Frank Gruber - The Talking Clock

“It might as well be, for all the good it’d do us. We haven’t got two hundred bucks and we probably never will have. Not in this town. I’m for heading back to little old Broadway, right now.”

“Me, too, but we’ve got to find that girl, first. I told her we’d be here.”

“How you going to find her in a town this size?”

“She’ll be at a hotel, won’t she? There are only four or five big hotels in the main part of town. She’ll be at one of them.”

Sam scowled. “And she’ll have six cops in her room, ready to grab us. Anyway, why should we give her the clock — I mean, the pawn ticket? The Kid’s got a family, hasn’t he?”

“A father. But you’ll remember he took his time getting up to Minnesota. And the boy said his father had kicked him out. I think I’ll just give the ticket to the girl. I have a hunch the Kid would have wanted it to go to her.”

“I don’t see why we have to give it to anyone. You said something about selling the ticket to some scalper for a couple of hundred…”

Johnny Fletcher looked steadily at his friend and Sam Cragg began to redden. “Well, I don’t see anything worse in that than some of the things you’ve pulled at one time or another.”

Johnny shook his head sadly. “Necessity has now and then compelled me to clip some corners a little sharp, Sam, but have you ever known me to rob a dead man… a dead boy?”

Sam sighed. “Okay, Johnny. Let’s get rid of the ticket and start walking. There’s the Deshler-Walleck; maybe she’s staying there.”

She wasn’t, but she was registered at the second hotel where they inquired, the Neil House. Johnny considered for a moment going up to her room, then decided against it. Instead he got a sheet of paper and an envelope at the desk and wrote a brief note. He enclosed the pawn ticket with the note and sealing the envelope left it at the desk.

Then he turned to Sam. “All right, my boy, let’s start that walking now. It’s six hundred miles to Times Square.”

“New York,” said Johnny Fletcher. “I don’t know why I ever leave it.”

“I know why,” said Sam Cragg sarcastically, “but I won’t tell.”

Johnny reached forward and tapped the driver of the sedan on the shoulder. “You make a left turn here and go straight through to the express highway over there.”

“Thanks,” said the driver. “Any special place I should let you off? And d’you know a good hotel me and the missus can stay at reasonable?”

“Yes,” said Johnny. “The 45th Street Hotel. The manager’s a personal friend—”

“Friend?” cried Sam Cragg.

“Friend,” repeated Johnny, firmly. “You ask for Mr. Peabody and tell him Johnny Fletcher sent you and if he doesn’t treat you right, why—” he chuckled — “why, I’ll come and check in myself for a few weeks. That’ll hold him… And you can let us off right here, Mister.”

The Iowan, who was coming to see the World’s Fair, pulled over to the curb. Johnny and Sam climbed out and shook hands with the driver and his wife.

“Folks,” Johnny said, gratefully, “we sure appreciate this lift you’ve given us all the way for Chambersburg.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said the Iowan’s wife. “If you ever come through Shell Rock, Iowa, stop in and say hello. Everyone there knows us — the August Schultz’s.”

“Nice people,” said Johnny when the car with the Iowa plates had pulled on. “And now — let’s see if the old town’s changed any.”

“The cops will be tougher with the fair going on,” Sam said, sourly.

“I like ’em tough,” Johnny said. “That’s why I like New York. She’s always tough and I’m at my best when the goings tough. Well, let’s go see Mort Murray first of all.”

“Yeah,” said Sam, a gleam coming into his eye. “We’ll ask him how come he sent those books to Poplar City, Minnesota, express collect. That’s what started all our troubles.”

Twenty minutes later they turned into West Seventeenth Street and paused before a pre-Civil War loft building. Johnny regarded it fondly. “And from this moment on, our troubles are over.”

They entered the building and climbed four flights of stairs for there was no elevator in the place. On the fourth floor landing Johnny turned toward a door. With his hand on the knob, he groaned.

“What’s this paper on the door?” he snapped.

“An eviction notice!” Sam Cragg yelped. “Why the dirty… They can’t do this to us!”

“They didn’t do it to us,” Johnny said, sadly. “They did it to poor Old Mort. No wonder he sent us those books collect. He was strapped. Damn a big express company that doesn’t trust an honest man for a dollar or two.”

Johnny jiggled the doorknob and even tried kicking the door. It was firmly locked. He tore the eviction notice from the door and read it. “For a lousy eighty bucks — two months’ rent!” he snorted. “Why, they ought to be glad they can get even a non-paying tenant for this rat’s nest.”

He threw the sheet of paper to the floor and started for the stairs.

“Now, what’ll we do?” Sam wailed. “Mort was our only chance. Even if he couldn’t give us any dough, he’d a come across with some books. He never failed us like this.”

“That just goes to show. Mort’s one of these honest guys. He pays his bills and they get in the habit of expecting money from him, so when he doesn’t come across what do they do? They lock him out— Hey!…”

They were coming down the final flight of stairs as a mournful-looking man in a seedy suit opened the door. He was in his early thirties, needed a shave and his bare head was a shock of black hair combed in a rough pompadour. Mort Murray could have posed for a cartoonist who wanted to draw a caricature of a Union Square orator.

“Mort!”

Mort Murray’s mouth fell open. “Johnny Fletcher! Sam Cragg!…” He sprang forward to meet Johnny and threw his arms about him with the fervor of a man who’s just been saved by an evangelist.

“Jeez, Mort!” cried Johnny Fletcher. “What’d they do to you, the dirty rats?”

Mort stepped back and there was moisture in his eyes. “The going’s been tough, fellas. They threw my stepfather off the WPA, and I’ve been afraid to even go around to my mother’s place. You know, she used to slip me a buck now and then. Why, last night—” Mort’s voice broke with self-pity. “Why last night I hadda sleep on the subway!”

Johnny shook his head in sympathy. He forgot that he and Sam Cragg, for the last two weeks, would have been glad of a friendly, sheltered subway to sleep in. “No wonder you had to send those books express collect up to Minnesota!”

Mort Murray winced. “I never let you down before, boys, did I? I hope it didn’t inconvenience you…”

“Hell, no!” said Johnny.

“Hell, no!” said Sam Cragg. “All it did was get us thrown in jail. And we’ve practically starved ever since — but don’t give it a second thought, Mort.”

“Tsk, tsk!” said Johnny. “Everything’ll be all right now, Mort. Look, we’re stony. But don’t let that worry you. You’ve got a few books that aren’t locked upstairs?”

Mort Murray drooped. “Not a book, Johnny. They caught me by surprise. If I’d only known…”

Johnny scowled and bit his lips. “How about the windows?”

“They open on a courtyard and besides — there are bars on them.”

“Damn, that makes it tough. Who’s your landlord?”

“The Sailor’s Safe Seaport. They own all the real estate around here. You know how they are.”

“The toughest! All these charitable institutions are tough. Well, look, give them a ring. Ask them how much they’ll take on account to open up.”