The Ragtime Fool (25 page)

“I’m sorry. All I know is that she became ill and had to cancel.”

“But I got Louis Armstrong to present her that plaque.”

Luella turned away. The memory of that fifteen-year-old boy, so full of energy and plans, next to the sight of this stoop-shouldered old man, pleading his hopeless case, was more than the starch could handle. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, dabbed at her eyes.”

“Please, Mr. Campbell,” Rosenthal said. “We really do have to get back to work. I’ll tell you what. Perhaps Mayor Studer could introduce you from the platform, and you can stand and be recognized.”

Brun pursed his lips, nodded a few times. He straightened, then spoke. “No need of that, Mr. Rosenthal. Thanks for your consideration, but I don’t gotta stand up and be recognized. I’ll get outa your way now.” He motioned with his head to Luella.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Rosenthal.” Luella’s tone could have turned Tahiti into Iceland. She fell into step beside Brun.

***

They walked in silence down Osage Street. Brun thought he’d never felt so bad in his life. Roscoe would’ve been glad to know he’d made it possible for Scott Joplin to get the recognition he deserved, but now that wasn’t going to happen. The barber wondered if the cops were ever going to find out who’d killed his friend, or if it was just going to be another old colored man dead, big deal.

A block from the high school, Brun suddenly felt as if a hundred-pound weight had dropped onto his chest. He signaled for Luella to stop, then grabbed a nitro pill from his pocket, slid it under his tongue. Within a minute, the pressure eased off, whew. That stuff was a miracle. But one of these days, the miracles were going to run out. Here he was, out of the program, didn’t have the journal, and to top it all off, Lottie had gotten sick, and they’d canceled the radio broadcast. How many more chances was he going to get? He saw the gravestone May would put up for him.
Sanford Brunson Campbell. Husband, Father, Fool.

“Brun, are you all right?”

“Yeah. That nitro’s great stuff. Let’s go.”

***

At the corner of Ohio and Second, Luella nudged Brun. “Look there.”

Brun stared. “Tom Ireland. And some kid.”

The couples came face-to-face. Brun and Ireland nodded to each other. Luella said, “Good morning, Alan. Mr. Ireland.”

Ireland acknowledged the greeting with a smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Rohrbaugh. I didn’t know you were acquainted with my young friend.”

“Eileen Klein brought him to our supper Sunday night at the church.” Luella glanced toward Brun, then at Alan. “You don’t have your blue book bag today, Alan.”

Brun’s eyes widened. “Alan, huh? You’re the kid—”

Ireland gave silent thanks that they’d stopped at Jack’s. With his new duds, the boy didn’t look like someone who’d spent the night tramping through the woods from Georgetown with the hounds of hell at his back. “Brun, yes, this is Alan Chandler. The boy who came from New York to give you Scott Joplin’s journal.”

Brun’s heart skipped a beat, then another. Damn, he thought, Ireland got to him first.

“Unfortunately, he hasn’t got the journal now.” Ireland looked all around. “Let’s go someplace a little more private, and talk about it.”

Luella pointed down the street. “My house is just a few blocks from here.”

***

They sat in the living room, Luella in the chair beside the music box, Brun next to her. Alan and Ireland occupied the sofa. “That’s really the truth?” Brun asked. “You got no idea where Mr. Joplin’s journal is?”

“Mr. Campbell,” Luella said, and by the tone and the ‘Mr. Campbell,’ Brun knew he had trouble. “If you lived in Sedalia the past fifty years, you’d know Mr. Ireland’s word is not to be doubted.”

Lord help me, Ireland thought. After what’s come out of my mouth the last couple of days.

“Sorry,” Brun said. “I didn’t mean any offense. Just…you know.”

“No offense taken,” Ireland said. “Let’s get down to business. Alan here—”

The doorbell rang.

Luella sprang to her feet. “Hold on.” She marched out of the room, into the vestibule. Alan, Brun and Ireland heard the door open. “Yes, officer?” they heard Luella say. “What can I do for you?”

A man’s voice came through, but not clearly enough that they could make out his words. Then, Luella spoke. “No, I’m sorry. I have no idea where he is…yes, I know he’s been seen with me, but he’s not here now. He’s staying at the Milner. You might want to check there…yes, I’ll be sure to do that.”

Luella was back in the living room practically as soon as the the front door had closed. She shot Brun a look he hadn’t seen since the day he returned from his 1899 runaway to Sedalia, and his mother met him at the door. “Brun, perhaps you’d like to tell me why the police in Los Angeles want to talk to you.”

