Matthew Henson and the Ice Temple of Harlem Page 4

  Dr. Henrik Ellsmere, product of an Old-World upbringing and education in his native Austria at the University of Vienna and the Graz University of Technology, lecturer at Cambridge and Princeton, rose in his ratty pajama bottoms and undershirt, scratching at himself. He bent down to the mattress, turning his head this way and that, sure there were bedbugs, but like every morning, saw no evidence save the little red bites on his body. There were a lot of cats prowling around here—it had to be fleas, he glumly concluded. In the small room was one table. On this was a raft of loose sheets of paper, spilling onto the floor. The pages were filled with Ellsmere’s calculations and projections in his precise numbers and letters in pencil.

  After a trip to the bathroom at the end of the hall, he picked up his notes, seeking to put them in rough order. Maybe next week he’d give up laudanum, as he felt a belt or two of the wonderful elixir might provide the key to his formulations. No, he resolved yet again, he must be strong. A sound caused him to look up from his papers. The sash in the window leading to the fire escape was being raised by a tiger.

  He blinked hard, worried that the hangover from the laudanum was playing with his mind. Ellsmere realized it was a man in a coat and hat, wearing a tiger mask, bright orange with black stripes like what would be worn at a Halloween party, held in place by a rubber band attached to either side. The hat was pushed up on his head. The Tiger Man came into the room

  “All right, prof, you’re coming with me, and don’t give me no guff.” He was large, over six-two, and the bunching around the material of his coat sleeves told Ellsmere this was a muscular individual indeed. He advanced on the older man, blocking the window. The only other way out was the door, and the man would be on him in two bounds should he try and run. And how far would he get anyway? He was old and had arthritis in a knee. This man would be on him like a fish monger’s cat on a mouse. The Tiger Man had worn a prophetic disguise.

  “Look here, my good man,” he began, realizing he was speaking in German—he tended to revert to his native language under stress. Continuing in English, he said, “I’m in the middle of most important work and have no time for circus hijinks or whatever this is.”

  “Come on, big brain, this won’t hurt a bit. It’ll be over before you know it.”

  “Let me get dressed first, please.”

  “Okay, you do that. But no funny business.” He glanced around the room. “Jeez, what a dump. I’m doing you a favor taking you out of here.”

  “Yes, sir.” His pants were draped over a chair, as was his shirt. He dressed, put on his shoes and then stepped to the chesterfield, picking up a hair brush.

  “Okay, Casanova, let’s go,” the Tiger Man said impatiently. “Ain’t no chorus girls where I’m taking you.” A cigarette he’d lit dangled from the slot in his feline mask. He ground it out on the floor to join other black spots there.

  Ellsmere had combed back his tangle of hair, regarding himself in the mirror as if he cared about this appearance. He turned from the dresser toward the door.

  “This way,” said the masked man, jabbing a thumb at the window. My jalopy’s in the alley.”

  Ellsmere walked up, breaking a glass capsule he’d taken from the dresser against the man’s cheek. A plume of green smoke arose from the shards, briefly enveloping the Tiger Man’s head

  “The hell,” the masked man yelled. “You want it rough, you got it, chump. He grabbed the smaller man by the shoulders in his meaty hands. “I gotta bring you back alive, but you’re gonna be minus a couple of teeth for acting smart.” As he said this, a weakness spread through his arms. His grip went lax.

  “Hey, what gives?” he wobbled as he tried to get closer to the retreating Dr. Ellsmere. But try as he might, his limbs were suddenly incapable of use.

  “I keep a few of my prototypes around,” the older man crowed. “This is a tough neighborhood, after all.”

  “You lousy little…come back here.” Tiger Man tried to get his arms up, but they only flopped at his sides. He took a step and went down face-first. He managed to raise his head, the pieces of his cracked mask held in place by his sweat. “I’m gonna fix you good,” he promised, wiggling his upper body in an effort to ris—but to no effect.

