A New York Haunting: Pt. 10

Anders' hammering heart whooshed in his ears --- head arcing through the air --- hands grasping, grasping, grasping at salvation.

Clutching at the warm solidness beside him, his body upended over the railing.

Tumbling buildings --- whirling gray sky --- shrieking.

One scrambling hand latched onto cold stone, halting his fall with an abrupt wrench of his shoulder. With the continued momentum, Schuller went from an open-mouthed, bug-eyed face beside him to a flailing dark shape, fast receding below his dangling feet --- bloodcurdling screams trailing in his wake.

Anders heaved his injured, bleeding arm up to grasp the stone above him with both hands. He was hanging by his fingers from the cornice trim of the level below --- a foot-and-a-half wide ledge protruding from the tower beyond the balustrade. The cold wind filled his clothes, tugging on them. From the street hundreds of feet below his swaying body, he forced his gaze up to his splayed, white-knuckled hands --- the grip of his fingers on the stone the only thing presently keeping him on this side of the great divide.

Å fy faen! He was not going to die this way! Please God!

Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump.

Grunting, he began to flex his arms. Over the screaming pain from the embedded, broken blade, he chanted over and over the names of the straining muscles --- biceps brachii, latissimus dorsi, deltoideus ... biceps brachii, latissimus dorsi, deltoideus --- summoning and pleading with them through his gritted teeth. The right arm responded vigorously, but as the wounded, left bicep bunched and shook, the blood, which had been bubbling around the knife, now pulsed out with force, the arterial jet strong enough to spray his clenched jaw.

His body slowly rose.

A pair of small hands grasped his collar and hauled upwards. "Mr. Røkke!" cried Ondine, stretching over the balustrade.

Panting harshly, he pulled his chin above the stone edge. With another valiant tug from Ondine, he swung his leg and got a foot on the ledge --- then a knee. His hand shot out to grab a vertical baluster and he dragged himself up onto the narrow cornice outside the stone railing.

And then he was crawling over the balustrade.

He sank to his knees on the flagstones of the balcony, Ondine next to him and his left sleeve drenched --- the hot, unceasing blood fast dripping from his fingertips.

Chapter 41. THE RELUCTANT PATIENT

Surfacing from unconsciousness to a groggy haze, he felt himself ensconced in a warm bed --- then became aware of gentle fingers on his hand and a dull pain in his arm. "Mor, er det deg?" he mumbled.

His eyelids eased open, only to immediately close at the flood of bright light. As the fingers pressed on his wrist, a cautious squint evolved into an open-eyed, confused survey of his surroundings. Beholding the rows of cots on either side of him, he first thought he was in the residents' dormitory --- but the presence of a woman alongside his bed made no sense. Contrary to his narcotized impression, she was not his mother.

"Mr. Røkke, you're awake," she said.

It was then Anders saw the crisp apron and white cap of a nurse's uniform and realized she was taking his pulse. He was in a bed on a hospital ward, sunlight streaming through the windows. Herregud! The fight on the tower with Dr. Schuller!

"Are you in much pain?"

He struggled to sit up but was promptly admonished by the nurse's hand upon his chest. "Don't push with your arm."

The flare of pain in his arm subsided as he sank back to the mattress. Looking down, he saw a plain hospital gown and what appeared to be a small wool blanket swaddling his left arm. With his other hand, he lifted the top edge of the bundle and glimpsed underneath a wide bandage encircling his upper arm.

"Leave that on, sir. You must keep it warm." She pulled the bedcovers up to his chin. "You're due for another dose of laudanum."

Frustrated at his muddied thinking, Anders shook his head on the pillow. "I'm fine for now." His voice came out as a croak. Clearing his throat, he asked, "Where am I?"

"Bellevue Hospital."

"What day is it?"

"Tuesday."

Again, he surveyed the room, now recognizing the surgical ward where he had oft tended patients. Several beds on either side of him were occupied.

"Do summon me if you change your mind about the laudanum. There's water on the table next to you. Keep drinking it."

In the wake of her departure, Anders endeavored to reconstruct the series of events connecting the scene on the tower to his present circumstances. Two days had apparently passed.

He remembered crawling back onto the balcony --- he remembered the clammy sweat erupting over his body and the lightheadedness overwhelming him in queasy waves. And then he had been flat on his back, Ondine kneeling next to him and pulling up her skirt to tear a strip of fabric off her petticoat. Heedless of the blood and without prompting, she had applied a tourniquet to his arm above the embedded blade.

