Frank Gruber - The Talking Clock

Quisenberry stared at his wife, as a slow flush crept up into his face. “I think, Bonita,” he said, “we must have a talk about… this.”

“You didn’t employ Partridge, then?” Johnny asked.

Quisenberry shook his head. “My father may have…”

When Johnny and Sam were at the door, Quisenberry called to them:

“By the way, where could I get in touch with you?”

Johnny grinned. “I’ll get in touch with you. Goodbye, Mrs. Quisenberry.”

They went through the living room to the front door and let themselves out of the house. As they walked down the hillside, Johnny said to Sam, “There’s something mighty queer about this set-up…”

“Damn right there is… the whole bunch of them is screwy. And you know why? Because they have to listen to those clocks go off every hour!”

As they passed the cottage by the gate, Johnny looked through the open door and saw the truculent gatekeeper at a telephone. Sam loitered. “Maybe he still wants to make something.”

The gateman half turned from the telephone and scowled at them, but kept the receiver at his ear. Johnny and Sam went out through the gate.

In the road they looked down upon the suburban community of Hillcrest.

Sam said: “Well, do we go back to the city?”

“Yes… After a little while.”

“Ahrr! You’re not going to hang around here? That Quisenberry dame is poison. She’s just as apt to call the cops and have them grab us.”

“Uh-uh, little Bonita will behave. That Partridge name just about floored her. I wonder who this bird Partridge is. I’ve a good notion to—” he grinned at Sam — “find out.”

Sam groaned. “Where?”

Johnny nodded to the town of Hillcrest. “Didn’t the little Rusk girl tell us she lived down there?”

“She’s too young,” said Sam.

“Uh-uh. They’re marrying them as young as sixteen these days. Guys older than me. The Rusk kid is nineteen or twenty. Maybe she’s got a sister… or a girl friend. For you.”

Sam still scowled, but made no further protest. Walking down to the main street of the little community, Johnny went into a drugstore, leaving Sam outside. When he came out, he nodded up the street

“The Hillcrest Apartments. She lives with her mother.”

Ellen Rusk answered their ring at the door of the Rusk apartment. Alarm spread quickly across her face. “You’re the men who—”

“Who sold some books,” Johnny said, quickly. “But don’t worry about that. We’re also friends of your daughter’s… and Tom Quisenberry.”

“I don’t understand. Diana didn’t say anything…”

“Didn’t she tell you that two men helped her retrieve the Talking Clock in Columbus?”

“Why, yes, but you?…”

“Smith and Jones,” said Johnny. “Your daughter isn’t home?”

“I’m expecting her any minute. Why… Would you come in? I guess it’s all right.”

“Thank you.”

They entered the neatly furnished apartment. Mrs. Rusk led them to the living room and nodded to the sofa. She seated herself in an armchair.

“Mrs. Rusk,” Johnny began, bluntly, “did you ever hear of a man named Jim Partridge?”

Her sudden start told them that she had. But she waited a moment before replying. “Why, yes, the present Mrs. Quisenberry was formerly married to him.”

“Oh-oh!” said Johnny. “So that’s it. Did you ever meet Partridge yourself?”

“No.” Ellen Rusk smiled faintly. “I imagine Jim Partridge is the skeleton in Mrs. Quisenberry’s closet.”

“You and Mrs. Quisenberry are friends?”

Ellen Rusk colored. “I don’t see… just where do you come into all this, Mr. — ?”

“I’m Smith. He’s Jones. Why, I don’t really come into it at all. Except that certain misunderstandings have arisen and Sam — I mean Jones and myself — are in considerable danger. To put it bluntly, we’re fugitives from justice. Accused of…” He shrugged.

“Yes, I know. But… why do you come here, to question me?”

Johnny hesitated. “Your daughter was engaged to Tom Quisenberry. Although he had been gone from home for some months, your daughter, nevertheless, dashed out to Minnesota immediately upon learning that he was in trouble. She drove day and night…”

He stopped and looked sharply at Mrs. Rusk. “Were Tom Quisenberry and your daughter more than engaged?”

She stiffened and he saw her hands grip the arms of the chair until her knuckles were white.

“I mean,” he said, softly, “had they been married… secretly?”

“What makes you think that?” Ellen Rusk asked in a firm, although low tone.

“Why, I made such a suggestion a little while ago to Eric Quisenberry. He was considerably wrought up about it and it struck me that he was more than ready to believe it.”

“No,” said Ellen Rusk. “My daughter was not married to Tom Quisenberry. She had, in fact—”

The door buzzer whirred and she rose quickly to her feet. “Excuse me a moment…”

She stopped. Diana Rusk came into the room. Her eyes widened when she saw Johnny and Sam. “You!…”

“Hello, Miss Rusk,” Johnny said, grinning.

Ellen Rusk was making signals to her daughter, but the latter ignored them and coming forward, extended her hand to Johnny. “I got Tom’s clock,” she said. “And I’m glad you came here. It gives me an opportunity to thank you.”

Johnny grimaced. “Why did you give the clock to Mr. Quisenberry? He came darn near selling it this afternoon.”

“Why, I imagine it’s his to sell now, isn’t it?”

“That depends, Miss Rusk. You see, Tom’s grandfather left that particular clock to Tom and—”

“Diana!” said Ellen Rusk sharply. “Please come into the bedroom with me a moment.”

Johnny sighed. “A man named Bos offered seventy-five thousand dollars for the clock.”

“Seventy-five thousand!…” gasped Diana Rusk and then her mother caught her arm and propelled her out of the room.

Johnny sat down again on the sofa. Sam said, sourly, to him: “I think we ought to get out of here, Johnny. This Mrs. Rusk is pretty upset. You’ve been too rough.”

“I know. But it’s all right. There won’t be any more. I think the girl’s entitled to whatever’s coming to her. That Quisenberry dame would grab anything…”

Ellen and Diana Rusk came out of the bedroom. The girl’s face was pale, her mother’s determined. Johnny nudged Sam and got up.

“Thank you, Mrs. Rusk,” he said, “but I think we must be going now. Sorry to have troubled you…”

“Don’t you want the answer — to that question?”

Johnny shook his head. “No. It won’t be necessary…”

“Why not? You were so insistent before.”

“Sorry. I’d just come from a bout with Bon — Mrs. Quisenberry. She was pretty eager to sell the clock.”

“Ah? And you think the clock should go to Diana?”

Johnny spread out his hands and looked at them. Diana Rusk said, bravely, “I was married to Tom. Before he went away. But… I don’t want the clock.”

Johnny nodded. “That’s up to you.”

“Thank you for your interest, Mr. — ” Ellen Rusk looked questioningly at Johnny.

He inhaled. “John Fletcher. And this is Sam Cragg. And now, we must be going.”

Out on the street, Sam Cragg said: “Now, what’d all this get you?”

“Oh,” said Johnny, “information.”

Sam scowled. “Look, Johnny, there’s no chance to play detective around here. I know you want to. But there just ain’t anything. The Kid was killed in Minnesota, fifteen hundred miles from here. That’s done and there’s nothing we can do about it. Why don’t we just mind our own business, huh? We’ve got some dough and we can make some more.”