  It was like watching the contortions of an armless bear, Ellsmere noted, chuckling nervously. “Of that I have no doubt my large friend, if I were to wait around for my concoction to wear off.” He gathered several more items from the dresser and put them in his pockets. Notes in hand, he rushed out of the door, Tiger Man cursing at him. A man that size and weight, the paralyzing gas would soon wear off. But he was grateful this forced field test showed it worked as he’d estimated. He wasn’t quite ready yet, but he had to find Matthew Henson.

  Down in the street, Ellsmere walked briskly away from the Beaumont. He crossed the alley, seeing the Tiger Man’s car parked there. He chided himself for not taking the keys from the thug’s pocket, but didn’t think it was a good idea to double back now. Maybe the goon was still immobile, but he could also possibly have use of his big arms and fists this time on him. He caught a streetcar and headed to Harlem.

  Elsewhere Queenie St. Clair and Venus Melenaux got out of a silver and grey Duesenberg in front of the Palmetto Ambulance and Funeral Service on Seventh Avenue—what some called the Black Broadway of Harlem. The Service occupied a garage where the vehicles were stored and maintained, as well as a two-story structure to the side where the funeral parlor, its display and prep rooms and such, occupied the ground floor. There were offices and a private apartment on the second floor.

  Upstairs the two entered the main office. Set on St. Clair’s desk was a tray containing a pot of steaming tea and two china cups. Melenaux poured for both as St. Clair removed her toque and hung it from a hook on the standing coat rack. Meleneaux wore stylish men’s cuffed pants, a sweater and a beret which she did not remove. She also had a desk in the office, and took her tea over to that one. There was a phone on each desk—each an unlisted number was not widely known. The morning totals from their collectors, those who took in the monies from runners, were already starting to come in and it was only a little after eight. The runners had regular routes and took money, coins and the occasional dollar bill, and wrote down the numbers from the bricklayers, maids, seamstresses, cake makers and bellhops on their way to their jobs. The previous day’s figures would be posted in the newspapers by 10 A.M.

  While some policy chieftains wanted to know the initial takes, and had their collectors use the phone, calling in using worked-out code words in place of numbers, St. Clair knew from her police contacts that the cops could listen in on such conversations. Codes were meant to be cracked. She relied on her collectors, who might be the bootblack in a barbershop or operating a cigar and candy stand in the lobby of a hotel, secreting the money away under the floor and what have you. They did not write down sums on slips of paper, and therefore did not have to memorize them or be prepared to eat the paper should the cops approach. The collectors, in turn, would wait until the late afternoon and turn in their money at specific locations where the finals were counted by a coterie of middle-aged women overseen by Meleneaux.

  The women, some of them widows, some of them having been injured doing factory work, had been recruited through personal contacts, garden clubs and even artistic appreciation associations. It was a safe way for them to make some earnings, or raise money for their groups. Each location was under the direct auspices of one of her hoods to ensure the peace. St. Clair understood everyone enjoyed a little larceny. To ensure that her collectors weren’t skimming off the top, St. Clair would randomly tell a certain number of runners each week to write down the amounts they turned in to any one collector.

  As all this required organization, including paying off patrolmen and their higher-ups to keep looking the other way. There was also keeping track of things like peoples’ birthdays—small things like that kept her employees happy. So, the two women were busy at their respective desks wi
th paperwork, notes, directing this or that person over the phone to follow through on a particular task and the like. At one point the assistant funeral director, a pudgy individual with a balding pate, came in with the morning mail for St. Clair. “Thank you, Herman,” she said to him. “After lunch Mr. Riordan will be stopping by.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said departing.

  Reaching the part of town where he knew Henson resided, Ellsmere realized he didn’t have an address for him. “Once again, getting my carts before the horses,” he muttered, shaking his head. He found a phone booth in the lobby of a theater.

  “Dammit,” he muttered, not finding a listing for Henson in the phone book. Back on the street, he saw two men laughing and talking in front of a luggage shop and interrupted them.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I’m trying to find Matthew Henson.”

