him.
The bookkeeper tugged at the composer’s sleeve. “Come on, Mr. Joplin—the cops’ll be sure you or me or maybe even both of us did this. We’ve got to get out of here.”
Joplin pulled away. “I’ve got to see Mr. Berlin, that’s why I came here. He called me to come down to talk about my musical.”
Martin blinked. How much crazier was this going to get? “Mr. Berlin
called
you?”
“Yes. About
If
. I think he wants to publish it and put it on stage. I’ve got to find him.”
“But how would he know about it? We haven’t taken it down to him yet.”
Joplin turned away and started toward the door. Martin caught him with both arms, wrestled him against the wall. “Mr. Joplin, listen. Please. Mr. Berlin isn’t here.”
Joplin writhed and squirmed, but was no match for Martin’s strong, healthy arms. “He
called
me, Martin. Let me go now, hear? I’ve got to see him.”
“Damn it, Mr. Joplin, I told you, he is just…not…
here
. Please, Mr. Joplin, trust me. Right now, you and me have got to get someplace else, fast. Then, after we figure out what’s going on, we can go talk to Mr. Berlin.” Martin paused to catch his breath, glanced at the razor on the floor, beside Sid’s hand. He’d read in the papers, police could sometimes use fingerprints to catch killers, and even he could see Scott Joplin’s prints, clear as day, in the blood on that razor. Martin snatched it up, wiped it briskly on Sid’s shirt sleeve, then folded it and dropped it into his pocket. “Mr. Joplin, take off your shirt, put it on inside-out. That way, the blood won’t show so much. Your suit’s OK, it just looks like dark stains. Come on, now, hurry up.”
***
Bartlett Tabor walked slowly up Broadway. The clock on the big billboard atop the roof of the Strand Theatre Building read six twenty-five; to the right of the clock, thick red letters stated it was TIME TO LIGHT A CHESTERFIELD. Time to check out Niederhoffer, Tabor thought. He walked into the building and up to the elevator, but then remembered, the operator left at five-thirty. He muttered a curse, and started up the stairs.
A couple of stairs down from the third floor, Martin heard footsteps. He put a hand on Joplin’s arm, peered over the railing, saw Tabor, whispered a brief curse of his own, then put a finger to his lips and pulled the composer into the pass-through behind the elevator shaft. Carefully, he edged his head forward to watch the top of the stairwell. When he saw Tabor come up onto the landing, he ducked back to the far side of the space, pulling Joplin with him, then listened hard. Key in a lock…door opening…slamming shut. Martin blew out a sigh, then pulled Joplin from behind the elevator shaft and onto the stairwell. “Let’s go!” he half-whispered.
Tabor walked through Reception and down the corridor to the bookkeeper’s space. One step inside the doorway, he stopped cold at the sight of a body on the floor, sprawled in a lake of blood. Niederhoffer? Tabor rushed forward. No, not Niederhoffer. Who in hell—
Tabor sprang back from the body, flattened against the wall. The office was stone-quiet. He charged out, through the Reception Room, into the hallway, and leaned over the rail to peer down the stairwell. Footsteps, but all the way down—he’d never catch them. Back he charged through Reception and into his office, yanked the window up, and leaned forward just in time to get a clear view of a red-headed white man hustling a colored man out of the building, onto the sidewalk, and then out of sight past the Strand marquee. “Christ,” Tabor muttered. “Niederhoffer—and that looks like Scott Joplin with him. God
damn
that crazy nigger.” He banged a fist on the wall, then hurried back to the receptionist’s desk and picked up the phone.
***
As Martin and Joplin shoved their way through the Broadway crowd toward the Fiftieth Street subway kiosk, a young man lowered himself into a dark-red plush armchair next to a
The bookkeeper tugged at the composer’s sleeve. “Come on, Mr. Joplin—the cops’ll be sure you or me or maybe even both of us did this. We’ve got to get out of here.”
Joplin pulled away. “I’ve got to see Mr. Berlin, that’s why I came here. He called me to come down to talk about my musical.”
Martin blinked. How much crazier was this going to get? “Mr. Berlin
called
you?”
“Yes. About
If
. I think he wants to publish it and put it on stage. I’ve got to find him.”
“But how would he know about it? We haven’t taken it down to him yet.”
Joplin turned away and started toward the door. Martin caught him with both arms, wrestled him against the wall. “Mr. Joplin, listen. Please. Mr. Berlin isn’t here.”
Joplin writhed and squirmed, but was no match for Martin’s strong, healthy arms. “He
called
me, Martin. Let me go now, hear? I’ve got to see him.”
“Damn it, Mr. Joplin, I told you, he is just…not…
here
. Please, Mr. Joplin, trust me. Right now, you and me have got to get someplace else, fast. Then, after we figure out what’s going on, we can go talk to Mr. Berlin.” Martin paused to catch his breath, glanced at the razor on the floor, beside Sid’s hand. He’d read in the papers, police could sometimes use fingerprints to catch killers, and even he could see Scott Joplin’s prints, clear as day, in the blood on that razor. Martin snatched it up, wiped it briskly on Sid’s shirt sleeve, then folded it and dropped it into his pocket. “Mr. Joplin, take off your shirt, put it on inside-out. That way, the blood won’t show so much. Your suit’s OK, it just looks like dark stains. Come on, now, hurry up.”
***
Bartlett Tabor walked slowly up Broadway. The clock on the big billboard atop the roof of the Strand Theatre Building read six twenty-five; to the right of the clock, thick red letters stated it was TIME TO LIGHT A CHESTERFIELD. Time to check out Niederhoffer, Tabor thought. He walked into the building and up to the elevator, but then remembered, the operator left at five-thirty. He muttered a curse, and started up the stairs.
A couple of stairs down from the third floor, Martin heard footsteps. He put a hand on Joplin’s arm, peered over the railing, saw Tabor, whispered a brief curse of his own, then put a finger to his lips and pulled the composer into the pass-through behind the elevator shaft. Carefully, he edged his head forward to watch the top of the stairwell. When he saw Tabor come up onto the landing, he ducked back to the far side of the space, pulling Joplin with him, then listened hard. Key in a lock…door opening…slamming shut. Martin blew out a sigh, then pulled Joplin from behind the elevator shaft and onto the stairwell. “Let’s go!” he half-whispered.
Tabor walked through Reception and down the corridor to the bookkeeper’s space. One step inside the doorway, he stopped cold at the sight of a body on the floor, sprawled in a lake of blood. Niederhoffer? Tabor rushed forward. No, not Niederhoffer. Who in hell—
Tabor sprang back from the body, flattened against the wall. The office was stone-quiet. He charged out, through the Reception Room, into the hallway, and leaned over the rail to peer down the stairwell. Footsteps, but all the way down—he’d never catch them. Back he charged through Reception and into his office, yanked the window up, and leaned forward just in time to get a clear view of a red-headed white man hustling a colored man out of the building, onto the sidewalk, and then out of sight past the Strand marquee. “Christ,” Tabor muttered. “Niederhoffer—and that looks like Scott Joplin with him. God
damn
that crazy nigger.” He banged a fist on the wall, then hurried back to the receptionist’s desk and picked up the phone.
***
As Martin and Joplin shoved their way through the Broadway crowd toward the Fiftieth Street subway kiosk, a young man lowered himself into a dark-red plush armchair next to a
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