The Ragtime Kid (36 page)

Joplin shook his head. “I’m all right. Those two need him a lot more than I do.”

Overstreet peered into Joplin’s eyes, gave him a quick once-over. “Take him upstairs, let him lie on the sofa. Ask Mrs. Stark to please give him something to drink. If he starts acting sleepy, get him right over to my office.”

Weiss came close to snapping to attention. “Ja. You can count on me.”

***

Stark and Isaac carried Emil; Higdon and Brun lugged Fritz. Down Fifth, across Ohio, then a block to Dr. Overstreet’s clinic. They passed no one on the way. Overstreet opened the door to his surgery, and the two pairs of men set their burdens down, Emil on the steel table, Fritz on a dark leather couch. By now, Emil was making horrible screeching noises with every breath, and Brun wasn’t sure Fritz was breathing at all. Overstreet frowned and rolled his sleeves as he bent over Emil. “Sucking wound, his lung’s collapsed,” he muttered. Brun didn’t know what that meant, but hoped with a religious fervor that he never would have one.

The doctor began to sew up Fritz’s wounds. Brun noticed Higdon wasn’t there, opened his mouth to ask Stark where he’d gone, but decided he’d be smarter just then to be seen and not heard. Along with everyone else, he watched and waited.

About twenty minutes later, Higdon came through the doorway with a man Brun knew he’d seen before, but couldn’t place. By this time, Overstreet had thrown a sheet over Fritz’s face, and was working at the hole in Emil’s chest. Higdon and his companion stared at the body under the sheet; then the new man asked, “Can you do anything, Walter?”

By way of answer, Overstreet stood, walked to the closet, grabbed a sheet, and threw it over Emil. God damn them both, the doctor thought. They got off easy.

For a moment, no one said anything. Then the man with Higdon said, “Well, I’d say we’ve got some talking to do.” He exchanged a long stare with Overstreet.

The doctor led the way out of the surgery, into his consultation room, and went directly for the little cabinet. In a moment, a bottle of whiskey and six glasses sat on the desk. Everyone, Brun included, picked up a glass and in turn held it under the bottle for Overstreet to fill. The men sat, nursing their drinks, until finally the new man said, “All right. These last two weeks, the city’s been like a war field. And now, this. John, I’ve got a feeling you’re the one to tell me what the hell happened here tonight.”

Stark didn’t hesitate. “That blasted Freitag was trying to set up a company to publish and perform music by colored, which he had in mind to run like an Alabama plantation. I imagine those two idiots in there had signed on as his overseers. They destroyed the piano in the Maple Leaf Club Sunday night, and stole a bunch of Scott Joplin’s tunes in composition. Freitag and Joplin almost had it out a couple of times Monday. Then, Freitag got wind that I was going to sign a contract with Joplin to publish his music, and they broke in here with a rope and a pile of blankets. Chief Love was hiding outside and broke it up, but Emil there pulled a knife, and before it was over, Emil and his son were down and Freitag and another man escaped. The chief’s gone off—”

The man threw a hand up in front of Stark’s face. “Just a minute. Why was Freitag still in town tonight?” He glared at Overstreet. “You and Ed were supposed to get him on the road first thing this morning. “

Overstreet shrugged. “We told him. I guess he didn’t go.”

The angry man turned back to Stark. “What in hell was Ed doing there anyway, hiding while you and Joplin signed a contract?”

Stark didn’t blink. “Well, Bud, I thought there just might be some trouble, so I asked him to stand by.”

Bud, Brun thought. Bud Hastain. The lawyer Mr. Higdon clerked for.

Hastain glared at Stark. “I suppose that scene at Boutell’s yesterday afternoon wasn’t trouble enough.”

Brun couldn’t have said who looked grimmer, Stark or Hastain. Stark took another belt from his glass, then said, “Unfortunately not.”

“And now, Ed’s chasing after Freitag and the other man. Any idea who he is?”

“Otis Saunders,” Stark said. “He was supposed to have been Joplin’s friend, but he was in with Freitag, stealing music. But there’s more yet I probably should tell you.”

Hastain drained his glass. Overstreet leaned over to refill it.

“That woman who was found strangled, a couple of weeks ago? She was Freitag’s wife. I don’t know why she was in town, aside from the fact she was pregnant and looking all over for Freitag. And the man in jail now for murdering her—”

“Freitag’s wife? How do you know that? And why doesn’t anyone else?”

Brun held his breath. Stark cleared his throat. “Let’s just say I decided it would be better to keep it to myself. I will tell you, though, I broke no laws getting the information.”

