The Talking Clock

Chapter Twenty Two

It was a little-traveled street and with the precautions, the abduction was successfully concluded. Charlie got out, crossed the sidewalk and unlocked the door of the old building. He went in and out of sight of the sidewalk, drew an automatic from his pocket and gestured.

Johnny and Sam climbed out and crossed the sidewalk. When they had entered the building, the man with the shotgun put the gun under his coat and followed.

The building seemed to have been used, at some previous time, for the manufacture of a cleaning preparation. A number of rusty cans stood around. Old labels stated that they contained Soapo, the Kitchen Wonder.

Charlie locked the door after his companion with the shotgun had entered, then both herded Johnny and Sam toward a rickety flight of stairs, leading to the second floor.

The loft, while dusty, had evidently been used more recently than the lower floor. Three or four cots, on which were blankets, stood around and there were also a few chairs and a couple of tables. At one side was an electric plate, standing on a packing case.

“All right, boys,” ordered the man with the shotgun. “Turn around now, for the frisking. Reach for the ceiling.”

When they had obeyed, Charlie came up behind them. He pressed his automatic in Johnny’s back and slapped his pockets. He took nothing out of them, because there was nothing bulky, but when he got to Sam, he exclaimed:

“What’s all this?” He relieved Sam of two packs of playing cards and several articles whose use was not apparent. Sam growled.

“Let that stuff alone. I can’t shoot you with it.”

Charlie’s answer was to throw the stuff on the floor. “We can use the cards, Buddy,” he said, “we got a long wait.”

“What for?” Johnny asked.

“What’s it to you,” snapped the man with the gun. “You got some place to go, huh? Go ahead, we ain’t keepin’ you.”

Johnny turned around and finding a chair sat down. “You going to hold us for ransom? I know a fella’ll pay about a dollar and forty cents for us.”

“That’s more’n you’re worth. The boss said you were a wise guy. Look around, Charlie, and see if there’s some rope. I don’t figure on sitting here holding this gun on them all night.”

Charlie rummaged about the room and finally produced two lengths of rope, one, a piece of clothesline about seven feet long. The other, half-inch manila rope, was a little longer.

“There ain’t enough here to tie their hands and legs both, Mickey,” he complained. “How’s about making them lie down on the beds and we’ll just tie their hands to the rungs over their heads?”

“Okay, Charlie,” said Mickey. “All right, you punks, get down on a couple of those beds. Stretch your hands up over your heads.”

“Nix,” said Johnny. “It isn’t even five o’clock and if we’re going to be here all night, we can’t keep our hands up over our heads all that time.”

“No?” sneered Mickey. “You don’t know what you can do until you have to do it.”

“We’ll give you our word.” Johnny offered.

Mickey laughed raucously. “Your word, huh? That’s rich! Get down on those beds before I laugh myself sick.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Sam said. “Put down your guns and I’ll fight the two of you.”

“Now, look,” said Mickey. “There’re two ways to do this, the easy way and the hard way. The easy way is to tap you over the head… You want it that way?”

“Lay down on the bed, Sam,” Johnny ordered. “No use getting that thick skull of yours cracked.”

“Smart boy,” commented Mickey.

Johnny watched Sam stretch himself out on one of the beds, hands over his head. Charlie went to the head of the bed and reaching through the iron rungs, caught hold of one of Sam’s wrists. He pulled it up to a rung and lashed the rope about it. Knotting it, he cut the rope and used the remaining piece to tie Sam’s other wrist to another rung.

The task completed, he turned to Johnny. The latter shrugged and got down on another bed and was quickly tied. He could move his body, but his hands were rigid in the awkward position.

Charlie had just completed the task when a telephone rang somewhere. Mickey went off to answer it. He spoke in a mumble and Johnny could not hear his words until he came back and reported to Charlie.

“The boss is coming over. Be here in ten minutes.”

“That’ll be interesting,” Johnny commented.

“Yeah, you can spend the time between now and then guessing who he is.”

“I don’t have to guess. I know.”

“Nuts,” said Mickey. “You ain’t got the foggiest idea.”

“Well,” said Johnny, “if it isn’t Jim Partridge, I’ll eat a can of that Soapo they used to make here.”

“What makes you think it’s Partridge?” demanded Charlie.

