A New York Haunting: Pt. 10

Author's note:

Due to the mystery/suspense plot, the individual parts of this tale 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 39. MADISON SQUARE GARDEN

Sunday morning finally dawned, and he arrived almost a half-hour early for the rendezvous with Ondine. Worried about contaminating his freshly repaired laceration, he wore neither hat nor hair oil. At least he had shaved, so he was not entirely disheveled.

Disembarking at the El train station, Anders crossed Madison Square Park, approaching from the west the building hailed as architect Stanford White's masterpiece and dubbed "the most magnificent amusement palace in the world."

The enormous, Moorish-inspired, Madison Square Garden occupied an entire block --- the majority comprised by an exposition amphitheater said to be the largest in existence. He recalled reading it had seating for 8000 people. The edifice also housed a theater, concert hall, and restaurant.

Eyeing the roof line, he beheld several small towers punctuating the corners of the building --- but there could only be one tower to which Ondine's note had referred.

At the junction of the amphitheater with the remainder of the building soared a square, minaret-like tower some 300 feet tall. The lower half had scattered windows in the brick sides, while the upper half reminded him of a four-tiered wedding cake --- each successively smaller tier supported by the tier below.

Although the tiers differed in the details of their design, each had a circumferential observation walkway surrounded by stone balustrades or metal railings. The smallest tier was topped by a dome and golden orb --- the pedestal upon which the famous gilded statue of Diana the Huntress balanced on her left foot, bow drawn.

No one did he glimpse upon the tower. A thrill of excitement possessed him at the prospect of ascending the celebrated structure --- despite having lived in Manhattan for three years, he had never done so.

Moreover, if Ondine and he indeed had the tower to themselves, it was an excellent place for such a sensitive conversation. No intruders would be able to overhear or approach them without their knowledge. Ever since he had confirmed the presence of arsenic in Peter's specimen, Anders had felt jumpy and suspicious --- and after the sailing "accident" two days ago, his fears had redoubled.

Pausing on the streetcorner, he observed rolling past a glazier's wagon painted with the ironic name Celestial Glass Co. An auspicious sign from above, perhaps? He grinned. The wagon, laden with two large panes of glass upon its slanted wooden rack, disappeared around the far corner of the block.

He crossed the street. There was an electrical sign on the corner of the massive amusement palace --- currently unlit --- that read GARDEN THEATRE: KING HENRY V. Below that, along a covered arcade to the entrance, he walked past a row of posters advertising upcoming events. Holding the door for a pair of ladies, he entered the lobby after them. Lines of chattering people extended from the grilled ticket windows.

Following a sign labeled To the Tower, Anders headed into a hallway on the right, passing a gated archway overlooking the huge, bustling exposition floor. He had been to shows here twice before --- once with Fulton to a boxing match, and the other time with Izzy to a bicycle show. Today, there was a dog show underway, and the barking was an ironically innocuous sound after the recent disturbing matters on his mind.

Soon he located the entrance to the tower --- in a separate marble and tiled lobby with two elevators. Apart from a uniformed man reading a newspaper at a small desk, the lobby was unoccupied. This must be the guard mentioned in Ondine's note.

"I beg your pardon, sir. May I go up the tower?"

The man glanced up from his newspaper. "I'm sorry, sir. The tower is not open to the public on Sundays."

"I'm a friend of Mrs. Van der Veen --- Ondine Cornelissen. She asked me to meet her there."

That appeared to inspire the guard's respect. He at once stood and slid back the gate of the nearest elevator. "Of course, sir. Right this way." The fellow proved to be the elevator boy as well.

Anders looked about the elegantly decorated car. "How tall is the tower?"

"304 feet plus the thirteen-foot-tall statue."

"What's on the lower floors?"

"Apartments and offices. Mr. White keeps an apartment here."

Stanford White, the artichoke? He grimaced to himself.

The guard let him out on the sixteenth floor and pointed him in the direction of the stairs. "Be careful, sir. It's windy up there."

