The Ragtime Fool (19 page)
“But what if somebody sees you going off with him?”
“What if?” Barton laughed. “Who’s gonna know who he is? Who’s gonna report him missing?”
Klein laughed, but it sounded uneasy.
“What’s the matter, Otto? Your little feetsies gettin’ cold?”
“Nah.” Klein shook his head slowly. “Just that you got such brass balls, it sometimes takes a little getting used to.”
Now, Barton laughed, not at all uneasily. “My ex-wife used to tell me she didn’t know if I was a cross to bear or a bear to cross.”
Monday, April 16
Very early morning
All of a sudden, Alan was fully awake. Had he been sleeping? Maybe he’d dreamed that noise. The radium-dipped hands on the little alarm clock on the bedside table told him it was ten minutes after one. He closed his eyes, listened hard. Nothing. Maybe it
was
a dream.
No, it wasn’t. There came the sound again, a soft rustle. Slowly, carefully, Alan raised his head. Dark, but his eyes were starting to adjust. Someone was bent over the desk where he’d piled his clothes and the book bag. The intruder held the bag up, worked it open.
Now what? Jump out of bed, run over and grab the guy? What if he had a knife or a gun?
The intruder set the bag down, and in the same motion, turned and started toward the door. Was that the journal in his right hand? Alan thought so.
If he was going to do anything, it had to be now. The boy slid out from under the covers, lowered himself to the floor, and as the thief reached for the doorknob, Alan padded up from behind, dropped a shoulder, and in one quick motion, threw his left arm around his adversary’s neck, and struck sharply with his right arm behind the knee. The intruder let out a little shriek, and went down in a heap. Alan rolled over on top of him, pinning his neck.
“Alan,
Alan
,” a hissed whisper. “Get
offa
me.”
“Eileen?” The boy sprang to his feet, snapped the light switch on.
Eileen sprawled near the door, her legs and most of her thighs visible below the hem of a baby-blue nightgown. She tugged the gown downward. “Quit staring!” The girl rubbed her throat. “You dope, you could’ve killed me. Broken my neck.”
He snatched the journal from the floor near her hand. “Would’ve served you right. What were you doing, sneaking in here and trying to steal this?”
“Keep your voice down. And turn off the light. If my father comes in and finds me in my nightgown and you in your underwear, he’ll probably kill us both.”
“You should have thought about that before you snuck in. Now, what the hell’s going on?”
The girl stood, smoothed her nightgown, then walked slowly across the room, rubbing at her leg, and plopped onto the edge of the bed.
Alan stood over her, waited.
She brushed a handful of curls away from her left eye. “I’m really…well, it’s embarrassing, Alan. You’re the most interesting thing that’s happened in this stupid town since I can remember, coming half-way across the country like you did, all by yourself, with an important book that might make history. I just wanted to see what was in that book.”
“You could’ve asked me.”
“Would you have shown it to me?”
Silence.
“Well, see?” Her eyelids moved like butterfly wings. “I didn’t think you would, and I was so jazzed up, thinking about it, I couldn’t sleep. So finally, I thought why don’t I just come in here on my tiptoes, take the book back to my room, read it, and then bring it back. I didn’t think that’d do any harm. Oh, Alan, I’m sorry, I really am. I like you. You’re fun. I hope I didn’t mess everything up.”
“Just my night’s sleep,” Alan muttered. “Look, I’m sorry I hurt you, all right? You’ve been nice to me, and I appreciate it. After I get the journal to Mr. Campbell, I’ll ask him if it’s okay to show it to you.” He got off the bed, walked to the door, opened it a crack. “See you tomorrow.”
As she sailed past him, she whispered, “Meanie!”
He closed the door behind her, then trudged back to bed, but his eyes wouldn’t stay shut. It seemed like everybody in Sedalia wanted to get their hands on Scott Joplin’s journal, and if Mr. Barton was right, Brun Campbell wouldn’t be coming in for another whole day. How could he keep the journal safe in the meanwhile?
He looked around the room. The desk where he’d left his stuff? It had a solid back; the journal would fit behind it. He threw back the covers, but stopped before his feet hit the floor. Probably not the best idea to hide the journal in his own room. Where, then?
A thought came to him, but he’d have to wait a little while. He slid back under the covers.
His mother had a saying about how watched pots never boil, and it seemed to take the little clock four hours to get to half-past two. When it finally did, the boy got up, walked out into the hall, and crept down to Eileen’s room at the far end of the corridor. He turned the knob, opened the door slowly, slipped in, shut the door.
