The Talking Clock

Chapter Fifteen

When Johnny got to the Grand Central Terminal he discovered that the Hillcrest train had just left and that the next did not go for an hour and twenty minutes. Annoyed, he went to the battery of telephone booths and looked in the classified phone directory. After a moment, he nodded in satisfaction and left the station.

On Lexington Avenue he caught a north-bound bus and rode to 60th Street. He swung off there and walked back a little way to a shop that had a depressed window, completely filled with clocks. He stepped down the few stairs to the door of the shop and pushed it open.

The ticking of a hundred clocks hit his ears. An elderly man with a white goatee and a black skull cap greeted him from behind a long counter filled with clocks.

“Mr. McAdam?” Johnny said. “I’m from the Daily Blade. I’m doing a story on clocks and I’ve heard that you’re the foremost authority on them in New York. I thought perhaps you might give me a bit of information…”

“On clocks, sir? of course. I presume Quisenberry’s Talking Clock prompted this sudden clock interest, Mr. — ?”

“Fletcher. And you’re quite right, Mr. McAdam. My city editor suggested the clock story. He didn’t seem to believe that the Quisenberry clock was as valuable as the family claimed.”

McAdam shrugged. “A clock is worth whatever the seller can get. Just like a stamp or a rare coin. I’ve seen Quisenberry’s clock. It is undoubtedly an authentic example of early sixteenth century workmanship. According to the history of the clock, it was made in Seville for Queen Isabella…”

“Queen Isabella? Say, that’s interesting. The clock’s four hundred years old then?”

“A little more. It was supposed to have been made in 1506. The main part of the clock, of course.”

“It’s been rebuilt?”

McAdam smiled. “After all, Thomas Edison didn’t invent the talking machine until forty-some years ago.”

Johnny was chagrined. “I never thought of that. But I’ve seen the clock, Mr. Me—”

“When? It’s disappeared…”

“Yes of course. Uh… I saw the clock several months ago. I was sent out to interview Simon Quisenberry on some other matter. He had the clock set up in his room. It struck the hour and a door opened and the little man came out and said his piece.”

“The mannikin is from the original clock. That hasn’t been changed. Originally, chimes played ‘Ave Maria.’ I thought myself the clock should never have been changed, but Simon was always one to indulge a whim and he had the talking box put in in place of the chimes. Phonographs were still a novelty then and the clock always attracted a good deal of attention when he exhibited it.”

“I didn’t know he exhibited it.”

McAdam tugged gently at his goatee. “A collector who wouldn’t exhibit his collection? There’s no such animal, Mr. Fletcher.”

“I guess you’re right. Well, then, Mr. McAdam, you think the clock’s really worth a hundred thousand dollars?”

“A hundred thousand!… What are you talking about?”

“Why, I understand that Nicholas Bos has already offered the family seventy-five thousand for it and they’re holding out for a hundred…”

“That’s preposterous! Five thousand would be a good price for it. Surely no more than ten.”

“But I heard Bos — I mean, I got it on good authority that Bos actually made that offer for it.”

“A publicity offer, Mr. Fletcher. Don’t believe it. Sounds like Bos. He’s always been a four-flusher. He may pay a little more than a clock’s worth if he can get some free advertising out of it, but he certainly wouldn’t pay any such price as you mention. He drives a good bargain. I’ve sold him some pieces myself.”

“Well,” said Johnny. “That puts a new light on things. Now, tell me, Simon’s collection is pretty good, isn’t it? How much would you estimate it to be worth?”

“Why, if it includes the Empress Catherine’s famous egg clock, a half million would be cheap.”

“Wait a minute, now! What’s this Empress Catherine egg clock?”

“It’s a watch, really. It contains a ruby that’s worth a hundred thousand alone.”

“Ah,” said Johnny. “But the Talking Clock also contains jewels…”

“Some small carat stuff. If you remember your history, you know that Queen Isabella wasn’t wealthy. She had to pawn some of her jewels to pay for Columbus’ expedition. I still think ten thousand would be a good price for the Talking Clock. The Empress Catherine’s egg clock is something else. But its value lies in the ruby, not the clock.”

Johnny looked at one of the clocks behind McAdam. “Thanks a lot, Mr. McAdam. I’ve got to run now.”

“No hurry, Mr. Fletcher. I’m not busy and I’d like to give you some more data on clocks…”

“Sorry, but I’ve got to meet a deadline.”

“Oh, I see. Well, come around again. When will your article be in the paper? This afternoon?”

“Uh… no! This is a feature story for our Sunday supplement. Thanks a lot, Mr. McAdam.”

Johnny ran out of the store and fortunately caught a bus on the corner going back to the Grand Central. He made the Hillcrest train with two minutes to spare.

