Matthew Henson and the Ice Temple of Harlem Page 8

  Well, Henson concluded, unbuttoning his shirt, he had known this might happen if he came to see her. His duty required much of him, he reasoned with a crooked grin. DeHavilin was now only wearing one of her long scarves she’d wrapped partly around her, waving an end at Henson as she came over and let him take her in his strong arms. She nibbled his bare chest.

  They made athletic love on and off the couch. On a wall behind them was a photo of Henson, Commander Peary, two of his Eskimo friends and fellow explorers, Ootah and his brother Egingwah, a now deceased man named Jason Leeward, and DeHavilin. They were all dressed in furs and standing before an outcropping of ice. It appeared that snow was falling. The photo was a fake, taken at a photographer’s studio in Brooklyn against a backdrop. DeHavilin, a coal and gas robber baron’s widow, had been an investor in one of the North Pole attempts. Everyone was smiling in the picture, in on the joke.

  Sometime later as they lounged, Henson picked up a medallion that was a twin to the one he’d found in Ellsmere’s room. It was sticking out from underneath a magazine. “You’ve got one of these, too?”

  “Yes, Hugo gave those out as party favors at that function I was at.”

  “You remember seeing the professor there?” He described him and the self-same medallion he’d found.

  “Can’t say I do, but that doesn’t mean anything. There was any number of people there that evening. One of the Rothschilds, my friend Elaine from the Carnegie Foundation, even that flamboyant Daddy Paradise made an appearance.”

  “Did he, now?” The two were clothed again and the drapes were open. Sunlight slanted across their forms through the large windows. “You know him?”

  “A little, why?” She chewed on a strawberry and had more wine.

  “He’s back in town to give a big speech at Liberty Hall.”

  “Yes, someone from the magazine is going to interview him afterward.”

  “Are you going to the talk?”

  “‘Fraid not, my sweet. I’ve been invited to an excursion to Cuba with Ernest Hemingway, among others, and we’re leaving Thursday. You’re more than welcome to come along. I won’t smother you too much.”

  “Can’t get away.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “You wouldn’t be thinking about renewing your acquaintance with that fly girl now that me and my big mouth mentioned she was around?”

  “Me and Bessie don’t know each other like that.” He wondered if DeHavilin knew about Daddy Paradise’s involvement with Queenie St. Clair. But he decided to confine his conversation to the institute.

  “Does Renwick’s outfit have an office?”

  “No, but do you want me to see if I can get you an introduction?”

  “Not at the moment, but thanks.” He didn’t want to be too beholden to her. Not that he minded their occasional rolls in the hay, but Lacy DeHavilin had a habit of taking up hobbies and soon getting bored with them. He didn’t want to put himself in that kind of position. Then, too, it was probably better to see if he could come at the institute and they were unaware of him.

  “This party Renwick had, was that to raise money?”

  She stretched and yawned. “One isn’t so crass in certain circles my dear fellow,” she teased, putting on a British accent. “You don’t put the bite on, as it were. These things are done to float projects out there and see who among your fellow swells might call you later, invite you to the club to discuss these notions more, you see.”

  “Hmm,” he mused.

  “That’s why he had Mr. Tesla there. He was speaking about some of his ideas and how they could benefit society.”

  “Nikola Tesla?”

  “The one and only.”

  She’d made coffee and Henson finished his cup. “This has been very enlightening, Lacy.” He quickly added, winking at her, “And enjoyable.”

  “Don’t be a stranger.” She leaned over to take his face in her hands and kiss him.

  “Never.”

  He rose and, kissing her good-bye, left the brownstone. It was past two in the afternoon and it was if he had been in a cocoon of bliss and was now tossed back into the harsh world. The sounds of cars and trucks motoring, their horns bleating, street cars clanging and a jackhammer pulverizing concrete at the end of the block greeted him. Maybe he should rethink things and see what it would be like to be a kept man for a while.

  “Aw, where would the fun be in that?” He chuckled and walked away.

