The King of Ragtime (12 page)

Jimmy grinned. “Everybody says he’s some kinda owl.”

“Right. That’s why I figured I’d wait outside his building tonight, and catch him on his way home. Try and make him understand what’s going on.”

Jimmy laughed. “Which would probably just get you a fist in your kisser, and you’d end up lookin’ like me.” He got up from the stool, stretched. “Go on, sit down. Let’s hear your stuff. Maybe I can get
you
to play behind that li’l songbird later on, while we’re waitin’ for Footsie Vinny.”

Footsie Vinny? Martin thought he’d already bitten off more than he could chew, hadn’t even begun to swallow it, and now it looked like he’d taken another huge bite. He sat at the piano, shot both cuffs, and began to play Joplin’s “Solace.” Seemed about right for the occasion.

***

While Nell brought Stark up to date, he sipped at his coffee, didn’t say a word. “Now, I think it’s time to grab the bull by the horns,” she said. I’ll take you over to Joe’s place, and we can see how Scott reacts to you. And you can hear first-hand what Martin Niederhoffer has to say.”

“He’s the young man who started all this.”

“That’s the way it looks.”

Stark pulled out his pocket watch, slid it back, said nothing, just stared past Nell as if he found the sight of the kitchen sink fascinating. Nell stifled a sigh. She knew this act; he was preparing to be difficult. “Dad…”

He focused back to her. “Yes, my dear?”

“Don’t ‘yes, my dear’ me. If you think I’m wrong, then just say so, and we’ll go from there.”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it that strongly, but I do think we might be making the situation more complicated than it needs to be. Why don’t I just go down and talk turkey to Berlin? Drop in on him, not give him any opportunity to make up stories? Perhaps I can persuade him to return Joplin’s music, which is why you asked me to come out in the first place.”

“But we’ve gone far past the first place. There’s been a murder, if you’ll remember.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my memory. But we don’t know, do we, that the murder has any connection with the theft of the music. Let’s deal with the straightforward problem in a straightforward way. If we can recover Joplin’s music, then we can turn our full attention to the other concern. All things in good time, my… Nell.”

“Oh, Dad.” Nell ran her hands through her thick dark hair, just the way Sarah used to do. Stark shivered. “I think you’re trying to get out of coming face-to-face with Scott.”

“I most certainly am not. I have no reason to be embarrassed on his account. If anyone ought to feel awkward—”

The ring of the telephone interrupted his speech. Nell rolled her eyes, then got up and ran into the living room. Stark poured himself more coffee.

When she came back, he knew instantly there was trouble. She shook her head. “I keep thinking it can’t possibly get worse…”

“It can always get worse,” Stark said, not in an unkindly way. “And it often does. What’s the problem now?”

“That was Lottie. She’s got Scott with her. She’s bringing him here from Harlem. Apparently, our young man got restless, ran out of Joe’s place to go see his girlfriend, and took Scott along. Now, he’s left Scott with Lottie and he’s off somewhere, doing God knows what. All he’d tell Lottie was that he had some things to do.” She paused. “Dad, I’m going to kill him.”

Stark worked very hard at not smiling. Even as a little girl, when Nell planted her feet, wild horses couldn’t pull her loose. Some of those scenes between his daughter and her mother…

Nell thrust a slip of paper into his hand. “Here’s Joe’s address. I’m going to take Scott back there as fast as I can, but if he sees you here and goes into one of his states, I’ll never get him to Brooklyn on the subway. So go ahead, if you’d like, talk to Berlin, and then come over to Joe’s. You can find your way, can’t you?”

Stark glanced at the paper. “615 Avenue C, Brooklyn.”

“That’s in Windsor Terrace, just a few blocks south of Prospect Park. He’s got a lovely little house there.”

Stark nodded, slipped the paper into his pocket, got to his feet. “I’m sure I’ll have no trouble. I lived and worked in this city for five years, and I know my way around.” He kissed her cheek, then walked into the living room, took his straw boater off the chair where he’d left it, and went out. Quickly, it seemed to Nell.

She waited a minute, then walked to the telephone table, picked up the city phone directory and thumbed through its pages. Balancing the book in one hand, she lifted the receiver to her ear, and gave the operator a number. When she heard, “Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder, Music Publishers,” she said, “This is Geneva Edwards, from
Dramatic Mirror
Magazine. I’d like to make an appointment with Mr. Berlin for a short interview, and I’m working with a close deadline. Would he have just a few minutes tomorrow?”

“I’m not sure Mr. Berlin will be in the office at all tomorrow,” said the receptionist. “You might try his home—that’s Riverside 5396. I’m sure he’ll do all he can to accommodate someone from
Dramatic Mirror
.”