Higdon went pale. “Just for the record, Bud, that’s not quite right. John did tell me. And I agreed—”

“Bob is my attorney and I presented that information to him as privileged,” said Stark. “So please don’t hold him responsible.”

“Privileged information? Christ in heaven, John.” Hastain looked ready to explode. “This is a case of murder. You weren’t Bob’s client in respect to that.”

Stark gestured with his head toward Overstreet’s surgery. “I don’t think there’s any point going on along this line. Time’s wasting.”

Hastain spun away, walked out into the waiting room, then a few minutes later reappeared in the doorway, where he stood and looked from Stark to Higdon and back. Finally, he said, “All right. I throw in the sponge. Let’s get on with it.”

Higdon said, “My client—”

“The southern gentleman from Buffalo, New York.”

“Yes. Mr. Fitzgerald. It leaves him in a bad situation. Part of our plan tonight was to get Freitag to say something that would have implicated him in his wife’s murder. If it weren’t for that, I’d say it’s just as well he’s run off. But unless they catch him, the best I can hope to do in court next week is try to convince a jury that the circumstantial evidence against Freitag is more convincing than that against Fitzgerald. It’s not an approach I’d want to count on.”

Hastain pushed with two fingers against his forehead, just above his eyes. “I think we might be able to get a trial delay for Fitzgerald on the basis of your information, along with the fact the police are looking for Freitag. But what in hell are we going to do about those two yahoos in there? Who actually killed them?”

No one spoke.

Hastain’s cheeks flared. “God damn it, I asked a question. Somehow, I don’t think the chief killed those men, and I want to know who did. It’s going to come out, and better now and to me than later to someone else. Who was it?”

Isaac raised a hand. “I shot the old man when he pulled a knife and went after Mr. Stark.”

Then Higdon said softly, “And when the kid slugged Joplin and went for the knife on the ground, Professor Weiss beat him to it.”

Hastain sank into his chair. “Jesus Almighty Christ, what have we got here? A colored man shoots a white man, never mind it was in defense of another. And an old kraut carves up a boy like a dinner roast, never mind it was a kid who should’ve been suffocated at birth.” Hastain looked up at Isaac. “I’m sorry, nothing personal, but two white men, killed by a colored man and a foreigner? A white businessman damn near gets lynched? This gets out, we could have riots. It’d be a circus, on the front page of every newspaper from Kansas City to Chicago. You think any businesses would ever dream of moving here when they read about that? At least Bothwell’s away, we’ve got a little time.” Hastain waved a hand in the direction of the corpses in the surgery. “Did anyone see you bring those baboons in here?”

“No.” Higdon and Stark answered together.

“All right, then. We’ll take them out the back way, get them out of town, and bury them. If anyone ever asks, they ran off with Freitag and…what’s his name again?”

Brun raised a hand, permission to speak. “Saunders. Otis Saunders.”

“Fine. When Ed gets back, I’ll talk to him. I don’t think he’ll want to explain to Bothwell how and why all this happened. Ed can call off the hunt. All four of them got away, too bad. Bob, I’ll sit down with you in the morning, you’ll fill me in on details, and we’ll see what we can do for Fitzgerald.”

Overstreet stood behind his desk, swaying like a man on board a ship in heavy weather. He’d gone so gray, Brun felt frightened for him. “Bud, I’m sorry. You’re pushing me too far. I can’t go along with this.”

To Brun’s surprise, when Hastain spoke, his voice was gentle. “I’m sorry, Walter, but do you want to be responsible for what happens to Isaac there, and the old man? And if this business ever goes public, how many more people just might end up under sheets in your office? Is that the way you want it?”

Overstreet’s hands shook something fierce. Hastain leaned across the desk toward him. “If you’d gotten Freitag out of town the way you were supposed to, this never would have happened. So don’t go crying now like an old woman. You want to blame somebody, take a look in a mirror.”

Overstreet dropped into his chair like he’d been shot.

“Tell you what, Bud.”

Everyone turned to Stark.

“We’d do best not to bury them too near town—someone might happen to see us. I’m supposed to pick up a piano in Knob Noster tomorrow, so I’ll go get my wagon, bring it around back, and we’ll load them in. Then Isaac and I will head off toward Knob Noster, find some woods a good way off, and bury them deep. Afterward, we’ll go on, pick up the piano, and bring it back.”

Hastain thought it over, then said, “Hmmm, all right. But one thing. Isaac here isn’t going to spill any beans, but that old German’s an odd duck. Where’d he come here from?”

