Frank Gruber - The Talking Clock

A widespread police dragnet was out for the desperadoes and the state police expected to make an arrest shortly.

In another column was news of Diana Rusk. The former fiancee of Tom Quisenberry had been arrested the evening before near Moose Lake, after being seen with two men whose descriptions fitted those of Smith and Jones. The desperadoes had made their escape after a thrilling chase, but Diana Rusk had denied that the men in her car had been more than casual hitchhikers. The police, however, had held her until Eric Quisenberry, father of the murdered youth, who had just arrived from Hillcrest, New York, had interceded in her behalf.

Quisenberry, the paper went on to say, was taking the body of his son back to New York for burial, but before leaving had announced an offer of $1,000 for the capture of John Smith and John Jones.

“I’ve a good notion to claim that reward,” Johnny said to himself. “I may never be worth that much money again.”

“Hey, Pinocchio!” yelled a man outside the dressing room. “You’ve stayed over your time.” The door was kicked in by an irate Pinocchio and Johnny picked himself up from the floor with a groan.

The day dragged on leaden feet. The five Pinocchios made merry, crowds stared at them, made audible comments and bought tickets. There was a line a half block long by mid-afternoon, trying to get into the theater, but still the Pinocchios were given no relief. They were allowed, one at a time, a half hour for lunch, but the manager vigorously resisted giving any advance on their salaries and Johnny and Sam had to content themselves with a nap for lunch.

Evening and nine o’clock came at long last. On the stroke of the hour, the five Pinocchios headed for the theater and the dressing room. Johnny and Sam had peeled off their costumes and donned their own clothing when the manager finally came with their wages.

“You be needing us tomorrow?” Johnny asked.

The manager fidgeted. “Why, uh, I don’t think so. Maybe… later in the week.”

“You said if we did a good job you’d hire us again tomorrow,” complained one of the other Pinocchios.

“I know, but we had such a crowd today that there’s sure to be an overflow tomorrow.”

“Is that so,” Sam Cragg said. “Well, in that case…” He put his big hand in the manager’s face and shoved so hard that the manager was hurtled back against the wall. By the time he bounced back, Sam and Johnny were at the door.

“Food!” cried Johnny.

“A nice, thick steak…”

Minneapolis to Columbus on a dollar and thirty cents. Minneapolis to Chicago, two days in box cars, gondolas and the blind baggage; a loaf of bread and twenty cents worth of bologna.

Fifty cents for a square meal in South Chicago, then the highway to Indianapolis. One day by express truck, twenty cents for food. Highway 40 then to Columbus. One day and a loaf of bread.

In Columbus the first cop who spied them scowled and moved forward.

They ducked across the street and turning a corner, ran. When they had lost the policeman, Johnny said: “We’ve got seventy cents between us and it may be food out of our mouths, but we’ve got to get cleaned up. You look like a candidate for the House of David baseball team, Sam.”

Sam Cragg rubbed his week-old stubble of beard. “You don’t look so hot yourself, Johnny. They may charge us for a haircut instead of a shave… We shouldn’t have given up our razors to that rube constable in Minnesota.”

“We shouldn’t have even seen that fellow,” Johnny said. “But we did and here we are. Let’s get shaved.”

“Where?”

Johnny looked to the left, where he could see the state capitol, then turned to the right. “Somewhere up here there ought to be a barber college.”

Sam winced. “A barber college!”

“Well, we could go to the Deshler-Walleck, or the Neil House, but I don’t think they’d welcome us, not the way we look right now… Maybe later.”

“No!” scowled Sam. “I couldn’t stand that…”

Johnny shook his head. “I must be losing my grip. I don’t feel up to it myself. Ah!…” He pointed ahead. “The Capital Barber College.”

The next half hour was agony. Johnny drew a barber student who should never have left the farm. He had a bad habit of waving the razor in front of the customer’s eyes before nicking out a chunk of skin. Finally, however, he finished and began sticking adhesive tape on Johnny’s face.

“Will you have a nice massage, sir?” he murmured.

Johnny looked to see if he’d put the razor away, then he pushed the farmer barber away and sat up. “I’d like to give you a massage,” he said, “with a fence rail.”

Sam was already finished. His own butcher had put a long red cut along Sam’s jaw.

Outside, Johnny took the pawn ticket from his pocket. “Well, we may as well learn the worst.”

“What for?” Sam demanded. “Even if the kid got only a buck on whatever he pawned we couldn’t get it out of hock.”

Johnny shrugged. “Maybe so, but there’re places where they buy pawn tickets. A pawnbroker only gives about one tenth of what the things worth. The scalper in between ought to give another tenth. Might as well take a look at the thing and get an idea… This is the street, too. Ought to be about two blocks from here.”

The pawnbroker was of the old school. He had the three gold balls hanging over the door and the sign on his window read: “Uncle Joe, The Friend In Need.”

They went in. Uncle Joe was a sharp-eyed, smooth shaven young man of about twenty-eight or thirty. Johnny handed him the pawn ticket. “Here we are, Uncle Joe,” he said brightly. “Let’s see if you’ve been taking good care of the old heirloom.”

The pawnbroker fingered the ticket. After a moment he said, “You got the money to redeem this?”

“The question,” said Johnny, “is have you got the bauble?”

The young pawnbroker grunted. He went to the rear of the shop, passed through a door and was gone so long that Johnny became restless. He yelled: “Hey, come on, don’t keep us waiting all day.”

The pawnbroker reappeared. He carried a strange-looking object in his arm… an object made of gold or merely gilded, about five inches square and about ten inches tall.

Sam Cragg exclaimed: “A clock!”

“What did you expect?” asked the pawnbroker.

“A clock,” said Johnny. “And a mighty fine-looking clock it is. Umm… been in our family since my grandfather’s time.”

The pawnbroker set the clock on the counter and fumbled with a tag. “Uh-hmm,” he said, “with the interest it comes to two sixty-four. Yep, two hundred and sixty-four dollars. I won’t bother with the odd pennies.”

Johnny groaned. “That much?”

“What d’you expect? You got two hundred on it.”

“But sixty-four dollars interest… I… I haven’t got quite that much with me.”

Uncle Joe looked at him severely. “Then why’d you come in? If you can’t redeem it…”

“I expected to. It’s just that… well, I thought maybe ten dollars interest. After all…”

“You’ve got two hundred and ten dollars? It’s a deal.”

For once Johnny Fletcher was caught flat-footed “What?…” he stammered.

“I need money,” Uncle Joe said, curtly. “I got too much tied up in stock. The hell with the interest. Two-ten and she’s yours again…”

“Why,” said Johnny, “that’s darned decent of you. And I’m going to take you up on that. Uh… just hold it here until tomorrow morning and I’ll see…”

“So! You ain’t got two-ten. All right make it two hundred even. Exactly what I gave you on it. I need the money today.”

“So do I,” said Johnny. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t got the money with me. I won’t have it until tomorrow. So… just hang on until then. Eh?”