The Talking Clock

Chapter Twelve

It was a formidable iron gate and Joe Cornish, when he came out of the gate house in response to Johnny Fletcher’s ring, looked even more formidable than the gate.

He examined Johnny and Sam and was apparently not impressed with what he saw, for he said, surlily:

“What do you want?”

“I want to see Mr. Eric Quisenberry, my good man,” Johnny replied loftily. “Will you be so good as to unlock this gate?”

“Quisenberry isn’t seeing people,” Cornish replied, curtly. “And I’m not your good man.”

“Ha! Well, trot into that hole of yours and telephone the house. Tell Mr. Quisenberry that a gentleman wants to see him… about Uncle Joe, in Columbus, Ohio.”

“Quisenberry hasn’t got any relatives in Ohio. What’re you trying to pull?”

Johnny gripped the iron bars of the gate and peered through. “Who are you — one of the poor relatives? If you aren’t, get on that telephone and be damned quick about it!”

“Before I climb over and knock your teeth down your throat,” Sam Cragg muttered.

Cornish regarded Johnny sullenly for a moment, then shrugged and went into his cottage. When he came out, he unbolted the gate.

“I’ll be waiting here when you come back,” he said, significantly.

“Swell,” retorted Sam.

As they started up the drive, Johnny exclaimed, “Look, the place is laid out like a clock; one walk for each hour. This Quisenberry guy certainly liked his clocks.”

“Where he’s gone now, he won’t need no clocks,” Sam retorted, philosophically. “And if this Eric Quisenberry guy is half as smart as I think he is, we won’t be needing any either — not for a good many years.”

“Always the pessimist, aren’t you, Sam? Shucks, Quisenberry ought to know by now that we didn’t kill his son.” He added under his breath, “I hope.”

Eric Quisenberry came out of the house as they approached the veranda. He was wearing rough tweeds and standing with his feet spread apart, said crisply:

“You’re the men from Columbus?”

“We’ve been there,” said Johnny. “Minnesota, too.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Eric Quisenberry. “Then you must be John Smith—”

“That’s right, and this is my friend, John Jones.”

Quisenberry grunted. “We’ll let the names slide for the moment. Do you claim to be the men who gave Miss Rusk a certain ticket?”

“A pawn ticket. For the Talking Clock. She redeemed it okay?”

Quisenberry relaxed “She gave it to me last night. She told me about you, too, but I’ll be frank with you. I don’t understand. If you’re… well, were you with my son, Tom, in that jail?”

Johnny nodded. “We spent one night there. But we didn’t kill him. That’s what I came here to tell you. There was another man in that jail. He was there, with Tom, for several hours before we were thrown in…”

“What’d he look like?”

Johnny shrugged. “He looked like the worst tramp you’d ever set eyes on. Yet — during the night, Tom crept to my bed and forced that pawn ticket into my hand. Apparently he was afraid of this fourth man. In the morning…” He paused and looked curiously at Eric Quisenberry.

Quisenberry nodded. “Go ahead. I want to get it all.”

“In the morning, Tom was dead. The constable came to wake us and this fourth man — the tramp — pulled a knife, slashed at the constable and darted out. We followed…”

“Why? If you were innocent?”

“We acted on impulse. Frankly, we were in that jail for vagrancy. We’d had a series of misfortunes and we were stony broke. With the tramp making a clean getaway, it struck me that we’d be the goats… accused of everything and little or no chance to disprove the charge.”

“I talked to that constable — Fitch, or whatever his name is. He seemed pretty certain you, or—” Quisenberry glanced at Sam — “your partner had committed… had killed Tim…”

Behind him, Bonita Quisenberry came to the door. “Excuse me, Eric,” she said. “Cornish just telephoned from the gate. He’s sending up the Greek.”

Bonita Quisenberry looked from Johnny to Sam, then came out to the veranda. Johnny heard an automobile coming up the drive, in second gear. He turned and watched the long coupe slide up in front of the veranda.

A tall, olive-skinned man of about forty climbed out. “Hallo, Mr. Quisenberry,” he said.

“Hello, Bos,” Quisenberry said, shortly. “What can I do for you?”

Nicholas Bos showed strong, white teeth. “I am sorry to be so impatient, but I am come… alas, I am come for the clock.”

“You didn’t waste any time, did you?” Bonita Quisenberry said, sharply.

Her husband frowned at her. “Father did tell us, my dear…” he murmured.

“Yes,” Bonita said, witheringly, “he told us about the Talking Clock, too. That isn’t included?”

“Begging pardon,” Nicholas Bos said, quickly. “You… have obtained the Talking Clock?”

