The King of Ragtime (23 page)

Nell suddenly pushed away from the table, walked into the living room, opened her purse, and came back holding out a slip of paper to her father. He worked a pair of spectacles from a pocket, adjusted them on his nose, then read aloud, “Mr. Irving Berlin. Columbus 8711.” He looked up at Nell? “So?”

“This was in the colored man’s pocket.”

Stark looked over his glasses at his daughter. “I still don’t see the importance. He had the phone number handy in case he had to call Berlin. Which he did.”

“But it’s the Waterson, Berlin, and Snyder number. Where Berlin spends very little time.”

Stark shrugged. “Perhaps Berlin didn’t want him calling at his home. The receptionist could have relayed messages. It’s also possible Berlin didn’t even give him the number. He could have decided on his own he’d like to have it handy, and copied it from a card or the telephone directory. In any case, I fail to see—”

“Turn it over, Dad.”

Stark flipped the paper. “Hmm. ‘Clarence and Ida Barbour. 215 West 131st Street, west of Seventh Avenue.’” Again, he looked over his glasses at Nell. “Who are they, do you suppose?”

“I have no idea, but I’d like to find out.”

Stark removed his glasses. “Nell, if this was in that man’s pocket, how did it happen to get from there into your purse?”

Lamb coughed.

“In steps. He left it on the telephone table when he called Berlin. Then, after Tabor shot him, when I took Birdie to the phone to call her mother, I palmed it.”

“You
palmed
it? Nell! You could find yourself serious trouble, removing evidence like that.”

“I’d found serious trouble before I ever called you to come out here. Maybe Clarence and Ida, whoever they are, can give us some information. I’m going to go up there and talk to them, right after dinner.” Cagey smile. “I can’t very well give the paper to Detective Ciccone now, can I?”

Stark jabbed a finger toward the window. “For heaven’s sake, Nell, it’s after eight o’clock. You can’t go out on the streets by yourself, to a neighborhood you’re unfamiliar with.” He paused, just long enough to shake his head. “All right. You may consider me your escort.”

“You won’t object, will you, if I give Lottie a call, and see whether she can slip down the fire escape and go with us? I think it might not hurt to have Mrs. Scott Joplin along. She knows the neighborhood, she knows the people.”

“No, of course I won’t object, it’s a splendid idea. Go ahead, call her, and let’s get on our way before it becomes too late to pay a visit.”

Chapter Twelve

Manhattan
Friday, August 25
Evening

Cliff Hess had never seen a face on his boss to match this one. Not that he was surprised. He knew right off there was big trouble when those two cops came in to speak privately with Mr. Berlin; then, not half an hour later, Max Josephson, Berlin’s lawyer, had rushed into the apartment and straight to the library, where the composer was sitting with the policemen. More than an hour went by before Robert showed the cops to the door, and for a good twenty minutes after that, Berlin stayed closeted with Josephson. When the composer finally stormed into the kitchen and up to the table where Miras and Hess sat over cups of coffee, Hess drew a deep breath. “Everything go all right, Mr. Berlin?”

Robert Miras seemed to remember a job he needed to do. He got up, excused himself, left his cup in the sink, and walked out of the room.

“Christ Almighty!” Berlin’s forehead glistened; his cheeks glowed. He threw himself onto a chair, yanked out a handkerchief, mopped viciously. “My God, Cliff, it just gets worse and worse. That girl, the assistant bookkeeper who disappeared yesterday? Some colored guy had her up in Bart Tabor’s love nest, and Tabor shot him dead. If it wasn’t for Max, those detectives’d be booking me in downtown right now. Max convinced them their evidence wasn’t completely airtight, and if they wanted to talk to me some more, they knew where they could find me. He told them if they put me away, I wouldn’t be able to finish writing this show, and if they were wrong, they’d be lucky to ever even be walking a beat again.” Berlin swiped the handkerchief across his face again.

Hess struggled to make sense of what he’d just heard. He wondered whether the pressure of the upcoming show and the threats from that bumpkin, Stark, were loosening his boss’ hinges. “That’s awful, Mr. Berlin,” he said. “But how can they hold you responsible for what goes on in your manager’s playpen?”

