The Talking Clock

Chapter Eleven

As they left the restaurant Mort Murray shook hands with both Sam and Johnny. “Look, fellas, I ain’t worried about Carmella at all. Only…”

“Sure, Mort,” said Johnny, soothingly. “You can count on me. I’m going right out with these books now. Tomorrow morning when you come down to your office at nine o’clock we’ll be waiting for you. With some dough.”

“I’ll bet,” said Sam, sotto voce. He picked up a carton in each hand, carrying them as if they weighed four or five pounds instead of forty.

Mort shook hands all around again and trotted back to his office. Johnny and Sam headed for Fourteenth Street.

Johnny looked down Fourteenth Street. “There’s a cop up the street. Besides, I worked here once before. Let’s see, where else can I get a crowd without the damn cops breaking it up before they reach for the folding money?”

“How about the World’s Fair?”

Johnny scowled. “No pitchmen, even if we could afford the tax… Jeez, did you ever see so many cops in New York? Must be the fair. I’ll tell you what, we’ve got a couple of bucks, why not run out to one of the better suburbs?”

“Where?” Sam howled.

Johnny screwed up his face. “Oh, maybe White Plains or Scarsdale. Or perhaps…”

“Don’t tell me! Hillcrest!”

“Why, yes, that’s a nice town…”

“I knew it! You’ve had this in mind all the time. The clock girl lives in Hillcrest. You want to stick your nose into that business. Well, I don’t. I’m perfectly satisfied to be out of it and I’m going to stay out of it. You wouldn’t get me out to Hillcrest if you put me in a straitjacket…”

So they went to the Grand Central and rode out to Hillcrest. Arriving there, Johnny went into a store to ask directions. He came out after a moment, a strange look on his face.

He said to Sam: “Let’s jump into that cab there. It’s a kind of long walk…”

“To where?”

“You’ll see… Taxi!”

He let Sam pile into the taxicab with the cartons containing their supplies, then before climbing in himself leaned over into the driver’s compartment and gave him a direction.

The taxi made a U turn, cut across traffic and zoomed up a winding street. Houses and trees rushed by and after a few minutes the driver slammed on the brake of the taxi and said, “Fifty cents, gents!”

“A cemetery!” Sam howled. “What the?…”

“They’re burying Simon Quisenberry,” Johnny said, defensively. “He was the Mr. Big of Hillcrest and the whole town’s turned out, including the folks we want to see.”

“I don’t like cemeteries,” Sam protested. “If I never see one that’s soon enough for me. Let’s get out of here. You’re not going to get me into anything, Johnny. I won’t stand for it.”

“Shut up, Sam!” Johnny paid the taxi driver and headed up the graveled drive into the cemetery. Ahead was a vast throng of people. That the entire town of Hillcrest had turned out was an exaggeration, but not too much so. There were fully five hundred people in the cemetery.

Johnny left Sam behind and began skirting the edge of the throng. In the center the proceedings were going on and he was vaguely aware of a voice droning through the burial ritual. Johnny, however, was not interested in Simon Quisenberry. He was dead and was of no further consequence. Some day Johnny would die and he would cease to be of importance to anyone.

He sought a living face, a girl’s. But, although he circled the entire crowd once and peered at every young woman’s face, he saw none that he could recognize. Sam, meanwhile, had set his heavy cartons on the ground and seated himself on one of them.

Through a break, Johnny saw the figure of the portly mortician, in swallow tail and striped trousers, who seemed to be presiding over the ceremony. His voice came, sonorously:

“Is there anyone here who would like to say a few words before we consign the mortal remains of the deceased to the earth from which he sprung?”

There was no response. No sound of weeping. Johnny was suddenly struck by that. He had seen no tear-stained or grief-stricken faces in his circuit of the crowd. Many had come to see Simon Quisenberry lowered into his grave, but none had come to mourn.

