Matthew Henson and the Ice Temple of Harlem Read online

  “Pshaw,” Stafford said. “He was misquoted. Further, my faith in Mr. Hoover is not about me,” Stafford replied. The preacher, a Republican, was working to shore up votes for Hoover in Harlem and beyond. “It’s about the bigger picture.”

  “As is my mission,” Toliver said. “We all want what’s best for negro folk, be they in the city or in the country, in a fine home or humble abode. Indeed, what I’m about is lifting the ones of us, too many by any count, from out of those humble abodes to better living conditions. As it happens, I do believe in working for equality among the races, but not at any expense. Certainly not at the expense of losing our cultural and racial identities.

  “Now let’s be clear, our destinies as is our economics are intertwined. I’m not the only one in this room who consorts with supposed unsavory elements to make sure certain needs are met, such as the soup kitchen staying open or steering parishioners toward sources of loans when the white banks won’t lend.”

  More than one reverend looked away from Toliver.

  “But you would not claim to be a Christian, now do you, Mr. Toliver?” This from a third preacher who was standing in for Reverend Adam Clayton Powell Sr. of the influential Abyssinia Baptist Church. Senior had to be out of town.

  “I have been very clear in this regard. In fact, you can find it in many of my printed speeches and in the book I’m looking to publish next year. I call upon the foundations of various Western, Eastern and African spiritual ways in what I teach.”

  “Heathen beliefs only put us further back,” Blake opined. Setting near him was an elderly pastor who nodded vigorously.

  “And I would counter that we can’t tuck our heads in like turtles and pretend we are safe,” Toliver shot back.

  “Stick our necks out to get our heads chopped off?” Stafford said.

  “I’m not suggesting we spit in the eye of the tiger, gentlemen. I am saying that we must be wary of that tiger and take steps to fortify ourselves. It is shortsighted to think that just because the tiger is busy elsewhere for the moment, the beast won’t be turning its attention back to us at some point. Or rather simply neglect us as well. It is only united the tiger—whoever sits in Washington—will respect us, will listen to us.”

  “Is yours a political movement then, Mr. Toliver?’ asked the third reverend.

  “Whenever more than five of us are in a room at any one time, that’s political,” Toliver answered with a gesture. “Let’s not fool ourselves, my friends. I’ve heard or read your sermons. Yes, you quote scripture and call for men to be good shepherds of their families and make sure you do unto others as you would have done unto you. And yes, you know the right words to speak, the emotions to summon at the funeral of yet another colored man who has died by violence from another colored citizen.”

  Toliver rose as he paused. “But I know what you said about justice being a bill long overdue at the funeral for the boy who died under mysterious circumstances in police custody. He pointed at one of the reverends. “It was in the negro papers that covered the funeral.”

  He continued, pointing at another, “And weren’t you the subtle firebrand at the Urban League conference last year calling for boycotts of stores? That if they don’t hire us, we don’t need to shop there?”

  “That’s simply calling for fair play.”

  “You think Herbert Hoover or that other Hoover, J. Edgar, sees it like that? You think they don’t hear echoes of Garvey in that? Or worse, whisperings from Moscow?”

  Nervous chuckles rippled through the gathered.

  “You do know one of the reasons Garvey was brought down was by one of us, yes?” Toliver had walked to one of the carts to pour some tepid tea.

  “That’s a fanciful rumor,” Blake said.

  “Is it, now?”

  “I know something about this so-called negro agent referred to as 800,” Blake noted. “I believe that he does exist and was used against us. Or that, like a reverse Walter Francis White, he is a Caucasian who passed for mulatto.” The ironically named White, a blue-eyed and blond-haired black man, assistant secretary of the NAACP, used his coloring to infiltrate southern towns after a lynching. He did this to find out the perpetrators of these crimes, and then the perpetrators’ names would be published in issues of the organization’s Crisis Magazine and elsewhere. More than once, whites had found out about a “yellow nigra” poking around and he’d have to get out of town ahead of a lynch mob out to string him up.

