The King of Ragtime (27 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Manhattan
Monday, August 28
Morning

Morning came early at the Stanley apartment, Stark’s screams piercing the dawn’s marginal light a little after six. Nell was into her father’s room before she herself was fully awake. “Dad, wake up, wake
up
.” She took him by the shoulders, but he thrashed in her grip, screamed louder, then at last, blinked his eyes open. “Nell…?”

She thought he looked puzzled at seeing her. “You were having that dream again. Dad, what
is
that dream about?”

Stark looked away. “We’re not going to waste time discussing a bit of moonshine in the brain.” He made a point of peering at the alarm clock on his bedside table. “It’s a quarter to six. We need to be up in less than an hour. We’d both be wise to spend that time in sleep, not talking about a silly dream.”

“It’s so silly, it’s been waking both of us for almost half a century.”

Stark lowered his head and stretched his legs full length. “Go back to bed, Nell. I’ll see you at six-thirty.” He closed his eyes. A moment later, the door to his bedroom slammed with such force as to shower plaster from the ceiling onto his head. For the next forty-five minutes, he lay there, examining and re-examining every angle of the plan they’d put together the day before.

***

At a quarter to eight, Nell and Stark walked into Reception. Nell locked the door, then led her father down the hall to Waterson’s office. The old man quickly opened and closed each drawer in the desk; that done, he followed Nell into Tabor’s office, and made straight for the manager’s desk. He pulled the center drawer open, rummaged toward the back, came out with a small revolver with a patterned black plastic handle, and held it up to the light. “Hopkins-Allen thirty-two.” He pointed at the encircled H&A trademark at the upper edge of the handgrip. “Is this the gun he killed the Harris boy with?”

Nell shook her head. “I never got a good look at it. But Detective Ciccone took it away from him.”

“So either he got it back or he got another gun.” Stark snapped the weapon open, shook out four lead slugs, slipped them into his jacket pocket. Then he pulled the drawer all the way out, picked up a small cardboard box, emptied it into his pocket. Finally, he replaced the little revolver into the drawer. “It won’t be much help to him now. Let’s go back out to Reception and wait for our friend.”

***

At precisely eight, Irving Berlin unlocked the door and hurried into Reception. For a moment, he stood in the middle of the room, then growled at Stark, “Where’s Joplin?”

Stark raised an eyebrow. “Joplin is not here.”

“What do you mean, he’s not here? You called me last night and said—”

“That I was going to give you your meeting, but I did not say it would be with Joplin. You assumed that. We’re going to meet with Waterson and Tabor. I’m no longer certain you stole Joplin’s music or had the girl kidnaped, but I’ll need your help to prove that, and to trap the guilty party.”

Berlin stared at Nell. He cocked his head, aimed a finger in her direction. “Hey, wait a minute, I’ve seen you before. You’re that reporter, came to my place—”

Nell smiled. “I’ve also been your bookkeeper for the last few days.” She nodded in Stark’s direction. “This is my father. And Scott Joplin is my friend.”

Berlin’s laugh rang flat. “You got a lot of talents, don’t you, Miss Stark?”

Stark cleared his throat. “Let me explain the situation.”

“First, maybe you ought to explain how you managed to get yourselves into this office. And why you don’t just go to the cops, if you think you know what’s what.”

“The first,” said Stark, “is a trade secret, and will so remain. Be assured I did nothing you would be displeased to know. As to talking to the police, I need to be certain of Joplin’s and young Niederhoffer’s safety until the matter is resolved.”

Berlin narrowed his eyes. “So, I’m just supposed to trust you now. How do I know you aren’t setting me up?”

“You don’t. You can either trust me, or put your faith in Mr. Waterson and Mr. Tabor, and then wait for your dental appointment this evening.” He pulled out his watch. “It’s nearly a quarter after eight, Mr. Berlin. Your receptionist will be here at eight-thirty. If Waterson or Tabor walks in before we’re ready, our plan will be out the window. You need to make a choice.”

Berlin glanced at Nell, who smiled with tight lips. “All right,” the composer muttered. “But why didn’t you come and talk to me last night?”

“Because I was concerned you might go off on your own, half-cocked.” Stark stood. “Let’s go back to your office and prepare ourselves.”

***

When Henry Waterson strolled through the door a few minutes before nine o’clock, he smiled at Nell, sitting at the Reception Desk, a pile of ledger pages in front of her. “Doing double-duty, Mrs. Stanley? Fannie’s still out?”

