A New York Haunting: Pt. 09

Fulton's driving skills were only marginally improved in the past few years. Turning south at the corner, an alarming jaunt through Manhattan followed. Anders gripped the frame of the seat as they bounced over cobblestones and swerved around carriages, streetcars, and pedestrians --- horn blaring. Several times an angry police whistle shrilled in their haphazard wake.

It wasn't until they at last reached the Brooklyn Bridge that some semblance of control was established. Rolling across the broad span of the bridge, Anders gazed through the graceful web of suspension cables at New York Harbor. A brisk wind buffeted his face, promising an excellent day sailing --- if only it were normal, innocent circumstances. Soon, they were traversing Brooklyn, the motor chugging and popping.

It was not the most practical means of transportation. The commotion of the engine and threat of dust or insects flying into the mouth rendered conversation nearly impossible --- and if it were any colder, the exposure to the elements would have been prohibitive. Nonetheless, he could not help but feel a sense of exhilaration as they rumbled past slower horse-drawn carriages.

He glanced sideways at his companion. This rambunctious outing was a perfect example of Fulton's enigmatic, exasperating appeal: his mix of cynicism and childishness, offset by his eager sharing of new toys --- at least with him. Anders felt a pang recalling his grim suspicions.

By-and-by, they pulled to a roaring stop at the Atlantic Yacht Club in Bay Ridge --- setting a flock of squawking seagulls to flight above the sea of wooden masts. Fulton jumped out and tossed his motoring gear onto the seat. "You can try driving on the way back, Norski."

"Hmmm? Ya, okay," Anders said distractedly, pondering how to initiate the necessary conversation.

"Let's see if the fellows are here."

"Fellows?" He followed Fulton into the large, tower-embellished clubhouse on the wharf.

"Didn't I mention it? Old Pully Percy challenged me to a race. We're supposed to meet here with our crews."

Pully Percy? Although the name was unfamiliar, Fulton's habit of enlisting him in competitions without consulting him was not. Pray God he had a chance to speak to his friend alone before these other men arrived!

Through a handsomely decorated lounge they proceeded, where Fulton nodded at a pair of older men sitting with cigars by a marble fireplace. A survey of the bar and dining room was unrewarding. Exiting onto the dockside terrace, they checked under the fluttering, striped awnings but found only a pair of stalwart club members seated at a table, braving the cold autumn air with steaming cups of tea.

"Not here yet," Fulton said. "Let's go get the boat ready."

Down the ramp they strode to the outer pier where a dozen, identical, thirty-foot sloops bobbed in a row in their slips. The dock lines creaked and the boat tilted as they stepped aboard.

Fulton pulled off his gloves to unlock the companionway hatch, and Anders surreptitiously eyed his hands, remembering Ondine's description of the murderer's hand: average-sized with a gold ring. His friend's hands were on the refined side --- certainly compatible with "average-sized". No ring was present, however he recalled seeing Fulton occasionally don a gold Yale class ring when he dressed for evening occasions.

They began to unfasten the canvas cover of the furled mainsail, each starting at one end of the boom. The staccato slapping of halyards against masts around them echoed Anders' jumpy pulse.

Clearing his throat, he said in an offhand manner, "I've been looking into Peter Van der Veen's death." He observed his friend's reaction closely.

Fulton's hands paused, and he glanced quickly at him. "Why? Damn poetic justice, if there ever was a case." He resumed untying the small straps holding the canvas.

"The family had some questions and asked me to investigate them."

"What family? The Cornelissens? They were overjoyed by the turn of events."

Anders hesitated. "Mrs. Van der Veen."

"Who? His mother?"

"No. Ondine Van der Veen."

Fulton looked up, an eyebrow arched. "How did you meet Ondine Cornelissen?"

Anders understood the dubious tone of his friend's question for what it was --- not an intentional insult to himself, but simply an acknowledgment of the nature of New York Society. How indeed would a penniless nobody meet a Cornelissen? Unwilling to reveal any hint of the private medical matter, he improvised, "Dr. Mullenix --- my mentor I've spoken of previously --- invited me to a dinner at which the Cornelissens were also guests."

"Why would she ask you for help?"

Unable to discern anything revealing in Fulton's voice, he strove to deflect further interrogation about Ondine with a humorous reply. "Perhaps the same reason you recruited me for this race --- I'm amenable."

