The Talking Clock

Chapter Eighteen

The sun shining on his face woke Johnny Fletcher in the morning. He lay for a moment, looking at the two mounds on the bed beyond, then he whistled and sat up.

“Up, boys! It’s morning.”

He sprang out of bed and headed for the bathroom. When he came out later, shaved and whistling, Sam Cragg and Mort Murray were partially dressed.

“It’s after eight, Johnny,” Mort reminded. “Think you ought to call that bellboy?”

“Righto!” Johnny went to the phone and got Eddie Miller and asked him to come up. When the bell captain came into the room, he looked cynically at Mort Murray.

“Ringing in an extra sleeper, Mr. Fletcher? Peabody ain’t going to like that.”

“Lots of things Peabody doesn’t like, Eddie, my boy. This is a pal of mine and he’s in a jam. Unless I can, uh, lend him twenty bucks this morning, things are going to happen to him. So, Eddie—”

“Jeez, Mr. Fletcher! I had to borrow carfare this morning. You know what? I got in a kelly pool game with a couple sharks last night and they cleaned me.”

Mort Murray groaned and the light went out of Johnny’s eyes. “Eddie,” he said, sadly, “you disappoint me. If you must play kelly pool why don’t you play it with Sam here some time? He was the three-cushion champ of Bremer County, Iowa, once. Well, when do you think you can get twenty bucks?”

“Not before night, and maybe not then if things is slow today. You know, Mr. Fletcher, I’d give it to you if I had it. The shirt off my back!”

“That goes for me, too, Eddie.”

Eddie moved regretfully to the door. There he paused. “Say, Fletcher, how’d you and Sam get the new suits, if you was broke?”

Johnny waggled a finger at the bellboy. “That’s a secret, Eddie. A secret I hope no one’ll ever know.”

Eddie nodded, but there was a speculative gleam in his eye as he went out.

There was a film of perspiration on Mort’s face. “Jeez, I can’t go to the office. Carmella’ll be waitin’ there for me.”

“Sam’ll go with you. In fact, I’ll go myself, Mort, old boy…”

The door panels almost cracked under the pounding of a heavy fist. Then the door was flung open and Lieutenant Madigan strode in.

“Did I wake you up?”

“If I’d been dead you’d woke me up,” retorted Johnny. Then his face twisted into a grin. “But you’re welcome as the flowers in May. Look, Lieutenant, this is Mort Murray, as fine a lad as you’d find anywhere in this big city. He’s a book publisher. In fact, he publishes that little gem, Every Man A Samson, with which I’ve been making a living, such as it be, for the last ten years. And now, he’s in Dutch. He got into the clutches of a loan shark.”

“ ’S tough,” sympathized Madigan. “What’s his name?”

“Carmella, ah! That means Nick…”

“Nick who?” Johnny asked.

“Nick Bosapopolous, or something. He calls himself Nick Bos for short.”

“Nick Bos, did you say?” Johnny howled.

“Yeah, he controls half the loan-shark business in this burg. Everybody knows that, for all the good it does us…”

“Nick Bos, the sponge man, down on West Avenue?”

Lieutenant Madigan shrugged. “I guess he’s got a sponge business or something as a blind.”

“Holy Donald Duck!” cried Sam Cragg.

Johnny sat down heavily on his bed. “So that’s how he can afford seventy-five thousand dollars for a clock!”

“Huh?” said Lieutenant Madigan.

“Didn’t the Partridges mention him when you questioned them? Hell, Bos is knee-deep in the Quisenberry business.”

Lieutenant Madigan turned red in the face. “They didn’t say a word about him. They didn’t say much of anything. Partridge stuck to his alibi and the Quisenberry dame kept hollering for a lawyer. I finally turned them loose. Now, you talk, Fletcher. How’s Bos in this?”

“Let’s,” said Johnny, “go down and talk to him. Right now.”

“Suits me, we can have a chin on the way down. I got the limousine out front.”

Sam and Mort finished dressing and then they all left the room. In the lobby, Mr. Peabody was running his fingers over the seams of the furniture to see if the cleaners had missed any dust. He exclaimed when he saw Lieutenant Madigan.

“I knew it, Fletcher! You’re in trouble again.”

“You hope, Peabody! This isn’t a pinch. And I’ll thank you not to make slanderous remarks in hotel lobbies.” Johnny headed for the door, muttering to himself… “Only two days to the first. Will he be surprised!”

Detective Fox sat behind the wheel of the limousine. He knew Johnny and Sam from other days, but did not greet them with any great enthusiasm. Mort climbed in beside Detective Fox and the others got in back.

Madigan gave Fox the address of Bos’ office. As the car headed westward toward the express highway, he said to Johnny:

“My friend, Merryman in Hillcrest, called me this morning. Some bird claiming to be from the department called him last night… right after you left the Lucky Seven. What’s the angle, Fletcher?”

