The King of Ragtime (20 page)

The man grinned. “Tell you what. I been pretty hungry myself, but I figured I’d wait till you got yourself up. How about I call down for eats?”

Birdie forced a smile. “That sounds real good.”

“Okay, then. But you go on back in the bedroom there, and stay till I comes for you. I don’t want the delivery guy seein’ you. Go on, now.”

Birdie obeyed. He called after her, “I’ll get us some orange juice and coffee, an’ a good mess a bacon and eggs.”

“Okay,” Birdie called back. She almost laughed. Here she was, kidnaped and being held in an apartment by a colored man with a big scar on his face, and she was worried about what her mother would say if she knew her daughter was about to eat bacon.

***

They sat at a table in the tiny kitchen. Birdie had a little trouble with the first taste, but once it was chewed and swallowed, she decided bacon actually was pretty good. Very good, in fact. She didn’t feel any different, and thought if she got another chance, she’d probably eat it again. Her mother didn’t have to know everything she did. Besides, she’d soon be married to Martin, and then her mother couldn’t tell her not to do anything.

While they ate, the colored man went on about his music, told her how he’d gone to school back in Sedalia, Missouri, the same music school Scott Joplin had attended, and that he guessed those old European composers were okay for their time, but what really got to him was the music coming up out of New Orleans. “I was in St. Louie one night, and I hear this guy, Jelly Roll, he cut everybody in sight—”

Birdie’s cheeks went chalky. “With a knife?”

The man started to laugh, but a look at her face stopped him cold. He reached across the table, touched her hand, then pulled his own hand back in a hurry. “Sorry, Miss. No, see, cutting be a kind of contest to find out the best piano player in the joint. They’s judges and all, and the winner get a prize, maybe ten or twenty, or in a big one, even a hundred dollars. An’ this Jelly Roll man, he made some of the best players in St. Louie look like li’l kids. He play what he call jass, it’s a new kinda music from New Orleans. Well, the very minute I heared him, I knew that jass music be the thing for me. When I finished school, I played my horn on the streets, and I hired out for any kinda job that paid money, building, digging, whatever. I saved every penny, some days I didn’t eat, and when I got enough together, I come here to New York City. They already be lots a good players in Chicago and Kay Cee, but jass just now be comin’ to New York, so I figure I can be the man here. Mr. Jelly Roll, he told me don’t just play other peoples’ music, you gotta write your own. Besides, they pays you to publish your tunes, and then everybody gonna know your name. You play piano, Miss?”

“Yes. Not really good, though.”

“Well, when my music come out, I gonna give you copies. See if I don’t.”

Birdie’s smile came naturally. She looked around. Dust motes drifted lazily in beams of sunlight. This must be what it’s going to be like, she thought, sitting over breakfast with Martin, listening to him talk about the big things he’s going to do with his life. If she closed her eyes and ignored the southern speech, she could have been listening to Martin. They’d finished eating, but neither one seemed inclined to leave the table. An idea came to Birdie; she paused to think it through, then spoke. “I don’t even know your name.”

He grinned. What beautiful teeth, Birdie thought.

“Dubie, Dubie Harris,” the man said. “You’re gonna know it real good some day. What be your name? My boss told me, but I went and forgot.”

“Birdie. Short for Bertha.”

“Birdie…Birdie…” Dubie seemed to roll it around on his tongue. “That be a nice name, nicer than Bertha. When I gives you my music, I’m gonna sign it for you: ‘To Birdie, Best wishes, Dubie Harris.’ Then, when you play it, you can think about me.”

He’s stringing me along, she thought. Maybe he thinks that’ll make me behave myself. She got to her feet. “That was a good breakfast, thank you. I’ll wash up the dishes.”

“Woman’s work.” Dubie grinned wide, showing off those wonderful teeth. He stood, stretched. “I’ll go inside for a bit. Maybe we can play us some more cards later.”

“Sure.”

