The Talking Clock

Chapter Seventeen

And so that evening, nicely shaved, shoes shined, their hair trimmed and wearing the new clothes, Johnny Fletcher and Sam Cragg entered the Lucky Seven Club.

The headwaiter showed them to a table, not too far from the handkerchief-sized dance floor, and when the waiter came, Johnny ordered. “Two bottles of beer… and a bowl of pretzels!”

“Beg pardon, sir,” said the waiter, “you know there’s a $3.00 minimum?”

“Ha? And how much is a bottle of beer?”

“One dollar, sir!”

“All right, we’ll have a couple of bottles later to make up the minimum.”

“Don’t look now, Johnny,” whispered Sam “but isn’t that the clock fella over there by the wall?…”

Johnny twisted his head. He smiled and nodded to Wilbur Tamarack. The latter looked puzzled for a moment, then his face broke in recognition.

“Sit here and watch our beers, Sam.”

Johnny got up and worked his way to the table, where Tamarack was seated with a girl wearing a white fox evening cape. The girl’s back had been toward Johnny, but when he came up he was astonished to see that it was Diana Rusk. Somehow, he hadn’t expected her to go to a night club so soon after her husband’s death.

“Well, well!” he exclaimed.

“Hello, Fletcher,” Tamarack said shortly.

Diana Rusk was more cordial. “Mr. Fletcher. Won’t you… join us?”

“Sam is holding down a table for us. Later, perhaps you might dance?”

A slight frown creased her forehead. “Perhaps…”

Johnny nodded. “How’s the clock business, Mr. Tamarack?”

“Fine. And your… business?”

“Ticking… See you later.”

Johnny returned to his table to find that Sam had already guzzled most of one bottle of beer. “After this afternoon, this is a let down,” Sam complained.

“Maybe your girl friend will pick you up? Where is she?”

“I asked the waiter. She goes on in a minute.”

The drummer in the orchestra rolled his drum and the master of ceremonies was focused into a spotlight.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “I give you that popular song stylist, Miss… Vivian Dalton!”

Vivian Dalton, wearing a white evening gown that revealed plenty, walked into the spotlight. She had an excellent voice, low and throaty, with a catch to it now and then that caused a little ripple to race up and down Johnny’s spine.

“Say, ain’t she swell?” Sam Cragg whispered across the table.

Johnny nodded. “Shut up, I want to hear her.”

She had caught his eyes now and gave him a half sad smile. His pulse began to throb slowly and for the moment he forgot that he had suspected Vivian Dalton of being a decoy.

She finished the song, amid tremendous applause, then sang “The Gaucho Serenade” for an encore. When she left the floor, a trio of tap dancers came on.

Johnny relaxed. “Not bad. A girl like that could cut your throat and you wouldn’t even mind it.”

“I think you’re wrong about her, Johnny,” said Sam. “For my money she’s okay.”

“What money?”

“Shh! Here she comes.”

Johnny pushed back his chair quickly. Vivian Dalton came slowly toward them, smiling tantalizingly. “Hi, boys,” she greeted them. “I see you came anyway.”

“How, you’ll never know.” Johnny grinned. “You’re pretty good, you know.”

“You haven’t seen any Hollywood talent scouts knocking me over, have you?”

Johnny pulled up a vacant chair from an adjoining table. “Sit down a while, won’t you?”

“For a minute.”

“And how about a bottle of beer?”

“Beer?”

“We’re on a budget. Besides beer is healthy. With a voice like yours, you’ve got to—” He stopped for Vivian Dalton was staring past him.

He turned, just as Sam Cragg exclaimed: “Jeez, Partridge and— Look!…”

It was Jim Partridge. Jim Partridge in evening clothes and with — Bonita Quisenberry.

“Oh-oh!” Johnny breathed. Then he looked up quickly at Vivian Dalton. “Ah, so he’s the one.”

She shook her head as if to clear it of a haze. “What?”

“You know Jim Partridge.”

“Yes, I know him. I also know…” She laughed, shortly. “Dalton is my stage name. It used to be… Partridge.”