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

“Where’s the temporary?”

“Off running an errand for Mr. Berlin. He asked me to watch the front while she was gone.

The man’s demeanor changed on a dime. “Judas Priest! As short-handed as we are, Berlin sends her off on some errand? And what in the name of anything holy is he doing here at this hour?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Waterson, I don’t know. He’s back in his office, but he said he doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

“Oh, he doesn’t!” Waterson scowled, then, without another word, stomped off toward his office. Nell went back to her ledgers.

By five past the hour, the cacophony of several pianos being played at once filled the office. Nell realized she’d been checking her watch a couple of times a minute. But then, the door swung open and Tabor strode in. He asked the same questions Waterson had, and got the same answers.

Nell watched him disappear around the corner, then jogged across the room and taped a handwritten sign to the door:
TEMPORARILY CLOSED DUE TO EMERGENCY. WILL RE-OPEN AT 11AM.
Then, she hurried down the business corridor, past Tabor’s office, past Waterson’s, and knocked lightly at Berlin’s door. It opened immediately. She answered the questions on her father’s face and Berlin’s with a nod, then walked back to Waterson’s office.

The senior partner looked up, a cigar in his left hand, a clipper in his right. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir,” Nell said. “But Mr. Berlin wants to talk to you and Mr. Tabor, in Mr. Tabor’s office. He says it’s extremely important.”

Waterson snapped off the cigar tip with a vicious thrust of his thumb, rammed the cigar into his mouth, then spoke around it. “He expects me to jump when he calls, does he?”

“I don’t know, sir. He asked me to give you the message, and now I’ve done that.” She turned to leave.

Waterson dropped the unlit cigar onto his desk, muttered something Nell couldn’t hear, and worked himself to his feet. She stood aside to let him pass, then followed him down the hall toward Tabor’s office. But before he got there, the door to Berlin’s office opened, and the composer and Stark strode into the hall. Waterson gawked, then blurted, “Irvy, what the hell is going on here?” He pointed at Stark. “What’s
he
doing here?”

“I invited him,” Berlin snapped. “Go on, go inside.” The little man practically shoved Waterson into Tabor’s office. Nell, then Stark, followed.

Tabor looked up at the parade. His eyes moved from Berlin to Waterson to Nell to Stark. At the sight of her father’s face, Nell clutched at his arm. “Dad, what’s the matter?”

The old man was ghastly white, eyes bulging, lips drawn and twisted, as if he were in terrible pain. She’d seen that same face just a few hours before, when she’d awakened him from his nightmare. Was he having a heart attack? She eased him into a chair at the side of the desk, then sat beside him, all the while silently rebuking herself. The man was seventy-five, and for the better part of a week, she’d let him go running around the city like a colt, getting his dander up at Berlin or Waterson.

Berlin broke into Nell’s brown study. “Henry, Bart, we need to talk a little.”

Tabor leaned back in his chair. Waterson spluttered, pointed toward Stark. “I’ve got nothing to say to him. And what is
she
doing in here?”

“You’ll find out,” said Berlin. “Sit down. You can talk to us, or you can talk to the police. You’ll do a lot better dealing with us.”

Nell saw lines deepen around Waterson’s eyes and at the corners of his mouth. “Irvy, you’re the last guy I’d think would be calling the cops right now. What are you going to do—confess about how you got Bart to lend you the key to his apartment, then made a deal with the
schwartzer
to publish his music if he’d kidnap the girl and—”

“Henry, just shut up and let them talk.” Tabor could have been reprimanding a child whose babbling had become irritating.

Waterson slowly lowered himself into a chair. Berlin sat next to him.

Stark cleared his throat. “Mr. Waterson, we found Scott Joplin’s musical play in your desk.” Not his usual booming tone, but the thin, reedy voice of an old man. “Furthermore, Joplin picked you out of a group photograph as the man who represented himself as Irving Berlin, and took his music. You went on to misrepresent yourself as Berlin to Dubie Harris, and told him you’d publish his tunes if he’d kill Martin Niederhoffer for you. You wanted to frame Joplin for that murder, by phoning him and telling him to come down to the office at just the right time. Then you could have done whatever you liked with his music, no need to wait for him to die before you could publish it. But the murder went wrong, so you—not Mr. Berlin—borrowed the key to Mr. Tabor’s apartment—”

Waterson bellowed like a bull being turned into a steer. “I don’t have to listen to this. I’m calling my lawyer.”