“We have,” Mrs. Quisenberry said, “And I may as well tell you right now, that a certain clock collector in Toronto has made us a very nice offer on it…”

“No! You cannot sell. Simon want me having it…”

“If you’ll pay for it!”

A cloud passed across the olive-skinned man’s face. He bowed stiffly. “You will permitting examine clock?”

“I guess it’ll be all right,” said Eric Quisenberry, looking at his wife. She nodded.

Uninvited, Johnny moved toward the door. Quisenberry bumped against him and paused. “My dear,” he murmured to his wife, “I forgot to introduce Mr. Smith… and Mr. Jones. And Mr. Nicholas Bos, gentlemen.”

“Smith,” said Bonita Quisenberry, “and Jones. Not the—”

“Of the Smiths and Joneses,” Johnny said, grinning. “We’re the bright lads who retrieved the old Talking Clock. We didn’t get a good look at it before. D’you mind?”

Bonita Quisenberry looked coldly at Johnny. “What’s your angle? Diana seemed to be taken in by you, but as for me, I’m convinced—”

“Tut-tut,” said Johnny. “Would we be here, if we had?”

“I don’t know,” Bonita retorted bluntly. “There are a lot of things I don’t like about this business.”

“Why, that’s just what I was thinking… Shall we?” Johnny bowed toward the door.

Bonita went into the house. The others followed through a wide hall into a living room, then into a pine-paneled room, about twenty feet square. Stepping into the room, Johnny stopped. Behind him, Sam Cragg whistled.

There were more clocks in this room than in a clock store. And what clocks they were! Big clocks, little clocks and medium-sized clocks. There were clocks made of metal and wood, of stone and marble. Grandfather clocks and tiny table models. They were of all colors, shapes and designs. Gold and silver gleamed, brass and bronze shone.

And all the clocks were ticking. Pendulums swung, wheels whirred.

Eric Quisenberry went to a panel, pressed, and a wooden door swung open, revealing the black steel door of a wall safe. He manipulated the dial a moment then pulled open the door. He reached in and brought out the Talking Clock, setting it down on a table in the middle of the room.

Nicholas Bos said: “Ah!” His eyes were shining with avarice.

“It’s two minutes to three o’clock,” said Eric Quisenberry. “In two minutes it will talk.”

Nicholas Bos ran his hands lovingly over the clock. “Yes,” he murmured, “it is the Talking Clock I must have it.”

“How much?” demanded Bonita Quisenberry.

Nicholas Bos raised his eyes to Mrs. Quisenberry’s face. “Fifty t’ousand dollar, I will giving.”

“Come again!”

Nicholas Bos swallowed hard. “How much this Canada man say he pay?”

“More than fifty thousand,” retorted Bonita.

“Horace Potter don’t have more,” said Bos, bluntly. “I don’t believing.”

Bonita’s nostrils flared. “You’re calling me a liar?” she cried, shrilly.

Bos threw up his hands as if to ward her off. “No, no, Madame. I… is just business term. You trying get more money. I say no.”

Bonita turned to her husband. “You going to let him get away with that, Eric?”

Quisenberry cleared his throat. He was visibly embarrassed and Johnny guessed then who it was wore the pants in the Quisenberry family.

Quisenberry said, “Look here, Mr. Bos!…”

And then pandemonium took over in the clock room.

It was three o’clock and every blessed clock in the room, hundreds of them, sounded off. Cuckoos came out of their holes, and cuckooed. Bells rang, horns tooted, chimes chimed and clappers banged on gongs.

Startled almost out of his wits, Johnny tried to keep his eyes on the Talking Clock. He saw the little gold man come out, bow, but his words were drowned out by the hideous racket of the other clocks. Nicholas Bos, however, put his ear right down beside the little gold man who had come out of the Talking Clock. An expression of stupefaction came over his face.

It was only three o’clock, so the hundreds of clocks were soon finished with their tasks. Johnny wondered what the inhabitants of this house did at noon or midnight… They probably ducked for the cellar.

With the echoes of the racket dying out, Nicholas Bos straightened.

“All right,” he announced. “I will giving you seventy-five thousand dollars.”

“Now you’re beginning to talk our language,” Bonita Quisenberry exclaimed. “What do you say, Eric?…”

Eric Quisenberry coughed. “I think, Mr. Bos, you’ve made a deal. Yes sir, if you’re prepared to pay cash, I think we can arrange—”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Johnny Fletcher interposed softly. “According to what I read in the papers, this Talking Clock was bequeathed by Simon Quisenberry to his grandson Tom.”

“I know that,” Eric Quisenberry said, frowning. “But since I am his father, the clock naturally devolves—”

“Perhaps,” said Johnny. “And perhaps not.”

