Роберт Артур: The Mystery of the Screaming Clock

Mr. Hadley had left, taking two suitcases with him, and they hadn’t heard a word from him since. Several friends had dropped by to see him, but eventually they all had stopped coming. After a time the money Mr. Hadley had left ran out, and just about then Mr. Jeeters had come by looking for a place to rent rooms. Mrs. Smith had rented the top floor to him. He had made it clear that he wanted complete quiet and privacy, and he was very fussy about it.

“So that’s it,” Harry said. “That’s all I know. It isn’t much, you can see that. I suppose,” he finished gloomily, “you can’t really help my dad any. Nobody can. I apologize for acting nasty earlier. When you telephoned I made the hall clock scream to stop my mother from talking to you. I thought you were reporters or something. It’s just — well, I feel so bad about everything.”

“We understand,” Jupiter said. “And we’ll think about the problem. We’ll let you know if we get any ideas.”

They said good-bye to Harry, who climbed out of the car. Worthington started it up again.

“Where to, Master Jupiter?” he asked. “Home now?”

Jupiter deep in thought, shook his head.

“We started to drop in to see Alfred Hitchcock,” he said. “If Mr. Hadley was an actor once, maybe Mr. Hitchcock knew him — he’s worked with hundreds of actors. Take us to World Studios, Worthington.”

“Very good, sir.” The English chauffeur turned the car round and in a few minutes they were outside the front gate of World Studios, which occupied a whole block behind high walls. The gateman spoke on the phone, found that Mr. Hitchcock was in his office and would see them, and a few minutes later all three boys were seated opposite the famous director’s big desk.

“Well, lads,” Alfred Hitchcock rumbled, “what brings you this way? Working on another investigation?”

“Yes, sir,” Jupiter said. “Though it seems pretty mixed up right now and I’m not sure it means anything. You see, we started out to investigate a screaming clock and — ”

“Screaming Clock!” Alfred Hitchcock interrupted in surprise. “What’s happened to him, anyway? I haven’t heard that name in years!”

“Him?” Jupiter exclaimed in amazement. “You mean there’s a real person named Screaming Clock?”

“That was his nickname,” Mr. Hitchcock explained. “His real name was Albert Clock, and for fun people called him Screaming Clock. You see, he was a screamer.”

The more Mr. Hitchcock told them, the more puzzled the three became.

“A screamer?” Jupiter asked. “I’m not sure I know what that means.”

“He screamed for a living,” Mr. Hitchcock chuckled. “You see, back in the days before television, radio programmes featuring mystery stories were very popular. Why, at one time there were thirty-five mystery programmes a week on the radio. I don’t believe there’s even one on now. You lads are too young to remember, but those programmes were quite exciting.

“On a great many shows, someone screamed. A scream makes an exciting sound effect. You probably think any actor could scream if he had to, and of course that’s true. But for a really exciting, professional scream the director hired a specialist. Someone like Albert Clock. I think he was the only fulltime screamer in the business. I even used him in a couple of pictures.

“He was very versatile. He could sound like a child screaming, or a woman, or a man, or even various types of animals. He took pride in being expert in more different screams than anyone else alive. Of course radio dramas faded out of the picture when television became popular, and there’s very little demand for a screamer any more. I used Bert Clock in one or two pictures some years ago, but after that he sort of vanished. That’s why I said I hadn’t heard of him in years. Did you say you’re investigating him?”

“We didn’t know it, but I guess we are,” Jupiter said. “We started out to investigate a real clock.”

He took the clock out of the bag and demonstrated it. Mr. Hitchcock was very much interested.

“A most unusual piece of work,” he said. “I’d say Bert Clock had it constructed. After all, who would have a screaming clock made except a man whose nickname was Screaming Clock? It would appeal to him as a joke.”

Jupiter told him about the roomful of clocks they had seen and heard. He also mentioned Mr. Hadley, and Harry’s father’s arrest. Mr. Hitchcock looked thoughtful.

“Rather odd,” he said. “This Hadley sounds like Bert Clock, all right. Clock was a small man, and you say Hadley was small and plump. He could easily have put on weight since I last saw him. Now that I think about it, I did hear he had come into money just about the time his radio work was becoming scarce.

“I can easily imagine him having a lot of different clocks made to scream the different screams he was an expert at. It would remind him of his past work and give his friends a chuckle. I can’t imagine why he changed his name, though.”

“Was he interested in art at all, Mr. Hitchcock?” Bob asked.

“Not that I know of. Some actors are collectors. In fact, here in Hollywood there is a surprising amount of valuable art owned by various actors, producers and directors. But I never heard of Bert Clock being interested in art.”

“Thank you, sir.” Jupiter stood up, and so did the others. “You’ve told us some things we’ll have to think about. Mr. Clock also being Mr. Hadley is rather puzzling. And how the arrest of Harry’s father fits in the picture I don’t know yet. If we make any progress we’ll let you know.”

With that they said good-bye, and Worthington drove them back to Rocky Beach and The Jones Salvage Yard. The chauffeur dropped them off, and the boys walked thoughtfully through the tall, iron gates into the crowded salvage yard. They were hardly inside when a man stepped out from behind a pile of lumber.

“You boys!” he said. “Remember me, do you?”

It was Mr. Jeeters, whom they had last seen an hour or so before at the home of Harry Smith.

“You have a clock,” Mr. Jeeters growled. “In that bag. It belongs to me.”

Unexpectedly he lunged at them, and snatched the zipper bag from Jupiter’s hand.

“Now,” he said, “it’s my clock. I have it, and possession is nine-tenths of the law — ”

“You can’t do that!” Pete shouted. He flung himself at Mr. Jeeters’s legs in a flying tackle. Bob and Jupiter wouldn’t let Pete attack unaided, and Jupe grabbed at the man’s arm while Bob tried to pull the zipper bag from his hands.

Mr. Jeeters, however, was amazingly strong. He brushed Bob and Jupiter aside as if they were sparrows, then clamped powerful fingers on the back of Pete’s shirt. He tossed him to one side in the dirt.

“Just try that again if you want to get hurt!” he sneered.

At that moment, Hans, one of the tall Bavarian yard helpers, put a large hand on the man’s shoulder.

“I think better you give Jupe back his bag, Mister,” Hans said.

“You big lug!” Mr. Jeeters snarled. “Let go of me!”

He aimed a fist at Hans’s jaw. Hans ducked, and as the two men struggled wildly, Mr. Jeeters dropped the bag. Pete scooted in and recaptured it, then retreated to a safe distance as the two men, grunting and puffing, tried to throw each other down.

It was Hans who finally got the better of the struggle. Getting a grip around the other man’s body, he lifted him high in the air like an angry child.

“What you want I do, Jupe?” Hans asked calmly. “Hold this fellow while you call police?”