  At a diagonal from his receding form, a golden-hued young woman with pronounced cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes watched him as he walked away. Thereafter she returned to her car. Built into the dash of the otherwise unremarkable car was a radio. This wasn’t unusual, Chevrolet had introduced a car radio for listening to what few radio stations there were several years prior. And the police in Detroit had been experimenting with radios where crimes in progress could be broadcast from the precinct on a narrow bandwidth to patrol cars, thus ensuring a speedy response in the efforts to apprehend lawbreakers.

  This radio, though, was much different. It was ahead of its time. Like in an aircraft, it allowed for two-way communication but didn’t require a row of batteries under the seats, though the car did have a long antenna on a spring attached to the rear bumper. From the glovebox she produced a portable microphone, which looked like a smaller version of a stage microphone with a thick wire leading from it. She plugged this into an outlet on the radio. The woman turned it on and when it warmed up, tuned to a specific frequency and spoke into it.

  “Come in, Naygoohock, come in,” said the woman, depressing a button on the radio panel. “This is Petersen. Come in. This is Petersen.” She released the button to receive.

  “Yes, it’s me,” came a crackly voice.

  “I’ve been stationed at Lacy DeHavilin’s as advised. Matthew Henson came to see her today.” She hesitated, then went on, “He stayed there some time. I believe we’ll have an opportunity to get in her house as she’s made arrangements to leave town this Thursday.”

  “Very good. I’ll let Jimmy know. Return to your first assignment, please.”

  “Very well, Naygoohock.” She shut off the device and disconnected the microphone. She placed it back in the glovebox, next to a revolver, and closed the lid.

  That evening one of the swells who’d attended the dinner party for the Weldon Institute and an acquaintance of Lacy DeHavilin’s was out on the town. One of his stops was the Cotton Club. This gentleman, scion of a Canadian timber fortune, liked it that the Club was strict in its Black Code policies—the way things should be, to his way of thinking. He could clap and enjoy the fevered antics of black dancers and musicians, but not have to rub elbows with the likes of them at the tables. The finest in black entertainment presented in a place designed along the lines of a grand southern plantation. Terrific. You could be in Harlem but not have to really be in Harlem. He could let loose and not have to worry about conversing with one of them. Oh, he probably could find something of interest to talk to a Langston Hughes or an Aaron Douglas—it wasn’t as if he didn’t enjoy their work. But it was so tiresome to invariably have to hear some variation of the Negro Problem as such conversing always seemed to wind around to. That had certainly been his experience in the couple of soirées he’d attended put on by that Van Vechten chap.

  The man smiled, slipping his arm around the waist of an intriguing young woman named Myra something or another. Duke Ellington’s band was playing a rendition of “Love Me or Leave Me,” a rather tall woman with honey-colored skin on the vocals. He’d met this Myra before at some function and recalled she’d spent time in the Orient. Spoke Chinese if his memory served. Her hair smelled great.

  Not too far away, his brownstone was in the process of being burglarized. The thief was in dark clothes and climbed the side of the building like a human spider. Closer examination revealed he was wearing specially-designed gloves where each finger and the thumb had a metal extension. These were made from hand-ro
lled steel and were flexibly hinged with custom made ball bearings and wiring. Drawing his hand back and then digging into the side of the red-bricked facade, he found grip in the grout between the bricks. He could accomplish this death-defying feat due to his being in tip-top physical condition aided by custom crampons strapped to his shoes. He had a lot of experience doing such at night with little or no light. Also, he’d cased the home previously during the day. The burglar quickly reached the third story. He was on the rear of the building, and from this area, had little chance of being seen given the back of another brownstone was opposite. Except for the ground floor, there were no windows on this side. He wasn’t worried about leaving evidence of how he’d climbed. He wasn’t going to leave finger or footprints.

