The King of Ragtime (25 page)

***

No one in bustling, after-theater Times Square looked twice at the two well-dressed gentlemen and the classy lady who strode up and through the Forty-seventh Street entrance of the Strand Theatre Building. They took the stairs to the third floor, Nell opened the office door, and they went inside. The stale odor of the day’s smoked cigarettes and cigars made the air in the Reception Room oppressive. Nell switched on the light; Stark frowned. “Do you think that’s a good idea? Someone might see the light on, and wonder who’s here?”

“Who’s going to wonder?” Nell asked.

“A night watchman?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know if there is one. Besides, how are we going to find anything in the dark?”

“You’ve got a point. Perhaps we should have brought a flashlight, but we didn’t. All right, let’s get started. Where’s Berlin’s office?”

Martin pointed to the hallway past the reception desk. “That’s the business side—the partners’ offices, Mr. Tabor’s, some of the secretaries’, mine…” The young man’s voice faded on the last word, but he recovered quickly, and led the search party down the corridor.

The austerity of Berlin’s office surprised Stark. Just a chair and desk, four file cabinets, and a second chair at the side of the desk. Above the desk, three photographs. “Looks like a monk’s cell,” he said.

“Yeah.” Martin agreed. “One thing about Mr. Berlin, you can’t say he tries to put on the dog.”

“You haven’t seen his apartment.” Stark scanned the room. “Well, let’s get cracking. I suppose we’d better go through the file cabinets, folder by folder.”

Martin walked to the far end of the room, and opened a door. “He’s got files in this closet, too.”

Nell and Stark peered inside. Their shoulders sagged. “Martin, it looks as though you’re earning your keep,” Stark said. “Why don’t you go through these. Nell, you start on the file cabinets out in the office. I’ll go through the desk, then join you.”

Nearly an hour into the project, with the desk and about half the files gone through, a noise from outside the room froze the three searchers. Then, the sound of a door closing, and a man’s voice. “Anybody in here?”

“Damn!” Nell whispered. “Guess there
is
a night watchman. He’s probably checking the floors before he locks up. Tabor told me they lock the outside door at midnight.”

“Martin, get back in the closet and shut the door.” Stark’s whisper was like boots on pebbles. “Nell, come with me.”

She followed her father to the Reception Room. An elderly colored man blinked at them as if his eyes were sending some sort of visual Morse code. He was shorter than Nell, with a droop to the right side of his mouth, and he held his left arm bent at the elbow, up against his chest. He took a few steps toward the white couple, swinging his left leg in a wide arc. “Who you be?” the watchman piped. “What you be doin’ here?”

Give the man a lot of credit, Stark thought. He could be on a street corner with a cup and a handful of pencils. Still, he had to be gotten around, and the faster, the better. “I’m Henry Waterson,” Stark said, and pointed at the reverse-lettering on the door. “And this is Mrs. Waterson.” He paused just long enough to enjoy the savage blush on Nell’s cheeks. “We were at the theater and I stopped in to pick up some materials I need for a meeting with my lawyer Monday morning. We’ll be out shortly.”

“The left side of the watchman’s face curled into a tentative grin. “Well, Mr. Waterson, sir, I be real sorry. While I was walkin’ the halls, I seed the lights on, and I figure, well, now, I better just look into that. But you take long as you need, and I won’t be botherin’ you no more. The door’ll still open for you from the inside, but if I ain’t around when you go, please make good and sure it latches tight shut behind you. Somebody come and find it open, then I loses my job.”

“Thank you,” Stark said. “I’ll be very careful of that. And I’m glad to know our night watchman is so thorough. There’s no telling who might have been in here.” He pulled a small roll of bills from his pocket, plucked a fiver, and gave it to the man.

The watchman worked the bill between his thumb and index finger. “Why, thank you, sir, thank you. Ain’t often somebody shows they ’preciation, except maybe around Christmas time. I’ll be gettin’ on, then.” He tipped his cap, turned around, then limped back out to the corridor.

