“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 with 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,
