brother and then, six months later, emboldened by his success, visited the same fate upon his rival in love? Arsenic could be readily obtained from a variety of sources --- no need would there have been for Fulton to grind up shoeboxes. Christ! He could not deny it --- Fulton had motive, means, and opportunity to murder Peter.

At least for the actual poisoning. He endeavored to reassure himself that the disappearance of the autopsy specimen jar excluded his friend as a suspect. Surely, Fulton would not have known about the existence of that piece of evidence.

Or would he have?

During the two summers Anders had worked at the morgue, he had occasionally spent time with Fulton. Yes, Fulton had with ghoulish curiosity asked him about the autopsy procedure. Holy Hell! Had he himself mentioned that tissue samples were collected and stored?

But even if he had, how would Fulton have managed to gain admittance to the autopsy suite, find the logbook which identified the accession number of Van der Veen's case, and locate the jar in the storeroom? Again, the supposition that there must have been an accomplice seemed inescapable.

But, like the Cornelissens, Fulton had money --- and with money, almost anything was possible.

An unhappy knot formed in Anders' belly. Could he betray his oldest friend to the police? Was there any argument to be made that Van der Veen's death had been just? Even as the thought crossed his mind, an image burgeoned of Ondine's haunted eyes gazing up at him beseechingly. No --- the murderer must be brought to justice to appease the restless ghost.

Halting his pacing, he bent and extracted Fulton's recent message from the waste bin.

Hey Norski ---

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

--- F

*****

Thursday --- Thanksgiving Day. Even with an entire day of leisure in which to think, Anders was unable to resolve the chaos in his mind.

The morning was spent in a vigorous bicycle ride in Central Park, after which he bathed and dressed to attend the Mullenixes' Thanksgiving dinner. The celebration proved to be a welcome distraction that at least temporarily mitigated his agitation.

Upon being admitted to the grand mansion, he was immediately set upon by four shrieking small children --- young Gavin Mullenix and his cousins --- who commanded "Mr. Strongman" to give them all a piggyback ride. Obligingly, he hoisted all four at once upon his back and in his arms, then tromped up and down the elegant entry hall until Mrs. Mullenix admonished them. Passengers disembarked, Anders straightened his suit jacket and thanked the hostess for her hospitality.

Next, their older son Alexander, now nine --- disavowing any interest in playing childish games --- challenged him to a chess match. The game occupied them until the meal was announced.

It was a pleasant party including Dr. Mullenix's family, his sister's family, his wife's sister's family, and their parents. Although in every way as elegant as the Cornelissen dinners he had attended, the atmosphere was decidedly more convivial, and he was relieved to simply relax among the company without the sensation of judgmental eyes following his every move.

After the meal, the adults, along with Alexander, repaired to the drawing room where ensued a game of charades. Astonishment was expressed at Anders' ignorance of the game, but Dr. Mullenix only chuckled, "That's my artless genius!"

He was instructed in the rules and observed several rounds before standing up to take his turn.

"Be fair. Give him a novice level one!" Dr. Mullenix's father-in-law said.

The scrap of paper he was handed by the opposing team bore the words The Vampire. At his confused expression, Dr. Mullenix beckoned him to lean close. "It's a poem," he whispered in his ear.

Anders straightened and stepped to the middle of the rug in front of his team. He had read Dracula but was not familiar with this poem. Taking a deep breath, he began. He was heartened to successfully get through the symbol for poem, number of words, and the word "the".

When it came to the word "vampire", he began by flapping his arms and circling about --- eliciting from his teammates the names of various flying creatures admixed with uproarious laughter. He couldn't help laughing at himself --- prancing about in his tuxedo suit pretending to be a bat.

As his team continued to call out guesses, he made a dramatic show of stealthily approaching a sofa and casting sinister eyes up and down its length.

"Burglar!" someone shouted.

He knelt at one end of the sofa and attempted to convey desirous ogling as he stroked hair back from the face of an invisible woman. A momentary memory of the ghost drawing back the covers from spellbound Ondine flashed in his mind.

Dr. Mullenix's father-in-law covered Alexander's ears and said, "Ravisher!"

Anders bent over the pillow and made an exaggerated biting motion.