Brun clapped a hand to his brow, shook his head, muttered something no one could hear, then looked up. “All right, here it is. My best friend back home, he fell or got pushed down the stairs and left me everything he had. The cops were looking into it and told me they didn’t want me to leave town, but I wasn’t gonna miss this ceremony. Maybe I shouldn’ta done it, but I did. That’s the story, it’s God’s truth, and you can believe it or not.”

Luella clasped her hands behind her back, lest she haul off and smack him into next week. “Brun…” She groped for the right words. “Brun, have you ever in your life owned one ounce of common sense?” She held up a hand to make certain the question remained rhetorical. “Yes, for what it’s worth, I do believe you. It’s no trouble at all to imagine you doing just what you did. But didn’t it even occur to you to tell the police you had this engagement, and you’d be here in case they wanted to find you?”

Again, Brun shook his head. “I went and talked about it with one of my friends, a guy who writes fiction stories. We came up with a way for me to get out of town real quiet. I guess maybe that wasn’t the smartest thing to do.”

Luella slapped her hands against her thighs. “‘A guy who writes fiction stories.’ The two of you together must have been something to hear. Oh, Brun, I lied to that policeman for you! Told him you weren’t here.”

Ireland cleared his throat. “What’s done is done. Brun, do you want to go to the police and turn yourself in?”

And let you get the journal? Brun thought. “No, I come this far and I ain’t gonna miss the ceremony.”

“All right, then. Let’s try to figure a way out of this mess. The five thousand dollars Alan paid Lottie Joplin for the journal was, uh, stolen from the father of a friend of his in New Jersey, and it cost one of the servants in the house his job. The man followed Alan here, and tried to get the journal away from him, so he could give it back to Mrs. Joplin in return for the money. I’ve managed to keep him out of the way for the time being, but we’re having problems with some other people who also want to get their hands on the journal.”

“Otto Klein and Jerry Barton,” Luella said. “I can’t for the life of me understand why they’d be interested.”

“They found out what Alan paid,” said Ireland. “Five thousand dollars must have looked mighty good to them. They put him up at Kleins’ overnight, then Barton drove him out into the woods yesterday, and got rough with him. It was good luck that all the interest in the journal had made him uneasy, and during the night, he hid it in Klein’s house. He managed to get away from Barton, and came to my place, but when we went to Klein’s, the journal wasn’t where he’d left it. I’ve got to think Klein found it.”

Luella made a face. “We won’t get far talking to Klein, but I wonder whether Eileen could tell us anything at this point.” She glanced at her wrist. “It’s just past eleven-thirty. Why don’t I go down to the school and catch Eileen during lunch hour. We don’t need to take a committee, and get people staring at us, wondering what we’re up to. You can wait for me here.”

“I don’t know,” said Ireland. “I’m thinking when the police don’t find Brun at the Milner, they could decide to come back and talk to you some more, and this time, they might come inside. Maybe when you leave, we should too. We can go to my house, and you could come up there after you’re through. If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Why should I mind?”

Ireland covered his mouth, coughed, then turned to Brun. “Best you wait a little after the rest of us leave, then go out the back door. Just in case that cop’s waiting around out front.”

“Sure. Least I can do.”

***

Miss Judith Allison, receptionist at the Milton Oil Company, studied the man who’d swept through the door and demanded to see Mr. Rosenthal. He was not local, not with that expensive suit and tie, and that accent to his voice. With his bushy eyebrows nearly meeting in the middle, the funny little island of hair front and center, and neatly-trimmed Van Dyke beard, Miss Allison thought if his ears were just a little pointy, he’d be the perfect image of a New York devil. But she was not about to let him intimidate her. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “Mr. Rosenthal is not in the office today. He’s busy all day, elsewhere. Perhaps you’d like to make an appointment for tomorrow.” She gave him her most accommodating smile.

“Miss…” He glanced down to the name plate on the front edge of the desk. “Allison! This time yesterday, I was in New York City. I’ve taken a flight and a train to get here today, and it’s today, not tomorrow, I need to see Mr. Rosenthal.”

“I am sorry, sir. Mr. Rosenthal is preparing for a ceremony this evening. He’s in charge of the whole program.”