  “That explorer fella?” One asked. He was smoking a cigarette.

  “Yes, do you know where he lives?”

  He looked at his companion who stared blankly back at him. “No, can’t say I do.” He blew smoke into the air.

  “Say,” the other one said, snapping his fingers. “Don’t he have that radio show he does?”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” his friend agreed. “Talks about different places he’s been and what not. What do you call it, aw, my old lady listens to it.”

  “Where does he broadcast this show?” Ellsmere asked. A car screeched around the near corner and he looked at it approach anxiously. It went past without incident.

  “Ah,” began the other one, “I think it only comes on once a week or something like that.”

  “Where?” Ellsmere repeated impatiently.

  The man with the cigarette narrowed his eyes as smoke clouded them. “Why you so eager to find Henson, huh? You, what do you call it, anarchist?”

  “I believe that is my concern, sir.”

  “Go on with you, old man,” cigarette man’s friend said, swiping his hand through the air.

  Ellsmere grunted, departing and talking to himself “Don’t get agitated, keep your head,” he said. “These fools don’t know what I know.”

  The professor was overheard by a woman who was placing oranges in their display tray in front of her and her husband’s tidy grocery store. She glared at the gaunt white man whose longish white hair was once again haloing about his head. The woman had just had an argument wither husband over his indulgence in playing the numbers, and not winning, and she was not in a good mood.

  “Who you callin’ fool?”

  Ellsmere ignored her and kept walking. She wasn’t satisfied and followed him down the street, pointing a finger at him, an orange in her other hand. “I said, who you callin’ a fool?”

  The scientist looked around, frowning. “Madam, I have much more important matters to attend to than your prattling. That is unless you can tell me where Matthew Henson can be found. If not, please be away with you.”

  “Me, gone?” she yelled. “Seems to me you the one who should be gone.”

  Their elevated conversation garnered attention from several people as the woman got closer, gesticulating at Ellsmere. “Who are you to come around here disrupting business and commerce? Why you want with Mr. Henson, huh? What’s he to you? You working for that backstabbing Admiral Peary?”

  Wearily, Ellsmere said, “Robert Peary has been dead some eight years, madam, and he was not an admiral. Now really, be off with you.”

  “What did you say to me?”

  “Be away with you, woman,” he said, raising his voice, too. “Business you say? I am on important business that is far beyond your comprehension.”

  “Oh, I’m stupid, am I?”

  Ellsmere had already turned back and said over his shoulder, “You said it, not me.”

  A man in rolled up sleeves stepped in front of Ellsmere as murmuring rose around him.

  “Maybe you figure we’re all stupid up here, with your high and mighty ways?”

  “Sir, I implore you, I must be allowed to get on with my task at hand.”

  “Oh, I got a task for you.”

  “Okay, break it up,” demanded a new voice.

  Heads turned toward a black patrolman making his way through the knot of people. The rows of brass buttons prominent on his dark blue tunic. His billy club remained sheathed.

  “Office Rodgers, this man obviously isn’t from here, and is spouting insults and nonsense,” the grocer said.

  “That is not so,” Ellsmere said. “I have merely come to this community—as I said—to find Matthew Henson. An old acquaintance of mine, I might add.”

  “Hmph,” the woman huffed. “Yet you don’t seem to know where your old friend is, do you?”

  “A minor molehill you are turning into a mountain,” he retorted.

  She stepped toward him and Rodgers got his hand between them. “Look, you come with me, and we’ll see about you and Matthew Henson.”

  “Are you arresting me, officer?”

  “I’m cooling things off, mister. Now come on.” Rodgers was a good-sized individual, grey eyes in a brown-skinned face. His cap sat square over his close-cropped black hair.

  Ellsmere hesitated but what choice did he have he decided. “Very well.”

  “And don’t come back,” the grocer said, earning a few chuckles.

  “Do you know about Matthew Henson’s radio broadcast?” he asked the cop as they walked away.