She watched him amble into the living room, then set about clearing the table. The strangest thing, how it kept feeling like a rehearsal for married life. She soaped a dishcloth. Someone lived here—who? It couldn’t be Dubie’s apartment. Probably his boss’, whoever that was. First chance she got, if she got a chance, she’d have to snoop around.

As she walked into the living room, she heard a rasping sound, like a piece of machinery not running quite right. Dubie was stretched out on the sofa, mouth open, snoring away. She looked from the sleeping man to the telephone, then back to Dubie, then back again to the phone. She could call home—but no, her mother would be hysterical, no help at all. Martin was at Mr. Lamb’s, in Brooklyn, but she didn’t know the number. Okay, then, how about the office? Give Fannie the phone number here, and tell her to call the police so they could go to the telephone company and get the address.

She tiptoed to the phone, lifted the receiver, took care not to let the cradle rise too fast and make noise. She needed three tries before the operator heard her whispered request. Her heart pounded at her throat as the telephone at the other end began to ring. Then, Fannie’s voice. Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder, Music—”

She shrieked as Dubie tore the phone from her hand and slammed it down onto the cradle. “What you doin’? Who you callin’, huh?”

She couldn’t speak, just shrank against the wall.

“Damn, girl! Some people, you just cain’t be nice to.” He grabbed her arm, started dragging her toward the bedroom.

She dug her heels into the carpet. Dubie muttered a curse, then swooped an arm down to catch her behind the knees, picked her up, stomped into the bedroom, slammed her down onto the bed. “Now you don’t move, hear?
Hear?
”

Dubie charged out of the room. In less than a minute, he was back, a length of stout rope in each hand. “Oh, don’t—” Birdie shouted, but he cut her off. “My boss said tie her up, but that just didn’t seem like the thing to do. So I tried being nice, and see what happen? The minute I take my eye offa you, you’re on the phone. Good thing I sleeped a lot on park benches, ‘cause it don’t take the least little noise to wake me. He pushed Birdie roughly onto her side, roped her ankles together, and fastened the other end to the rail at the foot of the bed. Then he tied her hands behind her back. “That hurts,” she cried. “Shoulda thought of that before you went and ran off to the phone,” the man barked. “Okay, now. You needs to use the toilet, you can call me. Otherwise, you stays right here. An’ stop with your crying, ’cause it’s your own damn fault.” He started to walk away, then looked back at Birdie. “I trusted you,” he said. Then he stomped out and into the living room, leaving the girl with the crazy notion that she had, in fact, betrayed him.

Chapter Eleven

Manhattan
Friday, August 25
Morning

By a quarter to nine, Nell was in the Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder Reception Room. She used the next fifteen minutes to get chummy with Fannie Solomon and arrange to go to lunch with her. On the stroke of nine, a gray-haired man with a sensational handlebar mustache came in, and in a thick Italian accent, told Fannie he wanted a tune for a vaudeville sketch involving an organ grinder and a monkey. “Mist’ Berlin, he write ‘Marie From Sunny Italy,’ an’ ‘Sweet Marie, Make A Rag-A-Time-A-Dance With Me,’ yes? So he can make me a good-a song, too. Then, I sing it on-a da stage an’ people buy.” Fannie directed him to a chair.

The Italian had just settled down when Tabor walked in, along with a heavy, ruddy-faced man, whom he led to the reception desk. “Well, Mrs. Stanley,” Tabor said. “You’re more than punctual, aren’t you?”

“I try to have good work habits, sir,” Nell said.

The big man guffawed, and punched Tabor’s arm lightly. “Looks like we’ve got us a go-getter, Bart.”

Tabor nodded. “Mrs. Stanley, this is Mr. Henry Waterson, our senior partner. Mr. Waterson, Mrs. Eleanor Stanley, our new bookkeeper.

Nell smiled. “I’m pleased to meet you, sir.”