  “My point was,” Toliver went on, “speaking out against inequality, seeding black enterprises as some of us in this room do, is enough to get us labeled subversives. We don’t have to be bowler hat-wearing bomb throwers of the type found in Mr. Conrad’s novel.”

  He got blank looks save for Stafford who was familiar with the book he’d mentioned, The Secret Agent.

  Toliver sat again and said, “While in some respects our collective plight as colored citizens keeps us invisible to the powers that be in this country, in other ways, we stick out too much. We can’t let that us paralyze us or push us to foolish and wasteful actions. I assure you, it is not my intention to blow hot air come Saturday night, inflame desires and drift away on the wind. I intend to deliver. More, I look forward to us working together for the betterment of our people and not at cross purposes.”

  The men in the room murmured sagely. After the meeting broke up, several were now either invited to the event or asked to say a few words from the podium. The religious leaders went their separate ways, most returning to their respective houses of worship or to visit a sick and shut-in member of their church.

  Reverend Stafford drove his four-year-old Cole sedan to Blumstein’s department store on 125th—which catered to black folk but didn’t employ any. He parked and entered and on the third floor, the furniture department, and used one of the phone booths in the back. In the booth, door closed, he asked the operator to dial a long distance number he’d committed to memory. The line was answered on the second ring.

  “Hello,” said a quiet voice.

  “This is Reverend Stafford.”

  “Yes…how’d the meeting go?”

  The clergyman proceeded to tell the quiet-voiced man on the other end of the line, a Bureau of Investigation contact, what had transpired. Particularly emphasizing the threat of Daddy Paradise expanding his reach and thereby his influence.

  “And he’s hired that glory-hound Henson to be a kind of bodyguard,” Stafford added.

  “Yes, I’m aware of Henson’s involvement. Go on,” said the voice.

  As the unidentified Agent 800 was said to be the first negro agent of the Bureau of Investigation, T.C. Stafford was one of its first paid black informants, recruited by the previously mentioned 800 less than four years ago. Stafford had provided insider knowledge to aid in the political decapitation of Garvey. The authorities —J. Edgar Hoover playing a pivotal role, had concocted a mail fraud case against Garvey for selling his Black Star Line stock. He’d been imprisoned, but pardoned by President Coolidge after considerable efforts by the United Negro Improvement Association. He was deported back to his native Jamaica.

  “Thank you, Reverend. Keep up the good work,” the government man said, severing the line.

  Stafford went back outside. Whatever guilt he felt for informing on his peers under the guise of patriotism was offset by his jealousy of them and his desire to be the number one leader in Harlem. He would be the top dog, and the citizenry would turn to him for guidance and succor. Not to mention comforting widows and lonely housewives. There was a spring in his step as he walked away.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The three banjo players furiously strummed their instruments as the man on tom-toms beat out a wild rhythm with his padded mallets, his hands and arms a blur of motion and syncopation. As one, the musicians reached a crescendo and the tune climaxed with a resounding flourish. The studio audience applauded and cheered as the banjo players and the man on the drums, each costumed in big furs,
stood and took a bow. Behind them, the rest of the orchestra remained seated, but nodded their heads in acknowledgement. The band was ensconced in what looked like a giant igloo, half of it cut away. There were also several penguin dolls, and a custom made polar bear prop on the stage. Numerous wires led to a control console at one side of the stage where an engineer sat.

  The bandleader was a tallish slender man in a fur hat and fur-fashioned bow tie. He walked to the standing microphone and bent slightly to speak into it. He thanked the musicians then said, “And now we’re going to bring you a swinging rendition of ‘Baby, I Can’t Get Enough of You, Though I’ve Tried’.”

  There was applause as the band went into its final number, and louder still when they finished. “Well, ladies and gentlefolk, that brings to a close another session of the Clicquot Club Eskimos Musical Variety show here on the Blue Network out of the RCA building in the one and only New York City. But before we go, we wanted to once again bring back to the mic the man you heard earlier in our interview segment, the colored man-about-town who is known far and wide on this island of many interesting souls, the one and only Arctic explorer, Matthew Henson.”