Johnny almost knocked over his glass of beer. Sam Cragg whistled in astonishment. “Your husband!”

“Husband? How old do you think I am? He’s… my father!”

“And Bonita?” gasped Johnny.

She nodded. “I haven’t seen her since the divorce, seven years ago, when I was thirteen. I didn’t know…”

“That they’d made up? Neither did I.”

Vivian got up suddenly. “I must change for my next number. Excuse me…”

When she had gone, Johnny pushed back his own chair. “Hold the fort, Sam. I want a word with Partridge.”

“Holler if he gets rough.”

Partridge had already seen Johnny. He said something to Bonita as Johnny approached and she turned and watched him with an expression of distaste on her sulky face.

“Hello, pal,” Johnny said, easily, as he stopped beside Partridge’s table.

“You’ve got your neck washed,” Partridge said, sarcastically.

“I washed it for you. It’s sticking out.”

“Must you talk to this man, Jim?” Bonita asked sharply. “You said you would leave your work at the office.”

“Did I say that?” Partridge asked, coolly. “I don’t remember. That’s why I’ve been trying to get a stake.”

“Well, you’ve got it now.” Johnny looked at Bonita.

Partridge shook his head, slowly. “You’re slipping, fella. The game’s one move farther ahead. Buy a paper when you leave.”

“Something bust?”

“So long, Fletcher,” Partridge said, pointedly. “I’m dealing you out.”

Johnny retreated to his table, his face screwed up in thought. That Bonita had thrown in with Partridge was a significant development, but Partridge was referring to something else… something that he expected to be printed in the papers. But he wasn’t telling. He had arranged for Johnny to be here at the Lucky Seven this evening, but in the interim something had happened and he no longer needed Johnny.

Why had he needed him in the first place?

“What’s up, Johnny?” asked Sam.

“Something. I don’t know what.”

“The Rusk kid’s been looking over here. I think she wants to talk to you.”

“They all do,” Johnny said, unhappily. “They want to scratch dirt over me. I’ve been sleeping and they’re burying me. Well…”

The tap dancers had finished and the orchestra was playing a dance number. Couples were moving onto the tiny dance floor. Johnny went over to the Rusk-Tamarack table. “Are you ready to try that dance, Miss Rusk?” he asked, stiffly.

She got up and he led her to the floor. Johnny hadn’t danced in almost three years, but it made no difference. No one else was dancing. They couldn’t, on that crowded little floor. They merely shuffled and swayed.

“I saw you talking to Bonita,” Diana Rusk said into Johnny’s ear as they began to shuffle. “Did you know that she left Twelve O’Clock House this afternoon?”

“Ah! Tit for tat. Did you know that the man with her is Jim Partridge, her ex-husband?”

He felt shock ripple through her body. “I don’t understand. I thought she and… Cornish… Eric discharged Cornish this morning and when she left later…”

“I’ll tell you something else,” said Johnny, deliberately. “The girl who sang a while ago — Vivian Dalton — she’s the daughter of Jim and Bonita Partridge.”

“Why, I didn’t know she had a daughter! Eric never told Mo—”

“Your mother? Maybe Bonita forgot to tell Eric. It seems Jim raised her, after the divorce. Or she raised Jim. It’s a question. Imagine a cheap, second-rate private detective having a daughter like that.”

She was silent a moment, then said, “I suppose you wondered why I came to a place like this, after…”

“No,” he said, “I wasn’t wondering. You hadn’t seen the Kid in months…”

“Oh, it’s not that. I… you’ve caught me a couple of times today. You know about Mother and Eric. Well, during the quarrel between Eric and Bonita there was a telephone call for her and he overheard her agree to meet someone at this place.”

Johnny screwed up his face. “He asked you to come here and find out who she was meeting?”

“Oh, no! Eric wouldn’t do a thing like that. He just happened to let it drop talking to Mother. Coming was my own idea. You see… I decided I wanted that clock, after all.”

“Ah! You figure if anyone stole it, it was Bonita?”