“Conscience bothering you a little, Mr. Waterson?” Nell’s face was a study.

Stark coughed. “Maybe just a bit. But we didn’t have a lot of choice, did we? Come on, let’s finish this job and get out of here.”

Another half-hour, they’d searched everywhere. Martin had even pulled the cabinets away from the wall, but there was only dust behind them. Stark sighed. “Is there anywhere else in this place he might be hiding that music?”

Martin narrowed his eyes. “Let’s see…the opposite hallway is Sales, Publicity, and Illustration. Across from that is Catalog Storage and Shipping, then the last hall is the Band and Orchestra Department, the pluggers, and piano rooms. I don’t think—”

“No, I don’t either,” said Stark. Berlin wouldn’t have left that music where anyone else might’ve had even a small chance of finding it. He’s probably got it at his apartment, locked inside a nice sturdy safe. Damn and blast!”

“What are we going to do now?” The despair in Martin’s voice earned the young man a soft pat on the shoulder from Nell.

Stark didn’t hear him. He was staring at the three pictures on the wall above the desk. On the left was a cartoon dated October 19, 1913, a caricature of Berlin grinding a street organ as John Bull and Uncle Sam danced; the drawing was titled “The Whole World Moves to Berlin’s Music.” In the center photo, Berlin stood, dapper and jaunty in white slacks, dark blazer and straw skimmer, next to a young woman in a white summer dress and broad-brimmed hat. Probably his late wife. The photo on the right was of three men sitting at a table, Berlin flanked by Waterson and Ted Snyder. Stark extended his hand, drew it back, then reached again, and snatched the picture off the wall.

“Dad, what are you doing?”

“I’ll tell you. Mr. Berlin wanted a face-to-face meeting with Joplin, and I’m going to give it to him. We’ll show this picture to Joplin in Joe Lamb’s presence, and ask him which man he gave his music to. Then I’ll call Berlin, and we’ll have our meeting, him and all of us who saw Joplin pick him out.” He pointed at Berlin’s image in the photo. “At the very least, I suspect that should get us back the music.”

Nell looked dubious. “What’s going to stop him from just walking out on us when he sees he’s trapped?”

Stark raised an eyebrow. “A man who’ll kick out his teeth if he tries.”

***

As Joe Lamb opened the door for Nell, Stark and Martin, he stared at the photograph in Stark’s hand, but Stark just smiled, and asked, “All well here?”

Lamb nodded. “A couple of hours ago, Mr. Joplin started to get frustrated. He said he couldn’t figure out how to write down what he was playing—”

“Joe!” Joplin shouted. “Come on back here, I’ve got the next phrase ready. Hurry up before I lose my hold on it.”

“Be right there, Mr. Joplin.” Lamb turned his back on the composer, lowered his voice. “He was shouting and banging on the piano, so I went over and told him I’d transcribe for him. That’s what I’ve been doing the last hour or so.” Lamb started back toward the piano.

Stark hurried after him, Nell and Martin a step behind. “Joplin,” Stark called. “I need to talk to you.”

Joplin waved him off. “No time now. Later. Joe here’s writing down for me.”

“It’ll only take—” but that was as far as Stark got. Joplin flew into a passion. “Mr. Stark, now, please, go away. I’m writing my symphony, and I’m not going to be interrupted for any of your chit-chat. Go ’
way
.” The composer raised a fist.

Nell stepped forward and grasped Joplin by the wrist. Joplin stared, eyes wide. His jaw moved, but no words came out. “Scott, I’m sorry we’ve got to interrupt you, but this is very important.” Nell’s voice was warmed honey. “Just listen to my father, then Joe will help you finish up what you’re working on, and after that, we can all go to bed. Dad?” She motioned Stark forward.

Stark held up the picture. “Which one of these men did you give your music to?”

Again, Joplin flared. “Mr. Stark, what is the matter with you? How many times do I have to tell you, I gave the music to Irving Berlin, put it right in his hand. Now, let me be. I don’t have time to play games.”

