The Talking Clock

Chapter Nineteen

Twenty minutes later, Johnny paid the cabby a dollar and forty cents to Sam Cragg’s discomfiture.

“What’s up here that’s worth a buck forty?” he griped.

“The clock shop across the street. You wait here. I’m going in alone.”

Johnny crossed the street and entered the antique clock dealer’s shop. The proprietor exclaimed when he recognized Johnny.

“You have come back, eh? What do you want today?”

“Why, I thought I’d get some additional information on clocks. For that article, you know…”

“What article? What newspaper? Yesterday, after you left I thought about something interesting to tell you for that story and I called the Blade. You know what they told me?”

Johnny grimaced. “That I wasn’t working for them. Okay, I’ll come clean. I’m a detective, working on the Quisenberry case.”

“Why didn’t you say so yesterday? The other man did.”

“What other man?”

“The detective who was here in the afternoon. He didn’t give his name.”

“What’d he look like?”

The clock dealer shrugged. “How does a detective look? He didn’t wear a uniform.”

“What’d he want to know?”

“Don’t you know? Ain’t he from your office?”

“There’re a half dozen of us working on the case. It was probably Snodgrass who was here. Look, you told me yesterday you’d seen this clock on exhibition. I suppose you heard it talk, too?”

“Of course. It wasn’t a very good voice. Too tinny.”

“I’ve heard it once. I’m interested in knowing what the clock said, not how it said it. Would you remember any of the things it said, at the different hours? Three o’clock for example?”

The clock dealer screwed up his face. “I don’t remember anything particular. I heard it talk several different times. It wasn’t anything unusual. Platitudes.”

Johnny sighed. “Maybe I can refresh your memory. At five o’clock, the little man comes out and says: ‘Five o’clock and the day is nearly done’…”

“Yes, that’s the kind of stuff it says. Right after that, at six o’clock, it says something about ‘When the day is done and night begins to fall’.”

“And at three o’clock?” Johnny leaned forward, eagerly. “Try and remember that hour, will you?…”

“I can’t. I never paid any particular attention. Six o’clock was easy because that’s considered the end of the day and you have reminded me of what the clock said then, by quoting the five o’clock recitation. But…”

“Yes?”

The dealer snapped his fingers. “I may have it here! Yes! I remember now, the convention special reported it the last time Simon exhibited the clock, two years ago. I’ve got the magazines around here.”

He headed for the back of the room and opened a closet. “Yes, here they are. Copies of the American Hobbyist, for the last two years.”

Johnny flanked the counter. “Can I help you look?”

“Yes. Let’s see, the convention two years ago was in summer. July, I think. The report would be in the August issue. Look for August, 1938…”

The dealer scooped out a stack of the magazines and they began to rummage through them. It was Johnny who found the August, 1938, issue.

“Here it is!”

They spread the magazine out on the counter, their eager fingers turning the pages.

“Clock Exhibit!” read the dealer. “Here it is… yes, ‘Simon Quisenberry’s Talking Clock.’ At twelve o’clock it says: ‘Twelve o’clock. High noon and midnight. Rest ye weary…’ ”

“Three o’clock!” exclaimed Johnny. “ ‘Three o’clock. There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough hew them as we may.’ ” Johnny exclaimed in consternation.

“Shakespeare! I remember now.”

“But it’s meaningless!” Johnny cried.

“Most of it is. I told you it didn’t say anything important.”

Johnny groaned. His eyes fell once more to the page. And then he exclaimed. “Look — five o’clock! ‘I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul’.”

“Henley,” the clock dealer prompted. “Mmm, I didn’t have six o’clock quite right. It says: ‘When night falls and the morning comes…’ ”

“This is wrong,” Johnny said. “The clock doesn’t say that at five o’clock.”

“How do you know it doesn’t?”

“Because I heard it. It said: ‘Five o’clock and the day is nearly done.’ ”

“You made a mistake. I heard the clock several times and I couldn’t remember exactly.”