“Why not? That’s all she was waiting around for… money! I didn’t particularly want the clock myself, but I most certainly didn’t want Bonita to have it. You probably know that I don’t care much for her. I blame her for… for Tommy’s running off.”

“She made it warm for him at home?”

“Warm is a mild word. She knew that Tommy was his grandfather’s favorite and she tried her best to estrange them. Then after Tommy left, she started in on Eric. And… and all the while she was carrying on with that estate manager, Cornish.”

“Cornish seems to have lost out,” Johnny remarked. “Either that or Jim Partridge has smelled out some money somewhere and she wants to get in on it. Partridge is a very capable customer. I’m waiting for him to pull a rabbit out of the hat right now. Sam and I are here tonight because of him. At least, I think so…”

At that moment the music stopped. Johnny took Diana’s arm and led her back to where Tamarack was sitting at their table. The sales manager of the Quisenberry Clock Company had his elbows propped up on the table and his chin in his cupped hands.

He did not get up. “Sit down a minute, Fletcher,” he invited, sullenly. “I’d like to have you tell me about your game.”

“Game, Mr. Tamarack?” Johnny asked, mockingly. “I’m not playing any games.”

“Then what are you doing? Wasn’t that a game, coming down to the office, pretending to be a big clock buyer from out west? You’re not a detective, so why should you be interested in all this?”

Johnny pulled up a chair from an adjoining table and seated himself.

“Look, Tamarack,” he said, seriously, “I met Tom Quisenberry up in Minnesota. I got to like him and he trusted me. He’d had some tough breaks, but he got a worse one — he lost his life. I’m playing this game, as you call it, because I think I can bring to justice the person who killed Tom Quisenberry…”

“But you and your friend claimed that a tramp had killed Tom. That Minnesota tramp would hardly be here in New York, would he?”

“Why not? The Talking Clock’s here. That man who was disguised as a tramp—”

“Whoa!” exclaimed Tamarack. “You’re not going to say that the tramp wasn’t a tramp at all, but someone close to the Quisenberry family, disguised as a tramp?…”

“I was going to say exactly that. What’s wrong with it?”

Wilbur Tamarack cocked his head to one side and looked derisively at Johnny. Then he turned to Diana Rusk, who was staring at Johnny, her lips pressed into a thin, straight line.

“What do you think, Diana?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know what to think. But I do know that I met Mr. Fletcher in Minnesota and I’ve a pretty fair idea of what he went through to get from there to here, just to… just to give me something that he thought belonged to me.”

“Thanks,” said Johnny. He got up.

Wilbur Tamarack’s face reddened down to the line of his collar. “I didn’t know you felt like that about it, Diana.”

“I do. Now you know.”

Johnny smiled at her and turned away. Then he wheeled back. “That heavy-set fellow just coming; that’s Lieutenant Madigan of the Homicide Squad. I’m afraid he’s here on business… If I were you, I’d clear out!”

He smiled and walked briskly back to his own table.

“Get under the table, Sam! An old friend’s just come in.”

Sam ducked low and almost did get down under the table. “’S too late,” Johnny muttered.

He pretended to see the detective for the first time. “The house is pinched! It’s Lieutenant Madigan…”

“Fletcher! And Cragg! I thought you birds had gone out into the Bible belt to scalp the natives.”

Johnny shook hands with the detective. “They scalped us, pal.”

“You don’t look it. You must be holding heavy, hanging around night clubs.”

Johnny winked. “If you only knew…”

“Don’t tell me. I’ve got enough troubles now. Mmm, there’s my customer.”

“You mean Jim Partridge?”

Lieutenant Madigan, turning away, whirled back on Johnny. “You know Partridge?”

“Uh-huh. His wife, too. I mean ex-wife. That’s her with him.”

A look of consternation spread across the detective’s face. “Don’t tell me,” he whispered. “Don’t tell me that you’re mixed in the Quisenberry case?”

Johnny looked down at his hands. “I was figuring on solving the case… for you.”

