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
