The King of Ragtime (18 page)

Stark looked at the manila folder in Nell’s hand. “I guess Martin’s ears are better than my eyes. I never saw you coming down the street.” He made a production of pulling out his pocket watch, then squinted over it, at his daughter. “I’d say you had a long lunch. Was it productive?”

Nell marched past him, dropped the folder onto the telephone table. She pulled the pin from her hat, set the hat on top of the folder. Joplin’s apparent attention to his composition didn’t waver. “As a matter of fact,” Nell said. “I had no lunch. Birdie didn’t come.”

“What do you mean, she didn’t come?” Martin, instantly on the uptake.

“I called the office and asked for her. They said she didn’t come in to work today.”

“Why not?” Martin’s fists tightened. “Where is—”

Nell cut him off. “I couldn’t find out right then, because I had an appointment with Irving Berlin.”

Above his beard, Stark’s face went crimson. “What…when did this happen? I had no idea—”

Nell tried to ignore the hammer, pounding relentlessly at her left temple. “You had no idea because I didn’t tell you, and I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to have to argue with you about whether or not I was going to do it. I posed as a reporter, and I got some interesting answers to my questions.”

“But damn it to hell! What about Birdie?” Martin, not about to let the most important matter be put aside.

“Young man, control your tongue,” Stark snapped. “There’s a lady here.”

“It’s all right, Dad.” Nell sounded weary. “Anyone in the music business who gets offended at every hell and damn doesn’t have time to do anything else. Martin, I don’t know what’s happened to Birdie. After I finished with Berlin, I stopped at Kuminskys’ and spoke to Birdie’s mother. She was quite upset. Someone had called her and told her they had Birdie in custody, and that they’d release her if you and Mr. Joplin turn yourselves in.”

It took a moment for Martin to process the information; then he barreled over to the piano, and tugged at Joplin’s arm. The composer, taken by surprise, nearly toppled off the edge of the bench. Martin pulled him up and toward the door. “Get out of my way,” he shouted at Stark and Nell. “I’m not going to let them hurt Birdie.”

“You young fool—shut up and sit
down
!”

Martin’s expression suggested Stark had slapped his face.

“Turning yourself in now would be the worst thing you could do. Can you really be so foolish as to think whoever’s got your girlfriend would simply let her walk out of wherever she is, safe and sound? If we ever had any thought of you and Joplin going to the police, we don’t have it any longer. They’ve forced our hand, and damn it…” He paused just long enough to glance at Nell, who managed not to smile. “We have no choice but to find out ourselves just what in Sam Hill is going on here, and we can’t all be running around on our own, each of us trying to outmaneuver the other. If we want to have any hope of getting that girl back safely, we need to work together. Do you
both
understand me?”

Silence for an instant, then Martin exploded into tears. Nell put an arm across his shoulders. Joplin, now ignored, walked back to the piano bench, and picked up where he’d left off when Martin had pulled him away.

“My father’s right, Martin,” Nell said gently. “Come on, let’s go in the kitchen. We need to put together what we know, and decide where to go from here.”

Martin wiped at his eyes.

“We’ll find her. “Nell’s voice was like steel. “The sooner we start, the better.”

“No doubt about that,” said Stark. “But we do need to be careful. Trying to predict the behavior of a cornered rat can be dangerous business. Tell us about your talk with him, Nell.”

***

Stark leaned so far forward in his chair, Nell thought he might fall across the kitchen table. “You say Berlin told you he knew about Joplin’s play?”

“Not exactly,” Nell said. “He didn’t admit it, but I think he slipped and referred to the play by name,
If
. I almost pushed him on it, but thought it might be better to not let him know I’d picked up on him.”

Stark nodded. “Good judgment. Did he say anything else?”

Nell made a wry face, glanced toward the living room, then shifted into a whisper. “He said everyone in the business knows Scott’s got a dose of the French goods, and is out of his mind. Of course, he lost no time in apologizing, and asking me to understand how much pressure he’s under with his new show.”

