The Ragtime Fool

by Larry Karp

  “That’s right, Lonzo. Don’t worry. Just keep that hothead out of my way.” Ireland started toward the door. “People with more temper than brains can be a real pain in the ass.”

  ***

  Detective Magnus looked across the desk at Samuel J. Pepper. “I appreciate your coming in early for me, Mr. Pepper.”

  The attorney waved off the thanks. “Only way I could talk to you today. I’ve got to be in court from nine o’clock on. What can I do for you?”

  Right to the point. Magnus liked that. “It’s about your client, Roscoe Spanner, and his inheritance. I understand Mr. Brun Campbell is the sole beneficiary.”

  “That’s correct. They’ve been friends since forever. Mr. Spanner had no heirs, and he left everything to Mr. Campbell.”

  “Can you tell me when the will was written? Was it recent?”

  “No, we did it at least ten years ago. If you want, I can check the date.”

  “That’s all right. Do you know whether Mr. Campbell had any prior knowledge of the inheritance?”

  Pepper pursed his lips, then shook his head slowly. “Not that I could say. I guess Mr. Spanner might’ve clued him in, but from the way he looked the first time I talked to him, I’d say if he did know, he ought to be on the stage.” Pepper frowned. “One thing, though. As soon as I told him about his inheritance, he couldn’t wait to get his hands on it. He said he’d been trying to buy a diary of some sort that Scott Joplin wrote. He wanted to take it to Sedalia to present it at a ceremony they’re having there, I think tonight, actually, to honor Joplin. So I arranged an advance for him…Detective, are you feeling all right?”

  “Yeah, sure. Just haven’t had my morning coffee yet. Where is it again you said Mr. Campbell was going?”

  “Sedalia. In Missouri.” Pepper chuckled. “I don’t think wild horses or the National Guard could’ve stopped him.”

  Magnus thanked Pepper as politely as he could manage, then tore back to the station, ran inside, thrust his head into the switchboard operator’s cubicle, and bellowed, “Get me the chief of police in Sedalia, Missouri.” He slammed the door, and stormed down the hall to his office. He’d have that goddamn barber back and in front of a grand jury in record time, and he wasn’t going to be satisfied till he saw the son of a bitch swaying on the end of a rope.

  ***

  Brun sat in an armchair in the corner of the Hotel Milner lobby, his nose buried in a newspaper. He never noticed Luella walk in, and up to his chair.

  “Brun?”

  He lowered the paper. “Oh, Luella. Say, did you see the papers today?” He held up the one he’d been reading. “This here ceremony’s getting big-time attention. Look, on the first page of the Democrat. ‘Today’s leading authority on Joplin and his music is Brunson Campbell, of Kenice, California.’ They spelled Venice wrong, but still. And then they go on and say that except for Mr. Joplin, I’m the greatest ragtime player ever. How about that?”

  “I’m impressed. I trust they didn’t misspell your name.”

  The irony in Luella’s voice went right past Brun’s ears. He folded the newspaper, slipped it under his arm, then got to his feet. “Guess we better get movin’, huh? I can’t wait to hear what Mr. Rosenthal’s got to say.”

  ***

  Ireland couldn’t remember feeling more nervous. An eighty-five-year-old man, and a colored man at that, being the only protection for the boy? Dicey. If Klein happened to be at home, things could get ugly in a hurry. I ought to have a white man along, Ireland thought, but the only possibility that came to his mind was Brun Campbell. He shook his head. Do better to pray for good luck.

  “Mr. Ireland?”

  Ireland snapped out of his thoughts. The boy looked pale, skin taut over his cheekbones. “What is it, Alan?”

  “I’m thinking about Mr. Klein and those other guys who were out at Curds’ last night. After I’ve got the journal, how am I going to get it to Mr. Campbell without having them come after me again?”

  Ireland draped an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Just as soon as you have that book in your hands, we’re going back to my house, and we’re going to stay there. I’ve got someone I can send out to find Mr. Campbell and bring him by, and then we’ll all sit down and decide what to do with the journal. And if those idiots try anything funny, I’ll call the police. Chief Neighbors and I have known each other a long time, and if I tell him a gang of yahoos is bothering me, he’ll have officers out there before I’ve hung up the phone. We won’t have to say anything about what happened last night. Don’t worry. Let’s just get hold of that journal.”