Which brought a wry grin to Nell’s face. The joke in the music business was that Irving Berlin would stand up his mother if it meant getting an hour with a reporter. Nell thanked the woman and hung up the phone. Yes, her father had once lived and worked in New York City, and he knew his way around, but only in the geographical sense. She had to admit, if only to herself, she found his straight-from-the-shoulder, no-nonsense, my-word-is-my-bond style admirable, and more than a little touching. But to think he could barge in on Irving Berlin, demand the music back, and expect Berlin to hand it over? Nell shook her head. She’d do better, using a little guile and a lot of flattery.

Chapter Six

Manhattan
Wednesday, August 23
Late afternoon

Stark came up from the subway at Forty-second Street and Broadway, walked downtown to Thirty-eighth, and into Number 112. A few minutes later, he was back outside, scratching his head. Two doors down the block, he saw the Joseph Stern Music Company, started in that direction, hesitated. For several years now, Stern had published Negro ragtime—including some pieces by Scott Joplin—with far more financial success than Stark had ever enjoyed. Finally, he swallowed his pride, walked up to the door and inside, and asked the young receptionist where Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder had gone. The girl told him they’d relocated uptown. “A couple of years ago, actually. Mr. Stern threw a party when they moved. He didn’t like Mr. Waterson.”

“I didn’t like either one of them,” Stark said, then thanked the girl and started hoofing back up Broadway. He passed the Palace…Sarah used to love the vaudeville shows there. The huge shield-shaped sign on the ornate facade of the Gaiety told passersby
Turn To The Right
will open shortly. At Broadway and Forty-seventh, the old man stood before the Strand Theatre, and scanned the white block lettering in the windows above the grand marquee. Hendricks and Saloman, Press Agents. Katz and Elliot, Lawyer and Notary. Charles S. Gellman, Theatrical Bookings. “Ah, there, third floor. Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder.”

He shunned the elevator in the lobby, walked up the three flights, and inside. The place was a circus. Young men and an occasional young woman carrying books, note pads, file folders, papers, charged back and forth through a haze of tobacco smoke. Music from pianos in the back corridor fused into painful cacophony. Six songwriters wriggled in chairs at the periphery of the Reception Room, waiting their turn to sit at one of those pianos and play their work. Stark strode across the room to a desk where a darkly-attractive young woman sat as if at the center of a storm, talking on an upright desk-stand intercom, and nodding or winking to the cascade of young runners as they deposited papers onto her desk, or snatched some up. As she finished her conversation, and reached toward another button on the circular base of the intercom, Stark said, “Excuse me, Miss. I’m John Stark, of the Stark Music Company.” He took care not to add “of St. Louis.” “I need to speak with Mr. Berlin.”

The woman barely glanced at him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Mr. Berlin isn’t in.” Then she swiveled to take a pile of folders from a stout, perspiring young man.

Stark had long preached that persistence is the most important determinant of success. “Would you please tell me where I can find him, then,” he said. “It’s a matter of some considerable urgency.”

The woman swiveled her chair, deposited the folders onto the desk in front of her, and looked up at the old man. “It’s extremely important that I talk to Mr. Berlin,” Stark said. “Please be so good as to tell me where I can find him.”

The woman said, “Just a moment,” then pushed back in her chair, got up, and walked quickly away, down the far corridor. She was back in just a couple of minutes, in the company of a stocky middle-aged man, a generation behind Stark, stringy brown hair combed across his balding head. A large diamond stickpin in his tie drew attention to a belly whose every wish clearly was heard as a command. The woman returned to her desk and picked up a piece of paper. Stark knew she’d be listening, didn’t care.

The heavy man extended a hand. “Well, John Stark, I’ll be damned. How are you, sir?”

Stark took the soft, manicured hand. His own hands had never lost the roughness they’d acquired in his farming years. “I’m well, thank you, Mr. Waterson. Yourself?”

“Just fine, fine.” Waterson swept his hand in a wide arc, as if to indicate the reason for his well-being. “And Mrs. Stark—how is she?”

Stark didn’t waver. “I’m sorry to say, she is no longer among us. She was ill when we returned to St. Louis six years ago, and she died shortly after.”

Waterson’s face was that of a man who’d been taking a pleasant stroll, not paying attention to where he was going until he’d stepped smack into a pile of fresh dog turds. “Oh, Mr. Stark, how clumsy of me. I’m terribly sorry—”

Stark put him out of his misery with a slight motion of his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Waterson, but please don’t be concerned. I need to speak with you.” He motioned toward Waterson’s office. “May I?”

Sarah would have been amused at the way her husband had turned Waterson’s embarrassment to his advantage. “Why, yes, certainly.” the big man said. “Come right on back. What is it? Are you planning to start back up here in New York?”

