The Talking Clock

Chapter Sixteen

Back in the city, Johnny discovered, as he walked from the Grand Central to the 45th Street Hotel, that his entire capital consisted of thirty-two cents. He wondered how much of the dollar he had given Sam the latter had spent for lunch. There ought to be enough left for a moderate dinner.

He entered the hotel and the bell captain advanced toward him. “Sam’s in the cocktail lounge, Mr. Fletcher.” He winked. “He’s picked himself up a pip.”

“Sam — a pip?” Johnny was startled. But not more so than a moment later when he entered the cocktail lounge and saw the blonde who sat across a table from Sam.

The bell captain had not overstated. The girl was a knockout. Blonde, with a figure. Her complexion was entirely due to excellent make-up, but it was a fine job.

Sam was positively drooling as he regarded his conquest. But when Johnny approached and Sam looked up, he flinched and turned a deep crimson.

“Johnny!”

“Hello, Sam,” Johnny said, coldly. “How’s everything?”

“Uh… uh, fine, Johnny. Uh, meet Miss Dalton.”

The girl turned mascaraed orbs upon Johnny. “And so you’re Johnny Fletcher! Sam’s been raving about you for two hours. Mmm… the name’s Vivian, to you.”

Johnny sat down on the cushioned bench beside Sam Cragg.

“Where’d you pick him up?” he asked Vivian, bluntly.

“Pick him up? Why… he insisted on buying a drink for me. But… are you his keeper?”

“Yes.” He poked his elbow in Sam’s ribs. “Since you’re buying drinks, how about ordering one for me?”

“Uh, sure,” grunted Sam. He signaled to the bartender. “What’ll you have, Johnny?”

“Since you’re drinking martinis, I’ll have one, too.”

“Sure, three martinis, bartender.” Out of the corner of his mouth, Sam whispered, “He’s a new man, here.”

Johnny winced. “So you’re learning, Sam… Well, what have you been doing all morning? Did you see Mort?”

“Oh, sure. He’s… coming to see us some time today.”

“What for?”

“You know what for.” Sam chuckled. “Like to see a new trick?”

“No.”

Sam picked up a package of cigarettes from the table, lit one and puffed on it. After a moment, he pulled out his handkerchief and flipped it out. “Watch now.”

He spread the handkerchief in his left hand, took the cigarette in his right and stuffed it into the handkerchief, about which he closed his fist.

“Isn’t he clever?” Vivian Dalton exclaimed.

Sam opened his hands, flipped the handkerchief and showed that the cigarette had disappeared — without burning the handkerchief.

“Not bad, huh, Johnny?”

“It’d be a better trick with a clean handkerchief.”

Sam grimaced. “The darn laundry. But look, here’s another trick.” He took a cigarette holder from his pocket, stuffed a cigarette into it and lit it. He puffed, “Watch now.”

There was a faint click and the cigarette disappeared from the holder.

“Gadgets,” grunted Johnny.

“I was over at Max Holden’s Magic Shop. There was a magician there. Look…” Sam took a brand-new pack of cards from his pocket, squared them and gripped the deck in his left hand. He let half of them fall back into his palm and attempted a one-hand cut. He only attempted it, for the cards spilled from his hand to the table.

Johnny chuckled and his annoyance at his friend disappeared.

Vivian Dalton sensed it and leaned across the table. “I just checked in here today. Glad there are some interesting people. I’m in the show at the Lucky Seven Club. Why don’t you and Sam run over tonight and see me do my stuff?”

“With a bottle of beer selling at seventy-five cents, Sam and I could buy about a thimbleful and I’m afraid they don’t sell beer in such small quantities.”

“Broke? Why, Sam told me you’re the best pitch-man in the country.”

“I am,” Johnny said, modestly. “But did Sam also tell you that he cut high card this morning for every dime we had?”

“What about you, matching for two hundred bucks?” Sam growled.

“We didn’t work for that money. Which reminds me I’ve got to do something about the financial situation. It’s nice meeting you, Miss Dalton, but—”

“Oh, I’ll see you around. I’ve got to run now anyway. Get my hair done for this evening…”

“It looks good enough now,” Sam said, loyally.

She smiled at Sam, but got up. Sam waved to the bartender. “Just charge this to Room 821.”