“The man’s disgusting. If I were thirty years younger—”

Nell rested a hand on her father’s arm. “Dad, enough. He’s a crass little man who’s terrified that one day he’s going to find himself back on the streets of the lower east side. Let’s get on. Did
you
find anything useful?”

Stark hesitated. He’d have sooner taken on both his boys at the same time than get down to cases with their little sister. She’d scared off more suitors than Penelope, didn’t get married until she was past thirty. The only man he’d ever seen her defer to was Scott Joplin.

Whom he had come here to help, hadn’t he? Slowly, he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, laid it on the table. Nell picked it up and began to read. “I admit to being a bit ashamed of myself,” Stark muttered. “I took it from Joplin’s desk.”

Nell looked up, disbelief all over her face. “Lottie doesn’t know?”

Martin scrambled out of his chair to peer at the paper over Nell’s shoulder.

“She was scared silly just about our being in there.” Stark talked in a hoarse whisper. “I decided not to take a chance she’d say no. Or not let me even copy it.”

Nell murmured a soft “Hmmm,” then went back to reading. Finally, she looked up. “‘The most important word in the dictionary of a man’s life…The Ifs that have defined the life of Scott Joplin…’ What you think those Ifs might be, Dad?”

“I’ve been wondering all afternoon. If Scott Joplin had been born white? If reconstruction had been more than a joke? If he could have gotten some real schooling in music composition and performance. If John Stark had published his operas…” His voice faded. “I suppose if I were in his place, it’d be something along those lines.”

No one spoke. Nell pushed the paper back across the table; Stark folded it carefully and returned it to his pocket. “In any event, I’m afraid we can’t make much of the fact that Berlin knew the name of Joplin’s play. I mentioned it yesterday, when I went down and talked to him. I wanted to see how he’d react.”

Nell sent her father’s eyebrows skyward with a vigorous misuse of the Lord’s name.

“I wouldn’t be concerned, my dear. Two people, one of them supposedly a reporter, have asked him about that play, so he must have serious doubts by now as to whether he really can get away with stealing it. And…” Stark gestured toward Martin. “Thanks to our young friend and his companion, he must also know he can’t try to get out of the situation by destroying the manuscript—not if he wants to keep his teeth. My apologies on that point, Martin. It was obvious this afternoon that Berlin thinks I’m the mysterious person behind the thug who threatened him, and I said nothing to disabuse him of the idea. Your plan might just have been brilliant, after all. Do you think you could get back in touch with this Footsie Vinny person?”

“Probably. I could go up to the Alamo and talk to Ragtime Jimmy.”

“Yes, I suppose. I don’t like your going out on the street, but I don’t see any other way. All right. Nell, you stay with Joplin while Martin and I go uptown and arrange for Vinny to pay another call on Berlin, with Martin and me in his company.” He turned to the young man. “But you will keep your mouth severely shut. I want Berlin to think he’s up against the boss, and that the boss is angry about a missing girl, and running out of patience in a hurry.” Stark pushed away from the table, and started in his stiff-legged trot into the living room.

“Just a minute, Dad.”

Stark turned.

“I can’t stay here with Scott. I have something else to do now.”

Stark walked slowly back to his chair, sat, drummed fingers on the table, blew out a breath.

“I’ve been thinking about Birdie, too. It’s almost four o’clock, and if I move fast enough, I can get to Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder before five. While I was waiting my turn at Berlin’s, I overheard Mr. Tabor, the office manager, tell Berlin there’s a real problem with the books, what with both Martin and Birdie disappearing, and he needs to hire a new bookkeeper, fast. I’ll bet he’d jump at someone with experience at a music publisher’s. He’d probably hire me on the spot and put me right to work.”

“Nell! You can’t do that.”

“Why not? Weren’t
you
satisfied with my work? When I kept books at Stark Music, you were never a penny off. I’ve got eyes and ears, and if I’m in that office all day, I might pick up some information about Birdie’s whereabouts, and maybe about the murder as well. Don’t
you
think they might be tied in with each other?”