“You’re going to need him,” said Stark. “And not just about the murder and kidnaping. There’s also the little matter of the money you’ve been skimming to play the horses.”

Nell thought Waterson looked like a balloon just punctured by a pin. The big man turned a glower on her. “I suppose I have you to thank for that, Mrs. Stanley.”

“You can thank your friend, Mr. Tabor,” Nell said. “And Martin Niederhoffer, who put the figures together for him.”

“That by itself must have been bad enough for you,” Stark said. “But then, Mr. Tabor happened to stumble onto your little kidnaping game, and realized you needed his apartment for something more than a few nights of philandering. I imagine that drove up the price of his silence considerably.”

Waterson’s cheeks went the color of beets; every muscle in his body tensed. Stark shifted ever so slightly in his chair, ready to block the big man if he made a move toward the door. But instead, he turned to Tabor and bawled. “Damn it, Bart, you told me—”

Tabor pulled himself halfway to standing, leaned forward over his desk, aimed a finger at Waterson. “Henry, shut your stupid mouth. They’re talking pie-in-the-sky, trying to get Berlin out of a mess, and the only way he can get off the hook and put you on is if you help him.” Tabor leaned across the desk to address Berlin. “I loaned
you
the key. I didn’t ask why. It was none of my business. When that colored boy called in and asked for you, it was just lucky Fannie got scared enough to put me on.”

“You gave
me
the key, huh?” Berlin’s face was a mask of fury. “When was that?”

Tabor shrugged lightly. “Couple of days before the phone call. You said you had a pretty heavy thing coming up, more than you could handle in just one night.”

Stark reached an arm to keep Berlin from leaping across the desk to slug Tabor, who looked as if he’d welcome the attack. “Mr. Berlin was at home at the time of the murder. After he finished his meeting with Mr. Josephson and Mr. Waterson, he stopped here at the office for about an hour, then went back to his apartment. His valet will swear he was there by three. He spent the afternoon with Mr. Hess, working on tunes for his show, then the two of them went out to dinner and the theater, and were back to work by midnight.”

Tabor made a go-away motion. “So? Maybe he made his deal with the colored boy the day before, maybe three days before, who knows? And who the hell cares what Hess said? That toadeater would swear to any lie Berlin wants him to.” He reached for the telephone on his desk. “I’ve had enough of this. Let’s see what you have to say to the cops.”

“That would be foolish of you.”

Stark’s tone and the look on his face arrested Tabor’s hand, but the man recovered quickly, and grabbed the receiver.

“We’ve talked to Dubie Harris’ aunt and uncle,” Stark said. “And we know the boy came to this office in the afternoon on the day of the murder, and not before. He’d only gotten into New York the previous evening.”

Tabor looked uncertain. He glanced into the telephone, said, “Never mind, operator,” and hung up. Then he aimed a fierce scowl at Stark. “Old man, you are beginning to irritate me.”

“I’ve only just begun. Mr. Snyder has been on vacation, and Mr. Berlin’s time is accounted for. You and Mr. Waterson are the only two people who could have been called in to talk to young Harris when he refused to leave until Irving Berlin himself had heard his music. Isn’t that right, Mr. Waterson?”

Waterson harrumphed. “I have no idea. How many times do I have to tell you, I wasn’t in the office that afternoon. I was at the racetrack.”

“So you’ve said. But perhaps you lost enough money in the early races, decided it wasn’t your day, and came back to the office. And then, when Dubie made a fuss in Reception, you saw your opportunity.”

Waterson jabbed a shaking finger toward Stark, began to blubber. “But…but—”

“But Niederhoffer messed up your plan by going to the bathroom at the wrong time, and since Dubie Harris didn’t know Niederhoffer by sight, he killed the wrong man. Then, Niederhoffer came back from the bathroom, found Joplin crouched over the body, and the two of them ran off. So you got Dubie to do you another little favor. You’d frame Niederhoffer along with Joplin, and throw in Berlin for good measure. And in a few days, you’d be free of Berlin, free to publish Joplin’s music, and free of Tabor’s hold on you. Who could he show his numbers to then?”

While Stark talked, Waterson’s face darkened; his thick lips were near-purple. Now, he flew from his chair like a man shot from a cannon. “No!” he shouted. “I had nothing to do with any of that. I was late getting out to the track because of my meeting with Irvy and Josephson, but I was there by two-thirty, and I stayed there till the end of the races. Then I stopped for a couple of drinks on my way home. I didn’t get in till after nine.”