He tossed a quarter tip on the table.

Vivian Dalton went out of the cocktail lounge through the front door, to the street. Johnny turned toward the lobby door and gripped Sam’s arm savagely.

“All right, now, where’d you get the dough for this tip — and that magic stuff?”

Sam grinned. “I put the bite into Eddie Miller for a fiver.”

“The bell captain? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?…”

“Why should I be? The kid makes good dough here…”

“He does, eh? Well, just a minute…” Johnny left Sam near the desk and walked across the lobby to where Eddie Miller was presiding over the bell stand.

“Hi, Eddie,” he said, confidentially, to the bell captain. “How’s business?”

“Pretty good these days, with the fair. How’s things by you, Mr. Fletcher?”

“So-so. Just getting started on a big season. Look, Eddie, how much do they pay you here?”

“Fifteen bucks a month.”

“Fifteen bucks! Why!…”

“Oh,” grinned Eddie, “the salary’s just nominal. They got to pay something, by law. It’s the tips. I average ten bucks a day in normal times and now, with the fair, I been running close to twenty… And of course, all the hops kick in a buck per day.”

“Maybe I’m in the wrong racket,” Johnny said.

“Nah, I’ve heard plenty about you, from the boys. Why, they say you’ve made seventy-five G’s in a year, selling those books.”

“I did, one year. I lost it all in the stock market.”

“Easy come, easy go. That’s the way with me. Maybe you don’t think the nags take me for plenty.”

“Sam’s the horse player for us,” said Johnny. “Well, look, Eddie, I’m a little short today and I wondered if you could slip me, say, a twenty, until tomorrow?”

“Oh, sure, Mr. Fletcher. I don’t mind. I wouldn’t do it for regular guests, but you — I’ll bring the dough up to your room. I only got silver here and Peabody might breeze in while I’m counting it out…”

“Thanks, pal. I won’t forget it.”

Johnny went back to Sam and they rode up to the eighth floor in the elevator. As they went into their room, Sam complained, “You shouldn’t have bawled him out for lending me that five, Johnny…”

“I didn’t bawl him out. I’m borrowing twenty bucks from him. You piker!”

Eddie was already tapping on the door. He brought in a fistful of half dollars and quarters. “Here you are, Mr. Fletcher.”

“You’re a pal, Eddie. Someday I’m going over to my friend, who’s the manager of the Barbizon-Waldorf and put in a word—”

“Nix, you promised me that once before.”

“That’s right, I did. Come to think of it, you wouldn’t want to hop bells in a snotty joint like that, anyway.”

“’S all right, Mr. Fletcher. I like your style, see. You’re the slickest guest ever came to this hotel and I’m a smooth bird myself. I don’t use a blackjack, but there ain’t one guest a month gets by here without slipping me something, see?…”

“I see, Eddie. Someday you’ll be manager of this hotel.”

“Me, manager? Nothin’ doing. You know what they pay Peabody? Two fifty a month. And he don’t make any tips. I make twice as much as he does.”

Johnny shook his head sadly after Eddie Miller had gone. “There’s no justice in this world. Look at me, one of the smartest guys who ever slicked a slicker. I’m dead broke and I’ve got to borrow from a bellhop. And the bellhop makes more than the manager of the hotel.”

“There’s nobody can make more’n you, when you pay attention to business and quit fooling around with murder cases…”

Johnny frowned. “That reminds me, did you know that talking clock isn’t worth any seventy-five grand? I talked to a clock expert and he says ten thousand would be plenty for it.”

“Huh? Why, we heard the Greek offer seventy-five thousand.”

“And he’s no chump. This clock man knows Bos and says he drives a hard bargain. So what do you make of it?”

“I dunno,” said Sam. “I been thinking. What’s so wonderful about a talking clock? What the hell does it say?”

Johnny stared at his friend a moment. Then he inhaled softly: “Yes, what does it say?”

“We heard it in the pawnshop in Columbus. It didn’t say anything special. And that not too clear…

It said: ‘Five o’clock and the day is nearly done.’ But what does it say for the other hours? I wonder…”

“What?”

“Whether we have missed the whole point. Maybe it isn’t the clock at all that’s so important.”

“What else could it be?”

