MATTHEW HENSON
AND THE ICE TEMPLE OF HARLEM
GARY PHILLIPS
The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Gary Phillips
Cover and jacket design by Chuck Regan
ISBN 978-1-947993-86-0
eISBN: 978-1-951709-24-2
Library of Congress Control Number: tk
First trade paperback edition July 2020 by Agora Books
An imprint of Polis Books, LLC
44 Brookview Lane
Aberdeen, NJ
PolisBooks.com
Losing your way on a journey is unfortunate. But, losing your reason for the journey is a fate more cruel.
H.G. Wells
CHAPTER ONE
Her tiny eyes blinked rapidly behind the heavy lenses of her glasses. She was on tiptoe looking through the peephole. “Yes?” she asked, frowning. Then, gasping in disbelief, “My goodness, you’re…him?” she exclaimed.
“I am, ma’am,” said the voice familiar to many Harlemites.
“Bless your heart,” she replied. “Me and a few of my friends from our ladies’ auxiliary enjoyed that talk and slide show about the ancient library at Timbuktu you gave at First Baptist last year.”
“Thank you. Would you mind if I used your living room window?”
“Oh, yes, yes, come on in, Mr. Henson.” She unlatched the door and opened it wide. The elderly light-skinned black woman wore a quilted housecoat and slippers.
Matthew Henson wasn’t particularly tall. But at a shade under six feet and what with his sturdy build, he gave the impression of being larger as he regarded the older woman’s modest apartment. The diaphanous curtains were ironed, and bright white doilies were scattered about. There was a built-in sideboard containing what he presumed were the dishes and silverware only brought out for her ladies’ auxiliary meetings.
“You look loaded for bear,” she said, eyes wide behind her glasses, noting his appearance. He filled the doorway in his workingman’s clothes, a rope knotted at intervals connected to a grapple coiled around his substantial chest. There was also an ice axe, an ulu in the Inuktitut language, a small utility knife, and other such items attached to a custom-made tool belt he had on. He came farther into the room and the older lady quietly closed the door.
“I’m sorry to intrude on your quietude, Mrs…?”
“Celow. The late mister was a railroad man. Oh, child, he traveled all over this country on them rails.” She looked off toward a mantle with various framed photos on it as well as a good-sized Santa Fe railroad enameled shield.
“Yes, ma’am, where would we be without the railroads?” He eyed the window across the room but wasn’t going to rush things and make her more nervous. No matter what might be transpiring just below them. He’d learned long ago in far harsher climes to pace himself.
“Lord yes,” she went on, “‘our peoples’ means of freedom in many ways, isn’t that right?”
He prayed they weren’t about to have a revival. “That is so.” He inched forward a notch.
“Would you like some tea?” she offered but instead of the kitchen, she glanced toward her sideboard and its lead glass cabinets. “Though I imagine an outdoorsman like yourself might want something a might more bracing.”
“About that there window, Mrs. Celow.”
“Oh, yes,” she started as if waking from slumber, “you didn’t come here to chitchat.”
“Maybe some other time when the clock’s not against me.”
She beamed up at him. “Really? Would you come speak to the auxiliary as my special guest?”
“I would be delighted.”
“The ladies would be beside themselves, Mr. Henson.”
“Matt will do.”
She clapped her hands together appreciatively. “Fine, fine.”
He went on past her to the window. He undid the lock and slid it up easily. After moving her easy chair and lamp aside, he secured his pronged grapple hook on the frame and sill. The sharp ends dug into the wood and would leave gouge marks but there was no helping that. Mrs. Celow didn’t raise a fuss, being too polite, he figured.
“Is this a government mission, Mr…Matt?” the widow asked as he put a leg outside the open window.
“No, this is a private engagement, Mrs. Celow.”
“I see,” she said, her dubiousness evident.
Henson was aware there was a persistent rumor that many believed he was an operative for an outfit called the International Detective Agency. There was no such organization, but he knew the source had been a serialized story in a magazine several years ago called the Black Sleuth. Elements of the popular story got transferred from the page, as these things do, into speculation in conversations in cafes and beauty salons throughout Harlem and elsewhere. From there, over time, fiction took on the trappings of gossip which always had its own reality.
“I’m thinking once you’re gone, you’re not coming back tonight.”
He was half out the window. “Unlikely.”
“How do I get in touch with you?” she asked.
“Just leave word for me at the May-May’s Diner.”
“Over on Lenox?’
“Yes, near 132nd. Now if you would, once I’m outside, please don’t go near the window,” he added, figuring she might take a gander as he descended. He also hoped bullets wouldn’t be coming through to ruin her nice flooring from the story below.
“Very well,” she said resignedly. He was depriving her of some of the excitement of having Matt Henson in her apartment, but she’d still have more than enough to tell her church ladies.
His booted soles firm against the building’s bricks, Henson, who’d slipped on supple seal skin gloves, held himself in place on the rope a few inches below the older lady’s window. He’d lowered the sash, cognizant the warmth of the day was giving away to the early evening and not everyone liked the cold as he did. From where he was now, the window he wanted was below him to his left. He clambered down and