Bundling up the sail cover, Fulton leaned into the open companionway and tossed it inside the cabin. Anders moved to the foredeck and began unfastening the canvas cover of the jib. Narrowly watching his friend uncleat and uncoil the main halyard, he chose his next words carefully.

"Anyway, I examined the tissue from the autopsy specimen jar."

Was there a sudden flicker in Fulton's eyes? Or was it merely a reflection in his pupils from the rippling red and white pennant on the dockside flagpole?

Young Fordyce all at once was engrossed in fastening the shackle of the halyard to the head of the mainsail, tightening the pin with fierce concentration.

Anders rolled up the jib cover. "And I discovered arsenic in it."

Fulton's head swung towards him, his face the perfect picture of astonishment. "No shit! He was poisoned?!" Dark eyes fastened upon Anders. "Do the police have any suspects?"

"I haven't told anyone yet."

"HEY, FORDYCE!" a raucous voice hollered. "Get ready to drown in our wake!"

Four young men sauntered towards them along the dock.

"Like HELL we will!" shouted Fulton. He introduced Anders to the newcomers --- whose names he scarcely noted. Like his friend, they were dressed in fashionable sportswear, and although he noted their brief perusal of his own humble garments, they seemed prepared to be friendly on the strength of Fordyce's recommendation. The chap named Herbie jumped aboard as the third member of their crew, while the others boarded the boat next to them and began to make ready. "Pully" Percy and Fulton discussed the race course.

Before long, they were heading out onto the bay, Fulton at the tiller and Anders and Herbie hoisting the sails.

There was a brisk, salt-tinged south wind, and they set off on the first leg of the triangle-shaped course over choppy gray water. Even on the day after Thanksgiving, New York Harbor was lively with water traffic including variably-sized sailboats and numerous steam-powered vessels --- from smaller fishing boats to larger ferries and ships.

The first leg of the race was downwind, and with the billowed-out sails on either side obstructing the view, Herbie stationed himself on the foredeck, keeping watch and shouting warnings to Fulton about oncoming boats.

Anders straddled the cockpit coaming, his unfocused gaze upon the sails as he reviewed the brief, unfortunately interrupted conversation about Van der Veen's death --- and endeavored to decipher Fulton's words and expressions during the exchange. Intermittently, he stole a glance at the opposite cockpit seat where his friend tensely held the tiller and repeatedly assessed the rival boat running a parallel course a dozen yards away.

At length, they reached the buoy marking the first corner of the triangle and rounded it, heading west across the harbor. They were now on a fast beam reach --- sails straining, rigging creaking, water rushing past the hull. Anders and Herbie sat on the high windward side deck, lending their weight to keeping the leeward gunwale out of the water.

Upwind of Percy's boat, Fulton whooped as they inched into the lead. Even as he maneuvered around other passing vessels, the boat maintained its speed and the small lead gradually extended.

Anders' body operated by rote --- shifting his weight and adjusting the main sheet --- but the wheels in his mind turned. Covertly he studied Fordyce, looking for any telltale nuances in his determined expression.

Rounding the second buoy, Anders gazed to starboard at the Statue of Liberty. Fifteen years ago, his father and he had glimpsed the fledgling monument under construction when they had arrived in America. But only a short moment was there for poignant reflection, for now on the final leg of the match, they were sailing close-hauled, and the heeling craft surged in the rough water. Percy's boat was holding its own, if not gaining on them.

The deafening horn blast of an oncoming steamship prompted a cry of "Coming about!" from Fulton, and they abruptly tacked out of its path --- Anders on the main sheet while Herbie manned the jib sheet. Back-and-forth they tacked across the wind and traffic, scrambling each time to switch from one side of the boat to the other.

They had just come about and settled into a new tack when Fulton shouted above the wind and water spray, "Something's fouled the rudder! See if you can fix it!"

Anders stood and made his way aft of the cockpit, crouching to keep his balance on the tilted deck. Lying on his belly, he spied in the turbulent water a portion of fishing net snagged around the rudder. One hand gripping the gunwale, he leaned far over the transom and yanked the encumbrance free. For a moment, his head swayed above the streaming water, then he heaved his upper body back onto the deck, turned towards the cockpit, and rose to a wide-braced crouch.

Without warning, the boat lurched precipitously under him --- his head snapped up to see the massive boom careening towards him.