Johnny laughed. “Because if he was a regular crook he wouldn’t have a couple of stupes like you two working for him. Only a private dick could be as dumb as you birds.”

Charlie swore roundly and came over to Johnny’s bed. He looked down at him. “Someday,” he said, “that big mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble. For instance—” he stooped suddenly and smashed his fist into Johnny’s face.

Sam Cragg yelled hoarsely. “Why, you dirty—! Come and hit someone your size!”

Charlie walked over to Sam Cragg’s bed and Johnny heard the smack of flesh against flesh.

“You’re my size,” Charlie sneered. “What do you think of that. And this!…” The smack hit Johnny’s ears again and he winced.

Sam remained quiet after that.

Mickey spoke. “That’s enough, Charlie. Once more and I’ll bend the barrel of this shotgun around you.”

“Put it down,” challenged Charlie, “and I’ll give you the licking of your life. Who the hell you think you are? I don’t have to take anything from you.”

From the direction of the stairs, Jim Partridge’s voice cut in: “Don’t you like your job, Charlie?”

Johnny strained his head up from the bed two or three inches to watch big Jim Partridge come forward. There was a pleasant smile on his face.

Charlie choked. “Uh, didn’t hear you come in, boss. Yeah sure, I like my job. Just blowing off steam to Mickey, tha’s all…”

“Sure,” said Jim Partridge, “that’s all.” He came up to Charlie and his smile widened. Then without warning, his fist came up and exploded on Charlie’s jaw.

Charlie sat down on the floor with a thump.

“Get up, Charlie,” Jim Partridge said, pleasantly. “Get up and I’ll knock you down again.”

“Cut it out, boss,” whined Charlie. “I was only kidding. We… we got these bums for you, didn’t we?”

Jim Partridge came over to Johnny. “Why, Johnny Fletcher, what’re they doing to you? Tying you up like a moose! That’s no way to treat a pal, is it?”

“It isn’t, Jim,” replied Johnny. “And my arms are beginning to get tired. I’m ready to make a deal with you…”

“Hey!” cried Sam Cragg. “Don’t quit now, Johnny. I’m just beginning to get mad!…”

“Shut up, Sam. I’m running this. Okay, Partridge, cut us loose and I’ll play ball.”

“Why, you haven’t got a ball, Johnny. You haven’t even got a bat, have you?”

“Uh-huh, I have. You’ve been outsmarted, Partridge. You think you’ve won, but you haven’t. He’s just stringing you along until he can grab the boodle and skip.”

“He? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Nix, Partridge. I know the score. You were ahead when you were playing for yourself, but when you teamed up you lost. I know where the dough is, and so does he. The phonograph record you heard was a phony. He didn’t have it made until yesterday.”

“Whoa! What do you know about phonograph records?”

Johnny sighed. “I know just about everything. The Talking Clock had a little gold record in it that told where Simon hid the dough. Your chum swiped the clock, then put it back — without the record. When you put the squeeze on him, he showed you the record, played it on a machine too. But he didn’t let you hear the real record…”

“All right,” Partridge said, harshly, “what’d the real record say?”

“That’s my hole card,” said Johnny. “You cut these ropes and walk with us to the next corner and I’ll tell you.”

“Do you see any holes in my head?” snorted Partridge. “Once you got out of here, you’d run like hell to that copper pal of yours. You’re talking to hear yourself talk. You don’t know what the record said.”

“I not only know, but if I told you how I found out, you’d know I was telling the truth. But you’ll have to work fast, Partridge. It’s getting dark…”

“So what?”

“You’re going to meet him, eh? And you’re going to get the money together. But suppose you get there and he doesn’t show up? You wait for him while he grabs the money from the other place and beats it. He’s got a nice start on you.”

Doubt came to Jim Partridge’s face. But he shook his head, stubbornly. “I’ve got to have something to go on, Fletcher.”

“Okay, the dough is buried somewhere around Twelve O’Clock House. Simon Quisenberry was laid up for two years. Where else would he bury it but around the house?”

“Talk some more, Fletcher. I’m beginning to get interested. I didn’t know about Simon being laid up that long. I can check on that.”

“You should’ve checked before. All right, I’ll tell you something else you’ve overlooked. Where’d I first meet you, Partridge?”