“Joe Cornish claimed he had a fight the night before with some burglars — when the Talking Clock was swiped. When I saw him yesterday he had some adhesive tape stuck on his face. Merryman said it was a dummy. Catch on?”

“Yeah! Cornish didn’t fight with burglars? So he swiped the clock himself?”

“I’d figured Bonita for it, at first. She wanted to sell it to Bos for seventy-five G’s on account of Old Simple Simon died broke and didn’t leave her husband any dough.”

“Why should she swipe the clock, when her husband was getting it anyway?”

“That’s it; he wasn’t. The clock went to the Rusk kid. It seems the old man had given it outright to his grandson, Tom Quisenberry, who was killed up in — I mean who died before the old man. The kid was married to Diana, so the clock belongs to her.”

“Why don’t people tell me these things?” exclaimed Madigan.

“Why don’t you ask around like me? So since I’m asking, how was this Cornish killed?”

“The popular way; a bullet. A .32. Right behind the ear.”

“A small gun,” grunted Johnny. “And behind the ear. Mmm.”

“It could be the dame. Well, I got a couple of men on her. She’s checked in at the Sorenson…”

“Partridge lives there himself.”

“I know; but they’re on different floors. I got a couple of men on Partridge, too. And… uh, Merryman’s talking to the girl out in Hillcrest. Which reminds me, that was a dirty trick of yours letting her slip by me last night. I got the fella though… Tamarack.”

“Where?”

“Oh, I was laying for him when he got to his apartment on East 57th. That’s how come I didn’t get around to you. He didn’t show up until 3 a.m. Drove the girl all the way out to Hillcrest. What do you make of Tamarack?”

Johnny shrugged. “He’s got a crush on that girl. With the Kid out of the way, he may win out, now.”

“He told me he’s practically run the clock factory the last two years. But Eric gave him his notice yesterday.”

“Eric? I’ll be damned. The mouse has become a tomcat. First he told off his wife, then he fired his old man’s pet. Looks like he’s going to take hold of things.”

Detective Fox said, over his shoulder. “Here we are, Lieutenant, but — Jeez, you know what place this is?”

“I know, Fox. Stop the car behind the big Cadillac.”

Fox obeyed and they climbed out of the limousine. Johnny walked forward to the limousine and looked at the mongram on the door. “NB” he commented.

“So what’s it to you?” snapped the heavy-jowled man sitting behind the wheel.

Lieutenant Madigan looked at Detective Fox and jerked his head in the direction of the tough chauffeur. As Detective Fox walked forward, Madigan and the others entered the office of the sponge company.

The girl with the Roquefort-cheese complexion regarded the group uneasily. Her hands fluttered and went under her desk.

“Go ahead,” grunted Madigan. “Give him the signal. We’ll just breeze in.”

They did and when they entered Nicholas Bos’ office, the sponge man was leaning back comfortably in his upholstered chair, manicured fingers making a tent of his hands.

“Good morning, Lieutenant Mad’gan,” he said pleasantly. “And my friends the private detectives. You have find the clock for me?”

“We’ll talk about that in a minute, Bos,” said Johnny, heading off the detective. “That’s another little matter I want to clear up. You got a punk named Carmella working for you?”

“Carmella? I don’t knowing the name.”

“He’s one of your collectors. He made a small loan to my pal here and he’s been bothering him since.”

“Collector?” said Bos. “Loan? What is this Carmella?”

“You know what he is,” Madigan cut in. “One of your strong-arm punks.”

A sad look came over Bos’ face. “Mr. Lieutenant, You make refer to that old trouble. Ah! the deestrict attorney he say nothing, because he can prove nothing. I am sponge importer. That’s all. I make a leetle money and I buy the clock, for hobby, because I am liking clock very much. That’s all. I don’t bother nobody and I have good friend all over…”

“You’ve got friends,” said Madigan, ominously. “Don’t I know you’ve got friends. In the right places. But there’s some things about which your friends can’t help you. And murder’s one of them—”

“Wait a minute!” snapped Johnny. “One thing at a time. Mort’s getting cold chills by the minute, thinking about that punk Carmella. Look, Bos, Mort Murray borrowed a hundred and twenty bucks from Carmella. I want you to call off Carmella… You can take the dough out of my retainer. ’Member?…”

Bos shrugged expressively. “All right, I don’t knowing this Carmella man, but if I do knowing him I telling him, hokay, lay off Mor’ Murray. Now, what’s this murder business?…”

Johnny tapped Mort on the arm. “Okay, pal, you can run along now. You’re squared off. I’ll see you later.”

Sighing heavily, Mort took his departure.