In that moment, his head had turned on the flagstones towards her, and he had felt a sensation of happy peace that his last sight in life was the incomparable view under Ondine's raised skirt, unhampered by drawers --- black stocking-tops at midthigh, pale skin beyond, garters disappearing into the shadows above.

How he had descended the tower he had no recollection. But the spectacle once back on the street was one he could not forget: the people gathering around the Celestial Glass Co. wagon, gaping at the grotesquely contorted body atop the broken, blood-splattered wooden rack and shattered glass panes.

And then he had been on a stretcher in the back of an enclosed wagon --- awareness steadily draining from him as the wheels bumped over the streets. His last impression was of a pair of wide, andalusite eyes gazing down upon him and a small, squeezing hand sealed to his with sticky blood. Eyelids sinking, he had struggled to give voice to the love overflowing his heart, only managing a hoarse, "Jeg elsker deg ..." before losing consciousness.

After that, he was uncertain which images in his mind were memories or dreams. His head ached, both from the previous laceration and the new lump on top --- courtesy of Dr. Schuller's brutal walking stick.

He stared down at his now bandaged and wool-swathed arm. The broken dagger must have been extracted --- who had performed the surgery? Wiggling each of his fingers and rubbing them against the sheet, he confirmed the motor and sensory functions to be intact.

"There's the young hero," a familiar voice said. "I last saw you Thanksgiving Day and look at the trouble you managed to conjure up in the subsequent three days. Contemplating giving up medicine for a career as a brawler, are you?"

Anders raised his head to see Dr. Mullenix standing at the foot of the bed twirling the tip of his mustache. "Sir? Was it you who operated on me?"

"That I did. What's your report? Is all in working order?"

"It ... appears so." It seemed unusually effortful to speak. "Will ... you tell me ... what happened?"

"Certainly. Let's walk. Can't have you lazing about in bed, young man."

Anders glanced at the patients in the adjacent beds and nodded. Using his good arm, he pushed himself to a sitting position and swung his legs over the side. The swath of bruised muscles in his side protested --- reminding him of Schuller's first blow with the stick.

"Young man! You mustn't do that!" a nurse called, hastening towards him. At Dr. Mullenix's headshake, she halted and withdrew.

"Take care, you've lost a fair amount of blood. We gave you normal saline injections."

Bright, wavering dizziness expanded as he stood, and he steadied himself with the surgeon's offered arm. Mullenix draped the blanket over his shoulders, and Anders clasped it together as they slowly walked --- out of the ward and down the hall.

Almost as noticeable as the throbbing pain in his arm was the profound sensation of fatigue. His limbs --- indeed his entire body --- felt weak and heavy. Even his thoughts and words seemed slow, whether from the laudanum, the anemia, or both. He took a deep breath and enunciated, "Were you on duty Sunday, sir?"

Mullenix shook his head. "When the ambulance brought you here, the surgeon who was on duty rightly diagnosed a transected brachial artery. As you well know, the standard treatment is an amputation, and such was his plan as you were unable to give consent."

Anders halted in his tracks, staring at him.

Dr. Mullenix nodded grimly. "It was most fortunate that our collaborator on the article was with you. She refused to let them take you to the operating theater and telephoned me at home. I came at once."

"Ondine --- erm ---Mrs. Van der Veen called you?" A lump formed in his throat.

The smile grew on the surgeon's face. "I've heard of physicians using themselves as test subjects for their inventions and hypotheses, but this is bordering on the absurd, Anders."

Anders gaped at him.

"Congratulations, you are now the second patient to have undergone repair of a transected artery by the triangulation technique. Successfully, I do believe. But we are not out of the woods yet --- we must keep watch for infection and clotting."

Thanks to Ondine, his mentor had saved his arm! Overwhelmed, he swayed, the tears welling in his eyes.

Dr. Mullenix threw a supporting arm around his back. "Whoa, big fella. Steady now."

"Thank you, sir --- thank you for what you did," he croaked.

"No need for that. If not for you, I wouldn't have even known the technique."

They resumed walking, silent for several minutes. Anders contemplated the vagaries of fate --- what if he hadn't succumbed to the seduction of a certain French maid and hadn't witnessed her repair a silk flower stem on a hat five years ago? His former appreciation for the initiation into Venus' pastime had just been surpassed by that for demonstrating the momentous sewing technique.