Johnny wheeled and hurried over to Sam. “Pick up the boxes and hurry down to the gate, Sam.”

“What?” gasped Sam. “You aren’t thinking?—”

“I am,” Johnny said, tersely. “None of these people are mourning. Maybe they’re thinking of the Great Beyond, but that’s fine. They’re in a soft mood — for us. Come on…”

Already people were moving away, going to the limousines and other cars, or walking toward the gate below. Before one of them passed through the gate, however, Johnny was standing on one of the cartons and Sam was on the other, peeling off his coat.

He was stripping down his shirt when the vanguard arrived, blinking and murmuring at the strange sight.

Johnny threw up his hands in oratorical manner and his voice boomed out. “Ladies and gentlemen, give me your attention a moment. You have just come from burying our beloved fellow citizen, Simon Quisenberry. You have paid your last respects to the dead and now you return… to the living. But before you go, I have a message for you. All you who are alive and well today.

“One day, you too will be carried through this gate. Let us hope, however, that will not be for many years. And it need not be, ladies and gentlemen. It need not be for many, many years. It will not be — if you live moderate, temperate lives… and watch your health.

“Your health, ladies and gentlemen. Which is the same as saying your life. I want you to take a look at my friend here…” He reached out and slapped Sam Cragg’s chest with his palm. “Look at him. Isn’t he the most marvelous physical specimen you ever saw? Look at his rippling muscles, his tremendous chest. Wonderful, isn’t it? Yet…”

Johnny’s voice fell to a hush, which nevertheless carried a hundred feet. “Yet… one day, not so many years ago, this wonderful body was a mere shell. It was wracked with disease. This man here before you, weighing 220 pounds of muscle and bone and wonderful health, was a mere shadow. He weighed 96 pounds and the finest doctors in the country gave him but six months to live…”

The exodus from the cemetery had halted. The pedestrians had blocked the exit and the drivers of the automobiles hesitated about blowing their horns. You didn’t blow a horn in a cemetery. So they stood in the graveled drive, a line of cars, surrounded by hundreds of people. By the gate, Johnny Fletcher went on with his spiel. As he talked, he took a strong web belt that Sam handed to him and buckled it tightly about Sam’s chest.

His voice rang out: “He came to me, puny, dying on his feet. He said, ‘The docs have given me up. I’ve heard about your secret body-building methods. I’ve got nothing to lose. Try them on me. I don’t think they’ll work, but if they do…’ He left it up to me. He would not blame me if I failed. But did I fail?… Look at him, now! Ladies and gentlemen, look at Young Samson, the strongest man in the world. Look at his powerful body, his glowing face, his wonderful health… Look at him!…” His voice rose to a screaming pitch, as Sam, drawing a deep breath, expanded his chest.

There was a sudden hush and in the midst of it, a loud pop. The web belt about Sam’s chest snapped and flew away from his body.

“Did you see that?” Johnny Fletcher thundered. “Did you see him break that strong web belt with a mere expansion of his chest? Is there any man in this crowd strong enough to do such a thing? No! Of course not. Because none of you have had access to my secrets of body building. But wait… in just a moment…”

Johnny leaped down from his box, tore it open and brought out a six-foot length of heavy iron chain. He held it aloft. “Do you see this chain, ladies and gentlemen? It is made of strong iron links, forged by a master smith. It is known as a logging chain, used by lumberjacks to haul heavy timbers. Sometimes it is used in a block and tackle to raise and lower iron safes or building stones. Watch me closely, now, ladies and gentlemen. Watch me…”

He stepped up on his box again and began putting the chain around Sam’s body. He brought the ends together in front of Sam, pulled them taut and twisted them together…

As he worked, a voice in the front of the crowd said audibly: “What’s the man going to do? Who is he, anyway?…”

“Here in the cemetery…” said another voice.

A woman’s voice rose shrilly: “This is sacrilege!”

