Frank Gruber - The Talking Clock

“Right you are, Sam. We’ll just forget the whole thing and look after ourselves.

The first thing to do is to get located. So, let’s hop the old train back to the city.”

When they got off the shuttle train at Times Square and climbed up to the street, Sam Cragg said: “Where are we going to hole up?”

“Why,” said Johnny, “right over there is 45th Street. Isn’t there a nice, fourthrate hotel on 45th Street?”

“Ow! The 45th Street Hotel? Peabody isn’t going to welcome us.”

“Nor will he turn us away. It’s against the law. We’ve got the money to pay for a room, so…” They walked over to 45th Street, turned east, and after a moment went into the hotel.

The bell captain started automatically toward them, then suddenly stopped in his tracks. “Mr. Fletcher; and Sam Cragg. Holy Gee!”

“Hiyah, Eddie,” Johnny greeted the bell captain. “How’s things?”

“They been slow… until now. Uh… there’s the boss!”

Mr. Peabody, the manager of the 45th Street Hotel, wearing his neatly pressed afternoon suit, with a white carnation in the buttonhole, descended upon them.

“Mr. Fletcher!” he exclaimed. “How do you do. Isn’t it too bad?”

“What? Your mother-in-law coming to live with you?”

“Ha-ha,” Mr. Peabody laughed, without humor. “Always joking. No, I had reference to the room situation. With the World’s Fair and all — we’re crowded to the roof.”

“Now, you’re kidding, Peabody. I’ll bet you’ve got fifty rooms vacant. Why, I sent you a nice old couple this morning. Mr. and Mrs. Schultz from Iowa. Did you take good care of them?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Peabody frowned. He looked pointedly at the carton dangling from Sam’s hand. “Is that your baggage?”

“For the nonce. The trunks are coming later.”

Peabody pressed his lips together tightly, and shook his head. “I’m sorry, I might be able to find a vacant room, but since you have no baggage—”

“Tut-tut, Peabody.” Johnny took a handful of crumpled bills from his pocket. “I’m holding heavy. I don’t mind paying a week’s rent in advance… since the hotel needs the money so badly. Eleven dollars, sir. There you are.”

“Fifteen; our rates have gone up…”

“Eleven,” said Johnny firmly. “You’re not going to raise us just because there’s a World’s Fair in town.”

Mr. Peabody looked darkly at Johnny. “Something tells me I’m going to be sorry for this weakness.”

“Mr. Peabody,” said Sam Cragg, “I’d like to show you a card trick…” He looked at the other’s austere face and scowled. “On the other hand, let’s skip it. You never did have a sense of humor.”

“If I didn’t,” said Mr. Peabody, bitingly, “would I permit you to come back to this hotel, after what you did here last time?…”

Up in Room 821, Johnny took off his coat and rolling up his sleeves went into the bathroom to wash up. With the water running, he yelled to Sam:

“Look in the phone directory for the address of the Quisenberry Clock Company, and see if that Greek, Nicholas Bos, is listed in the book.”

Sam Cragg came into the bathroom. “What’d you say, Johnny?”

“I said to look up the address of the Quisenberry—”

“I heard that. But Johnny, you promised you’d forget that business. Whenever you play detective, we come out the wrong end. Look what almost happened to us up there in Minnesota and we were minding our own business.”

“It’s because of that I’m interested in the Quisenberrys, Sam. You don’t think those John Smith and John Jones alibis are going to hold forever, do you? One of these fine days someone’s going to knock on our door and when we open it a man’ll be standing there and he’ll say: ‘Mr. Smith and Jones? The chief wants to have a word with you!’ ”

“But we don’t have to stick here in New York now. We’ve got a stake and—”

“How much of a stake, Sam? I’ve already paid Peabody eleven bucks. Which leaves us about fifty. And what about poor Mort? You going to let that loan shark work him over?”

Sam winced. “I could beat the hell out of him, but I dunno about his gang. They don’t fight with their fists…”

“Damn right they don’t. We got Mort into it and we’ve got to get him out of it. We’ll have to stick around here long enough to get him out of hock. We owe it to Mort. He’s been a grand guy…”

Sam looked suspiciously at Johnny. Then he shrugged and got the phone directory. “Yeah,” he said, after a moment, “the clock outfit’s over on Tenth Avenue. Let’s see about Bos, now. B-o-s… mm, say, here’s a Nicholas Bos with a ‘b’ after his name. That means business. The address is on West Avenue… What business would he be in? Clocks?”

“No. They’re his hobby. I gathered that the Greek has plenty of what it takes. Did you hear him offer seventy-five G’s for a clock?”

“I heard him and I was thinking that we practically had our mitts on that clock once. All we needed was two hundred bucks.”

Johnny screwed up his mouth. “Wonder why the Kid hocked the clock for two hundred dollars when it was worth so much?”

“Maybe he didn’t know how much it was worth.”

Johnny shrugged and put on his coat. “It’s about four thirty. We’ve just got time to run over to this clock outfit. I’d like to see what it looks like.”

“All right,” Sam sighed.

They left the hotel and walked briskly toward Seventh Avenue. They crossed Times Square and continued westward. When they reached Tenth Avenue they turned north.

Johnny whistled. “There she is! The building covers a whole block. They must have turned out a lot of Simple Simons to build that.”

“Simple Simons?”

“Now, don’t tell me you never saw a Simple Simon alarm clock, Sam. Every drugstore in America sells ’em. One buck per alarm.”

“Oh, those! I threw one at a cat one night and when I went out the next morning there was the clock, ticking away as good as new.”

They went into the building. Opposite the elevators was a receptionist behind a mahogany desk.

Johnny said: “I want to see the boss. The big boss.”

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist said, “but Mr. Quisenberry was buried only today.”

“I know that. But the company’s still in business, isn’t it? Somebody must be in charge and that’s who I want to see…”

“Why, yes, I think that would be Mr. Tamarack, the sales manager. But… do you have an appointment?”

“Does a fellow need an appointment around here to buy some clocks? Look, Miss, I’m on my vacation. I came to New York to see the World’s Fair. I don’t have to buy any clocks, but I thought as long as I was here I’d look over your line. If it’s as good as the line I’ve been handling, well…”

“Of course, sir. Just a moment…”

“The name is Fletcher. Of Fletcher & Company.” Out of the side of his mouth he said to Sam, “You’re the company.”

The girl spoke into her telephone and looked up at Johnny. “Go right through this door and up the hall to Office Number Three. Mr. Tamarack will be glad to see you.”

The inner hall was nicely carpeted and the walls were of pine paneling. Johnny pushed open a door bearing the gold numeral “3” and entered.

Wilbur Tamarack got up from behind a huge desk. “Mr. Fletcher? I don’t believe we’ve ever had the pleasure of doing business with you.”

He held out his hand and Johnny shook it, nodding when Tamarack returned his grip with interest. “Glad to know you, Mr. Tamarack. This is my friend, Mr. Cragg.”

“How do you do, Mr. Cragg? You’re from out of town, I understand.”