“It could be… the things the clock says… Look, Sam, when we were in the Quisenberry place yesterday and all the clocks went off, what happened?”

“Why, they made a racket that almost drove me nuts.”

“I know that. But what else? Just before they went off. Nick Bos had offered fifty thousand bucks. When the clocks went off, he stuck his head down next to the Talking Clock. Remember? He listened to what it said and when he straightened up, he raised the ante twenty-five G’s… Why?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t hear the clock say anything… Too much racket…”

“For me, too. But I’m wondering, now. This Bos guy is slick. And so’s Jim Partridge. For five or ten G’s, he wouldn’t be working so hard, but for seventy-five, or more— Say!…”

A strange look came over Johnny Fletcher’s face. Sam, watching, stirred uneasily. “What is it, Johnny?”

“That Dalton dame. Did she pick you up or did you pick her up?”

Sam scratched his head. “Why, I was showing Eddie a couple of tricks in the lobby and she was sitting there. She laughed and then, well, one thing led to another and—”

“Okay, I can guess the rest. So she picked you up. I thought so.”

“What’s wrong about a doll picking me up?” Sam scowled. “After all, I’m not a gorilla and she was a swell dish.”

“A swell decoy.”

“Decoy? What do you mean?”

“I mean, she deliberately struck up an acquaintance with us and then what’d she do — invited us to the Lucky Seven Club. You know what, I’ve a good notion to take her up on that invitation.”

“We can’t. Not with the way our clothes look. We can get some new shirts and things, but our suits aren’t so hot. Not for the Lucky Seven. If we had maybe a hundred bucks or so…”

“Clothes can be had without money. I’ve a good notion to try the bathroom-burglar gag on Peabody, the old skinflint.”

“You mean throw your old suit out of the window, then holler that someone came into the room while you were taking a bath and swiped your suit?”

Johnny chuckled. “I haven’t worked that one in five or six years. I’m afraid it wouldn’t work on Peabody. He’d claim one of us took the other’s clothes out and he’s just mean enough to let us walk through the lobby in our shorts and shirts. No, I’ve got to think of something else.”

Sam began muttering something about “Here we come, jail…” while Johnny sat down on the edge of the bed and copied Rodin’s “Thinker.”

After a moment he began to chuckle and Sam turned a frowning face upon him. “Why don’t we just go down to jail right now and save them the trouble of coming after us?”

Johnny picked up the telephone and said, “Bell captain, please.” Then, “Eddie Miller? This is Johnny Fletcher. Wonder if you can tell me something? Where does Mr. Peabody, the manager, buy his clothes?”

Eddie sniffed. “At Hagemann’s on Broadway, near 40th. I had to take one back there for alterations for him only last week. You wouldn’t want to buy there, though, Mr. Fletcher. It’s a cheap joint.”

“I know. I just wanted to settle an argument with Sam. I said Peabody must have bought his clothes at either Hagemann’s or McGaa’s. I was right.”

He hung up and turned to Sam. “Run down and buy an afternoon paper. Hurry up, we’re going to get some new suits.”

“I don’t like it,” Sam said, but went out.

When he returned with the newspaper, Johnny began paging through it. “Yep, here she is — a nice full-page ad. They’re featuring a blue suit with a white pin stripe at $19.85. Burlap, but better than what we’re wearing now. Have you noticed, Sam, that Mr. Peabody is just about my size?”

“But I couldn’t wear his clothes. I wear a 44 suit.”

“Forty-four, eh?”

Johnny picked up the telephone, while Sam ducked into the bathroom, in order not to hear. A minute later, a man’s voice in the store of Hagemann’s said, gruffly:

“Harley Hagemann talking.”

Johnny raised his voice two scales. “This is Mr. Peabody, manager of the 45th Street Hotel. You know that suit — bought at your store a week or so ago?”

“H’arya, Mr. Peabody. Yeah. I remember the suit. We made an alteration for you.”

“That’s right. Well, I had a very unfortunate experience with that suit. My uncle came to visit me here and sitting down on my desk, upset a big bottle of ink and ruined both our suits. I wonder if you could do me a personal favor, Mr. Hagemann…”

“Why, certainly, Mr. Peabody. You’d like a new suit, huh?”