  There was more applause as Henson returned to the stage. He wore a blue serge suit, white shirt and black tie.

  “Matthew, before we sign off, is there anything else you’d like to add?”

  “I sure would, Harry. I want to remind the listening audience they can hear my program, Strange Journeys, on WGJZ every Thursday night at seven-fifteen, broadcast from the basement at Smalls’ Paradise. And when you put your stockinged feet up on your ottoman to relax, remember, my friends, to pour yourself a cool, refreshing glass of Clicquot Club Pale Dry Ginger Ale. Made from only the purest ingredients.”

  As Henson’s pitch wound down, the band began playing a swing tune. The band leader gave the audience a half salute and shook Henson’s hand. In the microphone he said, “This has been your head Eskimo, Harry Reser, goodnight and good music.” A clarinet blared over this and the audience clapped again.

  “All reet, Matt.” Reser said, smiling and walking over to his band members.

  Backstage, Destiny Stevenson intercepted him.

  “That was fun,” Stevenson said, giving Henson a peck on the cheek. “Glad you invited me.”

  “I’m happy you liked it,” he said, letting his hand linger atop hers on his arm.

  The stage manager came over. “Hey, Matt, while you were on the air, a call came in for you. They left a number.”

  “Thanks,” he said taking the slip of paper.

  Stevenson twisted her mouth. “Some frail wants you to explore her, huh?”

  He handed her the paper. “You call the number.” He gambled there wasn’t a strange woman on the other end. Though sometimes there was.

  “I will.” She took the paper and she used the house phone to make the call, a local exchange. Pleasantly she said, “Yes, this is Mr. Henson’s assistant returning your call.” She listened, glancing at Henson, her face unreadable. “Well, ah yes, I’m sure he would sir, that is, Mr. Tesla. Tomorrow, yes, uh-huh, yes, I’ll make sure he gets the message and you should expect him then.” She replaced the handset. Stevenson blinked hard. “That was Nikola Tesla.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Yeah, said he wanted to talk to you about your mutual friend, Henrik Ellsmere. Said he’s staying at the Service Hotel on West 27th, and could you come around eleven tomorrow for tea.”

  “You told him I’d be there.”

  “I did. Who hasn’t heard of the man many said really invented radio.” Arm in his she added, “Of course he’d want to see the man who really reached the North Pole first. Who is this Ellsmere?” They’d left the RCA building on the Fifth Avenue side walking toward the subway. They passed a parked tan Chrysler, the driver’s side window down slightly. At the wheel was a white man, fedora pulled low on his head and slumped in his seat as if asleep. A sense of intuition that hadn’t let him down from jungle bars in Nicaragua filled with drunken cutthroats to stalking Siberian snow leopards, told Henson the man was playing possum, but on they went.

  “The shootout the other day had to do with him.” He told her this after they were taken to the precinct, that was the last he’d seen of Ellsmere. He added he and his lawyer were of the opinion Henrik’d been secreted away by the government. If survival in the frozen wilds had taught him anything, it was never become desperate—such clouded your thinking. He’d reckoned the G-men, or whoever snatched the old prof, needed to keep him on ice until they had the Daughter and forced him to unlock her secrets. He was determined though one way or the other, he’d find the old boy.

  The gunman who’d worn the rhino mask winced as he worked the wrist handcuffed to the head of the metal bed. He’d been the thug Officer Rodgers wounded. He was mortified he’d been shot, and caught, by a coon cop. There was going to be no living it down among his drinking buddies. Just thinking about it made the wound in his side hurt.

  Thus far he’d clammed up when the cops had come to question him. Being in the hospital ward, they couldn’t pour on the third degree, and he was getting healthier every day. But he hadn’t seen no mouthpiece from his employer, so how loyal was a guy supposed to be? The gunman, like the other men in the animal masks, had been brought in from out of town. Less chance they could be traced to the boss if one got caught. That meant, at this point the cops hadn’t tumbled to his record and backtracked him. He was ruminating on the best course to take when the door opened to his private room. Until this morning, he’d been in a room with three other wounded prisoners, but had been transferred to this one earlier today. On the wall next to him was a barred glass window overlooking the city beyond.