Waterson took a moment to evaluate Nell part by part, starting with her head and working his way down, pausing longer at her bosom than she thought was decorous. In any case, he seemed to approve of what he saw. “I’m glad you came looking for the job, Mrs. Stanley,” he said. “I can’t deny, we’re in a tight spot.”

Nell met his gaze. “I expect to have you out of it by the end of the day, sir.”

Tabor snickered. Waterson exploded in laughter, which made it clear to Nell he’d drunk his breakfast. “By golly, I
like
your attitude.” He slapped his knee. “Tabor, there is after all something to be said for maturity in an employee, isn’t there?” He bowed slightly toward Nell. “I hope you’ll enjoy working here, Mrs. Stanley.”

“I’m sure I will, sir.”

Tabor cleared his throat. “All right, Mrs. Stanley. Let me take you back to your place and get you started. You’ve got a lot to do.”

***

After Nell left for work, Stark dressed slowly. His was a mind that moved relentlessly along a single track, no switching to another line until the first destination had been reached. Why was Berlin being so obstinate? No doubt, the man was under terrific pressure to produce music for the Ziegfeld extravaganza, so why the deuce didn’t he just produce a contract to publish
If
, and be done with it? He wouldn’t lose much money, if any; men like Berlin never do. Was the man simply too stubborn for common sense—damned if he was going to admit his attempted theft, and give his opponent satisfaction? Stark remembered generals on both sides of his war who showed a positive genius for winning skirmishes that cost them major battles.

Stark checked his watch, a quarter to ten. Berlin had insisted he’d never seen Joplin’s manuscript, and wanted Stark to pin down details. All right—perhaps Stark could use those details to pin
Berlin
down. He locked up the apartment, went out, and walked briskly along Seventy-second Street, toward the subway kiosk.

***

Martin let Stark into Lamb’s apartment, then practically jumped into the old man’s arms. “Did they find Birdie yet?”

Stark shook his head. “Nell’s gone in to work at Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder. Let’s see what she comes up with.”

Martin shook both fists in the air, a classic pubertal tantrum. “I can’t just sit around here, I’m going to go nuts. I need to
do
something.”

Stark gave the young man a quick dose of cold-eye. “Son, you listen to me now. You’ve already done something, and just by good fortune, it’s worked out to our advantage. But you may not be so lucky next time. There
are
times to push luck, but when you do, you need to be sure you’re gambling with your chips and no one else’s. Three lives are at stake here, only one of which is yours.”

The old man turned away from Martin, then walked to the piano. “Joplin.” Stark shook the composer gently by the shoulder. “Joplin, I need to talk to you.”

Joplin turned slowly, blinked his way back to his surroundings, nodded a sort of hello to Stark.

“Do you remember just when it was that you gave your manuscript to Berlin?”

A wave of consternation washed over the composer’s face. “Why do you need to know that?”

“To help clear up the matter. I’m trying to go back to when it started, and then move forward from there. Do you remember which day you went down there? And at what time?”

Joplin looked like a man rummaging for a small object in a packed steamer trunk. He chewed at his lower lip. “Few days ago, in the daytime…well, what difference does it make? I gave him my music, just like I gave him
Treemonisha
, and he stole it to make his fortune. After he’d published seven of my rags!” The composer’s entire body began to shake. His jaw twitched; he seemed to labor for breath. Then he turned savagely away from Stark to face the piano, struck a chord, made a face, struck another.

Martin tugged at Stark’s sleeve. “Mr. Stark, I know. Mrs. Joplin told Mrs. Stanley it was the day before the murder, Monday. While I was out to lunch.”

“Which was between?”

“Twelve and one. Like always.”

Stark indicated Joplin with a sidewise motion of his head. “Can we really be sure that was when he came by? He might have come during business hours, and Berlin just told him you were out to lunch. Would you necessarily have seen Mr. Joplin from your office? Can we even be sure that he went to that particular office at all? Perhaps he went to Berlin’s other office, or his apartment.”

No response.