  He stopped at the third story—this was the riskiest part of his planned criminal entry. He had to go around to the front where there was a balcony. But as the street was a semi-private cul-de-sac, there wasn’t much foot traffic at this hour. Perched at the corner of the building, he scanned the street and then, moving with quick assuredness, clambered over the front and dropped down onto the balcony. From around his chest he removed the strap to his messenger bag and dropped the gloves and crampons inside. The latch on the French windows to the balcony was easy to overcome, and the thief stepped into Levering’s study. He closed the curtained windows and affixed the miner’s lamp to his head, switching on the battery-powered light. The version he wore wasn’t available commercially. It had been designed by his associate. In this way he was able to move about the room with both hands free. Downstairs the maid and butler had retired for the evening. He had no intention of causing them to come upstairs.

  He moved silently to the standing safe, a sturdy cast-iron Marsh in the corner of the room. The safe was nearly five feet tall and looked like it could withstand a direct black from a stick of dynamite, there was no effort to disguise its presence. But the thief, a master cracksman having grown up around safes as a younger man, had an intricate knowledge of their makes and manufacturers. He wasn’t going to use brute force to gain its secrets. There was a sound in the hallway. He stopped mid-stride, listening, what looked like a rubber ball suddenly in his palm. If somebody did come in, there was sleeping powder in the ball and he would squirt the stuff in their face. He also had a sap and a gun, but he didn’t think it would come to that. There was no other sound and he resumed his thievery.

  Taking a knee at the safe, he removed a one-of-a-kind drill from one of his hidden pockets in his coat. It was diamond-tipped and powered by batteries, made by the same inventor who’d produced his advanced headlamp. The thief, now wearing supple gloves, proceeded to drill a hole in the safe’s door to the right of the dial after using a ruler to mark exactly where he wanted to drill. There was little noise as the heavy bit wormed its way into the door. The shavings fell, glittering, to the thick carpet. A part of the tumbler mechanism was revealed. His headlamp illuminated the now-exposed inner works, he began working the dial, a stethoscope with a suction cup to hold the listening end in place.

  He soon had the combination and got the door open. He rummaged through stacks of cash, bonds, and a box of men’s gold rings and pearls that must have been a family heirloom. These expensive items were not his target. Instead the scion who was out dancing kept certain documents detailing various holding companies, boards of directors and the like in the safe. This is what the thief had been sent to document. Taking them might alert the men mentioned in those papers. Men who were part of a group the thief and his associate wanted as much information on as possible. The burglar took a compact box camera from his messenger bag and photographed the pages, shinning a light from his headlamp on those sheets. These he put these back where he’d gotten them, and then took the money and jewels to cover his true purpose. Before he left, he affixed a grey diamond shaped piece of paper to the safe. His eyes twinkled with amusement.

  Feeling bold, he didn’t go back the way he’d come, but went to the stairs and listened. Down he went. Midway between the second floor and the first, he heard the faint creak of hinges from the kitchen. The maid exiting her quarters. A light came on, drawers opened and closed, feet shuffled across smooth tiles. A midnight snack was in the offing. From this angle, if she were at the doorway to the kitchen, and it was open, she’d see him sneak out. Taking two quick breaths, he finished going down the stairs and, taking a glance back, saw the door remain closed. He used a tiny can of oil to squirt the hinges of the door. The door opened silently, and out he went into the night and his car parked three blocks away. The vehicle was a swept wing MG J2 with the overhead camshaft eliminated in favor of a pushrod unit for greater power and torque.

  The British import was not a working person’s car and, truth be told, the professional at the wheel, the thief with a purpose, Jimmie Dale, had not known backbreaking labor. He had, however, put his freedom and life on the line numerous times in pursuit of justice for the common man and woman. Those who had to toil and strain in factory jobs and in the fields to make those of his ilk richer. His spite for the class into which he was born was further fueled by uncovering, in his youth, a direct ancestor who made his fortune in the north as one of the largest slave traders. A man who had essentially bought off a coastal town to cover his crimes and fabricate a false image as an industrialist. Literal blood money was passed down in the Dale family and used to start businesses, including that of the thief’s father.