  “How you doing?” One of the two newcomers said as they entered and closed the door. They positioned themselves of either side of his bed. Like that Mutt & Jeff comic strip, the hood reflected, one was tall and the other short, but built like a human bulldog, his muscles bulging against the fabric of his suit’s sleeves.

  “You two aren’t regular cops,” he announced. Their shoes were too shiny, and their shirts starched. He snapped the fingers of his free hand. “Government boys, ain’t ya?

  “Perceptive,” the tall one said to the other. He had a brown fedora, the other a green snap-brim hat. Though their faces and bodies were different, their manner seemed as if they’d been stamped from one mold with individualistic variations applied by bored workers as they came off the government-issue assembly line.

  “Smoke?” Snap-brim offered, shaking a cigarette free from a pack.

  “Sure,” he said, taking it and putting it in his mouth. The other one struck a match and lit it for him. He blew a stream toward the foot of his bed. “What can I do you fellas for?”

  “Who paid you to put the grab on the professor?” Fedora asked.

  “I’d like to help you, even if I knew what you were talking about, but I ain’t squawking, get me?”

  The two men exchanged a look. Fedora talked as snap-brim lit a cigarette. “We’re going to find out sooner or later and you might as well do yourself some good, here. Or maybe you like the idea of wearing stripes in Sing Sing for the next thirty years.”

  The cigarette paused on its way to the hood’s mouth. “Hey, I don’t know what you two are trying to pull, but you got it all wrong. When my lawyer gets here, he’ll straighten it out.”

  “Your lawyer?” Fedora said. “What makes you think you got an ambulance chaser coming?”

  Snap-brim stood near the door, his back to the bed. Rivets were driven into the door holding a metal plate in place. He looked out the rectangle of glass set in it. Then back at the man in the bed.

  “I just know, okay?” The thug insisted.

  “Yeah, he just knows, you know?’ Snap-brim had walked back to the foot of the bed, cigarette bobbing between his thin lips.

  “Like a soothsayer?” Fedora shot back.

  “Right,” his companion, said, “like
he can see the future.”

  “He see this coming?” Fedora slapped a hand over the hood’s mouth. Snap-brim grabbed one of the man’s ankles and pressed the tip of his lit cigarette against the sole of his bare foot. The trapped man’s eyes got wide and he squirmed and thrashed as the cigarette was pulled back then stabbed onto another part of his foot, sizzling his flesh.

  “Now give us the fuckin’ name, punk,” Fedora seethed. With his other hand he’d jerked the prisoner’s free hand and wrist through the bars of the bed, wrenching on them as the calm snap-brim burned the hoodlum’s feet.

  On the subway heading to the rent party, Henson told Stevenson more about his friend the professor.

  “Destiny, words can’t accurately describe what it’s like out there in the never-night, no landmarks in front of you or over your head like with the stars. Maybe a gale wailing about you, rattling your bones in a cold that seeps into your brain. And after what we’d been through, well, Henrik sort of broke down on the trip home.”

  “He was put away?”

  “For a while. He got out though, went back to Europe as I understand it. But eventually found his way to the States.” He paused. “Now and then I’d hear from him, but we lost touch.”

  “He was with you when you brought back a meteorite? A rock from space.”

  “A several ton hunk of iron ore, baby.”

  “Aren’t you just the he-man This place was non-descript, some of its brick exposed behind missing plaster. They could hear music coming from upstairs as they entered the vestibule door, which was ajar. Up they went to the third-floor, where the hallway crowded with revelers, the smell of collard greens and a trumpet trilled from one of the open doorways.

  “Two bits apiece, please,” said a woman in a feathered turban and sequined dress.

  Henson let a dollar bill drop into her proffered top hat. “Here you go, ma’am.”