People began milling, forging through the gates. Johnny saw the crowd become restless and threw up his hands again: “Wait just one moment more, folks. Watch Young Samson, the strongest man in all the world, break that chain that is twisted about his body. Watch him perform a feat of strength that none of you have ever seen before or will ever see again. Watch this living miracle, who was once a puny weakling…”

A perspiring village policeman, urged forward by a woman, broke through the front rank of the crowd and advanced upon Johnny. “Here you, what are you trying to do? Who are you, anyway?…”

“A public benefactor!” howled Johnny. “That’s who I am. Years ago I discovered certain secret principles of life, health. I’ve devoted my time ever since to making these secrets accessible to all… so that humanity may benefit by them. Yes, even you, Officer, can benefit. You’re a well-built man, strong, and you look healthy. But can you perform the feat of strength my friend has just exhibited? Can you? Yes, you can… How? Why, merely by reading a book I’m going to make available to you in a moment. A book called Every Man a Samson, which contains all of the secrets, exercises and formulas that Young Samson had to study to become what he is…”

“A book salesman!” the policeman exclaimed, hoarsely. “Why, you!”

“Watch!” Johnny roared. “Watch Young Samson break this chain. Watch him!…”

Sam lowered himself several inches, spread his feet apart and drew a deep breath. He let it out slowly, rising at the same time. His muscles became cords, his face reddened from tremendous exertion and perspiration streamed down his face.

The iron links of the chain cut into his flesh… and every person within sight watched…

Up… up… The veins stood out on Sam’s throat like ropes, his face turned almost black…

And then the chain snapped!

A link broke and the chain flew away from Sam and missed the policeman by less than three inches. It landed on the ground, plain for all in front to see the link, pulled out of shape, broken!…

And now Johnny was down from the carton, tearing it open and piling books into his arms.

“Here it is, ladies and gentlemen! Every Man a Samson, the book that tells you how to become as strong and healthy as Young Samson, whom you have just observed. The secrets of life, vitality… health… Just $2.95!…”

He attacked the crowd with a vigor that was in keeping with the amazing things that had happened during the last few minutes. Behind him came Sam, still perspiring, still red in the face, but books piled up in his muscular arms. He was passing them out right and left, taking money in his powerful hands, rippling the muscles in his arms and shoulders for all to see at close range.

People milled about, murmured, chattered… and above it all thundered Johnny Fletcher’s voice, exhorting, pleading, urging… “Two dollars and ninety-five cents! A paltry two dollars and ninety-five cents for added years of life. You can save the amount in pills and medicines, doctor’s bills, over and over. Two dollars and…”

The crowd dispersed, automobiles were able to roll through the gates and go down into Hillcrest. People followed. Inside of ten minutes, there was only a sprinkling of them left.

Johnny Fletcher kicked one of the cartons, discovered that it was empty and tossed a couple of books into the second carton.

“Not bad, Sam, not bad at all…”

Sam said, out of the side of his mouth, “That man is still here.” He stooped and scooped up his shirt and coat.

“Look here, you two,” the village policeman said, in a bewildered, yet determined voice. “You can’t do a thing like that. Why, you’re nothing but book salesmen and coming here to a cemetery like this…”

Johnny clapped hands together. “Did I miss you? Of course! Well, Officer, here it is. One copy of Every Man a Samson. And… no, no! I refuse to take any money from you… It’s yours, sir, absolutely free. Without charge of any kind. With the compliments of myself and Young Samson…”

The policeman took the book, flushed and frowned. He ended by throwing up his hands, “Aw, hell!”

Johnny chuckled. “Ain’t it?”

The policeman fingered the copy of Every Man a Samson. “But don’t do it again, Mister. Not in Hillcrest. We got a local ordinance about street peddlers and the merchants and Chamber of Commerce raise hell. They say it takes money out of Hillcrest…”

“Sure, Officer. Now, I wonder if you could direct us to the estate of the late Simon Quisenberry?”