“Wait, I’ll tell you. The girl said the colored guy told her he had a deal with a ‘big music publisher’ to publish his tunes.” Berlin held up a hand to forestall the objection he saw coming from Hess. “I know, I know. There are a lot of big music publishers in New York. But that doesn’t matter. Just before five this afternoon, the colored guy called the office, told the receptionist she’d be out of a job if he didn’t get through to me, so she clued in Tabor, then connected him. According to Tabor, the guy said, ‘Hello, Mr. Berlin, I got a problem here, a woman came knocking on the door and said she was supposed to meet you—’”

“
You?
”

“Yeah. Me. The woman told the colored guy she was supposed to meet me there, so he pulled a gun and sat her down to wait while he called me to find out what to do. Tabor told him to sit tight, then ran on over like Wild Bill Hickok and blasted the son of a bitch to pieces.”

Hess fumbled for the right words. “Mr. Berlin…that’s just unbelievable. What did you say to the police?”

“What did I say? What the hell
could
I say? I told them I didn’t know a thing about any of this. And then they asked me wasn’t it true that I borrow Tabor’s key every now and then when I want to do a little ‘entertaining.’”

Hess felt his face get warm. Berlin picked right up. “God damn it, Cliff. You don’t think I do that, do you?”

“Of course not, Mr. Berlin.”

“Well, that’s what I told them, so they asked me why would Mr. Tabor say I did. I said that was a good question and I didn’t know the answer. Then they told me to watch my wise mouth, and I’d better not set one foot out of Manhattan, or they’d be offering me their hospitality, which is how they put it. Soon as they left, Max and I called Tabor’s place, but he wasn’t there. But him and me are gonna have a good talk. I’ll catch him tomorrow at the office. And oh yeah, while I’m there, I’ll also have a chat with the new bookkeeper.”

Again, Hess started to wonder about Berlin’s stability. The man was on the hook for a murder charge, he had a show to write, and he was going to have a chat with the new bookkeeper? “Why?”

“Because, goddamn it, she’s the one who came up to the apartment and said she was supposed to meet me,” Berlin shouted. “The new bookkeeper. The one Tabor hired just yesterday.”

***

Twilight was fading as Stark and Nell came up from the subway at 135
^th
Street and St. Nicholas Avenue. Lottie waved from behind the railing, then trotted over and embraced Nell. “Did you have any trouble?” Nell asked. “Getting away?”

Lottie shook her head. “Truth, I didn’t even see no cops
or
delivery trucks out there today, but that don’t really ease my mind. Maybe they’s watchin’ from some place I can’t see ’em. When I goes out to the grocery, I steps bold as brass, but when I comes to see you, I still think best I goes down the fire escape in back.”

They walked most of a block eastward on West 131st, past kids playing a noisy game of stickball in the street. There were small gatherings on concrete stoops, women in summer dresses, fanning themselves, men mostly in undershirts and dirty work pants, many of them holding bottles of beer. People leaned out open windows to carry on conversations between buildings. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke.

“Here it be,” Lottie said, pointing. “Number 215.”

Stark looked down three reddish stone steps to a grocery. From somewhere to his left came the sound of lively syncopated music, a horn and a drum. “I’m sorry, we closed,” came a pleasant female voice from the stoop, five steps up from the sidewalk.

Stark’s eyes followed the voice. A light-skinned Negro woman, jet hair piled high on her head, skin the color of coffee with a good deal of cream, smiled down at him. Next to her sat a round man, head clean-shaved, whose bread basket stretched his T-shirt to a remarkable extent. A pencil-thin moustache decorated his pear of a face. Two mounds of flesh, filling the entire top step.”

“But if you in need of something, I can open up and get it for you.”

The woman spoke in the lilting cadence of the light-skinned New Orleans Creoles, each word subtly tinged with French. It fell like music on Stark’s ears. The old man thought of what he had to tell her, and felt a pull in the pit of his stomach. He firmed his jaw, drew himself to full height. “That’s kind of you, but we don’t need groceries right now. We’re looking for Clarence and Ida Barbour. Would they be you?”