Behind the indicated door, Anders beheld a narrow stairway, simply decorated by contrast with the elevator and lobby. The stairs wound around and opened onto the lowest observation floor: a square room with benches and tall windows along all sides. As impressive as the view already was from over two hundred feet up, he kept moving, eager to savor the prospect from the highest point possible.

Proceeding upwards, he soon discovered that the subsequent four, architecturally different tiers of the tower top were all directly open to the outside without intervening glass.

Tier one --- the base of the "wedding cake"--- was a square, brick-walled chamber with an archway in each wall. He ducked under one arch and stepped onto the exterior balcony surrounding the periphery. The balustrade along the edge came up to his hips and was decorated at each corner with a small tower --- a miniature version of the domed peak.

Delaying the gratification of the view outwards, he tilted his head to look at the tower looming above and confronted a row of carved-stone, snarling lions' heads in the brick face. Three tiers past them, against the gray sky far above, the statue of Diana shone like a golden grail.

The guard had not exaggerated --- it was indeed windy up here. And significantly colder than on the ground. Hair ruffling in the wind, Anders fastened the top buttons of his coat and turned up the collar, newly grateful for Mrs. Sullivan's initiative in hanging it before the fireplace.

Back inside and up he went. The next flight of stairs was a winding, wrought iron spiral. On tier two, he was in an even smaller square space, demarcated by columns instead of brick walls.

Onwards and upwards to tier three. It consisted of a circular space enclosed by a ring of twelve columns. Peering between them at the balcony, he noted the corners of the surrounding railing were topped by carved stone structures likely intended to be ornamental finials, but whose somber appearance reminded him of funerary urns.

He was almost to the top! The spiral staircase to the fourth tier occupied almost all the limited space inside the ring of columns. The stairs ended with a metal landing large enough to accommodate one person. Pulse accelerating, Anders turned sideways to slip between the columns. A cluster of pigeons took flight as he stepped onto the final, wind-buffeted observation deck --- now a circular walkway guarded by a steel railing.

In wonder, he gazed out over the stirring panorama of New York City from 300 feet in the air --- higher even than Fulton's apartment at the Astoria Hotel. Slowly, he walked the entire circumference, overwhelmed by the extent and beauty of the metropolis. Amid the profusion of brick buildings, church spires, parks, avenues, and gray skyscrapers, he endeavored to pick out familiar places.

To the north he recognized the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, the dome of the Casino Theater, and the long rectangle of Central Park --- cast in a rust-colored haze from the remaining late November foliage. To the east was Bellevue Hospital, the East River, Brooklyn, and Queens.

In the distance to the South --- in what must be the Financial District --- he spied a pair of skyscrapers he guessed to be the World Building and the Park Row Building --- the previous and current tallest buildings in the city. Beyond that lay the harbor. Completing the circuit on the west side, he beheld ships at the innumerable piers along the Hudson River with New Jersey in the background.

Next, he approached the metal railing, testing it with his hands. Notwithstanding its spindly appearance, it felt sound. Cautiously, he looked downwards. Far below him, he could see the tiny moving rectangles and dots of carriages and pedestrians along Madison Avenue and 26th Street --- reminding him of the tin soldiers with which Fulton and he had once played.

Even though the tower was not the highest point in the city, it was the highest spot off the ground upon which Anders had ever stood --- well, the highest man-made spot anyway (the mountain at his grandparents' lodge in Norway being higher) --- and an awe-inspiring tribute to human ingenuity.

The view down upon Stanford White's creation was impressive as well. The arched roof of the amphitheater constituted approximately two thirds of the structure, while the remaining third was occupied by the renowned rooftop garden and cabaret whose attractions Fulton had occasionally extolled. He could see the stage at the base of the tower. Naturally, with the cold weather, the outdoor entertainment venue was presently closed.

He checked his pocket watch --- it was five minutes till the appointment time.

Turning around, he faced the tower and gazed up at its pinnacle. Some six feet above him was the final dome topped by the gold orb upon which Diana stood. The splendid statue was so close, he could drink in every detail of her naked beauty. Thirteen feet tall, was she? Just over twice his height. Anders again circled the walkway, this time studying the goddess --- her golden glow remarkable even in the gray weather.