Stark smiled into his beard, but said nothing as he followed Waterson into his office. The publisher made a ceremony out of closing the door behind them. Stark looked around. A well-worn roll-top desk, couple of nondescript wooden chairs, oak file cabinet, floor-to-ceiling shelves, mostly filled with messy piles of paper. No piano. Waterson was a businessman, not a musician.

The publisher waddled to his desk, sat, then folded his hands across his abdomen, a move that made him look at least twice as big as he looked standing. Stark settled into a chair facing the desk. “No, Mr. Waterson, I’m not considering moving my business back to New York. We’re doing very nicely in St. Louis.”

Waterson sat forward. “Still publishing those classic rags of yours, eh?”

Stark bristled privately at the condescension, but kept his voice level. “Not
my
classic rags. I might wish they were, and I’ll admit I’ve tried writing them, but none have been good enough to publish. I’ve got some fine young men, though. Artie Matthews, James Scott, Paul Pratt—”

“But nothing from Joplin any more.”

No missing the malice there. Waterson had recovered from his gaffe out in the Reception Room. “No,” Stark said. “We’ve published nothing of his since oh-eight. But I’ve noticed you haven’t put out any work by him for quite some while, either.”

“You can’t publish what isn’t written.” Waterson reached for a box of cigars, held it out toward Stark, who declined politely. Waterson hesitated, then took a cigar, flicked a lighter into life, and lit up. White smoke filled the room.

“Joplin hasn’t given you any manuscripts, then?” Stark asked. “In all these years?”

Waterson shook his head. “Not a one. Ever since 1911, all he seems able to think about is that opera of his. An opera, can you imagine? He could be turning out hit after hit.”

“Like your Mr. Berlin.”

Waterson pursed lips, then nodded cautiously.

“Scott wants his music to be respectable,” Stark said.

“Respectable?” Waterson spat the question. “What the hell’s unrespectable about ragtime?” He turned a waggish grin on Stark. “To read your ads, ragtime is as respectable as music can get.”

“I’m glad someone reads my ads.”

Both men laughed, Waterson with that unease which sneaks in when the laugher doesn’t know where the conversation might be heading.

“But to get down to cases, Mr. Waterson, why I’m here has to do with Scott Joplin and Irving Berlin.”

Waterson dropped his cigar into the ash tray, and gave Stark a look that suggested the old man had just spit onto the office floor. “God damn!” Waterson groaned. “You’re not going to start up that business about Berlin supposedly stealing “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” from Scott, are you? That’s a dead issue, it’s been five years already. Besides, Irvy doesn’t have to steal music from Scott Joplin.”

“Because he’s got a pickaninny in his closet who writes his songs for him?”

Waterson’s jaw fell. He gaped at Stark.

“Don’t look so shocked, Mr. Waterson. I’m only repeating your own words, which were in all the papers.” Stark paused just long enough for Waterson to get out a syllable of objection, then pressed on. “That was in December of 1911, you’ll recall. The same year ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’ came out.”

Waterson’s face was a blotchy map, whether of rage or embarrassment, Stark couldn’t tell. He thought probably a bit of both. The stout publisher sniffed. “It was just a joke.”

“Perhaps the joke has taken on a life of its own.” Stark’s tone was conciliatory; if the situation were to get out of hand, it wouldn’t do him any good. “Mr. Waterson, I can’t prove Berlin stole Joplin’s music, so I won’t make that claim. But Joplin believes it, which is why I’m concerned. Apparently, he’s left another piece of music with Berlin, and I don’t want there to be any more trouble. That’s why I need to speak to your partner, and I’d be grateful if you could help me arrange that.”

Waterson narrowed his eyes, swung his chair around, studied Stark. “Joplin’s left music with Berlin, you say? I find that very hard to believe. In fact, I’d say if ever I heard poppycock, I’m hearing it now.”

“I understand your confusion, Mr. Waterson. But Joplin’s written a musical play, and it seems your bookkeeper, who happens to take piano lessons from Joplin, persuaded him that Irving Berlin would give his work its best chance of being published and produced on stage.”

“Our bookkeeper, you say? Young Niederhoffer?”

“Yes.”

Waterson leaned across his desk, all seriousness now. “You may not be aware, Mr. Stark, but just last evening, someone was murdered in our office. Matter of fact, that’s the reason I’m here now. I originally had…an appointment for this afternoon, but by the time the police were through, it was so late I had to cancel. Anyway, Niederhoffer was seen running away with Joplin, after the body was found.”

“Be that as it may,” Stark said. “Joplin’s music is the reason I need to speak to Berlin, and the murder doesn’t change that.” He saw Waterson sneak a look at his watch. “I know it’s late, and I really don’t want to impose upon your time. Would you please take a moment to direct me to Mr. Berlin?”