“But I do remember. There’s no mistake. When I heard that clock talk, a week ago, it said: ‘Five o’clock and the day is nearly done.’ I remember distinctly.”

The clock dealer shrugged. “So what’s the difference? Maybe Simon had a couple of talking discs. Each different. The detective who was here yesterday asked about that.”

“Just what did he ask?”

“If it was possible to change the talking records in the clock, I told him, yes, although it’d be pretty hard to get the records made. They were metal discs, made of a gold alloy, if I remember right. The detective asked if I could make such a disc and I told him, no.”

“And then?”

“I suggested he try some of the phonograph recording places.”

Johnny straightened. “Look, sir, you have no use for this old magazine. How about loaning it to me?”

“You can have it on one condition. That you tell me the inside story of the Talking Clock when the case is all settled.”

“That’s a deal, Mister.”

Johnny rolled up the magazine, thanked the clock dealer for his help and left the store. Heading across the street, Sam Cragg came to meet him.

“Don’t look now, Johnny, but in the doorway of the cigar store behind me — to the right — there’s a bird been following us.”

“Following?” Johnny, despite Sam’s caution, shot a look at the cigar store.

A man stepped out. Johnny cried: “Old-Timer!”

“Old-Timer?” Sam blinked.

“The tramp from Minnesota… Come on!”

It was the tramp, no question about that. He was as ragged and filthy as ever. And like in Minnesota, he suddenly took to his heels with amazing swiftness when he saw Johnny and Sam descending upon him.

He reached the nearby corner of 60th Street, sixty feet ahead of them and when they rounded it, he had increased the distance to eighty or ninety feet.

“Goddamit!” Johnny panted. “He’s getting away again…”

He looked wildly over his shoulder for a taxi, but none was in sight. He gritted his teeth and put everything he had into running. But it was no use.

Old-Timer reached Third Avenue, a hundred and twenty feet ahead of them. He turned south and when Johnny reached the corner he had disappeared.

Johnny stopped and waited for Sam Cragg to catch up. “He’s gone again,” he said disgustedly. “We ought to be ashamed of ourselves. An old guy… Ah, hell!”

“He must be an Olympic champion the way he ran!” puffed Sam.

“We’ve solved one thing, though. Old-Timer did kill the Kid up in Minnesota. It’s no coincidence that he’s here in New York. But… how the devil did he pick us up this morning?”

“The Hotel. He probably followed us all the way to Bos’…”

“But only a few people know where we’re staying in New York. Let’s see, aside from Madigan, there’s Partridge, Eric Quisenberry, the Rusks, and Wilbur Tamarack probably.”

“What about the Greek?”

“Could be. Mort could have been followed by Carmella or one of Bos’ other gorillas. That applies to Partridge, too. Any employee of his would know where we lived. And we don’t know them by sight. Mmm, could be one of Partridge’s men went up to Minnesota to throw in with the Kid. Damn it all, anyway. I’ve a good notion to chuck the whole thing.”

“Swell,” said Sam Cragg. “I’m all for that. Let’s get back to work and earn a few bucks. The season will be opening in Florida soon and I’d like to go there this winter.”

Johnny shrugged, gloomily. “Who wouldn’t?”

“It’s a deal, then?”

“Maybe,” Johnny took a nickel from his pocket and tossed it into the air. He caught it expertly. “Guess I’ll make a phone call.”

Sam Cragg groaned. “But I thought you just said—”

“It isn’t winter yet. Florida won’t run away.” He went into a drugstore, leaving Sam outside. Looking up the number of the Quisenberry Clock Company he went into a booth and dialed.

“Has Mr. Eric Quisenberry got into the office yet?” he asked when the operator answered.

“He has, but he’s unable to come to the phone at present. Some important matters in the plant…”

“All right, then let me talk to Mr. Wilbur Tamarack.”

“I’m sorry,” was the reply, “but Mr. Tamarack is no longer with us.”