Unsurprisingly, the gilded surface had not been spared the activity of birds, and he could not help the whimsical, lascivious thought that it looked as if Diana had been ejaculated upon by multiple men --- the whitish runnels decorating her face, arms, and bosom.

Speaking of which, she did indeed have a lovely, graceful figure with small breasts and a pert ass --- naturally enough, reminding him of Ondine. The front view revealed featureless smoothness where her mound and split should be --- as was the frustrating custom in all artistic depictions he had seen of unclad females.

He recalled the Town Topics article about the brawl between Fulton Fordyce and Peter Van der Veen at the Newport archery competition --- QUIVER ME TIMBERS! The artist had depicted Ondine as this Diana statue --- how apt!

He couldn't wait to tell her his theory about Fulton --- the mysterious death of his long-hated brother, soon thereafter followed by the death of his rival for her affections. Both victims manifesting intestinal distress prior to succumbing.

Or had the murderer been Peter's mistress Marjorie Montrose, disguised as a waiter, with the later assistance of her lover, Dr. Pemrose?

But --- Fulton had attempted to kill him after learning he was the only one who knew about the arsenic.

Anders halted in his stride.

Yesterday outside the anatomy lab, Ondine had asked him if he had told the police yet.

What of it? It was a completely natural question --- there was nothing sinister about it.

Was there?

Why had Dr. Mullenix in recent days repeatedly warned him about female treachery? Did he know something about Ondine that Anders didn't? Lines from The Vampire poem echoed in his memory:

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---

His mind churned, the surface of his consciousness erupting with the memory of the painting in Ondine's sitting room --- a beautiful dark-haired goddess pouring a stream of a luminous green (GREEN!) liquid from a bowl onto the snout of a sea monster under her feet. Circe Invidiosa was the painting's title.

From the Latin learned during his first year of medical school, he realized invidiosa meant jealous. What was the painting depicting? He grasped at dimly recalled tales of Greek mythology. The goddess Circe, consumed with jealousy of her rival in love, poisoned the other woman and turned her into the sea monster Scylla.

According to her own account and the newspaper stories, Ondine had been twice humiliated when confronted with Peter's mistress, Marjorie Montrose. Had Ondine deliberately understated her feelings for Van der Veen? He recalled her guarded, evasive manner when he had asked her about other women in Peter's life. Could she have been jealous enough to murder him? But why him and not Marjorie Montrose?

Because she had anticipated she would be a wealthy widow, finally free of her aunt's authority.

Anders paced around the circular walkway. This was madness! Would she really display a painting trumpeting her murderous jealousy? Furthermore, it was Ondine who had proposed he hypnotize her! It was Ondine who had remembered the hand over Peter's glass!

Or was that all a fabrication? Had the hand been hers all along? Throughout the long reception, the new bride would have had innumerable opportunities to administer the poison herself. Had she even truly been in a hypnotic trance when she had 'recovered' the memory? Or had she faked the entire thing --- pulling his pud to jumble his capacity for reason?

Ondine was clever, resourceful, and had medical knowledge. She had been meeting with the pathologist Dr. Prudden for several months to review interesting cases --- it was likely she knew about autopsy specimen jars.

So? Just because she might know about the jars didn't mean she would have been able to access them.

A reluctant image came to mind of 'Simon Sellers', casually brazening her way into the life drawing class --- and he all at once saw it. Dressed in her male garb, Ondine could have sauntered into the autopsy suite claiming to be a medical student sent down by a pathology resident to check a specimen jar for something. The orderly Orville McGrady who sat in the autopsy antechamber didn't know all the medical students by sight.

Anders shook his head. It made no sense. If she were the murderer, why would she point him towards the truth when the death had already been ruled natural?!

Unless she had realized that he was determined --- hell or high water --- to delve into Peter's demise, and thus feigned cooperation to manipulate the investigation, sending him on a wild goose chase after the owner of the mysterious hand. But of course, believing she had successfully disposed of the specimen jar, Ondine hadn't expected the investigation to progress so far.