  Alan smiled. “You’re okay, Mr. Ireland. If it wasn’t for you and Mr. Curd, I’d probably be dead three times over.”

  “Best not to talk about Mr. You-know-who,” Ireland said. “Sometimes there’s ears where you never see them or suspect they’re there.”

  “Mr. Who?”

  “Mr. Cu—” The look of mischief on Alan’s face stopped Ireland midway through the word. He laughed, tousled Alan’s hair. “All right, wise guy. Let’s get done what we came here to do.”

  They walked up the steps to Kleins’ porch. Ireland rang the bell, got no response, rang a second time. The old man peered through the glass panel in the door. “Looks clear. How long will you need to get the journal?”

  “Just as long as it takes to run up the stairs, into the room where I left it, and back down. I bet less than a minute.”

  Ireland squeezed the door handle and pushed. “Go.” His voice was hoarse. “Before you come out, look through the glass here. If I’m scratching my nose, turn around and go out the back door, and through the yard to Fourth Street. Wait for me there.”

  Alan shot into the house. Ireland closed the door, then walked as slowly as a man could walk to the edge of the porch. Then he seemed to recall something, trudged back, pretended to ring the bell again, and shaded his eyes to peer through the little glass panel in the door. There was Alan, bouncing down the stairs two at a time. Lordy, Ireland thought. Don’t fall.

  The boy’s eyes met his through the glass. Ireland opened the door just enough for Alan to squeeze through. “Good job,” the old man said. “Now, let’s get out of here.”

  “Mr. Ireland.” Alan looked to be on the point of flying out of control.

  “What?”

  “The journal. It’s not there.”

  Ireland edged the boy toward the street. “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely. I looked all around where I left it. It’s just not there.”

  Ireland tried to keep his exasperation to himself. “All right. If it isn’t there, Klein must have found it, and he’s not going to be an easy nut to crack. Let’s go back to my house, and do some thinking.” He gave Alan a quick once-over. “We’ll stop by Jack’s Mens Wear on the way. You’re going to attract way too much attention in those dirty rags.”

  ***

  Luella led Brun through the halls of Hubbard High School, past small groups of Negro children who turned curious looks on the old white couple. They went past the Administration Room and the principal’s office, then turned a corner and walked down a long hallway, classrooms on either side. Brun heard piano music. “‘Maple Leaf Rag,’” he said. “And I’ll warrant that’s a white man playing it. I’ll show him how it oughta be done.”

  The double doors at the end of the hall sported gold capital letters: AUDITORIUM. Luella pushed past the door on the right; Brun followed her inside. From the back of the room, he saw a woman at the piano up on the stage. Another woman and a man stood behind her.

  Luella and Brun walked up the aisle, climbed the stairs at the side of the stage, then made their way to the piano. The pianist and her companions turned to face the newcomers, then the man stepped forward. “Mrs. Rohrbaugh, how do you do? What brings you here this morning?”

  Brun thought he looked and sounded like some kind of college professor. He was well-groomed, with a high forehead, black hair graying at the
temples, dark-complexioned, with a prominent beak of a nose. He wore a sharply-cut dark suit, with a dark tie straight up and down over a white shirt.

  Luella nodded in Brun’s direction. “Mr. Rosenthal, this is Mr. Brun Campbell, from California. He wants to speak with you about the program for tonight.”

  Recognition lit Rosenthal’s eyes, but Brun saw his body stiffen. “Well, Mr. Campbell, I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.” He extended a hand, which Brun gripped firmly. “I’ve heard a great deal about you, and I’m delighted you were able to come out for the ceremony.” Rosenthal half-turned toward the small woman at his side. “This is Miss Lillian Fox, our marvelous accompanist for the Choral Club. And that’s Mrs. Blanche Ross, a fine pianist. Ladies, Mr. Brun Campbell. He was a student of Scott Joplin’s.”

  The ladies smiled. “Not just a student,” Brun said. “I was Scott Joplin’s only white pupil. And I was also the first white pianist to ever play ‘Maple Leaf Rag.’”