Lieutenant Madigan blinked as if an invisible fist had struck him in the face. “I don’t know why these things happen to me. I only got in this by accident, because the chief of police of Hillcrest happens to be an old buddy and he called me up and asked me as a personal favor to look into some things here in the city. And now I find that you’re in it, knee deep… All right, what do you know? Partridge will hold a minute.”

He sat down heavily in the chair that had been used recently by Vivian Dalton.

“Why,” said Johnny. “I could tell a better story if you would tell me what’s happened this evening.”

“What makes you think anything’s happened?”

“Because Partridge told me so less than ten minutes ago. Said I’d be reading it in the papers.”

“Well, it’s out already, so I’ll tell you. The Quisenberry estate manager, a fella named Cornish, has been knocked off.”

Johnny inhaled. “Where?”

“On the place.”

“How long ago? That’s important, Madigan.”

“His body was found early in the evening, in his cottage, but he’d apparently been shot sometime during the afternoon. Early afternoon.”

Johnny frowned. “Then the alibis are no good.”

“Partridge’s? Not if you mean his being here this evening. Nor his wife’s. Merryman — that’s my buddy in Hillcrest — says he’s questioned Eric Quisenberry. Quisenberry says his wife left him around noon, after a spat. He admitted that she had been friendly with this Cornish and that the argument had been partly because of him. In fact, he’d given Cornish his walking papers. It’s Quisenberry’s frau I want to talk to. And Partridge… and I’d better grab them. They’re getting ready to leave.”

He got up quickly and walked toward Partridge’s table, Johnny following at his heels.

“Hello, Partridge,” Madigan said. “How’s tricks?”

Partridge’s face was stony, but there was a gleam in his eyes as he looked from Madigan to Johnny.

“Hello, Madigan,” he said. “I see the punk’s talked to you.”

“Punk?” exclaimed Johnny. “Why the Lieutenant and I are practically pals. I help him solve his cases. The tough ones.”

Lieutenant Madigan grunted. “You know what happened in Hillcrest? And you, Mrs. Quisenberry?”

Bonita Quisenberry’s face was like old ivory, yellow and hard.

Before she could speak, Jim Partridge said, harshly:

“So the punk’s a pal of yours, Lieutenant, eh? He covered the Rusk girl’s escape. They were dancing together when you came in.”

Madigan turned to Johnny. “That right, Fletcher?”

“Was I dancing with Miss Rusk? Why, yes. But I didn’t know you were interested in her. I didn’t even know why you were coming in.”

“You!…” Madigan said, bitterly.

“She was with Wilbur Tamarack, the manager of the Quisenberry Clock Company,” Partridge went on. “And Tamarack’s a lad who’ll stand some questioning himself… What do you want with me, Lieutenant?”

“Where were you this afternoon?”

“In my office. All afternoon.”

“And you’ve got the office help to prove it? I know.”

Partridge smiled thinly. “Can you prove I wasn’t in the office?”

“Of course I can’t… Let’s get out of here. People are beginning to look.”

Johnny went back to his table and called for his check. The waiter figured a while and gave it to him. Johnny howled. “Whaddya mean, twelve dollars? I only had one bottle of beer.”

“So sorry,” said the waiter, giving Johnny a venomous look. “I’ll check up.” He went off and got into a huddle with another waiter. When he came back he corrected the bill. “It’s six dollars, sir, the minimum charge for two.”

Johnny counted out six dollars in silver, then added an extra quarter.

The waiter picked up the quarter from the tray. “What’s this, sir?”

“My breakfast money,” snarled Johnny, snatching the coin from the man’s hand. “And now you can whistle for your tip.”

“Thank you sir. Come again soon, I hope not.”

“Six bucks for two bottles of beer,” muttered Sam Cragg as he followed Johnny to the door where Madigan and the others were waiting.

When they reached the sidewalk, Johnny said to Madigan, “Will you be wanting to talk to me some more this evening, Maddy?”

Madigan chewed at his lower lip. He looked at Bonita Quisenberry and her former husband. Then he shook his head. “I’ll be busy for a couple of hours and I’d just as soon not have you around. Where you staying — that rat’s nest on 45th Street? Or Park Avenue?”