But his overriding urge at the present moment was to see Ondine again --- to assure himself of her recovery from her own injuries and to convey his gratitude. He cleared his throat. "Has --- erm --- Mrs. Van der Veen visited the ward since Sunday?"

"Not to my knowledge. But there was quite the scene in the waiting room when I came down after your surgery. Mrs. Van der Veen was there with her aunt and uncle along with a police detective and two sergeants. Mrs. Cornelissen was most insistent that you be arrested for Schuller's murder."

Anders' brows lifted.

"The young lady explained to the police what happened --- described her recognition of the doctor's hand as that of the murderer, his admission of guilt, and his attempts to dispose of you both."

"Did --- did the police believe her?"

"The detective seemed to be reserving his judgment at that point. They had already collected the doctor's walking stick, and I gave them the blade from your arm. I insisted no one would be arresting you --- not until you had recovered from the chloroform anyway." Mullenix winked. "After the detective interviewed you, I dare say he was inclined to believe Mrs. Van der Veen's and your version of the events."

"The detective interviewed me?"

"You don't remember? Ah, the magic of poppy juice," he chuckled. "Yes, he questioned you yesterday. I exercised my prerogative as your physician to remain present for the interview."

Anders' grip tightened on the blanket in apprehension. "What did he ask me?"

Mullenix recited, "'When did you first make Mrs. Van der Veen's acquaintance? When did you first meet Dr. Schuller? How did you come to be on the tower with Mrs. Van der Veen? What happened on the tower?'"

"How did I reply?"

"That you'd met both the previous month. That --- as the lady had already told them --- you were assisting in her investigation into the death of her husband, and such was the reason for your appointment with her. Your account of the events on the tower likewise matched hers."

Anders exhaled in relief. Thank God in his drugged state he'd had the wherewithal to simply adhere to the facts!

"You furthermore told him about finding arsenic in Van der Veen's autopsy specimen but were unable to provide the location of the secured specimen jar. You kept repeating 'April 23'. Once your head is clearer, you'll need to tell them where they can find it."

Anders nodded.

"And now let's get you back to your bed. When it comes time for lunch, you can forgo the uninspiring fare they bring you. I've ordered a meal for us from Delmonico's, to be delivered to my office --- a big filet of beef for you. No --- no protests tolerated. You need to start refurbishing your blood."

*****

Izzy visited him on the ward in the afternoon --- to Anders' happy surprise.

"Dr. Mullenix stopped by the pathology department to let me know you were here," Izzy explained, then quirked an eyebrow eyebrow. "He's not a bad fellow --- for a surgeon."

They had a good conversation. Anders apprised his friend of everything that had happened since they had last talked --- the positive Marsh test on Van der Veen's stomach contents, the location of the specimen jar in the storeroom, and the events on the tower.

In the evening, Mullenix returned to change his bandage and inspect the incision. Happily, the two-and-a-half-inch incision was clean and free of signs of infection. The surgeon also brought him a selection of reading materials including an edition of The New England Journal of Medicine and Surgery, The Saturday Evening Post, and The New York Times.

As the evening lengthened without a hoped-for visit from Ondine, Anders reluctantly accepted a small dose of laudanum to dull the pain enough for him to sleep. Having witnessed the horror of the compulsive draw of narcotics, he had a healthy respect for the drug.

The following morning, after having battled his fatigue with a walk up and down the ward, he returned to his bed to flip through the newspaper. Presently he discovered a photograph of Madison Square Garden tower accompanied by a brief story about the tragedy on Sunday --- the essentials were that the police were still investigating and had not yet disclosed the victim's name. No mention either was there of Ondine or himself. The entire account was odd. Why were the police delaying releasing the story?

For some time, he idly perused the newspaper, the sounds of the nurses and other patients a soft hum in the background --- at length, drowsiness overcame him.

A nurse's voice startled him awake. "Mr. Røkke, there's someone down in the lobby asking for you. Are you feeling strong enough to receive a visitor?"

Ondine! She had come at last! Anders nodded, eagerly sitting up --- too eagerly, for he had to brace himself on the mattress as a wave of shimmering lightheadedness rose and ebbed. Rubbing his jaw, he felt the three days' worth of stubble. Chagrined for her to see him so unkempt and weakened, he endeavored to tidy his hair with his hand.