  His father had not known the truth, but once the younger Dale knew, he couldn’t ignore history. He’d found out after he’d first begin cracking safes for fun—not taking anything, because he didn’t need the money. Testing himself against the reaches of the authorities. But then he was blackmailed by a woman he at first only knew as Toscin, then later, when they fell in love, as Marie LaSalle. She knew of his crimes and cajoled him into using his skill to expose a crime ring and other nefarious undertakings. Then Toscin told him about his ancestor, producing the proof. He had no moral choice but to dedicate himself to atoning for that wrong. It was through Marie that he met his recent cohort in his extra-curricular activities, Nikola Tesla. Certainly, he was an enigmatic sort. But his obsession with besting Edison had dovetailed with Dale and Marie’s goal of exposing and bringing down the collaboration of the well-heeled and members of the government subverting the Constitution for their own end.

  Driving home, Dale passed the St. James Club on Fifth Avenue. He was a member, as had been his late father. Several of the men on the papers he’d photographed that night were also members. He smiled ruefully, knowing he would soon be burglarizing a few of their homes and offices as well.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The following day at the Garden of the Redeemer Church on 135th Street a charged discussion took place. The edifice took up a good stretch of the block between Broadway and Amsterdam Avenue and had been designed by black architect Vertner Tandy. He was one of the seven founders of the Alpha Phi Alpha fraternity at Cornell University and the first registered negro architect of New York. His most famous building was arguably Madam C.J. Walker’s Harlem mansion Villa Lewaro. While the church was not as opulent as the mansion, it nonetheless had its charms—from its Gothic spire reaching heavenward to the eye-catching presence of a single, hexagonal-shaped stained-glass window on the second story overlooking the thoroughfare. At the curb below various cars were parked as a meeting was taking place in the Library of Reflection. It was a large room where one wall was devoted floor-to-ceiling to books on the study of the Christian faith. There were plush chairs, couches, a conference table and a standing globe in the room, as well.

  The gathering was informal, the men seated in the chairs or on the couches. The furniture having been arranged by staff so that no matter where you sat, you could see the others. There were also several teacarts which held that beverage, as well as pots of coffee and sugar cookies on bone china plates. The attendees were various clergymen of certain standing in Harlem, San Juan Hill, and a few other sections of the c
ity there to have a sit down with Charles Toliver, aka Daddy Paradise. Ostensibly, it was about his upcoming Lift up the Race speech at Liberty Hall. But the spiritualist and the men who’d asked him here today knew what this really was about was his probable expansion into New York City. And while no women were in attendance, it was through Miriam McNair and the Garden of the Redeemer’s women’s auxiliary that this meeting was brokered.

  “For surely there are more than enough souls to save,” Toliver was saying, a smile on his composed face.

  “This is not about us protecting territory, Charles, like in some wild west town,” said Reverend Blake of the Second Ethological African Methodist Church further south on Amsterdam. He was a sturdy-built individual with a mane of black hair turning silver. “It’s about what you espouse.”

  “I’m not here to pretend to be something I’m not. I don’t put on artifice as if sent directly from the heavens above.” He gestured over his head. “I will tell you freely I was born of man and woman,” Toliver continued. “And I, like you, will return to the dust when it’s time for me to depart this mortal plane. I do not ask of my flock to ascribe to me anything more than what men can be to other men. An example in some ways and not in others. We must learn from one another. I claim no superhuman nor supernatural affectations, as do some we shall not name today.”

  “This is more about not putting the bullseye back on us,” another reverend, T.C. Stafford, said. He was a stout man and had enjoyed more than his share of the sugar cookies. “Matters have quieted down since the Garvey situation, and that’s a good thing for our people moving forward.”

  Toliver, who sat on the couch, crossed one leg over the other—the creases in his pant legs impeccable. “You think if your man Hoover wins the election in November, he’s going to deliver the goods? Or maybe you’ll see some sort of post out of your good work. This is a man who has talked openly about making the Grand Ole’ Party lily white for goodness sake.”