Stark frowned. “That could easily put you in harm’s way. I won’t let you do it.”

The silence in the kitchen was like the stillness that precedes a tornado. Martin stopped breathing.

Nell spoke first. “I am forty-four years old, and I’ll decide for myself what I will and will not do. If I don’t try this, and it comes to a bad end for that girl, do you suppose I’ll be able to forgive myself for sitting by because of a half-baked concern for my own skin? That’s not the way I was brought up.”

Stark studied his shoes. She’d always been like this. There had been episodes in Sedalia where Nell’s speech and behavior had sent ladies in for quiet talks with Sarah, but nothing had ever stopped his daughter, or even slowed her down. And blast it, she always managed to couch a proposition in such terms that if he objected,
he’d
be the one to sound unreasonable. No, that was not the way she’d been brought up. He raised his eyes. “Suppose Berlin should see you at the office, and recognizes you from this afternoon?”

“He’s not there often, and in any case, I seriously doubt he’d give a bookkeeper a second glance, let alone a first. But I’ll make up my hair and face differently. He’ll never notice.”

“The manager is going to ask you for references. You can’t very well walk in and tell him you kept books for your father at Stark Music Company in St. Louis.”

“Dad, for heaven’s sake. Give me more credit than that. Before I came over here, I stopped home and did a little work.” She got up from the table, then marched into the living room, Stark and Martin hurrying after her. “By the time I’m finished with Mr. Tabor, he’ll be pleading with me to start work on the spot. Just leave that to me.”

But I need to go with Martin up to Harlem.”

“Fine. Joe will be back in an hour or so. He can stay with Scott, and you can go then. That will be better, anyway—with the after-work crowds on the sidewalks and in the subway, there’s less chance someone will notice Martin.” She picked up her hat, adjusted it on her head, set the pin with a thrust that made Stark cringe. Then she grabbed the folder and tucked it under her arm. “I’d better get moving, or I’ll be too late.”

Martin ran after her. “Mrs. Stanley, I don’t know how to thank you. But please be careful.”

Nell turned a tight smile on him. “Don’t thank me until your girl is back with you. In the meanwhile, mind your manners, and listen to what Mr. Stark tells you. Don’t give us anything else to worry about.”

Martin looked at Stark, who burst out laughing.

Chapter Ten

Manhattan
Thursday, August 24
Late afternoon

Nell stifled a smile as Bartlett Tabor leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed, forefinger playing at the dimple in his chin. Trying to size her up from across the desk. “Well, I’ve got to tell you, Miss Stanley—”

“Mrs. Stanley.”

Sly smile. “Of course.” He pointed at the ring on her left fourth finger. “I must say, this is a new one on me—a person coming in to apply for a position before I’ve even advertised it.”

Nell raised the newspaper from her lap, held it up to him. “The power of the press, sir. Along with what I’m sure was unwelcome publicity, you did get a little free advertising. Having your bookkeeper on the run, gone from one minute to the next, can’t be easy for you.”

“More difficult than you know. Our assistant bookkeeper didn’t come in for work today. It just so happens she’s the bookkeeper’s girlfriend, so I suppose she took off with him. They’re probably on a train, somewhere around Cincinnati by now.”

“Well, then.” Nell extended a hand, palm up. “Here I am.”

Tabor laughed. “The answer to my prayer, even before I’ve asked it.”

“If getting your books in order and keeping them that way is what you were going to pray for, then yes.”

Tabor let his chair drift to the upright, then grinned across the desk at Nell. “You’re a pretty eager beaver.”

“Perhaps just an early bird.”

He laughed again. “Whatever, you’re plenty quick. Let’s see…” He picked up the manila folder Nell had given him when she’d come into the room. “
Mrs.
Eleanor Samuels Stanley…age forty-four…West Seventy-second Street…musician, hmm. What instrument?”