He swung his legs out and sat on the edge of the bed, thinking it was a more manful posture than lying flat. Then --- looking down at his bare legs below the edge of the hospital gown --- he decided it was too indecorous a manner in which to greet a lady. At last, he settled on sitting cross-legged upon the bed with the blanket over his legs.

"Here's our patient," the nurse said.

Anders looked up, his eyes adjusting to the bright morning sun. Behind the nurse, the figure approaching was not a petite young woman, but a lean, well-dressed young man, hat in hand.

"Norski!" Fulton hastened to his bedside --- an expression upon his face that Anders had never beheld there before --- worry and relief in equal measure. "God damn it! What the hell happened to you?!"

The patient in the adjacent bed opened his eyes and turned towards them. A nurse frowned at Fulton and shook her head.

"Let's go for a walk," Anders said. He eased himself to his feet, waiting for the dizziness to abate.

"Thank God you're alive!" His friend impulsively hugged him.

Anders returned the embrace, holding his injured arm away.

"Jesus, Anders! You're as white as a sheet! And your arm! Your head!" Fulton shrugged out of his fur-trimmed cashmere coat and draped it over Anders' shoulders.

"Thanks. Don't go too fast. I'm weak from blood loss."

They headed towards the hall, Fulton watching him with an anxious expression. "What happened? Did that steamship run you over?"

"I'm not certain. But only this laceration is from that day --- from the boom. The rest is from a fight on Sunday."

"Sunday? So you haven't been in the hospital since the accident?"

Anders shook his head.

"Then where the blazes have you been?! I've been going mad looking for you! So have the Harbor Patrol and Coast Guard! Everyone thought you were dead!"

Anders grimaced wryly. "I've been in hiding. I thought you were trying to kill me."

Fulton halted in mid-stride and stared at him incredulously. "Kill you?! Why would I be trying to kill you?!"

"For a while, I thought you were the person who had poisoned Peter Van der Veen --- I thought you were trying to silence me because I was the only one who knew."

"Why the hell would I have killed Peter Van der Veen? I mean, sure he was a scrub bastard, but I wouldn't have dirtied my hands over him."

"I thought it was because of Ondine."

Fulton blinked, understanding visibly dawning upon his countenance. "Well, blast it. I'm not going to lie and say it didn't rankle something fierce to be bested by a damned lunker. But it was my parents who were pressing me to marry her --- a Cornelissen and everything. They were hoping to boost our social position in New York City."

Anders slowly nodded in comprehension. They resumed walking.

Fulton continued, "Don't misunderstand me --- she's a daisy. Gorgeous as all get-out. And I would have been lucky to marry her. But she's too quiet for me." He grinned. "Besides, you know me --- I like girls with big bubs."

A nurse approaching in the hall cast him a scandalized look and huffed past.

Anders couldn't help returning the grin. "Okay, rasshøl --- then why the devil did you tack without warning?"

"I suddenly spied a floating barrel directly ahead of us --- I acted on reflex. I immediately turned back for you but had to wait till the steamship passed. By then, there was no sign of you. I'm really sorry, Norski." Fulton eyed his scalp. "So that's from the boom hitting you? Is it going to be okay?"

Anders shrugged. "I'll have a scar, mostly covered by my hair."

"But you said you were in the hospital because of a fight? What's that about?"

Pondering the vagueness of the report in the newspaper, Anders decided it was best to be circumspect until he knew what was happening with the investigation. "It's a police matter at this point. I'm not supposed to talk about it."

"What?! The virtuous scholar was involved in a fight that is now a police matter?! You sly Norwegian rum-cove! Were you drinking absinthe again? I can't wait to hear this tale!"

As they continued down the hall, Fulton chattered away --- Anders half listening. Evidently his friend had been back to the brothel they had visited last month and reported that the Swedish girl Ilsa had asked after Anders. Fulton promised to treat him to a night out to make up for what had happened on the boat --- as soon as Anders had recovered from his injuries. They would go to the new show at the Casino Theatre --- Florodora --- it was a slammer. And then they would return to Mrs. Monroe's girl-shop.

Absentmindedly, Anders nodded. He shifted Fulton's warm, wondrously soft coat on his shoulders. A faint scent of cigar smoke and fresh autumn air touched his nostrils --- with a rush of unexpected emotion, he thought with gratitude of the glorious world awaiting outside the hospital, and of his longtime friend animatedly jabbering beside him.