From the bed came the sound of regular deep breathing. He smiled. Across the room was a dresser, the tall, wide kind that girls need to hold all their clothes. Even better, it sat directly on the floor. Perfect. Alan started toward it, but enthusiasm outstripped caution, and he caught his toe on an old steamer trunk at the foot of the bed. He fell heavily against the bedpost, muttering a curse as he saw the figure in the bed sit up. “Eileen,” a groan. “Don’t scream. It’s me, Alan.”
“Alan? What—?”
“I couldn’t sleep. I felt bad about the way I talked to you, and I thought you might be awake. I want to say I’m sorry.”
“Well, you might at least come up here where I can see you when you say it.”
“Wait a minute, I’ll be right there.”
“What do you mean, ‘you’ll be right there?’”
“Eileen, jeez. Wait just a minute. I banged my big toe and it hurts like hell.”
“You want me to kiss it for you? Make it all better? Bring it over here.”
“Hold on a second.”
“Alan!”
He limped alongside the bed. “All right, I’m here, see? I’m sorry I was rude to you, Eileen, I apologize. Okay?”
Her teeth gleamed. “That’s a start.” She threw back the covers. Come on in and tell me how sorry you are.”
“Eileen…”
“Hey, it’s cold with the covers off.” She patted the bed. “Bet you could warm me up.”
***
Brun Campbell sat in the Milner Hotel’s restaurant, alternating forkfuls of bacon and eggs with mouthfuls of coffee and pulls at a cigarette. Yesterday had been a waste. Nothing open except churches and a few restaurants. He’d pounded the streets, but none of the teen-aged boys he’d talked to was the one he was looking for. He’d been glad to see Tom Ireland, of course, though finding out they were on opposite sides of the fence troubled him. He had to get his hands on that boy and the journal before Ireland did, or it’d probably be gone forever, and the Scott Joplin Ragtime Museum right along with it.
Sedalia was giving him the creeps. Everywhere he went, he saw ghosts. Was that John Stark down the street? Mrs. Stark? Mr. Higdon, Mr. Hastain? Was that Otis Saunders at the table across the room?
He drew deeply at the cigarette, set it onto the corner of the ashtray, and shoveled in a mound of eggs. But before he could swallow, he saw a woman with a beehive of gray hair, standing on the opposite side of the table, studying him from behind rimless glasses. He hadn’t heard her walk up. She looked familiar, another ghost? Then, recognition hit. Brun coughed, choked, reached for his glass of water. He took two giant swallows, wiped at his eyes, and looked up.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Campbell,” the woman said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” She paused, seemed to be weighing alternatives, then added, “Fifty-two years is a long time. Do you remember me?”
Brun scrambled out of his chair, stood awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other. “If I ain’t mistaken, you’re Miss Luella…” What the hell did Tom Ireland say her name was now?
“Rohrbaugh,” the woman said. “But you knew me as Luella Sheldon.”
Brun scanned the fingers of her left hand; she caught him. “I’ve been a widow for twenty-five years. I stopped wearing the ring a long time ago.”
“Oh. Well, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you.”
Her face gave nothing away. Neither did her tone of voice. Brun thought a moment, then said, “I’m only gonna be in town a couple days, for the Scott Joplin ceremony at the high school. Then you won’t never see me again. I hope you’re not gonna make me any trouble.”
She raised a hand. “I’m not here to trouble you in any way, Brun. What happened in 1899 was a long time ago.”
“But I am sorry, Miss Luella.” Brun caught himself at the antiquated way he’d addressed her. The woman couldn’t stop a wan smile. “I really am sorry for what happened, Mrs. Rohrbaugh. Always have been.”
“I’ll wager there have been other incidents which left you feeling sorry,” the woman said. “You were an impulsive boy. You acted without forethought, or considering consequences, but I’ve long since forgiven your rash behavior. In any case, please feel free to call me Luella.” She smiled, a formality.
Brun motioned to the chair she stood beside. “Would you like to sit down? Have some breakfast?”
“I’ve had breakfast, hours ago,” Luella said. She pulled out the chair. “But I will sit. I have some information I believe will interest you.”
Brun hustled around the table to pull the chair out for the old woman, then went back to reseat himself.
“I heard you were coming to town,” Luella said. “You’re going to play piano at that ceremony, and you’re going to show the crowd a certain diary that Scott Joplin kept, in the hope of persuading them to build a museum downtown for him and his music.”
Brun studied the woman. Fifty-some years had carved channels like river beds into her cheeks. “How do you ever know that?”