Had there been a hint of surprise and dismay in her response when he had mentioned the stomach contents?

Inexorably, Anders returned to her inquiry about whether he had informed the police about the arsenic.

With a rising sensation of horror, he lamented his reticence in sharing his discovery. Good God! For his own preservation, why hadn't he told Izzy last week?! Was that why she had arranged this rendezvous on the tower? He gazed at the flimsy looking railing and the street 300 feet down.

No. It was impossible. Not the beautiful, beguiling girl who held sway over his heart! The absurdity of the suspicion argued against its being true. Surely if she wanted to silence him, she could shoot, stab, or poison him.

But not if it needed to look like an accident. What was the easiest way to stage an accident on short notice?

And there was yet one additional, irrefutable fact: Peter's ghost was haunting her.

Swallowing, Anders backed slowly away from the railing.

He checked his pocket watch --- it was ten past eleven. Ondine was late. Slipping back between the columns, he started down the stairs as fast as the tight spiral allowed. He would intercept her before she ascended and propose they instead converse across the street on a bench in Madison Square Park.

Chapter 40. CIRCE INVIDIOSA

Only two and a half flights did he go down before hearing footsteps approaching on the stairs below him. He froze on the steps.

"Mr. Røkke?" Ondine's voice floated up.

Damn! Composing himself, Anders responded, "Mrs. Van der Veen?" As he descended to the brick-walled chamber of tier one, her voice came through the nearest archway.

"I'm out here."

Join her or leave? After a moment's hesitation, he acceded to her beckoning --- his wary eyes confirming she was not in the immediate vicinity before ducking under the arch and stepping outside onto the surrounding balcony. Keeping close to the tower, he advanced around one corner and spied her standing by the balustrade at the edge, looking down upon the rooftop garden far below.

She turned towards him. "Good morning."

Through the haze of her black-dotted veil was visible the ghost of a smile, but, as usual, Anders was unable to discern her mood. Happy? Polite? Impatient? Scheming?

"Good morning, Mrs. Van der Veen." He endeavored to speak with his usual polite alacrity, but his voice sounded strained even to his own ears. Remaining with his back against the brick side of the tower, he regarded her alertly across the five-foot-wide, flagstone-paved walkway.

She was wearing the warm-looking, fitted black jacket from yesterday with its tall, flared collar snuggled around her chin. A gray wool, funnel-shaped skirt ended at her slim ankles, showing her buttoned black boots. Upon her head was a black hat resembling a man's top hat but with more feminine flair. Her portfolio bag was slung over one shoulder.

But what riveted Anders' gaze was the color of her leather gloves --- ironically, the first vivid color he had observed in her half-mourning wardrobe. They were an emerald green ... an arsenic green.

"I'm sorry to be late. It was difficult to make my escape after church."

"How did you come here?" Mesmerized, he watched her green-gloved fingers raise and roll back her veil. The morning light illuminated the matching green hues in her irises.

"By the train."

Watchful eyes upon her, he struggled to think with calm deliberation even as he continued the bland conversation. "How does one come by the privilege of tower access on Sundays?"

Ondine's head swiveled back towards the view down, and she motioned with her chin. "On my last birthday before my parents died, my family had a little celebration here on the rooftop garden. Mr. Stanford White stopped by our table to extend his well wishes and an invitation to go up the tower. Bram insisted on going too --- he'd always wanted to see it. So impressed was I, Mr. White most kindly invited me to ascend whenever I wished --- he would see to it that my name was on a list of his special guests."

Anders recalled Fulton referring to Stanford White as a "meat-monger" and wondered if the architect had had designs upon the girl. But then he dismissed the idea --- if this had happened when her parents were still alive, it must have been at least five years ago, and she surely would have been too young to attract the architect's prurient notice.

His eyes snapped to attention at the sudden motion of a green glove --- Ondine was adjusting the strap of the portfolio on her shoulder as she regarded him. Why had she brought her bag? Did she have a weapon concealed inside it? Maybe he should lie and tell her he had reported Peter's murder to the police this morning.

"How is your head injury, Mr. Røkke?"