Stark sighed. “I’ll give Lottie a call.”

***

The instant Stark identified himself, Lottie echoed Martin’s first question. “Nell called last night, told me about that li’l girl been kidnaped. They find her yet?”

“No, but we’re working at it. The reason I’m calling is to see whether you can tell me just when Scott did go downtown to give the manuscript to Berlin.”

“I sure can. It was, lessee, one, two, three, four…four days ago. Monday. He left here right about eleven-thirty, and not two hours later, he was back with that cut on his head and blood all over his shirt. Before he left, I wrote down the address for him, the way all them music places move around. Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder, Strand Building, Broadway and Forty-seventh Street, third floor. Do that help?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Scott doin’ okay?”

“As well as we could hope. He sits at the piano and works at his symphony.”

“I can hear that. Okay, then, Mr. Stark. I thanks you for callin’.”

Stark heard her hang up, then, in slow motion, replaced the earpiece into the cradle.

***

By the time Nell ran up to the receptionist’s desk, the office was quiet. Three minutes after twelve, all the staff was already out to lunch. “I’m sorry to be late,” Nell said. “Those books are a terrible mess. I was in the middle of reconciling a couple of columns, and I couldn’t stop on the dot of twelve.”

Fannie smiled. “Don’t worry about it, Dearie, it’s only a few minutes. I give you a week, and you’ll be just like everybody else. When it’s both hands straight up, it’s pencils down and out the door.” She wrestled her headphone past an impressive beehive of hair, then got to her feet. “Let’s go. Got to make up for that lost time.”

In the hall, waiting for the elevator, Nell said, “It’s nice of you to go to lunch with me.”

“Nah, come on, Dearie, it’s your first day.
I
shoulda asked
you
. What do you say we go to Schneider’s? It ain’t cheap, but it ain’t too bad either, and the sandwiches are divine.”

It’s going to be a long hour, Nell thought, as they stepped onto the elevator.

As they ate their divine corned beef, Nell went along with the girl-talk, the let’s-get-acquainted banter. She assured Fannie that married life was just fine, assuming, of course, that you find a husband like her own, responsible and easy-going, not a man who tries to run his wife’s life as well as his own. They talked about hairdressers and manicurists and doctors. Finally, Nell found her opening, and asked Fannie how she liked working at Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder. “Oh, it’s the best,” the receptionist said. “Good hours and decent pay, and they treat you good. Mr. Waterson plays the horses a bit too much, if you ask me, but he’s nice to all the help. And Mr. Snyder, he’s on vacation now, you’ll meet him in another week and a half. He’s a lot younger, and oh, such a dreamboat. Then, there’s Mr. Berlin.” Fannie snorted, half-amused, half-derisive. “He’s too good to talk to anybody. But at least he don’t have hands that go places where they shouldn’t, I’ll say that for him. Unlike certain other parties I could mention.”

The girl licked her lips, obviously enjoying her time on-stage. Nell grinned, and wrapped a girlish twist around her words. “And who might those certain other parties be?”

“Well, I guess you could start with Mr. Bartlett Tabor.”

“Mr. Tabor? Nell applied surprise to her face with a trowel. “Why, he seemed all right to me. Maybe a little sarcastic—”

“Oh, Dearie, let me tell you.” The way Fannie snaked a hand toward Nell, you’d have thought she was about to drop a delicious chocolate candy onto her new friend’s plate. “Mr. Tabor’s more than a
little
sarcastic. Wait’ll you make your first mistake. You’ll know about it for sure.”

Well, then, he’d be doing his job, Nell thought, but said, “All right, thank you. I’ll watch out. And I’ll try not to make any mistakes, at least not big ones.”

Across the table, Fannie, a faint smile on her lips, studied Nell. The receptionist twisted a lock of hair in front of her right ear, released it, twisted it again.

“Penny for your thoughts,” said Nell.