Then Johnny turned again to Nicholas Bos. “You’ve read the morning papers and you know about Joe Cornish…”

“Is bad. Why somebody killing watchman?”

“I was going to ask that,” snapped Lieutenant Madigan. “I understand you’re in this up to your neck. You’ve made a fancy offer for a certain Talking Clock.”

“Sure, I telling you. I like clock and this is very good, old clock. I wanting have him for my hobby. I also buying many other clock.” Bos waved a manicured hand around his office, to indicate the clocks.

“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” said Madigan, angrily. “If you won’t talk here, Bos, we’ll go down to Headquarters.”

“Sure. You got warrant? I’m thinking all this happen in Wes ’chester County.”

“I’m working with the Westchester police and I can get a warrant easily enough. You know I can. Where were you yesterday afternoon, Bos?”

“Right here in my office. I am working…”

Madigan’s forehead creased. “I was a chump to even ask that question. You wouldn’t soil your hands, anyway. And you’ve got so many thugs working for you it’d take me a month to round them all up. I’ll start over… Why do you want this particular Talking Clock?”

“I’ll ask a question,” Johnny Fletcher cut in. He leaned forward. “What does the Talking Clock say at three o’clock?”

That was the first time Johnny saw any emotion on Nicholas Bos’ face. The olive complexion of the importer loan-shark actually became two shades lighter.

“I… I don’t knowing what she say,” he stammered.

Johnny nodded quietly and half turned to the door.

“Guess we’re wasting our time, Lieutenant.”

Madigan backed away reluctantly. He sighed, wearily. “Okay. I’ll be seeing you later, Bos.”

Outside, the chauffeur of the Cadillac was dabbing a handkerchief at his nose. Detective Fox was leaning against the police limousine, rubbing the knuckles of his right fist.

Madigan headed for the car, but Johnny held back. “Guess I’ll be leaving you here, Lieutenant.”

“What for?”

“I still have to make a living, you know. Thought I’d go and sell a few books.”

“You’ve got something up your sleeve. It’s about that clock. I saw Bos’ face when you asked him what the clock said at three o’clock…”

The police radio, in the limousine, said suddenly: “Lieutenant Madigan, call in. Lieutenant Madigan, call in.”

Madigan opened the door of the limousine and reaching in, flicked a switch. “Madigan talking, what is it?”

“Merryman of Hillcrest telephoned,” replied the radio voice. “The Talking Clock has been returned.”

“What?” exclaimed Madigan, then he switched off the radio and pulled out of the car. “Okay, Fletcher, run along.”

Johnny Fletcher scowled, then signaled to Sam Cragg. They walked leisurely to the corner, then rounding it, Johnny broke into a run for a cigar store across the street. When Sam caught up to him, Johnny was already inside a telephone booth, stuffing nickels into the slot.

A moment later he was speaking to a servant in the Quisenberry home. “I want to talk to Eric Quisenberry. Tell him it’s Johnny Fletcher calling.”

It was a long moment before Eric Quisenberry’s voice came over the telephone. “Yes, Mr. Fletcher?”

“I just learned from the New York police that the Talking Clock has been returned. How was it returned, Mr. Quisenberry?”

“Why, that’s the surprising thing, Mr. Fletcher. I don’t know. It most certainly was gone yesterday — from the safe. But this morning when I went into the clock room, there it was, standing amidst all the other clocks. I notified the police immediately. They… well they’re here now.”

“Oh!” Johnny bit his lip. Then, “Mr. Quisenberry, do you plan on going down to your office today?”

“Why, yes. In fact, I’m going to leave as soon as I finish with the police.”

“Good. I’ll drop in at your office sometime during the afternoon. I think… I’ll have something important to tell you at that time.”

“What? I mean, why are you taking such an interest in this? You’re not—”

“I’m an old friend of Tom’s, that’s why. I’ll see you later, Mr. Quisenberry.”

He hung up abruptly. As they left the store, Sam Cragg groused, “That’s screwy, the crook returning the clock, after killing a man for it.”

“You’re telling me, Sam? It’s not only screwy, it’s impossible. I don’t believe it. Unless… the clock was never swiped at all.”

“Huh? You think Quisenberry’s the guy? Say — why couldn’t he be?”

“He could. Eric’s gotten a grip on himself. He tossed out his wife yesterday and gave the grand bounce to the Tamarack lad at the factory. Two things he never had nerve enough to do before. I wonder… if the clock-stealing stuff wasn’t just some business to bring things to a head with Bonita. I’ve underestimated the guy.”

“He’s been sweet on the Rusk kid’s mother. She looks like a dame who’s got some steel in her backbone.”

“Maybe she stuck a ramrod down his back. Still… Taxi!”

“Taxis again?” exclaimed Sam. “With the bankroll the way it is?”

“There’s more where this came from. Driver, take us to Lexington and 60th.”