“Houston.”

“Fine. I’ll take the professor to the station, buy him a one-way ticket, and get him on the first train to Houston.”

Stark frowned. “He’s here working with Scott Joplin on the Emancipation Day program—”

“Well, damn it, Joplin will just have to make do on his own for Emancipation Day. One wrong word from that dippy old kraut, and we’ll all be in the soup. Now, let’s get moving.”

Stark clearly was not pleased, but motioned to Brun and Isaac, who fell in behind him. “The wagon’s in the hitching shed behind the store,” he said. “And I usually get a horse from Bengley. But I don’t think I want to wake him up and try to explain why I need a horse at this hour.”

Hastain and Higdon looked at each other, then Higdon managed a lopsided grin. “My neighbor Elliot keeps a couple of horses. I know him well enough, he won’t ask questions.”

***

On the way back, Stark grumbled that he hated to see Freitag get away. “Maybe it’s better all around, but I can’t help wishing I could have dealt directly with him.”

Brun only half-listened. He’d been thinking about Maisie. After she’d stolen
The Ragtime Dance
manuscript from under his mattress, could she have given it to Saunders to copy? First thing in the morning, he’d find where Saunders had been rooming, and tear the place apart.

“Let’s stop upstairs a minute,” Stark said. He gripped the doorknob. “We ought to let Joplin, Weiss and the women know what’s happening.”

Isaac said, “I’ll go on to the shed and get the wagon ready. When Mr. Higdon gets back with the horse, we can be right on our way.”

Stark opened the door and started clumping up the stairs to the flat, Brun in his wake. They walked into the living room, then stopped flat-footed.

Mrs. Stark, Nell and Mrs. Fitzgerald were tied round and round into straight-backed chairs, their hands bound together at the wrists. Joplin and Weiss lay on the floor, hands lashed behind their backs, ankles roped together. Maisie stood over them, pointing a Colt revolver at the new arrivals. No frilly dress tonight; she wore work-pants and a man’s blue work-shirt, which, Brun couldn’t help but notice, showed off her female figure most admirably. Freitag, decked out as usual in his pearl-gray trousers and vest, stood near the middle of the room, a Colt in one hand, his other hand gripping Frankie Fitzgerald by the shirt collar. Frankie wriggled and screamed; Freitag wrapped his free arm around the child’s middle and pulled him close. “One move, he’s dead.” Like a dog, growling. Mrs. Fitzgerald sat straight and silent, lips bloodless. Brun thought her stare might melt a steel block.

“That’s right, stand where you are, hands up,” Freitag shouted at Stark and Brun. “Move apart more, just a few steps…good.”

Maisie walked toward them, pistol up and ready. Freitag said, “Do the war hero first.”

Maisie ran hands over Stark’s chest, then up and down his legs. She pulled a pistol out of a holster, and stuck it into her belt. “I’m watching,” Freitag snarled. “While she’s tying him up, anybody moves, we got us a dead little shaver here.”

Maisie herded Stark across to where Joplin and Weiss lay, motioned him down to the floor, then roped his hands behind his back and tied his ankles together.

“Now you.” Freitag waved his pistol. “Little Chief Wet-behind-the-ears. Too bad you had to go and play with the big boys, Sonny.” Brun stood still while Maisie checked him out and came away with his gun and a red rubber ball. She gave him a funny look, glanced at Joplin, then tossed the ball across the room. As it disappeared under the sofa, she pushed Brun to the floor next to Stark, Joplin and Weiss, and tied him up.

“Oh, that’s a pretty sight,” Freitag sneered and waved his gun. “Now, we can have us some fun.”

“Fun?” Maisie was clearly in no mood to have fun. “Come on, Elmo. You said we’d get the money out of the safe and register, kill them, and be a hundred miles away before anybody found—”

Freitag laughed again, a high-pitched whinny. “Oh, you just be patient, Maisie. We got time, and I think I got a little something comin’ to me. Listen here, Stark. I was all of seven years old when the Yanks come and occupied Mobile, and shot my daddy dead. Before my mama and me starved, she went and married Joe Freitag, which made matters even worse—’specially for me. Now it’s my turn to give back. You thought it was pretty funny, hey, Stark? Playing me for a fool. When all the time, you had it in mind to publish that white nigger’s music. Well, tell you what. Maybe I couldn’t get the music, but I’ll have your money instead, and your lives to boot. Who’s gonna laugh the last, huh?”