“This is a small town, just as it was in 1899. I happened to meet a young man last evening, an Alan Chandler. He has that journal in a shoulder bag, which he won’t let out of his hand for an instant. He’s looking for you, but has no idea where you are, or how to find you.”
Brun’s food was forgotten. “Do you know where he is?”
“I’m quite sure I do, and I’m equally sure I don’t like it. I teach a Bible class, which I imagine doesn’t surprise you. One of my students, Eileen Klein, brought your young man to our Sunday evening supper last night. She said he was a family friend from New Jersey, and that he was staying with the Kleins. But Otto Klein is not a man I’d expect to have anything to do with a ceremony in honor of a colored man. In fact, Mr. Klein has long been active in the Ku Klux Klan. Alan seemed like a nice boy, and I wouldn’t want to see him get into a bad situation. So I decided I’d try to find you.”
“How’d you know where I’m staying? I only got in last night.”
“A simple process of elimination. I asked at hotel registration desks. The Milner was my third stop.”
Brun was half-out of his chair. “You know where that kid is, then? I was gonna try and find Abe Rosenthal, the guy who’s in charge of the program, and get a few things straight about my part, but I can sure wait on that till after I see the kid.”
“I know where Otto Klein’s machine shop is, and I’ll be glad to take you there,” Mrs. Rohrbaugh said. “Just as soon as you’re finished eating, if you’d like.”
Brun took a swallow from his water glass, then pushed away from the table. “I’m done.” He threw a dollar on the table, then trotted around to help Luella out of her seat. “Let’s get a move on.”
***
“Mrs. Campbell?”
May looked up into the face of the man who’d just rung her doorbell. She nodded. “Yes?”
He held a billfold out toward her. “Detective Robert Magnus, Los Angeles Police. Your husband’s not in his barber shop today. Is he at home?”
May shook her head, then stuffed all her exasperation into an extravagant sigh. “He went to San Francisco Friday night. He’s been trying to get a movie produced about Scott Joplin, you know, the ragtime piano player. Friday afternoon, Brun got word that someone in San Francisco was interested in making the movie and needed to see him right away, so off he went. Hardly took time to pack his suitcase.”
The detective called on every second of his professional training and experience to keep from screaming. “Have you heard from him since then?”
Another headshake. “We don’t have a phone.”
“Right. Mrs. Campbell, do you know a woman named Bess Vinson? A colored woman, she lives in Santa Monica?”
May shook her head. “I don’t know many colored at all. My husband does…oh, wait. That’s the woman who came looking for him, just a few days ago, and I sent her over to the barber shop. Brun told me later that she claimed to be Scott Joplin’s daughter, and wanted to sell him Joplin’s diary for five thousand dollars, can you imagine?”
“Did he buy it?”
“I don’t think so. I have no idea where he’d get anything like five thousand dollars.”
Now, Magnus sighed. Bess Vinson hadn’t said anything to him because he hadn’t found her. The druggist downstairs from her apartment had told Magnus he hadn’t seen her for a day or so, and had no idea where she might be.
“All right, Mrs. Campbell.” The detective gave May a business card. “If you do hear from your husband, please let him know I need to talk to him. And then
you
call me.”
May looked from the card to the detective. “Is Brun in some sort of trouble?”
When I get my hands on him, he’ll be in trouble like he’s never seen, Magnus thought. But he smiled and said, “I just need to ask him some questions. Thank you.” Then he hotfooted back to the station, and got a sergeant on the phone to check into movie producers in San Francisco.
***
Slouched low in the cab of his pickup, Jerry Barton watched Rowena Klein, shopping bag in hand, leave her house and walk briskly along East Fifth toward downtown. He waited till she’d covered a good three blocks, then jumped out of the truck, trotted down the street to Klein’s, pushed the button next to the front door. No answer. He leaned on the button a second time, and pounded on the door. “Come on, you little bastard,” he muttered. “Open up.”
***
Before Mrs. Klein left, she pressed a book into Alan’s hand. “
The House of Fear
,” she said. “It’s a mystery story by a man named Robert W. Service. Do you know him?”
Alan shook his head.
“Oh, he was so popular when I was a girl. He was a great poet who wrote the most interesting verses about all those places up north. This book should be just right for a boy your age. It’s a grand story.”
It took less than five pages for Alan to decide it stank on ice. When the doorbell rang, he set the book down gratefully, started toward the door, but stopped after just a couple of steps. All he could do was tell whoever it was that Mrs. Klein would be back in an hour.