"Cannibal!"

He shook his head and tried again, this time holding two curled index fingers up to his upper lip as he repeated the biting motion.

"Dracula!" Alexander shrieked.

"Vampire! The Vampire!"

"There it is!" Mullenix said.

Anders stood, grinning.

Several rounds of the jolly diversion almost made him forget his troubles. With the conclusion of the game, Mrs. Mullenix invited the company to hear Alexander play the piano. As the guests moved to the music room, Dr. Mullenix motioned for Anders to wait.

"I take it you've not read that poem --- The Vampire?"

"No, sir."

The surgeon turned towards a bookcase behind him and searched the spines. Soon he drew out a book and handed it to him. "Cast your eyes over it --- it's excellent." With a wink, he left the younger man in the drawing room.

It was a volume of poetry by Rudyard Kipling. Finding the page for the poem in question, Anders began reading:

The Vampire

A fool there was and he made his prayer

(Even as you or I!)

To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair,

(We called her the woman who did not care),

But the fool he called her his lady fair---

(Even as you or I!)

He blinked and glanced towards the door through which his mentor had departed. Looking back at the book, he continued through further verses.

A fool there was and his goods he spent,

(Even as you or I!)

Honour and faith and a sure intent

(And it wasn't the least what the lady meant),

But a fool must follow his natural bent

(Even as you or I!)

The fool was stripped to his foolish hide,

(Even as you or I!)

Which she might have seen when she threw him aside---

(But it isn't on record the lady tried)

So some of him lived but the most of him died---

(Even as you or I!)

His brows drew together in a confused frown. He thought back on Mullenix's recent advice and admonitions --- offered with a mix of earnestness and humor. Again... slowly... his eyes moved through the text. "--- when she threw him aside ---" Was his mentor teasing him or did he truly believe Ondine was an unfeeling woman who would hurt him?

He shook his head. It was a moot point --- no matter his own feelings and desires, he could not court her. So long as he maintained an outwardly professional detachment, any wound to his heart would be superficial --- so he insisted to himself.

But the verses had unsettled him. With a prolonged, troubled exhalation of breath, Anders slid the book back into the shadowed gap on the shelf and headed in the direction of the tinkling piano.

Chapter 37. THE SAILING EXCURSION

At ten minutes before the appointed time Friday morning, Anders stood on the sidewalk in front of the boardinghouse, dressed in warm clothes for the afternoon on the water. Normally, the sound of children playing in the street would have promoted a cheery mood, but burdened with his suspicions about Fulton, he could only stand tensely, scanning the street in both directions for a carriage.

Five minutes late, his friend arrived --- but not by carriage. A small explosion at the end of the block heralded the cacophonous approach of a shiny, blue, open-topped automobile. Children paused in their games and trotted alongside the wondrous noisy contraption. Wearing motoring goggles and a wide grin, Fulton pulled the handbrake. The stopped vehicle shook with the sputtering motor.

"Here, Norski," Fulton called above the racket, tossing him a bundle of fabric. "Put those on or you'll get covered in dust."

Anders unrolled a large, loose overcoat and shrugged it on over his own coat. There was a pair of goggles for him as well, which he slipped on, re-donning his wool cap over the leather strap. The goggles reminded him of Ondine's adorable cycling outfit the day they had first conversed in the park. Smiling to himself, he swung up onto the upholstered bench next to his friend.

With a snort of the motor, they were jerked back against the seat and got underway.

"What do you think? It's the latest Haynes-Apperson runabout," shouted Fulton over the motor.

Anders nodded and gave a thumbs up.

"It can go up to thirty miles an hour!"

Fulton and he had operated an automobile once before --- in Rochester one summer during college. Mr. Fordyce had purchased the novel conveyance and granted his son permission to try it. Driving along the avenue in front of the mansion, Fulton had stopped to offer a ride to two kitchen maids from a neighboring estate who were walking back from the market.

For a happy few minutes, they each had had a girl upon their laps --- until young Fordyce's inexpert gear shifting had jolted the vehicle and thrown the girls' basket of groceries to the pavement. Fulton had pushed the stalled auto home while Anders had volunteered to run back to the market to replace the broken eggs and bottles.