  Which seemed to impress the women. Rosenthal, however, looked as if his trousers had begun to itch. “Well, Mr. Campbell, as I said, I’m very glad to meet you, and I hope you’ll be favorably impressed with our ceremony.” He pointed toward the front row of seats in the auditorium. “Miss Fox, Mrs. Ross and I are going through our final preparations. If you’d like, you and Mrs. Rohrbaugh would be welcome to listen.”

  The message came through to Brun, loud and very clear. “Actually, Mr. Rosenthal, I came over to talk to you about my part, like I wrote in my letter. You did get my letter, right? About a month ago?”

  Rosenthal went into a stance of deep thought, lids slitted, one hand on his chin. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

  “Okay, then. What did you think about what I said I wanted to do?”

  By now, the women looked at least as itchy as Rosenthal. Mrs. Ross stood, and mumbled something to the effect of taking this opportunity to visit the powder room. Miss Fox said she’d go along. Brun watched them walk backstage, thought they’d better get there in a hurry or they’ll piss their pants.

  Rosenthal forced a smile. “Well, Mr. Campbell, you see, this is going to be a Sedalia effort, all local talent. We decided it would be better not to involve, uh, outsiders.”

  “Outsiders? What the…Mr. Rosenthal, what’re you talking about? Scott Joplin taught me piano right here in Sedalia, and I can play ‘Maple Leaf Rag’ just exactly the way he showed me. You sayin’ people wouldn’t want to hear that?”

  “I’m sure they would, Mr. Campbell. But Mrs. Ross is perhaps the best pianist in Sedalia, and I’m sure she’ll do credit to the piece. And in any case, the arrangements have been finalized, and the program is printed.”

  “So I guess you’re telling me you also don’t have space for me to say a few words about Scott Joplin, huh?”

  “Mr. Studer, our mayor, is going to give a fine talk about Joplin and Sedalia and the birth of ragtime music.” Rosenthal’s growing irritation showed in his clipped, staccato speech. “And Mr. Brown, the president of the Choral Club, will say a few words, as will Dr. Hylick, the school principal. I’m sorry, Mr. Campbell, but our program is set, and it’s too late to make any changes.”

  Brun felt the world slipping away from him. “There’s something else.” He tried to keep from sounding frantic. “I’m gonna have a journal, Scott Joplin’s own diary, and after Mrs. Joplin says her piece over the radio, I can show that book to the audience. Then, people in Sedalia just might start thinkin’ Scott Joplin oughta have more than just a plaque on a high-school wall. Like, say, there should be a ragtime museum, right in the middle of downtown.”

  Luella Rohrbaugh had never cried in public before, and was detemined not to start now. She worked a full package of starch into her face.

  “Mr. Campbell…” Rosenthal spoke softly, but his tone was ominous. “We’ve had to cancel the simultaneous broadcast with New York.”

  “You what? What in hell’s going on here?”

  Rosenthal glanced toward stone-faced Luella Rohrbaugh, then said, “We had to cancel the broadcast because Mrs. Joplin isn’t well. Apparently, there was some sort of commotion over that diary, and she got quite upset and had to be hospitalized.”

  Brun’s sails sagged. “She’s not…”

  “I’m sorry. All I know is that she became ill and had to cancel.”

  “But I got Louis Armstrong to present her that plaque.”

  Luella turned away. The memory of that fifteen-year-old boy, so full of energy and plans, next to the sight of this stoop-shouldered old man, pleading his hopeless case, was more than the starch could handle. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, dabbed at her eyes.”

  “Please, Mr. Campbell,” Rosenthal said. “We really do have to get back to work. I’ll tell you what. Perhaps Mayor Studer could introduce you from the platform, and you can stand and be recognized.”

  Brun pursed his lips, nodded a few times. He straightened, then spoke. “No need of that, Mr. Rosenthal. Thanks for your consideration, but I don’t gotta stand up and be recognized. I’ll get outa your way now.” He motioned with his head to Luella.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Rosenthal.” Luella’s tone could have turned Tahiti into Iceland. She fell into step beside Brun.

  ***

  They walked in silence down Osage Street. Brun thought he’d never felt so bad in his life. Roscoe would’ve been glad to know he’d made it possible for Scott Joplin to get the recognition he deserved, but now that wasn’t going to happen. The barber wondered if the cops were ever going to find out who’d killed his friend, or if it was just going to be another old colored man dead, big deal.