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Johnny. “Mr. Tamarack’s your sales manager, isn’t he?”

“He was. He severed his connections with this firm yesterday.”

Johnny pretended astonishment. “Well, can you give me his home address? It’s important that I get in touch with him.”

“Just a moment… Yes, here it is. He lives at the Chanticleer, on East Fifty-seventh Street.”

“Thanks,” snapped Johnny, banging the receiver on the hook. He glowered at the phone. “That’s loyalty for you. How did she know I wasn’t a process server looking for him? They ought to know better than to give out a man’s home address…”

He left the drugstore and picked up Sam. “Just for the fun of it, let’s run over and talk to Tamarack. He lives near by. He’ll be plenty sore at Quisenberry and may give us the real dirt on him, that we mightn’t be able to get at any other time.”

“Lead on,” sighed Sam. “Who am I to make any protest? I’m only your stooge, you know.”

Johnny grinned. “Feeling sorry for yourself?”

They walked briskly to the Chanticleer. Johnny was impressed when he saw it. “They must have paid this guy a good salary. Either that, or he was tapping the till.”

A doorman opened the door for them and in the richly furnished lobby, a uniformed attendant took their names and telephoned Tamarack’s apartment.

“Mr. Tamarack will see you. Suite 1104.”

On the eleventh floor Tamarack had the door of his apartment open and nodded curtly to them. “Who gave you my address?” was the first thing he asked.

“Your office. I telephoned—”

“They would. Well, come in. I was just packing.”

They entered the apartment. It was furnished in even better taste than the lobby downstairs. “Nice diggings,” Johnny remarked. “You moving?”

“Why not? I’ve lost my job. I suppose they told you that at the office, too?”

“They said you’d severed your connections.”

“Severed hell! Quisenberry came down and fired me without notice. Well, he’ll be sorry for that.”

“I imagine he will. From what I’ve heard he doesn’t know much about the business.”

Tamarack looked sharply at Johnny. “He’s going to learn… quick!”

Johnny looked inquiringly at Tamarack, but the latter did not amplify his comment. Instead he went to a liquor cabinet and opened it. “Drink?”

“Yeah, sure,” said Sam.

“No, thanks,” said Johnny. “We haven’t had breakfast yet.”

“You must have got out early.” Tamarack cleared his throat. “Look, Fletcher, maybe I’ve had you all wrong. I was pretty sarcastic last night, but the Kid — Diana, I mean, got to talking to me and she just about convinced me.”

“That I was just a nosey dope?”

Tamarack almost grinned. “Your friend, the detective, talked to me, too.”

“Oh, Madigan? I solve his cases for him. What’d he talk to you about?”

“Usual things they ask suspects. Where was I on the night of June 12th.”

Johnny coughed. “Where were you?”

“I’ll start all over. When did Eric Quisenberry leave for Minnesota?”

“The night of June 12th?”

“The same day the sheriff of that place telephoned. I got the message at the office and delivered it to him. He left inside of an hour. He was gone three days.”

“And you were in New York during those three days?”

Tamarack laughed outright. “I thought you were getting around to that. No, Fletcher, I wasn’t in New York those three days. I was in St. Louis and Kansas City. And Omaha, too. I was gone five days altogether.”

“I see,” said Johnny, thoughtfully.

“Do you? It so happens that I was the sales manager of the Quisenberry Clock Company. In that capacity I spent an average of ten days of each month on the road, calling on the bigger accounts.”

“Well,” said Johnny, “you can’t blame me for trying. Just one more question. How long did you work for the clock company?”

A bitter look crossed Tamarack’s face. “Fourteen years. It was the only job I ever had. I went there right from college.”

“I worked in a place once,” said Johnny. “The boss’ son came into the place and worked his way up to be vice-president. In six months. I haven’t worked a day since.”

Tamarack almost grinned. “I heard what you pulled in Hillcrest the other day. Don’t you call that work?”

“Sam does the work. I just talk. I like to talk.”