“Precisely. You have my measurements there. I’ve been looking in today’s paper and I notice you’re featuring a very nice blue suit, with a white pin stripe, at $19.85…”

“And a steal at that price, Mr. Peabody. It’s positively worth $45.00, that suit. On Fift’ Avenue it’d cost you—”

“Yes, yes,” Johnny cut in, mimicking Peabody’s impatient tone. “I understand all that. But here’s the favor. I can’t leave the hotel now, and I must have a new suit for this evening. Can’t you — taking my measurements — rush a suit of that style and price right over here to the hotel?”

“We certainly could, Mr. Peabody. We got it in all sizes.”

“Splendid. At the same time, send over another suit, for my uncle — let’s see, Uncle, you say you wear size 44? That’s right, another suit of the same material, only size 44… And put them both on my bill. Yes?”

Johnny squinted as he waited for the answer to the last question. If Peabody didn’t have a charge account or Hagemann didn’t think him worthy of a little credit, the game was up.

But Hagemann made the correct answer. “Of course, Mr. Peabody. I’ll put it on your bill… How soon you want the suits?”

“Immediately. I may not be in the office when the boy brings them, but just leave them at the desk for me.”

Johnny hung up and called to Sam. “Quick Sam, run across the street to the haberdashers and buy us each a nice shirt… and on the way back, pick up a white carnation.”

“Why the carnation?”

“Peabody always wears one, doesn’t he? And so do most of the hotel clerks. It’s just like a badge… Hurry!…”

Johnny took a quick shower, while Sam got the shirts. When Sam returned, Johnny took the pins out of his shirt and put it on. The white carnation he carefully put into his breast pocket.

“Now,” he said to Sam, “Hagemann’s is on Broadway, near 40th. They’ll send the messenger here with the suits. It’s your job to get outside the hotel and take up a post about fifty feet up the street. When you see someone with two suit boxes, or a big box that might contain two suits, you take a quick gander and make sure the name Hagemann is on the box, then you run ahead into the hotel and give me the high sign. I need thirty seconds to get out the white carnation and set the stage. Understand?… You can’t miss up.”

“Oh, I’ll do it,” groaned Sam. “But there’s going to be hell to pay when Peabody gets his bill. He’ll suspect us, right off the bat…”

“No, he won’t. Because in a day or two, after I get forty bucks, I’m going to step down to Hagemann’s and pay them for our suits. Or I’ll send Eddie Miller down with the money. Peabody need never know that we used his credit…”

They went downstairs and Johnny seated himself in the lobby near the door. Sam went outside.

Peabody was nowhere in sight.

Eddie Miller strolled over. “The boss just stuck a French Key in a guy’s room on the fourth floor. The poor guy owed only three weeks’ rent.”

Johnny shuddered. “Thanks for telling me, Eddie. I don’t feel so bad now.”

Sam Cragg burst into the hotel, saw Johnny and headed for the elevator. Johnny got up quickly, took the carnation out of his pocket and put it into his lapel. Then he started toward the door.

When he was six feet from it, a pimply-faced youth of about nineteen, carrying two suit boxes, came in.

“Ah,” Johnny exclaimed. “Here you are — from Hagemann’s!”

“You Mr. Peabody?…” mumbled the youth.

“Of course! Tell Mr. Hagemann I appreciate the quick service. And here, my boy, is a half dollar for you.” Loftily he dropped the coin into the boy’s hand.

He turned away and just then one of the elevators opened and Mr. Peabody, white carnation and all, stepped out.

“Ha! Mr. Fletcher,” he said. “Been buying some clothes?… You must be prosperous. Mmm, Hagemann’s; a good store.”

“Only fair, Mr. Peabody, only fair. I just wanted a knock-about or two and my Park Avenue tailor…” He let the words trail off and stepped past Mr. Peabody into the elevator.

Upstairs, in Room 821, Sam Cragg was perspiring freely. “It worked!” he cried, in relief.

“Of course it worked. My stunts always work… well, almost always.” He chuckled. “I bumped into Peabody. You know, I’m tempted to let the suits go through on his bill…”

“No!” howled Sam. “The first of the month is only three days off.”

“Right you are, but all day I’ve heard the faint whisper of far-off money… and the sound is coming closer.”

“I hope so, Johnny, I hope so. Things been tough too long.”