He twisted away, but Nell pulled him around to face her. “Scott, we know you gave it to Irving Berlin, but if you can pick him out from this picture, that will help us get him to give it back.” She motioned with her eyes toward her father.

Stark came forward with the photograph. As Joplin reached for it, Stark hesitated, but then gave it to the composer. Joplin held the picture up to the light. His hands trembled fiercely as he leaned forward to stare at the three men in the picture. “There,” he said, all contempt, and aimed a finger. “There he is, right there, Irving Berlin. All right, now? Are you satisfied?”

Not a sound in the room. Lamb, Martin, Nell and Stark looked at each other. Then, Nell said, “Scott, please take another look, a good hard one. You’re sure that’s Irving Berlin?”

Disgust all over his face, Joplin turned his eyes back to the picture, opened them wide, mocking close scrutiny. He jabbed his finger hard, four times. “Yes, I’m sure. This is Irving Berlin, the man I gave my music to. I’ve known him for years.”

Nell pushed Joplin down onto the piano bench. “Scott, now please. Listen to me. That man is not Irving Ber -”

Joplin bulled to his feet, every muscle in his body contracted. “Nell, don’t you go fooling with me, not you. I know Irving Berlin when I see him. His company, it was called Seminary Music back then, they published seven of my rags. I gave him ‘Pineapple Rag.’ ‘Sugar Cane Rag.’ ‘Paragon Rag.’ ‘Wall Street Rag.’ ‘Country Club Rag.’ ‘Euphonic Rag.’ ‘Solace.’”

As the composer launched into his recitation, Stark felt something in his mind click into place. He’d heard Joplin make the same indictment just the morning before—why in tarnation hadn’t he picked up on it? “Joplin, hold on for a minute. Seminary published those tunes before Berlin was in the firm. They all came out in oh-eight and oh-nine, isn’t that right? There were only two partners then, Waterson and Snyder. It wasn’t till 1911 that you left
Treemonisha
with Berlin.”

Feeling Joplin’s arm twist under her hand, Nell tightened her grip, but he pulled away, grabbed the picture, and stared. A scream tore from his throat. “Henry Waterson! I’m going to kill him.” He thrashed away from Nell and stumbled toward the door. Lamb stepped in front of him; Stark and Martin came up on either side. “Let me go,” Joplin cried. “Let me
go
.” Tears coursed down Nell’s cheeks as the composer threw a fit worthy of a two-year-old who’d just been told he could not have candy. “I’m going to kill that Henry Waterson, I swear I will. Telling me he was Irving Berlin so he could steal my music!”

The three men half-pushed, half-dragged Joplin to the sofa; Nell sat beside him. “Scott, listen,” she crooned. “If you kill him, you’ll never get your music back. Now, please, calm yourself down. We’re going to get it for you, I promise.”

Chapter Thirteen

Manhattan
Sunday, August 27
Very early morning

Stark thought Nell looked at least as wrung out as the washrag she squeezed over the sink. “Good job,” he said quietly. “I don’t think anyone else could have gotten that man under control.”

From behind them, in the living room, they could hear Joplin’s rhythmic snoring. “I had my doubts,” Nell said. “How long was I there, wiping his head and talking to him?”

“Easily half an hour.”

She dropped the cloth into the sink, then the two of them walked slowly back into the living room. Lamb and Martin looked up from their chairs, two faces you’d see after a tornado had come out of nowhere and ripped a town to shreds. Stark and Nell dropped into chairs. A quick glance at Joplin, sprawled under a blanket on the sofa, then Nell said, “That throws it all into a cocked hat, doesn’t it?”