The large man and woman looked at each other. Lottie stepped forward. “We don’t mean you no harm,” she said quietly.

As the woman half-rose to peer at the new speaker, her face relaxed into a smile. “Is that Lottie? Lottie Joplin?”

“None other. I didn’t know you knew me.”

Now, the man spoke. “Everybody here know Scott Joplin and his Mrs. You come in sometimes and buy groceries.”

I haven’t seen you for some good while now,” the woman said. “Or Mr. Joplin.” Her face went serious. “I hope he’s…”

“He’s as good as he’s ever gonna be, thank you. Fact, he’s been real busy lately. Workin’ on a musical play for the stage, and a symphony.”

“A symphony, you say,” the man said. “Like for an orchestra?”

“Right.”

The man hauled himself to standing, and waddled down to the steps. Stark was surprised at how short he was, a real five-by-five. The man acknowledged Nell with a perfunctory bow, then looked from Stark to Lottie, as if trying to decide which one to address. Finally, he said, “I be Clarence, that be my wife, Ida. What can we do for you?”

He can’t figure out, Stark thought, what a colored woman from his neighborhood is doing, walking up to his house at eight-thirty in the evening, in the company of a white man and woman. “Mr. Barbour, Mrs. Barbour,” Stark said. “My name is John Stark. I’m Mr. Joplin’s publisher, and his friend. This is my daughter, Nell, also Mr. Joplin’s friend. Mrs. Joplin asked us to do her a favor, and we need some help from you.”

“God’s truth,” Lottie chirped.

Stark looked around. “I don’t mean to be rude, but might we go inside to talk?”

“Well, sure,” said the man. “I guess it must be pretty important.”

“Yes,” said Stark. “It is.”

***

Stark looked around the Barbours’ living room, smiled at the way the furniture fit with the inhabitants. Every chair, the sofa, and a love seat were overstuffed. Given the ten-foot ceilings, the floor lamps at the front and rear of the room didn’t spread much light. Grotesquely-shaped shadows fell in every direction. Ida brought out a tall glass of lemonade for each person in the room, and set a glass bowl full of pretzels on a circular table next to the sofa. Then, she smoothed her hair, and sat beside her husband. He reached for her hand, and the two, apparently having concluded that Stark was the spokesman, looked at him.

He was glad Nell had thought to bring Lottie. “Let’s begin with the fact that a man was killed the other day in a music-publishing office downtown.”

The Barbours exchanged a look that accelerated Stark’s speech. “The circumstances made it appear that Mr. Joplin might have been responsible, but none of us believe that. We think it’s possible someone tried to make it look that way, and we want to find out what really did happen.”

“Mr. Stark…” Ida, her singsong tone now tight and forced. “That publisher—he wouldn’t happen to be Irving Berlin, would he?”

“Yes,” Stark said, gently as he could. “He would. Why do you ask?”

Clarence’s face tightened into a mask. “Mr. Stark, please tell us why you be here.”

Stark nodded. “Fair enough. After the murder, a young woman from the office, the intended of a man who also works there, was kidnaped. Someone called the girl’s mother to tell her that if Mr. Joplin gave himself up to the police, her daughter would be released. But the plan went sour, and the kidnaper was shot dead.”

Ida let out a cry. Clarence’s face was stone.

Stark moved along even more quickly. “The kidnaper had a piece of paper in his pocket with your names and your address on it.”

“And you’re gonna tell me he was a colored boy.” Ida’s voice was a deathly monotone. “With a great big scar on his cheek.”

“Yes,” Nell said. “I’m sorry.”

Stark sat silent as Ida broke into crying. Clarence put both arms around her, whispered into her ear. Then he gave his wife a handkerchief. She dabbed at her eyes, then returned it. “I beg your pardon,” she said.

“Not at all.” Stark spoke gently. “Was he your son?”

