Frank Gruber - The Talking Clock

“A book salesman!” the policeman exclaimed, hoarsely. “Why, you!”

“Watch!” Johnny roared. “Watch Young Samson break this chain. Watch him!…”

Sam lowered himself several inches, spread his feet apart and drew a deep breath. He let it out slowly, rising at the same time. His muscles became cords, his face reddened from tremendous exertion and perspiration streamed down his face.

The iron links of the chain cut into his flesh… and every person within sight watched…

Up… up… The veins stood out on Sam’s throat like ropes, his face turned almost black…

And then the chain snapped!

A link broke and the chain flew away from Sam and missed the policeman by less than three inches. It landed on the ground, plain for all in front to see the link, pulled out of shape, broken!…

And now Johnny was down from the carton, tearing it open and piling books into his arms.

“Here it is, ladies and gentlemen! Every Man a Samson, the book that tells you how to become as strong and healthy as Young Samson, whom you have just observed. The secrets of life, vitality… health… Just $2.95!…”

He attacked the crowd with a vigor that was in keeping with the amazing things that had happened during the last few minutes. Behind him came Sam, still perspiring, still red in the face, but books piled up in his muscular arms. He was passing them out right and left, taking money in his powerful hands, rippling the muscles in his arms and shoulders for all to see at close range.

People milled about, murmured, chattered… and above it all thundered Johnny Fletcher’s voice, exhorting, pleading, urging… “Two dollars and ninety-five cents! A paltry two dollars and ninety-five cents for added years of life. You can save the amount in pills and medicines, doctor’s bills, over and over. Two dollars and…”

The crowd dispersed, automobiles were able to roll through the gates and go down into Hillcrest. People followed. Inside of ten minutes, there was only a sprinkling of them left.

Johnny Fletcher kicked one of the cartons, discovered that it was empty and tossed a couple of books into the second carton.

“Not bad, Sam, not bad at all…”

Sam said, out of the side of his mouth, “That man is still here.” He stooped and scooped up his shirt and coat.

“Look here, you two,” the village policeman said, in a bewildered, yet determined voice. “You can’t do a thing like that. Why, you’re nothing but book salesmen and coming here to a cemetery like this…”

Johnny clapped hands together. “Did I miss you? Of course! Well, Officer, here it is. One copy of Every Man a Samson. And… no, no! I refuse to take any money from you… It’s yours, sir, absolutely free. Without charge of any kind. With the compliments of myself and Young Samson…”

The policeman took the book, flushed and frowned. He ended by throwing up his hands, “Aw, hell!”

Johnny chuckled. “Ain’t it?”

The policeman fingered the copy of Every Man a Samson. “But don’t do it again, Mister. Not in Hillcrest. We got a local ordinance about street peddlers and the merchants and Chamber of Commerce raise hell. They say it takes money out of Hillcrest…”

“Sure, Officer. Now, I wonder if you could direct us to the estate of the late Simon Quisenberry?”

It was a formidable iron gate and Joe Cornish, when he came out of the gate house in response to Johnny Fletcher’s ring, looked even more formidable than the gate.

He examined Johnny and Sam and was apparently not impressed with what he saw, for he said, surlily:

“What do you want?”

“I want to see Mr. Eric Quisenberry, my good man,” Johnny replied loftily. “Will you be so good as to unlock this gate?”

“Quisenberry isn’t seeing people,” Cornish replied, curtly. “And I’m not your good man.”

“Ha! Well, trot into that hole of yours and telephone the house. Tell Mr. Quisenberry that a gentleman wants to see him… about Uncle Joe, in Columbus, Ohio.”

“Quisenberry hasn’t got any relatives in Ohio. What’re you trying to pull?”

Johnny gripped the iron bars of the gate and peered through. “Who are you — one of the poor relatives? If you aren’t, get on that telephone and be damned quick about it!”

“Before I climb over and knock your teeth down your throat,” Sam Cragg muttered.

Cornish regarded Johnny sullenly for a moment, then shrugged and went into his cottage. When he came out, he unbolted the gate.

“I’ll be waiting here when you come back,” he said, significantly.

“Swell,” retorted Sam.

As they started up the drive, Johnny exclaimed, “Look, the place is laid out like a clock; one walk for each hour. This Quisenberry guy certainly liked his clocks.”

“Where he’s gone now, he won’t need no clocks,” Sam retorted, philosophically. “And if this Eric Quisenberry guy is half as smart as I think he is, we won’t be needing any either — not for a good many years.”

“Always the pessimist, aren’t you, Sam? Shucks, Quisenberry ought to know by now that we didn’t kill his son.” He added under his breath, “I hope.”

Eric Quisenberry came out of the house as they approached the veranda. He was wearing rough tweeds and standing with his feet spread apart, said crisply:

“You’re the men from Columbus?”

“We’ve been there,” said Johnny. “Minnesota, too.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Eric Quisenberry. “Then you must be John Smith—”

“That’s right, and this is my friend, John Jones.”

Quisenberry grunted. “We’ll let the names slide for the moment. Do you claim to be the men who gave Miss Rusk a certain ticket?”

“A pawn ticket. For the Talking Clock. She redeemed it okay?”

Quisenberry relaxed “She gave it to me last night. She told me about you, too, but I’ll be frank with you. I don’t understand. If you’re… well, were you with my son, Tom, in that jail?”

Johnny nodded. “We spent one night there. But we didn’t kill him. That’s what I came here to tell you. There was another man in that jail. He was there, with Tom, for several hours before we were thrown in…”

“What’d he look like?”

Johnny shrugged. “He looked like the worst tramp you’d ever set eyes on. Yet — during the night, Tom crept to my bed and forced that pawn ticket into my hand. Apparently he was afraid of this fourth man. In the morning…” He paused and looked curiously at Eric Quisenberry.

Quisenberry nodded. “Go ahead. I want to get it all.”

“In the morning, Tom was dead. The constable came to wake us and this fourth man — the tramp — pulled a knife, slashed at the constable and darted out. We followed…”

“Why? If you were innocent?”

“We acted on impulse. Frankly, we were in that jail for vagrancy. We’d had a series of misfortunes and we were stony broke. With the tramp making a clean getaway, it struck me that we’d be the goats… accused of everything and little or no chance to disprove the charge.”

“I talked to that constable — Fitch, or whatever his name is. He seemed pretty certain you, or—” Quisenberry glanced at Sam — “your partner had committed… had killed Tim…”

Behind him, Bonita Quisenberry came to the door. “Excuse me, Eric,” she said. “Cornish just telephoned from the gate. He’s sending up the Greek.”

Bonita Quisenberry looked from Johnny to Sam, then came out to the veranda. Johnny heard an automobile coming up the drive, in second gear. He turned and watched the long coupe slide up in front of the veranda.

A tall, olive-skinned man of about forty climbed out. “Hallo, Mr. Quisenberry,” he said.