Stark snorted. “To say the least. Do you suppose Waterson did get wind that Martin was gathering evidence on his embezzling? If so, when the Harris boy started a commotion in Reception, Waterson might have seen it as a godsend. He’d been Irving Berlin to Joplin, so why couldn’t he be Irving Berlin to Dubie Harris? ‘Do a little job with a razor for me, and I’ll publish your tunes.’ They set a time, then Waterson lured Joplin down to be caught with the body. Two birds with one stone for Mr. Waterson—but Dubie had never seen Martin, so he killed the wrong man. Then, Martin came back from the bathroom, and we know the rest.”

“I’m not sure we do,” Lamb said. “Because if that’s the way it happened, we’d have to suppose Waterson is also behind the kidnaping. And if he is, why would Tabor tell the police he’d loaned his apartment key to Berlin?”

“Good question,” said Nell. “But there
is
something between Tabor and Waterson. When Berlin and Tabor had their squabble this morning, Tabor ran out to get Waterson, and Waterson took his side, right down the line. What’s the connection?”

Martin raised a finger, started to speak, but then shook his head and lowered his hand. Lamb and Stark looked at each other. Lamb shrugged. Finally, Stark said, “Well, in any case, it’s clear Joplin did not leave his work with Berlin. I suppose we…
I
need to get in touch with him. I owe him an apology.”

“I wouldn’t do that yet, Dad. If you say anything to Berlin before we’ve figured out what really happened and what we should do about it, he’ll go after Waterson like a banty rooster. And if you think we’ve got a mess now, imagine what would happen then. Martin and Scott might have to move in here permanently.”

An uneasy smile flickered around Lamb’s mouth. “I don’t suppose the three of you happened to look around in Waterson’s office, did you?”

Stark’s and Nell’s sheepish faces were answer enough. Stark coughed, then got to his feet. “I’ll go back down there, and do just that.”

Nell stood, but her father motioned her back into her chair. “I’m sorry, Nell, I really am, but I think you need to stay here. What if Joplin wakes up the way he was before, and doesn’t see you?”

She shook her head. “After one of those episodes, he sleeps for hours, then wakes up perfectly calm. Maybe a little confused, but that’s all.”

Stark pulled out his pocket watch, grunted. “Almost two o’clock. The outside door is going to be locked, so I’ll have to talk my way past that watchman who thinks I’m Waterson. It’ll be easier if I’m alone. I’ll tell him I didn’t realize till I got home that I didn’t get all the papers I needed.” Wry grin. “That five dollars I gave him looks more like a good investment every minute. Besides, my dear, you ought to get some sleep before you need to leave for work. I’ll take you home, then go back downtown to the office.”

“Dad, tomorrow is Sunday.”

Stark looked stunned. “I’d completely lost track.”

Lamb was already on his feet. “I’ll get a taxi and see Nell back to her place. That will save you going back and forth, and it’s no trouble for me. I can go to late mass tomorrow.” Lamb offered a hand to Nell, who allowed herself to be pulled up out of her chair.

“Very well.” Stark extended a hand. “Nell, if you please, I’ll take that office key.”

Nell picked up her pocketbook from the end table, opened it, took out the key and dropped it into her father’s hand. He picked up the photo of the Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder principals, and without another word was out the door, Lamb and Nell right behind him.

***

Stark peered through the glass door into the little lobby of the Strand office building, and there was the watchman, asleep in his chair, feet up on his desk. Stark rapped at the door. The watchman stiffened, raised his head, then shaded his eyes and peered toward the door. Stark motioned him over. The man got up, stretched, limped to the door; as he focused on Stark, a broad smile came over his face. Stark pointed at the lock, mouthed, “Open up.”

The watchman pushed the metal bar, then opened the door far enough for Stark to squeeze through. “Mr. Waterson,” the little man said. “Don’t you b’lieve in sleepin’ of nights?”

Stark laughed, and clapped him on the arm. “When I can…Why, I don’t even know your name. I’m embarrassed.”

“Naw, don’t be. I just be the night watchman, no reason you’d know my name. But it be Jasper, Jasper Billings.”