Walking through the business street of Hillcrest, on his way to the Rusk apartment, Johnny Fletcher spied Diana Rusk on the other side of the street. He crossed over to meet her.

“Morning, Miss Rusk. I was just on my way to see you.”

“Mr. Fletcher! I’ve been wondering how to get in touch with you. I suppose you’ve heard about — the clock?”

“That’s why I came out here. May I walk with you?”

“I’m on my way to Twelve O’Clock House.”

“Twelve O’Clock House? That’s the Quisenberry place? Swell, I’ll walk with you. I was going to go there later on… What do you think of this theft? The paper said the watchman—”

“Cornish would be insulted to hear you call him a watchman. He’s the estate manager. Yes, I heard his description of the — the marauders.”

“I was sleeping at the 45th Street Hotel at the time. I can prove it. But tell me about this Cornish fellow. How long has he worked on the estate?”

“Two or three years. He…” Diana made a wry face. “This sounds catty, but Bonita — I mean, Mrs. Quisenberry, is rather, shall we say, fond of Joe Cornish?”

“Oh… oh! I made a guess like that just yesterday. By the way, that was for Jim Partridge’s benefit.”

“Partridge! Is he here?”

“And how! He brought one of his gorillas to the hotel the first thing this morning. Sam slapped down the gorilla.”

“I don’t understand his interest in this. Unless Bonita…”

“He says no. And yesterday when I mentioned his name in front of Bonita she almost threw in the sponge. She seemed scared just at the mention of Partridge’s name.”

Diana’s smooth forehead creased. She shot a sidewise glance at Johnny, then looked straight ahead.

“Mr. Quisenberry came down to see us after you’d gone yesterday. He… he asked about my marriage to Tom.”

“Did you tell him?”

“I saw no reason to keep it a secret… now.”

“What’d he say?”

“Why… he was very nice about it. It… it wasn’t Mr. Quisenberry who objected…”

“Ah, the gentle Bonita. People might think she was getting along if a daughter-in-law suddenly showed up.”

“How old do you think Bonita is?”

Johnny pursed his lips. “Oh, about thirty. Well, maybe thirty-two or three.”

Diana sniffed scornfully. “That shows how much a man knows about a woman. Bonita’s type. She’s as old as my mother.”

“Huh? She — doesn’t look it.”

“She tries hard enough not to. I… I don’t like her. If it hadn’t been for her, Tom wouldn’t be—”

Johnny changed the subject quickly. “By the way, have you ever met this clock collector, Nicholas Bos?”

She flashed him a smile. “Once or twice. He came to see old Mr. Quisenberry now and then.”

They had climbed the steep hill to the gate of Twelve O’Clock House by this time and Johnny was caught again by the queer diagonal macadam paths leading away from the house.

“Say,” he exclaimed, “those paths are fixed up like the dial of a clock.”

“Of course,” said Diana. “That’s why the house is called Twelve O’Clock House. There are twelve such paths… the drive here is six o’clock, the walk to the right, five o’clock and so on— Shh!”

Joe Cornish came out of his cottage, a piece of adhesive tape stuck over his right cheekbone.

“Good morning, Joe,” said Diana. “I believe Mr. Quisenberry is expecting me.”

“ ’Morning, Miss Rusk.” Cornish opened the gate, but looked sullenly at Johnny Fletcher.

“Hi, Cornish,” Johnny said, flippantly. “Hear you had a little brush with burglars last night.”

Cornish’s mouth twisted. “Yeah… I almost got them, too. One of them looked like…” He shrugged.

Johnny winked and walked past the surly estate manager. As they climbed up the walk, Eric Quisenberry got up from a wicker chair on the veranda and came to meet them.

“Good morning, Diana.” He squinted at Johnny. “And Mr. Fletcher.”

“Did I get here too early?” Diana asked.

“No. Mr. Walsh is already here. He’s in the house with my — with Bonita. Uh, Mr. Fletcher, would you mind waiting out here a few minutes? It’s — Mr. Walsh was my father’s attorney and…”

“Of course. I’ll sit down right here.”

Eric Quisenberry took Diana Rusk into the house and Johnny seated himself in the wicker chair. From his position he could look down over the sloping lawns and drives to the Hillcrest road, running along the front of the property.

The macadam walks that divided the estate into pie-shaped wedges fascinated Johnny. Six o’clock was the drive leading up to the house. Johnny could also see the four, five and the seven and eight o’clock walks.

Johnny wondered if old Simon Quisenberry hadn’t been touched on the subject of clocks. He had put the Simple Simon clock into half the households of the United States and many foreign countries. Not content with that he had taken to collecting a half million dollars’ worth of antique clocks and finally carried the clock theme into his very dwelling place.

Well, he had died. But by his clocks he would be remembered.