“Piano.”

“Why aren’t you out looking for performance opportunities?”

“I’ve had quite enough of that, thank you. I’ve played professionally, but the truth is, I’ve never been good enough to get past being an accompanist, and I’m tired of the grind, the bad hours, bad food, difficult traveling.”

“You could teach piano.”

“Yes, I suppose I could. But I don’t have the patience to keep trying, day after day, to get sullen, sulking children to do something their parents have forced upon them, when they’d much rather be playing out-of-doors. That’s why I took the bookkeeping courses—”

“At Stephens Secretarial College.”

“In Chicago, yes.”

“And you worked for five years at Leonard’s Department Store.”

Which existed only in Nell’s imagination. She held her breath.

“Why did you leave?”

“My husband got an irresistible offer to work in New York.”

“And you found work at Randall Music. Too bad the family closed the firm when Mr. Randall died.”

Nell nodded. “He was a fine old gentleman. He treated his employees very well.”

“So you’ve not worked now for the better part of a year.”

“I decided to give the piano another chance, but it just isn’t working out. No surprise, really. My husband and I were talking about it the other day, and I told him I thought I’d rather earn my living as a bookkeeper, and enjoy playing piano evenings, at home.

Tabor leaned forward. “Do you need to earn a living? Even with your husband’s irresistible job?”

Nell warned herself not to underestimate the man, or get too clever and box herself into a corner. “No, Mr. Tabor, I don’t need to. I want to. Would you like to spend your days cleaning a house that’s not particularly dirty? Gossiping and making foolish talk over lunch with foolish, idle women? Worrying about whom to invite to dinner to advance your husband’s career, then fretting for days before whether it will go well, and days after, whether it did?”

Tabor laughed again. “No, I certainly wouldn’t. But does your husband approve of having you work? You can understand, I’d rather not hire someone who’ll work a few days, then leave because her husband is complaining his dinner’s not on the table on time.”

“My husband is pleased to have me do what satisfies me.”

She expected another chuckle from Tabor, but it didn’t come. “All right,” he said. “Your references look to be in order, and you’ve got very complimentary letters from young Randall and your supervisor at Leonard’s.”

That’s the way I wrote them, Nell thought, and decided to push matters along. “Mr. Tabor, I’d like to work at Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder, and I believe I’m qualified in all respects. In fact, if the firm is ever in need of a fill-in pianist, I’d be right there. If you have doubts, why don’t you take me on for a month, on a trial basis?”

Tabor leaned back again, protruded his lower lip, nodded. “You’re an interesting woman, Mrs. Stanley. What line of work did you say your husband is in?”

“I didn’t. He’s chief accountant at a brokerage.”

Nell readied herself for a prolonged personal fishing expedition, but Tabor surprised her by suddenly sitting upright and saying, “All right. Would eighteen dollars per week be acceptable, at least to start?”

“I think so…yes.”

“Good. As a matter of fact, you may well be more suited to the job than you realize. I need someone with your degree of maturity and confidence. The company is in something of a…well, a delicate position right now. Let’s just say there have been some irregularities, and we need to pay the closest attention to every item in every day’s figures. Careful scrutiny and discretion will be of the utmost importance.”

“I understand. When would you like me to start?”

Tabor studied his pocket watch. “Well, it’s after five. Perhaps I can show you your space, and give you a bit of an idea as to what the job will entail. Then you’ll be able to start first thing in the morning.”

“I’ll be glad to stay and learn the job, sir.” Now,
she
smiled. “I’m sure my husband won’t object if his dinner is a little late.”

Tabor laughed. “Touché.” He pushed back from his desk and got to his feet. “Let’s get started.”

***

Stark wondered whether they were on a fool’s errand. Nearly three quarters of an hour, sitting on a bench at the southeastern corner of Riverside Park, but no sign of Berlin. Martin looked like a puppet on a string held by a maniac: every couple of minutes, up he’d jump, peer down the block, then flop back onto the bench. Footsie Vinny seemed fully absorbed in paring his fingernails with a vicious-looking knife, but then he folded the blade, jerked his head in Martin’s direction, and growled, “Hey, kid.”