“So I’ve gathered,” said Tamarack dryly. “But if you don’t mind, I’ve got a lot of packing to do. It happens that my month is up today and since I’m now unemployed, I’ve got to move to a cheaper place.”

“The 45th Street Hotel is a cheap place,” said Johnny. “But if you go there, don’t give my name as a reference. They’d make you pay in advance! Well; be seeing you, Tamarack.”

Leaving the Chanticleer Johnny and Sam walked back to Lexington Avenue. There they descended to the subway and rode to Grand Central, where they shuttled across town to Times Square. Coming up to the street they went to their hotel, where they had a belated breakfast in the dining room.

Finishing, they went to their room and Johnny took the copy of the American Hobbyist from his pocket.

“Sam, I want you to think carefully. When we were in that hock shop in Columbus — Uncle Joe’s place — and the Talking Clock went off, what did it say?”

Sam rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. “Something about this is five o’clock and it’s the end of the day.”

“Well, that’s close enough. It said: ‘Five o’clock and the day is nearly done.’ Now, look, here’s an article in this magazine about the clock, with a list of the things it’s supposed to say at the different hours. For five o’clock it recites a line of poetry. ‘I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.’ ”

“I read that in a book once,” said Sam.

“So did I. Now, for three o’clock it says: ‘There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough hew them as we may.’ Is that statement worth twenty-five grand?”

“Huh?”

“It was three o’clock the day before yesterday when we were in the Quisenberry shack. Remember? The clocks all went off right after Nick Bos had offered fifty thousand for the Talking Clock. When the noise started he put his ear down to the clock and listened. Then, as soon as there was quiet he raised his ante to seventy-five thousand.”

“Because of what he heard the clock say?” cried Sam.

Johnny threw himself down on the bed. “I wish I knew. I wish I was a cop, too. I could get the answers to a lot of questions that I can’t get now.”

“Such as what?”

“Well, for one thing, I could send a dozen men around to all the phonograph recording places in the city and find out who had a miniature recording disc, made of a gold alloy. And then I could find out a lot of things about the Quisenberrys. Jim Partridge has the edge on us there. He’s got five-six operators working for him.”

Sam sniffed. “A while ago you said you felt like chucking the thing.”

“How the hell can I quit? I know more about this business right now than anyone else, but I don’t know enough. I don’t know the murderer’s name… or what the Talking Clock said at three o’clock the day before yesterday.”

“Nick Bos knows that.”

“But Nick, like the daisies, won’t tell.”

“For my money,” said Sam, “he’s the guy who did it.”

“What? Swiped the clock and returned it? That’d be the same fellow who killed Cornish… and… no, he couldn’t be Old-Timer who was in Minnesota.”

“Why not? Nick’s in pretty good physical shape. He isn’t as much of a sissy as he lets on to be. And he’s got that gang of monkeys working for him.”

“It could be one of them. Or, it could be Jim Partridge, or one of his operators. It could even be Eric Quisenberry. The Rusk girl beat him to Minnesota by auto… But suppose he didn’t go by train, but took a plane? He’d been there in time to get tossed into the clink before we were.”

“But he was the Kid’s old man, Johnny!”

“Fathers have killed their sons, and vice versa. For a lot less sometimes than seventy-five grand. For that matter, I don’t even know if Joe Cornish was away from the estate for a couple of days last week. I guess I could find that out.”

“Why don’t you?”

“What for? Cornish is dead, now. He wouldn’t make a good witness. Mmm, it could have been Bonita who sent Cornish up to Minnesota. And then she knocked him off yesterday because she didn’t want to split with him.”

The telephone on the stand beside Johnny tinkled and he leaned over and picked it up. He said, casually, “Hello,” and then stiffened.

“A Miss Rusk to see you, Mr. Fletcher,” said the voice of the operator.

“Send her up!”

He hung up the receiver and looked at Sam Cragg, a gleam in his eye. “The Rusk kid. This may be interesting.”