“Well…I don’t know…”

“Now, come on. Don’t be a tease.” Nell thought if she had to keep up this pretense and tone of voice for much longer, she’d scream.

“Oh, all right. You’ll find out soon enough, anyway. Mr. Tabor’s not much of a gentleman. The girls say he’s got wandering hands, but they don’t exactly wander. They know right where they’re going.”

“If they go where they don’t belong on me, they’ll never go there again,” Nell said. “I promise you that.”

“But you’ll only make him worse.” For the first time, Nell thought Fannie looked embarrassed. “I figure, a little feel here, a goose there, what does it really matter, huh? I can’t afford to lose my job. Live and let live, I say. He’s a man, right?”

Scott Joplin is a man, Nell thought. And Jim. And my father.

“I just think he oughta show a little more consideration, though.” Fannie was launched now, no stopping the flood of information. “It’s one thing for a guy to be a little fresh with somebody who knows their way around the block. But he’s just terrible with that little Birdie—gives her a pinch or a feel every time he goes past her. She’s scared silly of him, and scared even more that her boyfriend might see what he’s doing. Martin’s got a little bit of a temper, you know? You ask me, that’s why she didn’t come in to work yesterday or today. I bet she was afraid to be in the office without Martin being there.”

“I think she should have come in and spit in Tabor’s face if he touched her.”

“She’s how old, Dearie? Seventeen? Could you do that when
you
were seventeen?”

“I could have done more than that,” Nell said. “And I would have.”

Fannie shook her head. “Well, I guess you’re more nervy than most of the girls. They’re all the time wondering what to do if he invites them up to his apartment. That’s how he works it, see? Sometimes it’s for a ‘final interview’ for a job. Sometimes it’s for a raise.”

“Is that really true? Or is it just a rumor?”

Fannie’s smile went sly. “Oh, Dearie, it is no rumor. I’m making five dollars a month more because I spent a night at 354 West Forty-ninth, Apartment 2A. Hey, look—maybe it’s one thing with you, you got a husband, but for me, what does it hurt, huh? It’s the way the world works—like I said, live and let live. You scratch my back, I scratch yours.” She started to giggle, all her earlier embarrassment out the window.

Nell willed herself to stay in her chair and keep disgust off her face. The way the world works! But this contemptible woman was the eyes and ears of the office, and the last thing Nell wanted to do was antagonize her. “I guess we’d better be getting back.” Nell pointed toward the big round clock up on the wall behind the counter. “We don’t want to be late, do we?”

Fannie’s eyes opened all the way. “Oh, my goodness!” She jumped to her feet. “I was having such a nice time talkin’ to you.”

Nell threw money on the table. “We’ll talk more.”

***

Stark peered into the phone, as if he were trying to see Berlin’s face. “You say I have to believe you, Mr. Berlin? Just why should I believe you at all, let alone be compelled to?”

A momentary splutter, then, “Look, Mr. Stark. I was not at W, B, and S at all on Monday, never mind over the lunch hour. I got up at twelve that day, like just about always, had breakfast and a shave, then Cliff Hess came by about one to show me some of the work he did on a couple of my songs. He was here most of the afternoon. Robert can tell you that, and so can Cliff.”

Stark blew out a long breath. “Mr. Berlin, I’ve talked to Joplin and some other people as well, and I have to say, it does sound as though Joplin met with you at Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder four days ago, between twelve and one. Everyone agrees on that.”

“Everybody except me. For God’s sake, Stark. Whoever it was that told you Joplin was at W, B, and S between twelve and one on Monday—were they there with him?”

Silence.

“I don’t hear anything, so I guess the answer is no. Look, I want to get this straightened out as much as you do, maybe more. Why won’t you let me talk to Joplin? If you, me and him talk, we just might be able to clear it all up.”

“I have to admit, Mr. Berlin, you make a fair point. If it were only myself involved, I’d agree. But I need to think of Joplin’s safety as well as Niederhoffer’s, and certainly that girl’s.”