Martin, halfway to his feet, froze.

“Siddown, would you, and stay down. You want to get people to noticing us, it’d be a hell of a lot easier, you just put up one a them signs with neon lights.”

Martin lowered himself slowly back to the bench. “I keep thinking about Birdie,” he murmured.

Stark slapped a hand onto the young man’s thigh. “I know just how difficult it is to stay patient when you’re worried about someone you care for, but that’s what you’ve got to do right now. You need to wait for the fish to bite. Try to set the hook too soon, you’ll lose your fish.”

Vinny’s face eased into a smile. “Hey, there, Grandpa, you some kinda poet? You talk a damn good game.”

“Wait till you see me play,” Stark said, then motioned toward a couple of figures crossing West End Avenue, on the opposite side of the street. “Is that our fish? If it is, it looks like he’s brought some protection.”

They watched as the men came up close. “Don’t look like that protection’s got much muscle,” Vinny whispered. “Aw right, you guys stay here. Be right back with some fish for you to clean.”

Vinny scuttled a few yards to crouch behind a hedge at the southernmost tip of the park. Martin started forward; Stark pushed him back onto the bench. “Let him do his work. We don’t want to spook them.”

Before Berlin and his companion could get within shouting distance of the Chatsworth, Vinny was out from behind the hedge, across the street, and onto the sidewalk, facing the two men. To Stark, it looked for all the world like a man unexpectedly happening upon two friends; if he hadn’t been watching for it, he’d never have noticed the way Vinny’s right arm was bent at the elbow, the hand extended only slightly, not nearly enough for a handshake. Berlin looked around, but a little wiggle of Vinny’s extended hand snapped the composer’s head back. The gunman motioned, first with his head, then his hand, and the three men moved slowly, off the sidewalk. They waited as a car came up to the end of Seventy-second, and turned north on Riverside Drive. Then, the little parade proceeded into the park.

Berlin’s companion looked frightened, but the composer’s face was a study as he caught sight of Stark and Martin on the bench. He started to speak, but got out no more than a syllable before Vinny jammed the barrel of his pistol into the composer’s back. “Can it!” Vinny barked. “Mr. B, you will speak when spoken to, and not any other time, kapeesh? And you, Mr…”

“Hess,” the man squeaked. “I’m Mr. Berlin’s musical secretary. I write down and arrange his music—”

“Well, that’s just fine, then.” A harsh growl. “I guess you shouldn’t have no trouble arrangin’ to keep
your
mouth shut tight. Now. We’re all gonna get up and walk down the way there, back inside the park. We don’t want nobody bustin’ up our private business meetin’, okay? Let’s go.”

Vinny directed Berlin and Hess across the grass, toward the border of shrubs and trees that separated the park from Riverside Drive. Stark and Martin followed. Vinny gestured with his gun, then gave Hess a shove in the direction of a bench. “You go and lay down there, have yourself a nice little rest while we talk to your boss. If you gotta take a leak, take it now, in the bushes, ‘cause if I see your head come up or your feet go anywhere near the ground, that’ll be the last move you ever make. Am I clear?”

Hess, slack-jawed, nodded, then practically ran to the bench, and in one motion, took off his skimmer, set it on the grass, and stretched out on the wooden slats. Vinny turned back to Berlin. “Okay, now, King—that
is
right, ain’t it? King Irving of Ragtime? I want to know if you made any progress with our friend’s music?”

Berlin’s eyes bulged. “Look, I told you already. I don’t have the music. I’ve never
seen
the music. So how am I supp—”

A sharp crack across his cheek from Vinny’s left hand shut off whatever else Berlin might have been going to say. “Mr. B, you are getting me upset, and you don’t want to do that. Now, I asked you a question that there’s two answers for: yes or no. Which one is it?”