Bonita Quisenberry stepped quickly around Nicholas Bos and strode toward Johnny. “Say, just who are you to butt in here? If I remember right, you’re—”

“John Smith, who was a friend of Tom Quisenberry, your stepson—”

“Who murdered him!”

Johnny grinned crookedly. “No. Who was the last person to talk to Tom before he died. He told me some things, Mrs. Quisenberry. Why he ran away from his home.” He turned his back upon Bonita. “Mr. Quisenberry, you were Tom’s father, but just the same, before you sell the Talking Clock, I suggest you get a legal opinion. It might save you some trouble. You see, there might be other close relatives of your son, who would have a claim on the clock…”

Eric Quisenberry’s eyes widened. “What are you talking about, sir?”

“Why, Tom was away from home three months before he — died. He might… have gotten married somewhere.”

“Ridiculous!”

Johnny put his tongue in his cheek. Eric stared at him for a moment, then wheeled toward his wife. Bonita Quisenberry’s face had turned pale.

“Diana!… Do you suppose?…”

“I don’t know,” said Quisenberry hoarsely, “but even so…” He stared at Johnny Fletcher. “What do you know about this, sir? Speak!”

“Nothing, really. It just struck me as a possibility. After all, Tommy was practically driven from his home—”

“Driven!” Bonita Quisenberry spat, venomously. “How dare you make such a statement? Eric, order this man to leave the house.”

“I was just going,” Johnny said, nimbly. “I’d just like you to answer one question, Mr. Quisenberry. Did either you — or your father, Simon Quisenberry — employ a private detective named Jim Partridge?”

For a moment, Johnny thought Bonita Quisenberry would faint. She flinched as if he had struck her and her eyelids fluttered wildly.

Quisenberry, too, was affected. “Jim

Partridge! Did you say, Jim Partridge?”

“Why, yes, a private detective. I ran into him in Columbus. He was after… the Talking Clock.”

“It’s not true,” whispered Bonita Quisenberry. “I… I haven’t heard of him in years.”

Quisenberry stared at his wife, as a slow flush crept up into his face. “I think, Bonita,” he said, “we must have a talk about… this.”

“You didn’t employ Partridge, then?” Johnny asked.

Quisenberry shook his head. “My father may have…”

When Johnny and Sam were at the door, Quisenberry called to them:

“By the way, where could I get in touch with you?”

Johnny grinned. “I’ll get in touch with you. Goodbye, Mrs. Quisenberry.”

They went through the living room to the front door and let themselves out of the house. As they walked down the hillside, Johnny said to Sam, “There’s something mighty queer about this set-up…”

“Damn right there is… the whole bunch of them is screwy. And you know why? Because they have to listen to those clocks go off every hour!”

As they passed the cottage by the gate, Johnny looked through the open door and saw the truculent gatekeeper at a telephone. Sam loitered. “Maybe he still wants to make something.”

The gateman half turned from the telephone and scowled at them, but kept the receiver at his ear. Johnny and Sam went out through the gate.

In the road they looked down upon the suburban community of Hillcrest.

Sam said: “Well, do we go back to the city?”

“Yes… After a little while.”

“Ahrr! You’re not going to hang around here? That Quisenberry dame is poison. She’s just as apt to call the cops and have them grab us.”

“Uh-uh, little Bonita will behave. That Partridge name just about floored her. I wonder who this bird Partridge is. I’ve a good notion to—” he grinned at Sam — “find out.”

Sam groaned. “Where?”

Johnny nodded to the town of Hillcrest. “Didn’t the little Rusk girl tell us she lived down there?”

“She’s too young,” said Sam.

“Uh-uh. They’re marrying them as young as sixteen these days. Guys older than me. The Rusk kid is nineteen or twenty. Maybe she’s got a sister… or a girl friend. For you.”

Sam still scowled, but made no further protest. Walking down to the main street of the little community, Johnny went into a drugstore, leaving Sam outside. When he came out, he nodded up the street

“The Hillcrest Apartments. She lives with her mother.”

Ellen Rusk answered their ring at the door of the Rusk apartment. Alarm spread quickly across her face. “You’re the men who—”

“Who sold some books,” Johnny said, quickly. “But don’t worry about that. We’re also friends of your daughter’s… and Tom Quisenberry.”

“I don’t understand. Diana didn’t say anything…”

“Didn’t she tell you that two men helped her retrieve the Talking Clock in Columbus?”

“Why, yes, but you?…”

“Smith and Jones,” said Johnny. “Your daughter isn’t home?”

“I’m expecting her any minute. Why… Would you come in? I guess it’s all right.”

“Thank you.”

