Matthew Henson and the Ice Temple of Harlem

as well as her invaluable work in editing and suggestions on how best to translate his diary entries and recollections into the original draft of the manuscript. It then went through more revisions in the hands of the publisher, Frederick A. Stokes, sanitizing several sections, including the mention of the birth of his son, a relationship he’d had before marrying Eva. Stokes was worried if readers knew Henson had relations with an Inuit woman, they might wonder if the married Peary had been faithful. Stokes knew both men had had mixed-race offspring, but decided it was better for the Peary legacy not to bring this up. Henson had disagreed, but Eva had convinced him this first book would put him back out there, and less controversy the better. Later he could return to Greenland and reunite with his kin, and in a follow-up book, more of a memoir of his entire life, he could tell the full story. Grudgingly, he’d gone along with that notion. He was pleased with the yarn-spinner Stokes had brought in, a six-three gent bronzed from his boating in the Caribbean and an all-around outdoorsman. This fella punched up the action passages in the final manuscript.

Pausing at the delivery door in the rear of the building, he considered whether his wanderings had led to his divorce. Now, Destiny Stevenson sat on lookout, another good woman, it was turning out. Maybe this time he’d get it right. Henson used one of his skeleton keys to unlock the door. As his ex-wife had predicted after his account was published and there was renewed interest in his past, he could finally see his future.

Easing into the darkened kitchen, Henson was careful not to disturb any of the pots and pans in overhead racks. It was said the kitchen had been redesigned by the famous French chef and restaurateur Georges Escoffier. While Henson wasn’t friends with the likes of the Club’s head chef, he was friends with a handful of waiters and busboys, all of them black except for a few Filipinos. One of those waiters had been in May-May’s that day discussing Negro League versus the white baseball players. Several years before, this man had made a set of keys for Henson on the sly after Henson had gotten the man’s sister out of a tough spot with a boyfriend handy with a knife.

Leaving the kitchen, he moved along a passageway lined with portraits of the likes of Allan Quatermain, Phileas Fogg, Gertrude Bell, and several other notable adventurers. He reached a turn and went left, having reconnoitered sections of the club over time. It wasn’t as if he’d planned to blow the place up, but had made it his business to know the ins and outs of the establishment. Maybe in the back of his mind he wanted to start a club for the forgotten and overlooked explorers, by definition non-whites, and to needle the stuff shirts of the Challengers Club, steal their layout.

To reach the stairs leading upward, he had to pass by the main drawing room. At this hour of the evening, although the kitchen was closed, and the front door bolted, there was a skeleton staff, as the club had an around-the-clock policy for certain members. And though he was no longer the president of the board, Henson knew Davis had an office on the third floor given his family claimed roots in starting the organization.

He had to be exposed to get to the stairs, and he waited, crouching at the end of the passageway. Henson was primed, like being out in the jungle or the tundra, alert for animal sounds—four or two-legged. He heard snoring and grinned. He crept along, the pocket doors to the drawing room were open about the width of his hand. He saw one of the old timers asleep in a plush chair, the bulldog edition of the newspaper wrinkled under his hand. At his elbow was an empty glass that probably once held a libation stronger than the ginger ale Henson hawked. Large polished elephant tusks, one on each side, flanked the brick fireplace. In its maw, the charred remains of logs were streaked with blots of red, as if eaten from within by molten termites.

Henson went past and in the gloom started up the stairs gingerly. From above—paused on the landing at the bend of the stairs—he heard creaks of the wood beneath the runner. He swore softly. If it was a member, he couldn’t pretend to be a waiter. He wasn’t dressed properly to pull that off. If it was one of the staff, he couldn’t put them in the position of having to cover for him, placing their job—and maybe their liberty—in jeopardy. He climbed over the railing, but didn’t drop down, that would have made too much noise. Rather, he hung there, hands gripping the outer string of the staircase. He hoped whoever was descending wasn’t looking that close at the sides of the steps.

From where he was, Henson couldn’t see feet or legs, but heard the approach. The footfalls faded away again as the person reached the ground floor and walked away. He clambered back over the hand-tooled mahogany railing and continued upward without further incident. He reached the third floor and the locked door to Davis’ office. He tried using his skeleton keys, but was thwarted. Davis had changed his lock since he’d had this set made. At the end of the hallway there was a window overlooking the side street. He went out onto the ledge. With his sealskin gloves on, Henson clung to the rough brick face, edging around the building on the narrow ledge. Fortunately for him, Davis commanded a corner office. He wasn’t as