Miss Allison fought to hold her ground as Blesh leaned across the desk, but in the end, she pulled back into her chair. “I know about the program.” Blesh’s voice sounded as if he had it on a leash, and was struggling to hold onto his end. “And that is why I’m out here. Now, kindly tell me where Mr. Rosenthal is, and I will take matters from there.”

Miss Allison wondered whether Mr. Rosenthal would be annoyed with her for giving out the information, but decided to take her chances. “He’s at the Hubbard High School,” she said. “That’s where they’re having the ceremony. You go over the railroad tracks on Ohio Street, then turn left onto Jefferson, and right at Osage. The high school’s just a block and a half up from there.”

Blesh smiled. “Thank you, Miss Allison.”

***

Abe Rosenthal wondered whether he was ever going to be left in peace to put the final touches on the evening’s program. “I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Blesh,” he said. “I’ve heard so much about your book.”

But you haven’t read it, Blesh thought.

“One of these days, I will have to take some time and read it.”

Blesh’s smile required a major effort. “I hope you’ll enjoy it. I also hope you can give me some information. There’s a man from California, Mr. Sanford Brunson Campbell, an old piano player. I need to know what part he’s going to play in this evening’s program.”

Rosenthal shook his head. “None. He was here a while ago, asking to play piano and give a talk, but I told him this is a local affair, and that the program is already printed. I told him the mayor could introduce him to the crowd, and he could stand and receive acknowledgement. If you’d like, we can do the same for you.”

Blesh took a moment to compose himself. “That won’t be necessary. Why I’m here…” He glanced toward Miss Fox and Mrs. Ross, then returned his attention to Rosenthal. “Well, it’s a long story, and I don’t imagine you want to take the time to hear it. An important document was stolen from Scott Joplin’s widow a few days ago. I have reason to believe it’s here in Sedalia, and further, that Mr. Campbell might have it. The thief told Mrs. Joplin that Mr. Campbell was going to present it at the ceremony.”

Rosenthal raised a finger. “I think you’re on the right track. Campbell did mention that he wanted to show off some journal of Joplin’s.”

“That’s it!” Blesh pounded a fist into his open palm. “Lord, that man is a loose cannon.”

“But I told him we simply could not accommodate him.”

“He must be going to try something else, then.” Blesh looked wildly around the room. “Mr. Rosenthal, can you tell me where I might find him? I need to get this matter sorted out as quickly as possible.”

Rosenthal whistled softly. “He was here with Mrs. Luella Rohrbaugh. She seemed to be serving as his guide. But I don’t know—”

“I can give you directions to Mrs. Rohrbaugh’s home.”

The men turned to Miss Fox. Blesh broke into a broad, open smile. “I’d appreciate that.”

***

By mid-afternoon, dishes from lunch still covered the scarred wooden table in Tom Ireland’s kitchen. In the living room beyond, Ireland, Brun, and old Isaac slouched on the sofa. Luella sat primly in a faded horsehide armchair. Alan pulled a straight-backed chair as far from Slim as space permitted; the big man couldn’t seem to stop shooting eye-daggers at the boy. Green sat in front of the window, between Slim and Alan, whittling at a stick.

“We’re getting nowhere fast,” Ireland said. “Eileen Klein couldn’t tell Mrs. Rohrbaugh anything. And the two of you found nothing interesting at Barton’s? Are you sure? Nothing at all?”

Slim and Green shook their heads. “We went through the place, room by room,” Green said. “Not a sign of the journal or anything else. Just that the cellar door was stove in. Almost like somebody wanted to make it easy for us.”

Ireland shrugged. “Who knows? I guess all we can do is watch for Klein at the ceremony tonight. See if he’s got the journal on him.”

Green hit the spittoon dead-on. “I just hate sittin’ here doin’ nothing in the meanwhile.”

Alan eyed the piano in the far corner of the living room, a lovely polished-mahogany Kimball upright. “Mr. Campbell…?”

Brun sat up. “What say?”

“While we’re just sitting here doing nothing, you could give me a piano lesson.”

Ireland laughed out loud. The kid had made away with Scott Joplin’s journal, come out to Missouri on a train, had the journal stolen off him, damn near got himself killed, and all he could think of was getting a piano lesson.

Brun almost leaped to his feet. “Sure, kid, why not?” He set his fedora at a rakish angle, then motioned Alan to the piano bench. The boy was there instantly. Brun sat beside him, raised his hands. “Now. This’s the way Scott Joplin taught
me
to play.” He lowered his hands, struck the keys.