They entered the neatly furnished apartment. Mrs. Rusk led them to the living room and nodded to the sofa. She seated herself in an armchair.

“Mrs. Rusk,” Johnny began, bluntly, “did you ever hear of a man named Jim Partridge?”

Her sudden start told them that she had. But she waited a moment before replying. “Why, yes, the present Mrs. Quisenberry was formerly married to him.”

“Oh-oh!” said Johnny. “So that’s it. Did you ever meet Partridge yourself?”

“No.” Ellen Rusk smiled faintly. “I imagine Jim Partridge is the skeleton in Mrs. Quisenberry’s closet.”

“You and Mrs. Quisenberry are friends?”

Ellen Rusk colored. “I don’t see… just where do you come into all this, Mr. — ?”

“I’m Smith. He’s Jones. Why, I don’t really come into it at all. Except that certain misunderstandings have arisen and Sam — I mean Jones and myself — are in considerable danger. To put it bluntly, we’re fugitives from justice. Accused of…” He shrugged.

“Yes, I know. But… why do you come here, to question me?”

Johnny hesitated. “Your daughter was engaged to Tom Quisenberry. Although he had been gone from home for some months, your daughter, nevertheless, dashed out to Minnesota immediately upon learning that he was in trouble. She drove day and night…”

He stopped and looked sharply at Mrs. Rusk. “Were Tom Quisenberry and your daughter more than engaged?”

She stiffened and he saw her hands grip the arms of the chair until her knuckles were white.

“I mean,” he said, softly, “had they been married… secretly?”

“What makes you think that?” Ellen Rusk asked in a firm, although low tone.

“Why, I made such a suggestion a little while ago to Eric Quisenberry. He was considerably wrought up about it and it struck me that he was more than ready to believe it.”

“No,” said Ellen Rusk. “My daughter was not married to Tom Quisenberry. She had, in fact—”

The door buzzer whirred and she rose quickly to her feet. “Excuse me a moment…”

She stopped. Diana Rusk came into the room. Her eyes widened when she saw Johnny and Sam. “You!…”

“Hello, Miss Rusk,” Johnny said, grinning.

Ellen Rusk was making signals to her daughter, but the latter ignored them and coming forward, extended her hand to Johnny. “I got Tom’s clock,” she said. “And I’m glad you came here. It gives me an opportunity to thank you.”

Johnny grimaced. “Why did you give the clock to Mr. Quisenberry? He came darn near selling it this afternoon.”

“Why, I imagine it’s his to sell now, isn’t it?”

“That depends, Miss Rusk. You see, Tom’s grandfather left that particular clock to Tom and—”

“Diana!” said Ellen Rusk sharply. “Please come into the bedroom with me a moment.”

Johnny sighed. “A man named Bos offered seventy-five thousand dollars for the clock.”

“Seventy-five thousand!…” gasped Diana Rusk and then her mother caught her arm and propelled her out of the room.

Johnny sat down again on the sofa. Sam said, sourly, to him: “I think we ought to get out of here, Johnny. This Mrs. Rusk is pretty upset. You’ve been too rough.”

“I know. But it’s all right. There won’t be any more. I think the girl’s entitled to whatever’s coming to her. That Quisenberry dame would grab anything…”

Ellen and Diana Rusk came out of the bedroom. The girl’s face was pale, her mother’s determined. Johnny nudged Sam and got up.

“Thank you, Mrs. Rusk,” he said, “but I think we must be going now. Sorry to have troubled you…”

“Don’t you want the answer — to that question?”

Johnny shook his head. “No. It won’t be necessary…”

“Why not? You were so insistent before.”

“Sorry. I’d just come from a bout with Bon — Mrs. Quisenberry. She was pretty eager to sell the clock.”

“Ah? And you think the clock should go to Diana?”

Johnny spread out his hands and looked at them. Diana Rusk said, bravely, “I was married to Tom. Before he went away. But… I don’t want the clock.”

Johnny nodded. “That’s up to you.”

“Thank you for your interest, Mr. — ” Ellen Rusk looked questioningly at Johnny.

He inhaled. “John Fletcher. And this is Sam Cragg. And now, we must be going.”

Out on the street, Sam Cragg said: “Now, what’d all this get you?”

“Oh,” said Johnny, “information.”

Sam scowled. “Look, Johnny, there’s no chance to play detective around here. I know you want to. But there just ain’t anything. The Kid was killed in Minnesota, fifteen hundred miles from here. That’s done and there’s nothing we can do about it. Why don’t we just mind our own business, huh? We’ve got some dough and we can make some more.”

“Right you are, Sam. We’ll just forget the whole thing and look after ourselves.

The first thing to do is to get located. So, let’s hop the old train back to the city.”