Frank Gruber - The Talking Clock

“Hello, Bos,” Quisenberry said, shortly. “What can I do for you?”

Nicholas Bos showed strong, white teeth. “I am sorry to be so impatient, but I am come… alas, I am come for the clock.”

“You didn’t waste any time, did you?” Bonita Quisenberry said, sharply.

Her husband frowned at her. “Father did tell us, my dear…” he murmured.

“Yes,” Bonita said, witheringly, “he told us about the Talking Clock, too. That isn’t included?”

“Begging pardon,” Nicholas Bos said, quickly. “You… have obtained the Talking Clock?”

“We have,” Mrs. Quisenberry said, “And I may as well tell you right now, that a certain clock collector in Toronto has made us a very nice offer on it…”

“No! You cannot sell. Simon want me having it…”

“If you’ll pay for it!”

A cloud passed across the olive-skinned man’s face. He bowed stiffly. “You will permitting examine clock?”

“I guess it’ll be all right,” said Eric Quisenberry, looking at his wife. She nodded.

Uninvited, Johnny moved toward the door. Quisenberry bumped against him and paused. “My dear,” he murmured to his wife, “I forgot to introduce Mr. Smith… and Mr. Jones. And Mr. Nicholas Bos, gentlemen.”

“Smith,” said Bonita Quisenberry, “and Jones. Not the—”

“Of the Smiths and Joneses,” Johnny said, grinning. “We’re the bright lads who retrieved the old Talking Clock. We didn’t get a good look at it before. D’you mind?”

Bonita Quisenberry looked coldly at Johnny. “What’s your angle? Diana seemed to be taken in by you, but as for me, I’m convinced—”

“Tut-tut,” said Johnny. “Would we be here, if we had?”

“I don’t know,” Bonita retorted bluntly. “There are a lot of things I don’t like about this business.”

“Why, that’s just what I was thinking… Shall we?” Johnny bowed toward the door.

Bonita went into the house. The others followed through a wide hall into a living room, then into a pine-paneled room, about twenty feet square. Stepping into the room, Johnny stopped. Behind him, Sam Cragg whistled.

There were more clocks in this room than in a clock store. And what clocks they were! Big clocks, little clocks and medium-sized clocks. There were clocks made of metal and wood, of stone and marble. Grandfather clocks and tiny table models. They were of all colors, shapes and designs. Gold and silver gleamed, brass and bronze shone.

And all the clocks were ticking. Pendulums swung, wheels whirred.

Eric Quisenberry went to a panel, pressed, and a wooden door swung open, revealing the black steel door of a wall safe. He manipulated the dial a moment then pulled open the door. He reached in and brought out the Talking Clock, setting it down on a table in the middle of the room.

Nicholas Bos said: “Ah!” His eyes were shining with avarice.

“It’s two minutes to three o’clock,” said Eric Quisenberry. “In two minutes it will talk.”

Nicholas Bos ran his hands lovingly over the clock. “Yes,” he murmured, “it is the Talking Clock I must have it.”

“How much?” demanded Bonita Quisenberry.

Nicholas Bos raised his eyes to Mrs. Quisenberry’s face. “Fifty t’ousand dollar, I will giving.”

“Come again!”

Nicholas Bos swallowed hard. “How much this Canada man say he pay?”

“More than fifty thousand,” retorted Bonita.

“Horace Potter don’t have more,” said Bos, bluntly. “I don’t believing.”

Bonita’s nostrils flared. “You’re calling me a liar?” she cried, shrilly.

Bos threw up his hands as if to ward her off. “No, no, Madame. I… is just business term. You trying get more money. I say no.”

Bonita turned to her husband. “You going to let him get away with that, Eric?”

Quisenberry cleared his throat. He was visibly embarrassed and Johnny guessed then who it was wore the pants in the Quisenberry family.

Quisenberry said, “Look here, Mr. Bos!…”

And then pandemonium took over in the clock room.

It was three o’clock and every blessed clock in the room, hundreds of them, sounded off. Cuckoos came out of their holes, and cuckooed. Bells rang, horns tooted, chimes chimed and clappers banged on gongs.

Startled almost out of his wits, Johnny tried to keep his eyes on the Talking Clock. He saw the little gold man come out, bow, but his words were drowned out by the hideous racket of the other clocks. Nicholas Bos, however, put his ear right down beside the little gold man who had come out of the Talking Clock. An expression of stupefaction came over his face.

It was only three o’clock, so the hundreds of clocks were soon finished with their tasks. Johnny wondered what the inhabitants of this house did at noon or midnight… They probably ducked for the cellar.

With the echoes of the racket dying out, Nicholas Bos straightened.

“All right,” he announced. “I will giving you seventy-five thousand dollars.”

“Now you’re beginning to talk our language,” Bonita Quisenberry exclaimed. “What do you say, Eric?…”

Eric Quisenberry coughed. “I think, Mr. Bos, you’ve made a deal. Yes sir, if you’re prepared to pay cash, I think we can arrange—”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Johnny Fletcher interposed softly. “According to what I read in the papers, this Talking Clock was bequeathed by Simon Quisenberry to his grandson Tom.”

“I know that,” Eric Quisenberry said, frowning. “But since I am his father, the clock naturally devolves—”

“Perhaps,” said Johnny. “And perhaps not.”

Bonita Quisenberry stepped quickly around Nicholas Bos and strode toward Johnny. “Say, just who are you to butt in here? If I remember right, you’re—”

“John Smith, who was a friend of Tom Quisenberry, your stepson—”

“Who murdered him!”

Johnny grinned crookedly. “No. Who was the last person to talk to Tom before he died. He told me some things, Mrs. Quisenberry. Why he ran away from his home.” He turned his back upon Bonita. “Mr. Quisenberry, you were Tom’s father, but just the same, before you sell the Talking Clock, I suggest you get a legal opinion. It might save you some trouble. You see, there might be other close relatives of your son, who would have a claim on the clock…”

Eric Quisenberry’s eyes widened. “What are you talking about, sir?”

“Why, Tom was away from home three months before he — died. He might… have gotten married somewhere.”

“Ridiculous!”

Johnny put his tongue in his cheek. Eric stared at him for a moment, then wheeled toward his wife. Bonita Quisenberry’s face had turned pale.

“Diana!… Do you suppose?…”

“I don’t know,” said Quisenberry hoarsely, “but even so…” He stared at Johnny Fletcher. “What do you know about this, sir? Speak!”

“Nothing, really. It just struck me as a possibility. After all, Tommy was practically driven from his home—”

“Driven!” Bonita Quisenberry spat, venomously. “How dare you make such a statement? Eric, order this man to leave the house.”

“I was just going,” Johnny said, nimbly. “I’d just like you to answer one question, Mr. Quisenberry. Did either you — or your father, Simon Quisenberry — employ a private detective named Jim Partridge?”

For a moment, Johnny thought Bonita Quisenberry would faint. She flinched as if he had struck her and her eyelids fluttered wildly.

Quisenberry, too, was affected. “Jim

Partridge! Did you say, Jim Partridge?”

“Why, yes, a private detective. I ran into him in Columbus. He was after… the Talking Clock.”

“It’s not true,” whispered Bonita Quisenberry. “I… I haven’t heard of him in years.”