“If’n he was my son, Mr. Stark, he woulda had a bringing-up so he never woulda done such a thing like this.” The venom in Clarence’s voice was appalling.

“He was our nephew, my sister’s son,” Ida said. “Name was Dubie Harris. He grew up in Missoura, didn’t have no daddy, and from all my sister say, he was a wild boy. That scar, he got from a fight in a craps game, he was only fourteen years old. But he was good with music, that was the one thing he would do. He played horn, and he wrote down tunes. He come to New York to stay with us while he found a way to make him a living.”

Clarence sat forward. “You people ain’t some kind of police, are you?”

Before Stark could answer, Lottie broke in. “No indeed. Mr. Stark and Mrs. Stanley there been the best friends Scott ever did have. They been tryin’ to find out who really did kill that man in Irving Berlin’s office, so the cops’ll leave Scott be. Please, won’t you see if you can’t help them.”

Stark said, “Before your nephew got killed, he made a telephone call to Irving Berlin. You mentioned Berlin a minute ago. Do you know whether he was having any dealings with your nephew?”

Ida sobbed into Clarence’s handkerchief. Stark took a swallow of lemonade. Lottie and Nell waited quietly. Clarence rested a hand on his wife’s shoulder, then began to speak. “Dubie got in just a couple days ago,” he said. “All set to make New York his very own. Somebody he met on the train, some musician, told him Irving Berlin’s was the place to have his music published, so next day, right after lunch, off he went, first up to get himself into James Reese Europe’s band, then down to Irving Berlin’s. He told us at supper that night, he played his tunes for some young kid who said they wasn’t any good, but Dubie made a mighty fuss out in the waiting room, wouldn’t leave till the receptionist went on back and got Irving Berlin out there. Dubie played his music for Mr. Berlin, and Mr. Berlin said he was gonna publish it. I told Dubie he better watch out, else his tunes was gonna end up like ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band.’ Didn’t I tell him that, Ida?”

Ida, bit her upper lip, nodded.

“But that boy wasn’t the least little bit concerned. He said nobody was gonna take advantage of Dubie Harris. These young colored, they think everything got set right in 1863, but not bein’ a slave any more is only the first part to bein’ free.” He paused, scanned the faces of his visitors. “I mean no offense.”

“None taken,” said Stark.

Ida picked up the conversation. “We got worried when Dubie didn’t come on home last night and all day yesterday. Clarence figured he found himself a woman. But now you’re tellin’ us he went and kidnaped a girl for Mr. Berlin? Why would he do that?”

“We think Berlin is trying to steal another piece of Joplin’s music,” said Stark. “He may have made a deal to publish Dubie’s tunes if Dubie would kidnap the girl. Then Berlin could squeeze her boyfriend to turn Joplin in to the police, and he’d have Joplin’s music free and clear.”

Ida said, “How’re we supposed to get Dubie’s body now?”

“What I’d like you to do,” said Stark, speaking very slowly. “Is go down to the nearest police station and report him missing. I suspect they’ll get back to you soon enough. And if you wouldn’t mind, please don’t say anything about our visit. We’ve got Scott Joplin in a safe place, but we don’t want the police to track him through us. Once they’ve got him in custody, that will be as far as their interest will go, and Berlin will get off.”

Lottie stepped forward. “If you needs to get ahold of any of us, I can give you my number.”

Clarence extended a hand to Stark. “I appreciate you coming here and talking to us like you did.” He looked around the group. “All of you.”

Ida said nothing. Stark thought she looked on pins and needles. Something more than grief… She caught him studying her, and that seemed to release her tongue. “The day Dubie come back after he been down to Mr. Berlin’s,” she began, her voice a hollow drone. “It was pretty late, after six. Clarence was still in the store, and I was up here, makin’ supper. I heard Dubie come in, but he went straight to his room, and when he come out and say hello to me, he had on a different shirt from when he left in the morning. So after we’s done eatin’, when Clarence and him went to sit outside on the stoop and smoke, I went in to the laundry, and there was the shirt, all wet like it was rinched out, but I saw plain, right on the front, what was left from a bloodstain.”