“Forty-fifth Street. I’ll put a lamp in the window in case you should come prowling around later.”

“Okay. And if I don’t show up, stick around in the morning. I’ll want to talk to you then.”

“Fine.”

As they walked down Sixth Avenue, Sam Cragg said, “if you ask me, Partridge did it. You practically told him that his ex was carrying on with this Cornish lad.”

Johnny shook his head. “Cornish was a surly monkey. Let’s step into this drugstore here a minute. I want to make a telephone call.”

“Who you going to call at this time of the night?”

“La Guardia. I want to tell him there’s a fire somewhere…”

He went into the drugstore and entered a phone booth. Dialing the operator, he was informed that a call to Hillcrest would cost him twenty cents. He dropped the coins into the slot. A moment later he said: “Hello, is this the chief of police of Hillcrest? This is the Homicide Squad of New York. Lieutenant Madigan just told me to call you and ask a question about the Cornish murder…”

“He’s got something?” the Hillcrest chief exclaimed.

“I don’t know. He’s still out. He telephoned in to say he’s picked up those people. What he wanted me to find out for him was about this man, Cornish. Was there a piece of adhesive tape on his face when you looked him over?”

“Why, yes,” replied the chief. “That was something I meant to tell Madigan about. The tape was on the face, but there wasn’t any cut or bruise under it. Which was funny, because the night before Cornish claimed to have had a fight with some burglars… Tell Madigan about that and have him telephone me himself when he comes in.”

“I will. Thanks.”

Johnny hung up and rejoined Sam. As they left the store, he said: “Cornish swiped the Talking Clock himself. And the person who killed him got it away from him today.”

“I still say Partridge,” Sam Cragg said, doggedly.

“I say no,” Johnny replied.

They were still arguing about it when they turned into the 45th Street Hotel. And there, Mort Murray, haggard, unshaven, got up from a chair in the lobby.

“Mort!” exclaimed Johnny. “What’re you doing here so late in the evening?”

“Didn’t Sam tell you I was coming here?” Mort asked, bitterly.

Sam winced. “I did mention it to Johnny.”

“That’s right, he did. But something… uh, something came up. What’s on your mind, Mort?”

Mort’s eyes roamed over the new suits that Johnny and Sam were wearing. “You know what, Johnny. That loan shark. You promised—”

“That’s right, I did. Come upstairs, Mort, and we’ll talk it over.”

When they entered Room 821, Johnny turned to Mort. “I guess Sam told you about our little bad luck. Why we didn’t come over to your place this morning?…”

“Sam told me. But did he tell you that Carmella, the loan shark, came in while he was there and made all sorts of threats, because I didn’t have the interest money for him?”

“I never got to tell him that,” Sam scowled.

Mort’s eyes were disillusioned. “You know what he did? He fined me twenty-five percent. I owe a hundred and fifty dollars now, plus the interest, which’ll be twenty dollars tomorrow. And if I don’t pay the interest, I get fined another twenty-five percent.”

“Why, the dirty—!” Johnny swore. “He can’t do that.”

“He can’t, eh? You come over tomorrow and tell him that he can’t. I tell you, I’m sunk if I don’t get some money tomorrow. The interest money, at least.”

Johnny went through his pockets. He found less than seven dollars. “How much have you got Sam?”

Sam shelled out a dollar and a half. “Those shirts and things we bought…”

“I know. All right, get Eddie Miller on the phone.”

“Can’t, he’s off this evening. But he’ll be on at seven in the morning.”

“Okay, we’ll nick him for twenty bucks the first thing in the morning. That’ll take care of Mort’s interest money in the morning. And sometime during the day I’ll rustle up some more money for you, Mort.”

“Thanks, Johnny. I knew you’d come across.”

“Sure, don’t I always? Now, what about a place to sleep tonight?”

“I was figuring on sleeping in the office.”

“You won’t have to do that. Sam’ll share his bed with you. Save you coming back in the morning. Let’s turn in now, fellows; we’ve got a big day ahead.”