With the explosion of pain in his skull, he was almost insensible to plunging into the freezing water. The starry throbbing behind his closed eyes and gurgling ears overcame him --- he sank unresisting further and further into the peace of the quiet, icy depths.

A thread of awareness tugged at his stunned brain.

And then he was flailing --- arms and legs churning and eyes bulging in the murky water.

He broke the surface, coughing and screaming through the raw burn in his windpipe. "HELP!! HE---" A wave smacked his face, filling his eyes and mouth. Kicking desperately, he twisted in search of the sailboat. Where ---?!

Another wave battered him and when his eyes cleared, he beheld the towering dark prow of a steamship plowing directly towards him. STOP!! HERREGUD!! STOP!! The gargled scream was lost in the blare of the ship's horn. His dazed head was powerless to command his frozen limbs, and he could only gape in horror as the massive iron hull bore down upon him.

Muffled, distant blood reverberated through the water filling his ears --- one, two, three beats --- then his numb legs erupted in a frenzy of kicking.

Chapter 38. HIDING OUT

Why they were performing surgery aboard a boat, he was unsure --- but he knew they were aboard a vessel. He heard and felt the rumbling of the steam engine somewhere below him --- yes, his father and he had visited the engine room of the ship earlier that day. The floor under him rocked to and fro consistent with being on the ocean, and a briny smell pervaded his nostrils. Distant voices of the surgery team filtered into his consciousness.

"Lay him down."

"Hand me the knife."

"Try to stop the bleeding."

"Don't give him any more --- he's out cold."

His father and he stood at the ship's railing looking at the Statue of Liberty. Strangely, it was already complete... soaring into the gray sky. That didn't make sense --- only the pedestal should have been there. As he stared at it, he realized there was a tiny figure standing on the walkway encircling the upraised torch. Somehow, he knew it was Ondine --- and knew she was in danger. He had to help her! Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted across the water to her that he was coming --- but the words only came out in Norwegian, and she didn't understand him.

There was a burning sensation in his throat, and he began to cough.

"Hold him up!"

Anders' eyes slowly opened to behold a man dressed in an oilskin coat and sou'wester hat, crouching at his side --- then his bewildered gaze swung to his surroundings. He was lying on the floor of what appeared to be a small nautical cabin. A second fellow in oilskins was lifting his torso with an arm around his shoulders. Both men were looking at him, their weathered, bearded faces creased with concern.

He coughed again, then groaned. His head was pounding.

"Is he awake?" asked a third man standing behind a nearby ship's wheel.

Anders now realized the wooden plank floor under him was not only rocking from side to side but was vibrating with the steady chugging of a steam engine. He was inside the pilothouse of a boat, wrapped in a frayed wool blanket smelling of oil and fish.

"Speak English?" said one of the men in a loud voice.

He nodded, fumbling with the blanket to push himself to a seated position. "Where am I?" he rasped. Glancing down, he saw that he was clad in his drawers. The warmth of the rumbling cabin sole was wonderful against his skin.

"On board the Miss Louisa."

A dented, metal flask was offered to him. "Whiskey?"

"Thanks." He took a small gulp, coughing with the stinging liquid. Unconsciously, his hand reached up towards the source of the throbbing pain and discovered a warm, sticky substance on his temple. In confusion he stared at his bloody fingers.

"Watch out, you've got a bad cut. We poured whiskey on it, but it's still bleeding."

"How's the catch of the day?" called yet another man, appearing in the open doorway to the rear deck.

"Awake. And he does speak English."

Anders cleared his throat. "What happened?"

"We were following the mail steamship back into port when we saw you tumble out of its wake. We grabbed you and hauled you out. Lucky for you we were close by."

"Did you fall off the ship?" asked another.

"No... off a sailboat." His thoughts felt sluggish. "How long has it been since you pulled me out?"

"About a half hour."

For several moments, he stared unseeing at the blanket covering his legs, then he looked at the four men in turn. "Thank you."

"You're not a Vanderbilt or Rockefeller, are you?" joked one of his rescuers.

"Sorry, no." Anders managed a wry smile as he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, clutching the blanket around his shoulders. Through the cabin windows, the southern tip of Manhattan was visible ahead --- Battery Park and the adjacent profusion of wharves and boats.