Stark took the man’s hand and squeezed. “Well, pleased to meet you, Mr. Billings, and I regret having to disturb
your
sleep. Unfortunately, I’ve got a fair bit of work that’s got to be done by Monday morning, and I didn’t take all the papers I need.” He lowered his voice, spoke confidentially. “My wife was tired, and…well, you know how it goes.”

Billings cackled. “Oh, I sure ’nough do. I been married forty-nine years, and my wife is the best sort of woman. But when she get tired of bein’ where she don’t want to be, I knows about it, clear as the beard on your face. Well, you go right along, Mr. Waterson, I don’t want to be holdin’ you away from your work.”

“And I don’t want to be holding you away from your sleep.” Stark and Billings enjoyed a man-to-man laugh. Then Stark pulled a bill from his pocket and held it out to Billings. “My apology for disturbing you.”

Billings scrutinized the money. “Oh, now, Mr. Waterson. You already give me one fiver tonight.”

“And now I’ve given you a second one. Buy your wife a nice little present, why don’t you?”

The watchman grinned, then tucked the five-dollar bill into his shirt pocket. “I just might buy my wife a little present at that, Mr. Waterson. I just might. Thank you so much. You are too kind.”

Stark smiled. Not really, he thought.

***

He let himself into the Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder offices, walked to Berlin’s room, re-hung the photograph over the composer’s desk. Then he went to Waterson’s office, saw the bank of floor-to-ceiling shelves facing him, and instantly felt exhausted. There had to be hundreds of manuscripts there, hours of work. Unruly piles of paper covered the big oak desk, the top of the oak file cabinet, and a good deal of the floor. Stark shook his head. Think, man! Waterson was a fool, but he wasn’t stupid; he wouldn’t have left Joplin’s music out in the open. Check the desk and the file cabinet.

He started with the drawers on the left side of the desk. No luck. Nor on the right, until he got to the bottom drawer, where he found a sheaf of papers held together by a metal clip. At the center of the top page, in large, flowery print, was the word,
IF
; beneath, in smaller, but no less ornate letters, was written, A Musical Play In Two Acts, by Scott Joplin. Stark riffled the pages; words and musical notes flew past his eyes. He marveled at his good fortune. He could be back at Lamb’s with his find inside half an hour, wake up Joplin and give him the good news.

Perhaps there was time to patch things up with the composer. Seventeen years earlier, the two of them had done a mighty deed in Sedalia: “Maple Leaf Rag” had changed the face of American music, and in the process, redirected Stark’s life. At the age of fifty-eight, he’d found what he’d been looking for all the years he’d been on earth, and from that day forward, he’d campaigned ferociously for the music and the men who composed it. Talented men, but none who could rightly be bracketed with Scott Joplin. Joplin was a gift from Nature to humanity, and Stark should have taken account of that. Damn it, Nell had been right all along. He should have published both of Joplin’s operas,
Guest of Honor
back in ‘03, and
Treemonisha
, eight years later, and then made every effort toward getting the operas performed. But instead, he’d behaved like any mundane businessman, worrying over the finances of his company to the point of driving Joplin away by insisting he could no longer pay royalties. Had Stark heeded his daughter’s advice, how different Joplin’s current situation might be, not to mention his own. Stark Music Company, that small specialized midwestern music publisher, might now be at the forefront of development of a whole new form of classical music, a living demonstration of what could happen when a Caucasian and a Negro join forces in good faith. Through his timidity and caution, Stark had managed to throw away the opportunity of a lifetime. Make that two lifetimes.

But he still lived, and so did Joplin. How much longer for either, no way to tell, but all the more reason to act now. He’d talk to Nell, and between them, they’d persuade Joplin to let Stark Music publish
If
. Then they’d get the composer to see the wisdom of having Tom Turpin put on the show in St. Louis. And that would be only a start. How long could it be before Lester Walton was clamoring to have it on his stage at the Lafayette? Then, those money-grubbing Shuberts would see the dollars flowing in Harlem, and put on the show in a Broadway theater. If Joplin didn’t live to see it all, at least he could die like Moses on Nebo, knowing he’d been successful. Stark would need to take a loan to get the plan moving, but he owed Joplin that and more.