Waterson looked across the room, dragged his gaze across the expanse of bookshelves, then suddenly grinned, and returned his attention to Stark. “Okay, sure. Probably your best chance of finding him right now is at his flat, Seventy-second at Riverside Drive. The Chatsworth.”

Just a couple of blocks over from Nell’s place, Stark thought, which reminded him that his daughter and Joplin would be waiting for him at Joe Lamb’s. Nell would have a fit when he got there, late as he was going to be. But she’d asked for his help, so she’d just have to wait another hour. He might have something to tell her that would make the wait worthwhile.

Waterson interrupted his thoughts. “Irvy got the place all fixed up for his new wife four years back, but she caught typhoid on their honeymoon, and died a few months later. A shame, shouldn’t happen to anybody. Anyway, Irvy works there, ’specially at night. It’s private, it’s quiet, nobody bothers him. Right now, him and Victor Herbert are writing the music for Ziegfeld’s new show,
Century Girl
. Gonna put it on at the Century Theater.”

Stark’s eyes widened. “Isn’t that theater supposed to be cursed? Everything that opens there falls to pieces.”

“It is, it is.” Waterson sounded more enthusiastic than at any time since Stark had come into his office. “But Flo thinks he can break the curse, so I guess we’ll see. One way or the other, it don’t matter much to me. Irvy’s started up his own firm to handle his theater music, so there’s no way W, B, and S is going to see a nickel from that show, no matter what.”

Clear to Stark that Waterson wouldn’t mind if Irving Berlin’s new firm didn’t see a nickel either. The old man rose, extended a hand, shook with Waterson. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I’m sorry to have interrupted your day, but I’m grateful for your help.”

Waterson smirked. “If I were you, I’d be careful, talking to Irvy right now. He wouldn’t admit it to anybody, but he knows that next to Victor Herbert, he’s a pipsqueak, soaking wet behind his ears. He wants to score big with Flo, but every time he gets a few notes down, he sees this big shadow laying across the paper.”

***

Nell heard them coming down the hall, Scott’s angry tenor, Lottie’s soprano, first soothing, then pleading, finally warning. Like an opera, Nell thought. Before her guests reached the door, she had it open, and was hustling them inside, ducking under Joplin’s wildly flapping arms. “I don’t have time for all this,” the composer shouted, glaring from one woman to the other. “I need to go home, and get back to work on my symphony.”

“Scott, please listen to me.” That from Nell.

The five words stopped Joplin cold. Lottie felt a terrible urge to start screaming, herself. She could talk herself blue in the face, and her husband wouldn’t bat an eye, but one line from Nell, and he stood there like a pussycat. But shame on me, Lottie thought, I got no right to be anything but grateful. Wasn’t for Nell, I’d have had to put him away in a hospital months ago.

“You can’t go home right now, Scott.” Nell’s voice was quiet, her tone, even. If you do, the police will pick you up and you won’t get any work done in jail. They’re after you for murder, remember? The boy in Martin’s office?”

Joplin blinked several times, shook his head like someone trying to shake pieces of memory back into place.

“I’m going to take you back to Joe Lamb’s, where you were last night and earlier today. Joe’s got a piano and paper. You can write your music there.”

Joplin nodded. “I was working there this morning. Then Martin took me out to talk to Irving Berlin about my music, but I don’t remember doing that. We went to a deli, met his girl, and talked for a while. Next thing, we were at the Alamo Club, and Lottie came and took me away, and now I’m here. What is this all about?”

Nell glanced at Lottie, who shrugged. “Martin bring that girl with him to his lesson a couple of times. Sweet li’l thing. She be his assistant bookkeeper.”

“At Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder? She works there, too?”

Lottie thought Nell looked like a cat about to pounce on a bird. “That what the boy say.”

“What’s her name?”

Joplin closed his eyes, thought hard.

“Way I recall, it be Birdie,” said Lottie. “Pretty sure.”

“That’s right,” said Joplin. “Birdie.”

Without a word, Nell walked to the telephone, snatched up the receiver, gave the number to the operator. Joplin and Lottie stared. “Hello, yes. This is Caroline Spooler, with the Visiting Nurse Service.” Nell’s voice was that of a military commander. “You have an employee named Birdie. I need to speak with her a moment.” Nell shifted the receiver to her other ear. “Yes, hello. Birdie? This is Caroline Spooler, Visiting Nurse Service. I need to pay a visit to your family, but I don’t want to interfere with your work. Will you all be at home at eight this evening?…Good, I’ll see you then. Please tell me your address, so I’ll be sure I have it right.” She scribbled on a small pad next to the telephone. “Good, thank you, Birdie. I’ll—no, no, really, there’s nothing for you to worry about. I’ll see you at eight. Good-bye.”