Frank Gruber - The Talking Clock

“Simon Quisenberry was worth a lot of money.”

“Guess again. He died broke. All he left was this clock.”

“Nah,” said Partridge. “He had a clock collection worth a million bucks. And a big estate, not to mention the Simple Simon Clock outfit, which isn’t hay in itself.”

“Everything mortgaged. Even the clocks. Except the one — the Talking Clock. He left that to his grandson.”

“Who died before Simon did.”

Johnny looked thoughtfully at the private detective. “How does that figure out? Did the clock revert back to the estate?”

“Depends on the wording of Old Simon’s will. In either case, the clock is worth plenty by itself. I figure the clock can be had.”

“Through your hole card, Bonita?”

Partridge frowned. “You don’t know the old girl. I was married to her. Do you see that brass ash stand there? It’s soft stuff compared to Bonita. She’s out for herself, first, last and all the time.”

“I gathered that. Her present husband, Eric, has about as much chance as a mouse would have in a college of cats. But for the time being, I think Bonita is stymied. Nothing she can do… except leave her husband.”

“She’ll leave him when she’s got his last dollar. Not before. Bonita’s tough, Fletcher, but would you believe that I had her housebroken?”

“Meaning that you’re a tough bozo yourself?”

Partridge smiled modestly. “Remember the Monahan-Royster case four years ago? I pinched Monahan.”

“All right,” agreed Johnny. “You’re tough. So what?”

“So I thought we might play ball. What were you doing over at the Quisenberry Clock Company?”

“I was trying to buy a Simple Simon Clock.”

Partridge’s eyes glittered. “What’s your interest in this, Fletcher? You had the clock once and gave it to the girl. Why do you stick around then?”

“Why?” said Johnny. “A kid I was in jail with got himself murdered and the Minnesota cops seem to think me and Sam here did it. I’m trying to prove we didn’t.”

“That was Minnesota; this is New York.”

“They can extradite you for a murder rap.”

“Yeah,” said Jim Partridge, thoughtfully. “So they can.”

“Don’t go getting ideas, Partridge,” growled Sam Cragg.

“By the way,” said Johnny, “could you prove where you were on September 19th?”

“I wasn’t in Minnesota.”

“Can you prove you weren’t?”

“Can you prove I was?”

“No,” said Johnny, “but Sam and me could swear that the guy who was in jail with us — the one who struck the constable — looked a lot like you, without your face washed. Catch on?”

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to snitch to the cops about you. I’ve got a stake in this game and I’ll play my cards without cops. But I’m warning you. I play a tough game.”

“Swell,” said Sam Cragg. “So do we. And as long as warnings are in order, let me give you one, Partridge. Next time you see us coming, cross the street.”

Partridge smiled icily. “Can I take my hardware with me? It isn’t loaded, anyway.”

Johnny picked up the automatic from the bed and saw that the magazine was empty. He tossed the gun to Partridge.

“So long, Partridge.”

“Just for a while. I may see you around.” He looked pointedly at Sam Cragg. “Both of you.”

After he had gone out, Sam Cragg shivered. “Something tells me that Partridge is a mean hombre.”

“I remember him now. Monahan was a killer and he had some rough boys with him. Partridge went into his hide-out and killed one of the hoods and beat the hell out of this Monahan.”

“And did you hear what he said about his ex?”

“About having had her housebroken? Did you see her face this morning? She was scared stiff when I mentioned his name. I thought at the time it was because I’d spilled something. I guess maybe it was because she’s afraid of Partridge. Well, how about some food now, Sam?”

“I’m ready. I still haven’t got over those lean days. A nice, thick steak, smothered in onions… and maybe a few pork chops for dessert…”

Johnny was lying in bed the next morning, wondering whether to get up and dress or have breakfast brought up to the room. He rolled his head and saw the newspaper under the door, and after looking at it a while, decided that he might as well get up and see what was going on.

He got the newspaper and returned to bed. In the twin bed on the side nearest the windows Sam Cragg was lying on his back, covers thrown back. He wore no pajamas and his broad chest was rising and falling rhythmically.

Johnny looked at the newspaper. The British were giving the Germans hell and the Germans were beating the hell out of the British. The British downed fourteen German planes, with a loss of but one for their side and the Germans had shot down thirty-four British planes with a loss of only two of their own.

Then an item on the bottom half of the front page caught his eye:

According to the account, Joe Cornish, manager of the Quisenberry estate, had surprised a pair of burglars on the Quisenberry estate shortly after midnight. He had fought with the men, but they had overpowered him and made their escape. Reporting the occurrence to the owner of the estate, Eric Quisenberry, an examination was made in the house with the astonishing discovery that the safe was open and the famous Talking Clock, valued at $100,000 by the recently deceased owner, Simon Quisenberry, was missing. The burglars had not touched any of the other clocks in the famous collection, most of which were not under lock and key.

Johnny rolled up the newspaper and reaching over, slapped Sam Cragg’s bare chest. “Up, Sammy, my boy! The sun’s shining and the early birds are getting all the worms… We’ve been outwitted.”

Sam Cragg sat up and blinked stupidly. “Owoo!” he yawned. “What’s matter? I was just dreaming that we were in Florida and I’d picked a thirty-two to one shot—”

“And the horse stumbled in the stretch! Look at this paper, Sam. The Talking Clock’s been swiped from the Quisenberrys.”

“Huh? Say… Jim Partridge?”

“Read the description that bird Cornish gave of the burglars. One man tall and rather slender, the other shorter and very stocky. An extraordinarily powerful man…”

“Hey! Those’re our descriptions.”

“Were we at the Quisenberry estate around midnight?”

“We were pounding our ears here.”

“Sure we were. So let’s get out there and tell them.”

Sam winced. “Is that a good idea? This Cornish lad may identify us. He didn’t seem to care a lot for either of us.”

“I didn’t care for him, either. But he won’t identify us. He didn’t mention having actually recognized the burglars, did he? Furthermore… there’s something damn fishy about this burglary. Why should they pass up the other clocks? If you’ll remember, some of them looked even better than the Talking Clock.”

“But they weren’t worth as much.”

“Only a clock expert would know that. Or someone who knew about the Talking Clock.”

Johnny hopped out of bed and headed for the bathroom. When he came out a few minutes later, he began dressing. “Hurry up, Sam,” he said. “We’ve got a busy day ahead of us…”

It was then that the door resounded to the rapping of knuckles. Johnny slipped on his trousers and began buttoning his shirt. Still shoeless, he went to the door.

“Who is it?”

“Me,” said the voice of Jim Partridge.

“Ah, hell! Before breakfast.” However, Johnny opened the door. He regretted it instantly.