The old man took a step toward the door, but then set the manuscript onto Waterson’s desk, and lowered himself into the chair. He couldn’t wait till he got back to Brooklyn to get at least a little sense of what he’d found. He removed the clip, slipped the title page to the back of the stack, began to read.

Not halfway down the first page, he felt blood drain from his face, but pressed on. By the second page, his hand shook so badly he could barely read the words. Partway down the fifth page, he stopped, quickly rearranged the pages in order, reattached the clip, then sat still, staring, seeing nothing. Only when he noticed water dripping onto the top page did he realize he was weeping. A moment before, he’d felt young again, a vigorous man of forty, ready to run uproariously through a world of opposition, smash down walls, leave no adversary standing. Now, he felt older than eternity.

He forced himself to his feet, shuffled out to the waiting room, took a moment to pull himself together. Then he picked up the telephone, gave Nell’s number to the operator, and scuffed the soles of his shoes against the floor until he heard his daughter at the other end. “Hello? Dad?”

“Yes, hello, Nell. Were you asleep?”

“Of course not. I’m waiting to hear how you made out.”

“Well, I’ve got Joplin’s music, and…before we say anything to him or anyone else, we’ll have to lay a little groundwork. I’m sorry to keep you awake…but it’s…”

“Dad, is something the matter? You sound awful.”

Heavy sigh. “I’m afraid we’ve got ourselves quite a little dilemma, my dear. I’ll see you at your apartment as soon as I can get there. Good-bye.”

He walked down the stairs to the ground floor, waved to a smiling Jasper Billings, and walked out. He made a move toward hailing a taxi, but shook his head no, executed a sharp left turn, and marched up Broadway, toward Seventy-second Street.

***

Nell’s face was drawn; her eyelids drooped. Stark’s heart skipped a beat. “Nell, I’m sorry—”

“Where
were
you, Dad? I was worried, the way you sounded on the phone.”

“I walked.”

It took her a moment to process that, then she laughed out loud. “You walked all the way up here from Forty-seventh Street?

“I’m sorry I worried you, Nell. But the walk did me good.”

“Oh. Well, all right, then. Now that you’re here, are you going to tell me just what it is that has you so upset?”

Stark opened his mouth to tell her to not be impudent, but instead, he held up the manuscript as if it were an article of holy writ. “Let’s go into the kitchen,” he said. “We’ll look at it together.”

“But haven’t you already—”

“Only the first few pages. Act One. ‘What Did Happen.’ Act Two is ‘What Might Have Happened—If.’”

She nodded. “This isn’t going to be pleasant, is it?”

“No, I’m afraid it’s not.”

***

They’d read no further than Stark had on his own when Nell looked at him with such hurt in her eyes, the old man flinched. “Oh, Dad, this is awful. ‘John Stark told Scott Joplin, now you write more rags, more of those fine classic rags, and have patience with both the world and me. Perhaps we’ll go with your music to France, where the color of a man’s skin does not seem to matter. And in time, people will come around, first over there, then over here, because what is thought fine on the Continent is always thought fine here. People everywhere will say, why this is first-class music, twenty-four carat through and through. They’ll play it at concerts, for people of refinement and taste, who will swear it is the equal of anything by Beethoven and Schubert and Brahms. And then, these people of refinement and taste will say, why does this gifted and brilliant composer of classic ragtime music not write an opera? And
that
will be the time for you to write your opera, Joplin, and I will publish it, and…’ Dad, this is a tune? A musical-show tune?”

“I have to believe that was Joplin’s intent.”

“Where’s the music?”

“In the back. He’s got the dialogue and song lyrics first, then the music.”

She flipped pages, then studied the first sheet of music manuscript. “But this looks…I need to play it.”

Stark stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Let’s read some more first.”

“All right.” She sat back down.