“In Ohio. I was casing the hock shop…”

“Where the Kid’d pawned the Talking Clock. At that time you didn’t know about the big dough, so you didn’t crowd it. You should’ve, Jim…”

“All right, I should’ve,” snapped Partridge. “But I was working on a salary, then. You got the clock in Ohio, I know that. And like a sap you turned it over to the girl…”

“You’re missing the point again, Jim. You haven’t got any sense of the aesthetic in you. Uncle Joe, the pawnbroker, had a keen sense. He liked the Talking Clock. He liked it so well he kept it wound up. And for three months, he listened to it talk, once every hour, every day…”

“Gawd!” cried Jim Partridge.

“Check! Uncle Joe knew what the clock said — before the record was changed. Do you believe me now… Jim Partridge?”

“I can check up on that! I can telephone him long distance…”

“That’s what I did, Partridge. And I told him I was the New York Police Department and if anyone else called, not to give out the information. But call if you like, Jim. It’ll help the telephone company, anyway…”

For a long moment Jim Partridge stared down at Johnny Fletcher. Then he cursed. “All right, Fletcher. You’ve got me over a barrel. What did the clock say?”

“I can’t talk with my arms tied like this,” Johnny reminded him.

Partridge reached into his pocket and drew out a knife. He opened the large blade and cut the rope that held Johnny’s wrists to the iron rung of the bed. Johnny groaned as he brought his arms down. He sat up on the bed then, hugging his arms as blood rushed into his wrists.

“Spill it, Fletcher. I haven’t got any time…”

“Cut Sam loose.”

Partridge muttered an oath and sprang to Sam Cragg’s side. He slashed the ropes that bound Sam, then leaped back. “Hurry, Fletcher, if I’ve got to run out to Westchester, I haven’t got any time…”

“The deal was for us to walk up to the corner with you.”

Partridge howled. “No! I can’t risk that. You’re asking too much. If you don’t talk now — you don’t ever talk. I’ll lose the game, but so’ll you… I’ll compromise. Look, it wouldn’t do me any good to knock you off. You know that. But if I get the dough, my word’s as good as yours. You could squawk to the cops all you wanted, but they couldn’t touch me. I’m not afraid to let you go… after I get the money.”

Johnny weighed Partridge’s words for a moment, then he suddenly nodded: “Okay, Partridge. The clock said: ‘The rainbow stretches from three to four o’clock… Dig, dig, dig for the pot of gold.’ Is that enough?”

Partridge looked bewildered. “That don’t make sense!”

“Haven’t you been out to Twelve O’Clock House? There are twelve walks leading down from the house on the hilltop. The walks are laid out like the dial of a clock…”

“It clicks,” cried Partridge. “Why, the dirty…”

He turned for the stairs, then wheeled back. His hand went to his hip pocket. “Don’t tie them up again, boys. I gave my word about that. But… you can use this!” He tossed a shiny pair of handcuffs to Mickey.

“Hey!…” cried Johnny. “Come back here, you double-crosser.”

At the staircase Partridge stopped. “There’s five hundred apiece in it for you boys, if you hold them here until I telephone it’s all right to turn ’em loose.”

He disappeared down the stairs.

Swinging the handcuffs, Charlie advanced upon Johnny. “Okay, chump, stick out your mitts.”

Johnny backed away. “Wait a minute, now, let’s talk this over. You can’t handcuff two men with one pair of bracelets.”

“Oh,” said Charlie. “I saw a stunt in the movies once. You lock the one monkey’s hand to the other’s ankle. It works swell. Mickey, watch the big guy while I cuff this one…”

“Partridge won’t like it,” protested Johnny. “You heard him say to treat us nice.”

“He said to use the cuffs on you and he didn’t say how.”

“Well, lock our wrists together. That’s just as good and it won’t cramp us. Besides—” Johnny’s desperate eyes saw the playing cards that Charlie had taken from Sam’s pocket and thrown to the floor — “we could cut up a couple of jackpots while we’re waiting. We’ve got some dough and—”

Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “How much dough you got?”

“Nix, Charlie,” cut in Mickey. “We ain’t turned stickup men — yet! We’ll give them a chance for their dough…”

Charlie hesitated and was lost.

“All right, stick out your left hand, Fletcher.”