Berlin spluttered. Which got him another open palm to the cheek. “Listen good now, Your Highness. I been tryin’ to help, you know, shake up your head a little, and maybe you’ll remember which word’s the answer. But I helped you all I’m gonna. This’s the last time I ask you. “Any progress? Yes or no.”

Martin hoped he’d never hear anyone talk to him in that tone of voice.

Berlin rubbed his cheek. “No.”

Vinny nodded several times. Stark began to worry. He’d told Vinny no damage, just scare the living daylights out of Berlin, but the way Vinny was regarding the little man made Stark hope the thug’s enthusiasm for his work didn’t carry him away. Vinny blew out a deep breath. “Well, okay, I gotta admit, that is an answer. Not the answer I wanted to hear, and like I said last night, I ain’t gonna wait forever for the one I do want.”

“You gave me five days.” Berlin’s voice was like a tightly-drawn string.

“Hey!” Vinny grinned in the direction of Stark and Martin. “You hear? He does listen, don’t he? An’ besides, he knows how to count. But you know what, King? It ain’t a good idea to leave a job till the last minute, and definitely not an important job. ‘Cause things can happen, complications, you know? Like the one that happened today. And now, all of a sudden, I ain’t feeling so patient like I was. You do know what I’m talkin’ about, right?”

“I don’t have the faintest goddamn idea,” Berlin said.

Against his will, Stark felt admiration for Berlin. The little man kept his eyes level, looked Vinny square in the eye, and there was no pleading in his gaze or in his voice.

“Well, then, I guess I gotta give you a goddamn idea, don’t I? What I’m talkin’ about is the girl, the one you snatched—”

“I
what
.”

The gun waggled. “Mr. B, you got yourself some very bad manners, you know that? It ain’t polite to interrupt somebody while they’re talkin’. Now, just so everything is above the board, I’m talkin’ about this young guy’s assistant, who happens to also be his girlfriend. She didn’t come in to work today, and then her mother got a phone call, sayin’ that she’d get her daughter back when Martin here and Scott Joplin turn themselves in to the cops. So I’m afraid we got us a new situation. I ain’t sure we can wait no five days anymore.”

For the first time, Berlin seemed befuddled. He looked from Martin to Stark. “Listen, I…I don’t know what’s going on here. I don’t have any idea who this girl is. I don’t even know her name.”

Vinny nodded toward Martin.

“Birdie Kuminsky,” Martin said. “Or Bertha.”

Berlin shook his head slowly. “She’s the assistant bookkeeper? I don’t think I’ve ever even seen her. I don’t schmooze with the help. What can I say to you guys? I don’t have Scott Joplin’s music, I didn’t take the girl. Period. You’ve got to believe me.”

Looking at Vinny, Stark thought of a bull catching sight of a cow in the next field. “We don’t
gotta
do nothing,” Vinny said. “But what
you
gotta do is get this mess fixed up, and fast. I want a contract for Joplin, and I want the girl back in the same number of pieces she got took away in. Stealin’ music, that’s one thing—you don’t come around, you get to buy yourself a set of new choppers. But snatching a girl…” He pointed toward Stark. “My client there is very upset about that. He says you better know if she turns up hurt, you get a hundred times what she got. And if she turns up dead or she don’t turn up at all, I only start with your teeth, and when I’m done, you ain’t gonna have any need for new ones, or for nothing else either. Now. Do
you
believe
me
?”

Berlin nodded.

“I don’t hear nothing.”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then.” Vinny slipped his pistol back into the holster behind his jacket, but his stance clearly said that trying to take advantage of that move would be foolish. “And just one more thing, Your Highness. I sure hope you understand what goes down if you call in the cops or any kind of muscle. I just made you some promises, and it’s bad for me
and
my business if I don’t keep my promises. Mr. Stark is my boss on this job, but I got a big boss too, and when one of his employees
or
one of his customers gets hurt or dead, there is hell to pay. For your own sake, I hope you do believe me.”