by Larry Karp
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.”
“Well, perhaps the bartender will remember you, and the exact times you came in and left,” Stark said. “If not, I’d say you’ve got a real problem on your hands.”
Waterson turned to face Tabor, who was smiling coolly at him from behind the desk. “Relax, Henry,” Tabor said. “I loaned my key to Berlin. The cops aren’t going to believe that pathetic alibi of his.”
“I think they might,” said Stark. Sly glance at Waterson. “Especially when the receptionist tells the police who it was she called in to deal with Dubie Harris.”
Tabor snickered. “Fannie’s been missing since last Saturday.”
Stark nodded to Nell.
“Fannie and I went out to lunch Friday,” Nell said. “She had a good time telling me stories about what goes on in this office, including how unpleasant some of the clients can be. Like the young colored man a few days before who wouldn’t leave or even stop shouting until he’d shown his tunes to Irving Berlin.” She turned a nasty smile on Waterson. “And since Mr. Berlin wasn’t in right then, Fannie had to get someone else to quiet—”
Waterson pumped both fists toward Tabor. “Damn it Bart—it was you.” Waterson looked back to Stark. “He said with Irvy out of the way, he’d tear up his evidence if I’d persuade Snyder to make him a partner. Then he and I could outvote Snyder on any issue that came up, and—”
Tabor leaned across the desk. “Henry, you pathetic sob sister. You make me sick.”
“I make you sick? Double-damn you, Bart! You were going to let Berlin take the fall, and use me to push Snyder out. And then you’d get rid of me too, right? And publish Joplin’s play yourself.” The big man clutched Stark’s arm. “When Joplin came in with the music and thought I was Berlin, he got himself worked up, and started yelling at me. Then he stumbled around and banged his head on the edge of the office door. Bart heard the noise and came in to see what was going on, so afterward, I told him the whole story and showed him the manuscript.” Waterson charged around the desk, waved a fist in Tabor’s face. “You miserable son of a Dutchman. You told me why didn’t I just hide the music away until Joplin was dead, then I’d have no problems. But you were playing me for a fool right from the beginning.”
Tabor regarded the furious man from the corners of his eyes, then in a flash, he had his desk drawer open and a pistol in his hand. He took aim at Waterson’s chest. “Stupid kraut—I played you for the fool you are. Turn around.” He pushed the barrel into Waterson’s ample belly.
Waterson turned slowly. Tabor urged him with the gun. “Move.” Waterson walked around the corner of the desk, into open space.
Tabor looked at Nell, Stark and Berlin. “Back away,” he snarled. “Up out of those chairs and against the wall, quick.”
The three targets looked at each other, then started to laugh.
“You’re going to be laughing out of the other side of your faces,” Tabor growled.
“I don’t think so,” said Stark. “Your gun’s as much a bluff as your words.”
Waterson lay, clutching his elbow. Berlin and Stark both reached to help Nell to her feet. “I can get up by myself,” she shouted. “Go catch Tabor.”
They ran through the open doorway, out of Tabor’s office, into the hall, to the top of the stairwell, just in time to look down and see Tabor charge through the lobby and out of the building. Stark started down the stairs, but Berlin caught his sleeve. “Forget it,” the composer snarled. “By the time we get down there, he’ll be blocks away, and no idea in what direction.”
Stark blew out two lungs full of disgust, then stepped up to the landing, and walked back with Berlin into the office.
***
Tabor’s escape kept the mood that evening at Joe Lamb’s to one of relief, rather than exhilaration. Nell tried to put on a better face. “We’ve done what we set out to do,” she said. “Scott’s got his music back, he and Martin are in the clear, and Birdie is back safely.” She aimed a look of wry amusement at the young couple on the sofa, practically sitting in each other’s lap. “And I suspect Detective Ciccone is going to pull out all the stops to bring Tabor in. He’s sore as a boil, the way Tabor lied to him.”
“Was he angry at you…at us?” Lamb asked.
“Perhaps a little,” said Stark. “He said we should have called him in as soon as we knew what was going on, but I told him we were not going to take any chance we might lead him to Joplin and Martin. He doesn’t even know about you, Joe. All I said was that Joplin and Martin had been hiding in Brooklyn, and at this point, why would he look into that? Once he finds Tabor, he can take all the credit. None of us, I’m sure, will be inclined to comment or enlarge upon whatever he wants to tell his superiors or the newspapers.”
Lamb nodded, then turned to Nell. “That was clever, getting Waterson to think the receptionist had implicated him.”
“Dad and I felt sure Waterson and Tabor were in it together, but we didn’t know just how. We wanted to drive a wedge between them, and from what I’d seen and heard in the office, I thought Waterson would be more likely than Tabor to come apart at the seams, so we concentrated on him. We didn’t feel obliged to be entirely truthful.”
Stark laughed. “Berlin was quite impressed. You should have seen his face.”
“It was nice of Mr. Berlin,” Martin said. “Coming over here with you after he was up all night and all day, to tell Birdie and me we’ve still got jobs, and on top of that, give us a raise. Now, we can put money away every week, and it won’t be long till we have enough to get married.”
“Congratulations to you both.” Stark’s tone was dry, but his eyes gleamed with mischief. “Though I do hope you’ll remember what else Mr. Berlin told you.”
Birdie giggled. Martin snickered. “’Just keep the books straight, kid. Leave the music decisions to me.’”
Everyone laughed at the young man’s imitation of Berlin’s voice.