  A block from the high school, Brun suddenly felt as if a hundred-pound weight had dropped onto his chest. He signaled for Luella to stop, then grabbed a nitro pill from his pocket, slid it under his tongue. Within a minute, the pressure eased off, whew. That stuff was a miracle. But one of these days, the miracles were going to run out. Here he was, out of the program, didn’t have the journal, and to top it all off, Lottie had gotten sick, and they’d canceled the radio broadcast. How many more chances was he going to get? He saw the gravestone May would put up for him. Sanford Brunson Campbell. Husband, Father, Fool.

  “Brun, are you all right?”

  “Yeah. That nitro’s great stuff. Let’s go.”

  ***

  At the corner of Ohio and Second, Luella nudged Brun. “Look there.”

  Brun stared. “Tom Ireland. And some kid.”

  The couples came face-to-face. Brun and Ireland nodded to each other. Luella said, “Good morning, Alan. Mr. Ireland.”

  Ireland acknowledged the greeting with a smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Rohrbaugh. I didn’t know you were acquainted with my young friend.”

  “Eileen Klein brought him to our supper Sunday night at the church.” Luella glanced toward Brun, then at Alan. “You don’t have your blue book bag today, Alan.”

  Brun’s eyes widened. “Alan, huh? You’re the kid—”

  Ireland gave silent thanks that they’d stopped at Jack’s. With his new duds, the boy didn’t look like someone who’d spent the night tramping through the woods from Georgetown with the hounds of hell at his back. “Brun, yes, this is Alan Chandler. The boy who came from New York to give you Scott Joplin’s journal.”

  Brun’s heart skipped a beat, then another. Damn, he thought, Ireland got to him first.

  “Unfortunately, he hasn’t got the journal now.” Ireland looked all around. “Let’s go someplace a little more private, and talk about it.”

  Luella pointed down the street. “My house is just a few blocks from here.”

  ***

  They sat in the living room, Luella in the chair beside the music box, Brun next to her. Alan and Ireland occupied the sofa. “That’s really the truth?” Brun asked. “You got no idea where Mr. Joplin’s journal is?”

  “Mr. Campbell,” Luella said, and by the tone and the ‘Mr. Campbell,’ Brun knew he had troubl
e. “If you lived in Sedalia the past fifty years, you’d know Mr. Ireland’s word is not to be doubted.”

  Lord help me, Ireland thought. After what’s come out of my mouth the last couple of days.

  “Sorry,” Brun said. “I didn’t mean any offense. Just…you know.”

  “No offense taken,” Ireland said. “Let’s get down to business. Alan here—”

  The doorbell rang.

  Luella sprang to her feet. “Hold on.” She marched out of the room, into the vestibule. Alan, Brun and Ireland heard the door open. “Yes, officer?” they heard Luella say. “What can I do for you?”

  A man’s voice came through, but not clearly enough that they could make out his words. Then, Luella spoke. “No, I’m sorry. I have no idea where he is…yes, I know he’s been seen with me, but he’s not here now. He’s staying at the Milner. You might want to check there…yes, I’ll be sure to do that.”

  Luella was back in the living room practically as soon as the the front door had closed. She shot Brun a look he hadn’t seen since the day he returned from his 1899 runaway to Sedalia, and his mother met him at the door. “Brun, perhaps you’d like to tell me why the police in Los Angeles want to talk to you.”

  Brun clapped a hand to his brow, shook his head, muttered something no one could hear, then looked up. “All right, here it is. My best friend back home, he fell or got pushed down the stairs and left me everything he had. The cops were looking into it and told me they didn’t want me to leave town, but I wasn’t gonna miss this ceremony. Maybe I shouldn’ta done it, but I did. That’s the story, it’s God’s truth, and you can believe it or not.”

  Luella clasped her hands behind her back, lest she haul off and smack him into next week. “Brun…” She groped for the right words. “Brun, have you ever in your life owned one ounce of common sense?” She held up a hand to make certain the question remained rhetorical. “Yes, for what it’s worth, I do believe you. It’s no trouble at all to imagine you doing just what you did. But didn’t it even occur to you to tell the police you had this engagement, and you’d be here in case they wanted to find you?”