The two discussed various topics of mutual interest, including St. Clair’s investment in the liquor The Forty Thieves controlled in other parts of Manhattan, Brooklyn and Queens. In this way, unlike typical numbers’ barons or baronesses who might have twenty-five or so square blocks of Harlem as their purview, St. Clair’s reach was wide-spread.
Adjusting his tie as he prepared to leave, Riordan said, “I understand that Mr. Holstein has gone missing.”
Melenaux and St. Clair exchanged a look. “That’s news to us,” Melenaux said. “This Schultz’s doing?”
“He left his club last night and had his man drive him to see a lady friend around midnight. He did not make it upstairs. Now, I’ve heard the name of a certain fellow associated with moving Dutch’s beer come up.”
“A crony of the Dutchman,” St. Clair noted.
“Well, you might look into it. I’d hate to see that bastard get a leg up.” He stood, slipped the envelope inside his jacket, and, touching the brim of his hat, walked out of the offices of the Palmetto Ambulance and Funeral Services.
At one point as Henson sat and waited in the precinct, a beefy, florid face appeared at the rectangular window. This man regarded him with dispassionate disdain. The face went away. About an hour later, the side door opened and the face from the hallway came in. The detective was burly, and his sleeves were rolled up exposing hairy forearms. He had big ears and a paunch, but there was muscle across his chest and into his arms. He smelled of cigarettes and hooch, though this was mixed with a coffee overlay. He no doubt had an eye opener in the mornings. After years of having to be quick-witted in the wild, Henson had developed a keen sense of smell. The detective had a file folder with him.
For several moments he stood, regarding his prisoner, tapping the folder against a thick hand. He then undid the cuffs, dragged the chair by its back legs across the linoleum, and sat on opposite Henson.
“You’re something of a figure here in Harlem, aren’t you?” he said.
“I suppose.”
“Who were those men you had a run in with?”
“I don’t know.” He was going to add that there were after Professor Ellsmere, but no sense volunteering information he wasn’t directly asked. “I’m pretty sure they were known criminal types.”
The detective showed no emotion. “You normally consort with those types, do you, Henson?”
“As it happens, I seem to encounter members of the underworld from time to time. But no, I don’t pal around with them, if that’s what you mean.”
“And what is it you do for a living?”
“I give talks about my explorations and travels. I also have a weekly radio show on WGJZ.”
“If that’s so, why would these underworld types— to use your words—be involved?”
He shrugged a shoulder. “I can’t say.”
“Or won’t.” He resumed, “Isn’t it the case you help some of the residents of our fine city now and then for money? You see yourself as some kind of colored Nick Carter, Henson?”
“You got that in your file there or from Dr. Ellsmere?”
“I ask the questions, Henson.”
“Yes, sir.”
The plainclothesman let a silence settle between them. He leaned back, opening the file folder and leafed through the papers in there. His mouth was set in a line as he scanned. He closed the folder. “You’re looking at murder charges, Henson. You better come clean with me or I won’t be able to help you.”
“I was defending myself.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“It’s the truth.”
“We know how to get to the truth around here.”
Henson regarded him unblinking. “I can take it. Rubber hoses and all.”
The detective was about to say something but there came a soft knock on the side door and a uniformed cop stuck his head inside. “Detective Hoffman, Captain said to fetch you.”
Kevin Hoffman rose and left, taking his file folder with him.
In civilian attire, a tired Cole Rodgers walked up the steps to his apartment in the San Juan Hill neighborhood. The widow Mrs. Stokes nodded at him from her first-floor window seat overlooking the avenue. He had a copy of the New York Age newspaper folded over in his hand.
“That daughter of yours is growing like a weed,” she said as he reached the outer door.
“Yeah, she’s something all right,” he grinned, entering the building.
Three flights up, he found his wife, Cora Rodgers, doing their daughter’s hair. The pungently sweet odor of pomade permeated the room. He set the newspaper down on a table near the door. On the table was a pewter vase he’d brought back from France after the war.
“Daddy,” his daughter Irene said.
“How’s my girls?” He kissed his daughter on the forehead and his wife on the lips quickly, their daughter smiling up at them.
“There’s some food for you on the stove,” his wife said. Her husband had been on duty twelve hours.
“Thanks, honey.” He stepped into the kitchen area. A plate rested