After a while Johnny heard voices in the house and then footsteps. The Quisenberrys, Diana Rusk and a tall, gray-haired man came out.

Bonita Quisenberry ignored Johnny, but her husband introduced the gray-haired man. “Mr. Walsh, Mr. Fletcher… Well, good-bye, Mr. Walsh, thank you for your kindness.”

The Quisenberry lawyer went off down the drive. Johnny, watching, saw Bonita’s eyes smoldering as she regarded the retreating figure.

“Everything fine, Mr. Quisenberry?” Johnny said, casually.

Eric Quisenberry gave a start. “Fine? Uh, yes, yes. I mean, no. Father stated in the will that he’d made an outright gift of the clock to my son, Tom. Walsh construed that to mean that the clock belonged to Tom before Father died.”

“Which is just too bad,” Bonita said, nastily, “since the clock has been stolen.”

Diana Rusk’s chin came up proudly. “I wouldn’t have accepted it, anyway.”

“No? Well, I’m not accusing you, but you cultivate strange friends. Convicts—”

“Bonita!” Eric Quisenberry said, sharply.

“You!…” Bonita said witheringly to her husband, then turned and stormed into the house.

“I’m sorry,” Quisenberry apologized. “Bonita’s a bit upset.”

“ ’S all right. I was just going,” said Johnny. He stepped off the veranda, then hesitated. “I wonder if you’d mind telling me something, Mr. Quisenberry. You know I have an interest in the Talking Clock. Was the clock really in the safe last night?…”

“Of course. Since I knew its value, I wouldn’t have left it out.”

“That’s what I thought. But some of those other clocks are valuable too, and they’re not in the safe.”

Quisenberry frowned. “To tell you the truth, I haven’t been very interested in the other clocks. While Father was alive he practically lived in the room with the clocks and of course we have a watchman on the grounds, full time…”

“He wasn’t much good last night.”

“I know,” Quisenberry said, testily. “He hasn’t been much good for anything lately. As a matter of fact, I’m thinking of discharging him.”

Johnny nodded and was about to carry the conversation along, when Diana Rusk said, somewhat hastily, “I must be going home.”

Quisenberry was already going into the house, so Johnny shrugged and fell in beside Diana. As they walked down toward the gate, he said:

“I was going to ask him something else, but I guess he was too sore. Uh… it’s about a rumor I heard in town. Although I don’t suppose there’s anything to it.”

“You mean,” said Diana, “about Mr. Simon Quisenberry’s will?”

“Yes. The story is that he didn’t leave quite as much money as… well, as expected.”

“That’s true, Mr. Fletcher. I don’t suppose it’ll remain a secret very long. Actually, Mr. Simon left nothing at all.”

“Nothing? You mean, comparatively nothing?”

“No, I mean it literally. Mr. Simon had had business reverses and I understand that he mortgaged everything he owned. Even his clock collection…”

“The clock collection? Who’d loan money on that?”

“Why, that Greek sponge importer, Mr. Nicholas Bos.”

Johnny blinked. “You mean all those clocks go to him? I heard him say yesterday he’d come for the clocks, but I hadn’t dreamed he was referring to Simon’s entire collection. Why, it’s worth half million dollars, I understand.”

“That’s right, Mr. Quisenberry borrowed a half million dollars on it.”

Johnny whistled. “And Bos is willing to go another seventy-five thousand for the Talking Clock?”

“So I understand.”

Johnny shook his head. “Some people are screwy. Take yourself, why should you kick seventy-five thousand dollars in the face?”

“I think that should be obvious. When I married Tom I did so because… because I loved him. I didn’t marry him for his money, like…”

“Like Bonita married Tom’s father? Yeah, I think I begin to understand. Which reminds me, what becomes of Eric? The old man left him the business?…”

“What there is of it. Mother — I mean, I understand he’s getting only six months with it. If he is unable to pay back the million dollars the company owes the bank, they will take everything from him.”

“Oh… oh! Not so good. Tell me, this fellow who’s running the business now — Wilbur Tamarack — where does he come in?”

Her mouth seemed to tighten a little. “Why… why, I guess he may lose his position. You see… I might as well tell you. Eric never did much in the firm. Simon ran everything himself… with the help of Mr. Tamarack. He… he didn’t think Eric very capable and so…”

“I see. But now Eric’s in charge. For six months, at least. He may resent Tamarack’s former authority and kick him out.”

They were approaching the bridge which ran over the train tracks, beyond which was Hillcrest’s mainstreet.

“I get my train back to the city here,” Johnny said. “I’d like to ask you just one more question… What does your mother think of Eric Quisenberry?”

He looked at the girl’s widened eyes and said, quickly: “Never mind answering that.” She didn’t have to answer; her face told him.

He watched her walk up the street toward the Hillcrest Apartments, then finally turned to the railroad station.