Lion snickered. “Where’d you get money?”
“What do you think we bought back from the North Pole? Gold.” He calculated he might be able to throw both stars at once, strike his twin targets.
“Bullshit.”
“Yeah?” He stopped, stiffening. He knew he was going to be too slow in trying to fling one of his flying stars. Rhino Mask had sensed something was up and was leveling his weapon on Henson, about to riddle him with bullets.
CHAPTER SIX
“Drop it,” a voice growled.
Rhino Man turned around, but before he could trigger the machine gun, a shot lanced from Patrolman Cole Rodger’s revolver. Rhino Man’s eyes widened behind the slits of his mask.
Henson didn’t hesitate; his arm snaking out like a fakir hypnotizing a cobra, he flung one of his throwing stars. But Lion Man had pushed his hostage down, jumping out of the way of the five-pointed ninja weapon. It nicked his coat arm but whisked past. He shot at Henson who was already in motion, not exactly going for cover but up and over the pushcart, which got knocked on end. A bullet pinged off the corner of the metal cart as Henson landed in a crouch. Henson threw a steak knife he’d plucked from the cart, and it sank into the middle of the Lion Man’s chest, pinning his tie to him.
The car sped away, Officer Rodgers didn’t want to risk shooting at it lest he miss and hit an innocent. He put handcuffs on the wounded Rhino Man, whose machine gun lay nearby.
“Get these off me, nigger,” the wounded man demanded.
“Shut the hell up.” Rodgers tore off his mask, and then that of the dead man. He took out his notebook and called over several passerby who’d ran for cover, getting names of potential witnesses.
Henson, several feet away from the busy cop, got closer to Ellsmere who’d remained hunkered down behind the parked car. “Give me your papers,” he said quietly.
The older man did. Henson went to shot-up newsstand. The proprietor had been grazed in the arm, but was otherwise unhurt. Henson folded up the notes and stuck them below the newsstand’s counter. He then winked at Mr. Greene, who dipped his head.
A police car roared up, followed by another, each sporting the new colors recently adopted by the police department—green bodies, white roofs, and black bumpers. The second one was a late Ford Model A, and one of the cops rode the running board, cranking the siren as they approached. White officers spilled out onto the street, guns and nightsticks out. Henson stood next to Rodgers, making sure they could see his outstretched hands. That this colored policeman seemed to have matters in hand sent a ripple of restraint through the policemen. One of them came forward, a dead stump of a cigar in the corner of his mouth. He was a sergeant.
“What the hell’s going on here, Patrolman?”
“These here jungle mask fellas tried to kill Mister Matthew Henson. I have a description of the car they came in and a license plate number.”
The sergeant rolled the cigar around on his thin lips, eyeballing the explorer and the knife sticking out of one of the hoodlums. “Henson…the butler for that bird who discovered the North Pole?”
“Hardly,” Ellsmere said, having gotten up.
“Who are you?”
Henson answered, “He’s a colleague of mine.”
“Colleague is it?” The cop looked from one to the other. “Okay, we’ll straighten this out at the precinct.” To Henson, “Gimme your hands.”
“That’s not necessary, Sarge,” Rodgers said.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he said, clinking the cuffs on.
They took Henson in one patrol car, and an uncuffed Ellsmere in the other. An ambulance came, collecting the wounded man and the dead one. Rodgers made sure to ride in the vehicle with Henson so he’d arrive at the precinct unharmed—or arrive at all.
At the 28th Precinct, the sergeant addressed Rodgers as they took Henson toward an interrogation room.
“Write out your report, Patrolman,” he said.
“What about Mr. Henson?”
“You on the detectives’ squad now, Rodgers?” he huffed.
“I just meant, don’t you want me to corroborate his statement?”
“Get that report done,” the sergeant repeated icily. “Then go the hell home. You’re not clocking overtime babysitting this egg.”
“I’ll be okay, Cole,” Henson told his friend.
“See?” the other officer said, “Henson here is going to do his duty as a citizen and convince us why he shouldn’t have a one-way ticket to the electric chair for putting knives in our other citizens.”
“Plenty of witnesses saw the dead man shooting at him,” Rodgers said. “I’ve got a few names. I’ll make sure they’re in my report.”
“You do that, Frank Merriwell. Come on,” he pushed Henson toward a hallway. At a door inset with a rectangular window, the sergeant unclipped a ring of keys from his belt and unlocked it.
“In you go.”
Henson walked in, hands still cuffed behind his back. There was a small desk, two chairs, and an overhead bulb with a cowl. There was also a door on one side of the room and Henson figured it was from there detectives would come and go. He sat on one of the chairs and the sergeant left, locking the door to the hallway again.
At the funeral parlor St. Clair and Melenaux were brought in a lunch of oxtails, rice with gravy and green beans. A little after 1:30, Tommy Riordan arrived at the facility. He came upstairs and shook both their offered hands. In a side room that was laid out like a lounge, they sat and had wine.
“Looking fit, Tommy,” Melenaux said.
“And you, yourself, Venus…Miss Queenie.”
Riordan was one of the captains of The Forty Thieves gang. They were an old Irish outfit originating in Five Points during the last century. The fiftyish Riordan was dressed