  “Yeah, he does it from Smalls’ Paradise on Thursdays.”

  They passed a newsie hawking copies of the Herald. “Extree, extree, grandmother kills burglar with ice pick. Extree, extree, grandma kills burglar with ice pick. Herald, get yer Herald right here.” He shouted, waving a folded over newspaper over his head.

  How’s it going Henry?” the cop asked the newsie.

  Okay, Officer Rodgers,” young Henry Davenport said as he continued selling his papers.

  “Oh dear, I’m afraid I can’t wait that long for him to show up there.”

  “You won’t have to. I’m taking you to May-May’s.”

  “What would that be?’

  “A hash house where he often has his lunch.” Henson also got his messages there but he didn’t add that.

  “Ah, well then.”

  Rodgers regarded the odd white man, but this wasn’t the first time some outsider had come uptown in search of the explorer. Less than a month ago, he’d directed a writer doing a “where are they now” story for Look magazine to May-May’s. But this fried egg, he figured it better to escort him personally least he start a ruckus.

  On Lenox Avenue near 132rd Street, past a narrow doorway where a placard in the window announced the services of herbalist and spiritualist Brother Morris, an unlit neon sign read in big script “May-May’s Downhome Diner”, and in smaller lettering, “Savory Cooking”. As it was still before lunch, there was only a handful of customers inside the establishment.

  “My, that smells good,” Ellsmere said, taking in the aroma.

  “Uh-huh,” Rodgers said, wondering if maybe this guy wasn’t a hobo on the make. He stirred him toward the horseshow-shaped counter. “Have a seat.”

  “Will Henson be coming in soon?”

  “I have no idea, but I’m going to get the proprietor over here. Sit tight.”

  Ellsmere sat, and the patrolman went around the far end of the counter out of sight. Momentarily, he returned with a handsome copper-skinned woman in an apron walking on the inside of the counter area.

  At a table in the corner, two men enthusiastically discussed why the Yankees starting lineup didn’t hold a candle to the likes of Satchel Paige and Josh Gibson of the Negro Leagues’ Black Barons and Homestead Grays.

  “Shame they don’t let ‘em play in the majors,” one lamented.

  The other man concurred, pouring even more sugar in his lukewarm coffee. “You know some of our boys have been going down to Mexico to play. Got an owner down there don’t mind the
color.”

  “Yeah?” his companion said.

  “May, this here gent says he’s a professor and has to see Matthew,” Rodgers said back at the counter.

  “He does, does he?” May Maynard asked. She was tall, dark-skinned and sharp eyed.

  “I was on one of his expeditions,” Ellsmere said, telling her his name. Yet, despite his eagerness to prove himself, he held back from mentioning it had been the second expedition, the one to retrieve the largest of the meteorites in Greenland. Keep your tongue still, he admonished himself.

  She crossed her arms. “Like we haven’t heard that before.” She looked over at Rodgers. “Remember that one who said the ghost of the admiral had sent him with a message for Matthew?”

  “I am in full possession of my faculties, Miss May.”

  She and the cop exchanged a look. Then, “Let me make a call or two.” Pointing a short-nailed finger at Ellsmere she said, “But if you act up, bother any of my customers, I’ll put a rolling pin upside your head, understand?”

  He dipped his head slightly. “Most assuredly, my dear Madam.”

  “My dear indeed,” she said, turning about and walking back to the swing doors fronting the kitchen.

  “I’ll leave you to it.” Rodgers touched the brim of his cap and left the restaurant.

  Not far away, Henson entered a cramped space where several gamblers were engaged in a boisterous game of craps. Sweat, stale food and sour breaths made the air in here eye-watering.

  “Six is the point,” said a man in a gabardine coat.

  “Six you mother, six,” said another, a burly individual jiggling a pair of dice in his hand. In his other, he held several dollar bills tighter than he’d hold his hand around the waist of his sweetheart. He blew on his hand and rolled the dice across a green felt table.. Double threes came up amid cries of joy and disappointment.