Stepping aft, he took in the crowded deck with its drapery of nets hanging from boom cranes and the large basins filled with wriggling, silvery fish. A scan of the harbor revealed an array of steam vessels and sailboats. Was one of them Fulton's?

By the time they docked at a pier in the Seaport neighborhood, Anders had redonned his wet clothes.

He thanked the men again. No money had he for the train, but after everything the fishermen had already done, he was not about to ask them for money too. It was a dazed, shivering, two-hour walk back home --- intermittent blood trickling down from his temple and scattered curious eyes following him. Dusk was falling when he reached the boardinghouse.

Stripping off the sodden garments, Anders examined his reflection in the mirror. Congealed blood matted the blond hair over his right temple. Wincing, he gingerly washed it away and discovered a one-and-a-half-inch laceration in his scalp, the end extending onto his forehead. Aww, Christ!

Once more dressed in dry clothes, he headed for Roosevelt Hospital where he found the surgery clinic locked. Stymied, he sought out the surgery resident on duty, locating him in the small office on the ward. It was Dr. Hale.

"Jesus! What happened to you?!" he exclaimed upon seeing Anders.

"A boating accident. I tried to get a suturing kit from the clinic, but it's locked."

Dr. Hale raised a dubious eyebrow. "You were planning on suturing it yourself?"

Anders shrugged.

"Whatever hit you must have scrambled your brains too." He chuckled. "But I'll unlock the door for you and watch you try. I could use a laugh."

In the clinic, Dr. Hale trimmed the surrounding hair and cleaned the wound with carbolic acid. Gesturing at the tray of instruments, he said, "Have at it, hot-dog."

Anders stood before the mirror and attempted to position the needle forceps, but with the reversed reflection, his movements were clumsy. Grinning, Dr. Hale watched him until he conceded defeat and relinquished the instruments. Then he sat motionless, eyes closed, intermittently wincing as the needle again and again pierced his skin.

While the resident worked, Anders endeavored to recall the sequence of events aboard the yacht immediately prior to the accident. He had just risen to his feet after clearing a portion of fishing net from the rudder. With no warning at all, Fulton had abruptly tacked, sending the boom swinging violently across the deck.

It was customary for the person manning the tiller to shout out "Coming about!" so the crew could duck prior to the sudden maneuver --- but his friend had failed to do so. Both Fulton and Herbie had been seated in the cockpit at that moment --- their heads safely below the level of the boom.

Anders' eyes shot open. "Fuuuuck!" he breathed.

"Sorry. Almost done."

"Ya, sure," he mumbled automatically, even as his mind reeled. Had Fulton attempted to kill him? Believing Anders to be the only one cognizant of the murder, had his longtime friend deliberately tried to drown him --- in the guise of an accident?!

At that moment, he knew he could not go home. Fulton might go to the boardinghouse to confirm the deed was done.

When Dr. Hale finished, Anders thanked him and asked, "Is there an extra bed in the residents' dormitory?"

"Sure, why?"

"The lodger in the room next to mine at the boardinghouse has visiting relatives --- with a baby. The crying has kept me awake the past two nights."

"You're welcome to a bed here, but we're often in and out of the room multiple times a night for ward duties."

"So long as none of you cries, I shall be content."

"Well, I can't promise about the obstetrics resident --- he's kind of a sissy."

They proceeded to the residents' dormitory --- an attic room with six cots, only three of which were claimed. For a long time after Dr. Hale left, Anders gazed through a dormer window over the city nightscape. From the vantage point, the long dark rectangle of Central Park was demarcated from the patchwork of lights in the surrounding buildings and streets.

When would Ondine return from Boston? As limited as their time together had been, he acutely felt her prolonged absence --- it had almost been two weeks since he had last set eyes upon her. He had so much to tell her! Not only had he proof of the poisoning, but he had leads on suspects. Pondering the three best --- Bram, Marjorie Montrose, Fulton Fordyce --- he prayed for Ondine's sake the murderer wasn't Bram. And he prayed for his own sake it wasn't Fulton!

His head was throbbing again. Damn! Why hadn't he thought to take a dose of aspirin powder while he was in the clinic? Lying on a cot, he closed his eyes. At length, sheer exhaustion triumphed over the pain.

*****

When he woke the next morning, the unfamiliar, sloping ceiling above caused several moments of confusion before the previous day's events came back to him. So soundly had he slept, he had been oblivious to the comings and goings of the on-duty residents.