Stark stifled a yawn; Nell caught the virus. “It’s been a long week with not much sleep,” Stark said. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small roll of bills. “Martin, perhaps you and your intended might be willing to go up to Harlem, take Mr. Joplin home, and stop at the Alamo to tell Jimmy how this business has sorted out.” He put the money into Martin’s hand. “And while you’re there, settle up with our friend, the tooth-kicker.”
“Vinny,” Martin said. “Footsie Vinny.”
“Yes, of course. I have no personal experience, but from all I hear, it’s best not to leave open accounts with professionals in this field.”
Martin laughed. “You were pretty sharp, Mr. Stark. Getting Mr. Berlin to throw in the money for Vinny.”
Stark smiled into his beard. “It wasn’t all that difficult. I’m sure he saw the humor in the situation.”
Martin stood, extended a hand to Birdie, but before the girl was off the sofa, Nell said, “I think I’d better have a few words with Scott before you take him.”
A fit of coughing worked its way through the small group. “Yes,” Stark said. “I suppose somebody should.”
“Not ‘somebody’.” The edge on Nell’s words silenced the room. She walked across the room, toward the piano.
***
Joplin played a short passage on the piano, then reached his pencil to the music rack and began to write, but as he felt a hand on his shoulder, the music flew out of his head. Damn! He wheeled around, a string of angry words in his mouth, but when he saw who had interrupted him, the vexation melted. “Nell…why, what’s the matter?”
Oh, Lord, could she carry it off? She felt a pair of piercing blue eyes on her back, and in her mind, heard, ‘I’ve made my share of mistakes and then some, but in the end I do believe I’ve always been equal to all requirements.’ She swallowed hard. “Scott I need…I want to talk to you.”
“Well, of course. What is it?”
She pointed toward the bedroom. “It’s private. Let’s go in there.”
As she followed him into the room, she turned to close the door behind her, and caught a glimpse of her father’s face, a sight she knew she wouldn’t forget for the rest of her life. Tears spurted from her eyes. No, not now. She wiped at them with her sleeve.
Joplin looked curiously at her. “Nell, whatever is troubling you?”
At least he was in something resembling his right mind. “I’m all right,” she said. “I just haven’t gotten much sleep for a while.”
“But everything’s fine now. You found the man who was responsible for killing that boy, and you found my music. Now, I can try to get it published somewhere else. I’ll have to shake a leg, though. I don’t have much time.”
Words stuck in Nell’s throat. Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks.
Joplin gave himself a silent reprimand. Women get upset so easy, a man’s got to watch what he says and how he says it. “Nell, I’m sorry, I truly am. But I know I don’t have long. Every day, it seems like there’s a little less in my head. I don’t know where it’s all going off to.”
Her cue. Take it, or she might never be able to say what needed to be said. She rested a hand on his chest. “Scott, that’s what I’m trying to tell you, and I’m not doing a good job of it. You know I’d never lie to you, or do anything that was not in your best interest. Please believe me—you’re more ill than you realize. I can hear it in your music.”
A red curtain fell across Joplin’s line of vision. He thought the top of his head might blow off. But he had to hear Nell out. If it was anybody else, said that… “What do you mean?” The tremor in his voice disgusted him.
But it encouraged Nell to go on. Maybe she could get past his lunatic grandiosity and sense of persecution. She spoke slowly, calmly. “I’ve read the whole score of If, and it just doesn’t hold together.” She raised a hand to stop the objection she saw coming. “You know the way you’ve been forgetting things? I think that’s the problem with your music. When you finish a passage and go on, the next line sounds as if you’ve already forgotten the first one. All those short passages are beautiful, but they don’t add up to anything. Do you understand?”
Joplin’s face twisted into a grotesque mask. “Understand? Understand? How can you dare talk that way about my music? Lying bitch!”
The words slashed through Nell’s skull, echoed in her mind. She forced herself to hold Joplin’s gaze. After what felt like an hour, the composer began to speak, but in such soft tones, Nell had to strain to hear. “Nell, Nell, I am so sorry, talking to you like that. I hope you can find it in your hear
t to forgive me.”
She put her arms around him, held him close, whispered, “There’s nothing to forgive, Scott. That was your disease talking. Not you.”
Joplin pulled back, just a bit. “I know you’d never tell me anything that wasn’t truth. But could my music be fixed? Could you fix it for me.”
The hope in his eyes girdled Nell’s chest, squeezed the air from her lungs. Why not say, ‘I’ll try?’ Two little words. For as long as necessary, say yes, she was working on it, doing her best to fix it. But the idea nauseated her.
She shook her head. “If I thought there was the tiniest chance, Scott, I’d spend the rest of my life working on it, and every minute would be a joy. But your music is like a long line of the sweetest words picked out of a dictionary and then strung together. It’s got no meaning, and there’s no way I or anyone else could arrange those words to say what you want them to.”
He closed his eyes, bowed his head; his shoulders slumped. His body swayed forward, then back. Nell thought he looked like a dead man standing. If she couldn’t bring herself to send him home to die in false hope, neither could she let him go utterly stripped of comfort and dignity. She took him by the arms, shook him gently. “I’ve told you about the music, but we haven’t said anything about the lyrics.”
His eyes opened. She felt firmness return to his muscles.
“Scott, those lyrics could never be spoken in front of an audience, not in this world. But it doesn’t matter. They’re the most beautiful Valentine I’ve ever received. I’ll always treasure them.” She kissed his cheek.
He flung his arms around her and held on as if for life support. “Nell, what would you have said…if…”
She pulled back far enough to look him directly in the eyes. “What do you think I’d have said.”
“I don’t know. If I did—”
“I’d have said yes. If you’d asked, I’d have married you in an instant.”
“Even with all the troubles we’d have had?”