Johnny obeyed and the cuff was snapped about his wrist. He moved over toward Sam then and coming up from behind Charlie, put the other cuff over Sam’s thick wrist.

“They’re safe, now,” said Mickey. “Pull up a table between two of these beds and we’ll see how good they can play poker.”

Sam was beginning to mutter under his breath, but Johnny poked him in the ribs with his elbow. “Wait’ll I give the signal,” he whispered out of the side of his mouth.

The captors moved the table between two of the bunks, then seated themselves on one, so they faced Johnny and Sam on the other side. “All right, what’ll we play?” Charlie asked. “Some nice five-card stud, about a buck limit?”

“That’s pretty steep for me,” Mickey protested. “I’ve only got about thirty bucks with me.”

“I’ve only got forty,” said Charlie, “but I figured on winning. I don’t mind telling you boys that I cut my teeth on a pack of cards.”

“A buck limit suits us,” said Johnny, nudging Sam’s knee with his own.

He pulled out his entire bankroll, five dollars and forty cents. “I’ll just begin with this small change.”

Sam drew out a dollar and a half. “There’s more where that came from,” he growled.

“There better be. That won’t last more’n a hand.” Charlie slipped out Sam’s newer pack of cards from their box and began shuffling them. His partner cut for him and he quickly dealt out two cards all around, one face down and one up.

“King is high,” he said to Johnny.

Johnny looked at his hole card. “Well, I’ve only got a three in the hole, so I’ll just open with a half dollar.”

Sam exclaimed. “Huh? Tha’ leaves me out. I haven’t got anything.”

Mickey had a jack up and called the opening bet. Charlie tossed in a half dollar and hesitated. “I’ll wait another card.”

He dealt the third card to those who had remained. Johnny got an ace, Mickey a king and Charlie another ten, giving him a pair. “Ha!” he cried. “Poker’s going up now. I bet a dollar.”

“I’m strictly a hunch player,” said Johnny. “I smell a king or an ace coming up. I call your dollar and raise it one.”

“Against my tens?”

“Why not?”

“It’s your funeral.”

Mickey dropped out, which left only Charlie and Johnny. Charlie immediately called Johnny’s dollar and raised him again. Johnny tossed it in.

“Deal.”

He got a seven. Charlie drew a jack. He was still high with his pair of tens, but he frowned at Johnny. Johnny grinned. “You’re high with your tens. I’ve only got a three in the hole, you know.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet. I’ll leave it to you.”

“You don’t believe me? Okay, then, since I bet before, I’ll just bet again. A dollar.”

Charlie pushed it in reluctantly. “So you’ve got kings backed up, eh?”

“I told you I was a hunch player. Deal the last card… Ah, I told you!”

Charlie turned up Johnny’s card and it was a king. He winced, then exclaimed as he dealt himself a third ten.

“Three tens against a pair of kings,” said Johnny, smoothly. “What’re you betting?”

Charlie looked bitterly at Johnny’s pair of kings. “That gives you three, huh?”

“No, just two. But it’ll cost you money to find out. You want to bet?”

Charlie shook his head.

“Well,” said Johnny, “I’ve only got ninety cents left. But I’ll bet it all.”

“So you’ve got them!” snarled Charlie.

“Are you calling?…”

“No, damn you.”

“I thought you were yellow!” Johnny shoved Sam’s knee violently and flipped up his hole card. “See?…”

Then he came up, lifting the table with him. Sam, warned, put his own strength into it and the table was smashed up and over on Mickey and Charlie.

Caught by surprise, the two private detectives yelled and fought under the table. Johnny and Sam, compelled by the handcuffs to work as a team, went over the table together.

Each reached for a man.

“Yow!” roared Sam Cragg. He swooped Mickey into the embrace of his mighty left arm and reached out with his right to claw for Charlie who was giving Johnny a tussle.

They wound up on the floor, amid the wreckage of the table and the bed; four squirming, threshing, fighting men. On the floor Sam was master of the situation. He kept Mickey locked tight in the embrace of his left hand and loaned his cuffed right hand to help subdue Charlie.

After two or three clouts with their spliced hands, Johnny and Sam got the timing right and drove double smashes into Charlie’s face. Suddenly, the detective groaned and went limp. In Sam’s embrace Mickey screamed for mercy.

Sam didn’t give in, not until Mickey lapsed into unconsciousness.