by Larry Karp
A short silence, then Berlin spoke. “Okay, Henry, you got me for now.” Nell had to strain to make out the words, so thick with fury had become Berlin’s speech. “But you ain’t even seen the beginning of this, never mind the end.”
Nell walked quickly back to her desk, picked up a pencil, leaned over the sales lists and sheltered her face with a hand. A moment later, there was a terrific slam of a door. She breathed a long sigh, then went back to work.
“I trust you’re coming along all right with those lists, Mrs. Stanley.”
She looked up. Tabor was smiling, but his cheeks were a jigsaw puzzle of red splotches and white patches. “Yes, sir,” she said. “I haven’t been at it long, but there clearly are some discrepancies. I should have a reckoning for you by lunchtime.”
“Excellent. Well, I’m certainly glad you decided to come by and apply for this job. We might just make your situation permanent. With a little raise in pay, of course.”
Nell remembered Fannie’s warning about what sort of job performance usually led to a raise. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “I’m glad you’re satisfied with my work. But I lost a good half-hour this morning, standing in the hall when I could have been in my office, on the job. Perhaps you’d be willing to give me a key, so if Fannie is late again, or we have a temporary, I can let myself in and start working.”
Tabor fingered his chin, then nodded. “I’d be foolish to say no to that offer, wouldn’t I?” His smile widened into a grin. “You’re always a step ahead of me, Mrs. Stanley. I called Fannie’s place and got the super to check her room. She wasn’t there, so I’ve called in a temp. One of the secretaries will cover Reception till she gets here.”
Nell wanted to scream.
Tabor pulled the key ring from his pocket, separated one and handed it to Nell. “Just don’t come in too early—they lock the outside door from midnight till seven in the morning.”
Nell opened her purse and slipped the key into a change pocket. “My enthusiasm does have bounds, sir.”
Tabor gave her the quick once-over. “I suppose you heard some of our discussion from across the hall.”
“I did hear voices—yours, Mr. Waterson’s and someone else’s I didn’t recognize. You were all talking quite loudly, but I have no idea about what. I was concentrating on my work.”
“Hmm. You’re pretty discreet, aren’t you?”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, sir.”
Tabor laughed, then walked out.
***
Nell gave the group her update over dinner. When she finished, Stark gestured with his fork. “Perhaps we should have gone to see the receptionist last night. I’ve got to feel concerned for her.”
Joplin pushed back from the table, and without a word, walked away. Less than a minute later, piano music floated into the kitchen.
“I heard Waterson say Berlin looked terrible,” said Nell. “Maybe he was up all last night doing more than writing music. With Fannie out of the way, he’d feel a lot safer taking on Tabor over the apartment key. I wish we could let the police know.”
“We can’t,” said Joe Lamb. “One question would lead to another, and before they were finished, they’d be here, and Martin and Mr. Joplin would be off to jail. Probably the rest of us right along with them.”
Stark said, “Can we find out where Berlin was last night?”
Nell tapped fingers on the table. “I don’t know how. His valet’s not going to tell us, and neither will that musical secretary of his. And he certainly won’t. But I didn’t tell you—I talked an office key out of Tabor, supposedly so I can get in to work early. Dad, why don’t we go in tonight and look around? Suppose we can find Scott’s music tucked away somewhere in Berlin’s office?”
Stark’s jaw dropped, then he started to chuckle. “My dear, your resourcefulness is a wonder.”
“I need to go with you.”
Everyone looked at Martin.
“You’ve got to let me—I know all of Mr. Berlin’s files, all the places he might hide a manuscript. If I don’t go, you can’t be sure you searched everywhere. And it’ll be night, so who’s gonna spot me in an empty office building?”
“How about on the subway?” said Stark.
Lamb got up from the table, walked out of the kitchen, came back holding a flat camel’s-hair cap. “Put this on and pull the brim down over your forehead.”
Stark was impressed. “He looks like a different man. All right, I guess having him there might be worth the risk. But let’s wait until it’s fully dark.”
***
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.”
Ch
apter 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.”
