Frank Gruber - The Talking Clock

“Queen Isabella? Say, that’s interesting. The clock’s four hundred years old then?”

“A little more. It was supposed to have been made in 1506. The main part of the clock, of course.”

“It’s been rebuilt?”

McAdam smiled. “After all, Thomas Edison didn’t invent the talking machine until forty-some years ago.”

Johnny was chagrined. “I never thought of that. But I’ve seen the clock, Mr. Me—”

“When? It’s disappeared…”

“Yes of course. Uh… I saw the clock several months ago. I was sent out to interview Simon Quisenberry on some other matter. He had the clock set up in his room. It struck the hour and a door opened and the little man came out and said his piece.”

“The mannikin is from the original clock. That hasn’t been changed. Originally, chimes played ‘Ave Maria.’ I thought myself the clock should never have been changed, but Simon was always one to indulge a whim and he had the talking box put in in place of the chimes. Phonographs were still a novelty then and the clock always attracted a good deal of attention when he exhibited it.”

“I didn’t know he exhibited it.”

McAdam tugged gently at his goatee. “A collector who wouldn’t exhibit his collection? There’s no such animal, Mr. Fletcher.”

“I guess you’re right. Well, then, Mr. McAdam, you think the clock’s really worth a hundred thousand dollars?”

“A hundred thousand!… What are you talking about?”

“Why, I understand that Nicholas Bos has already offered the family seventy-five thousand for it and they’re holding out for a hundred…”

“That’s preposterous! Five thousand would be a good price for it. Surely no more than ten.”

“But I heard Bos — I mean, I got it on good authority that Bos actually made that offer for it.”

“A publicity offer, Mr. Fletcher. Don’t believe it. Sounds like Bos. He’s always been a four-flusher. He may pay a little more than a clock’s worth if he can get some free advertising out of it, but he certainly wouldn’t pay any such price as you mention. He drives a good bargain. I’ve sold him some pieces myself.”

“Well,” said Johnny. “That puts a new light on things. Now, tell me, Simon’s collection is pretty good, isn’t it? How much would you estimate it to be worth?”

“Why, if it includes the Empress Catherine’s famous egg clock, a half million would be cheap.”

“Wait a minute, now! What’s this Empress Catherine egg clock?”

“It’s a watch, really. It contains a ruby that’s worth a hundred thousand alone.”

“Ah,” said Johnny. “But the Talking Clock also contains jewels…”

“Some small carat stuff. If you remember your history, you know that Queen Isabella wasn’t wealthy. She had to pawn some of her jewels to pay for Columbus’ expedition. I still think ten thousand would be a good price for the Talking Clock. The Empress Catherine’s egg clock is something else. But its value lies in the ruby, not the clock.”

Johnny looked at one of the clocks behind McAdam. “Thanks a lot, Mr. McAdam. I’ve got to run now.”

“No hurry, Mr. Fletcher. I’m not busy and I’d like to give you some more data on clocks…”

“Sorry, but I’ve got to meet a deadline.”

“Oh, I see. Well, come around again. When will your article be in the paper? This afternoon?”

“Uh… no! This is a feature story for our Sunday supplement. Thanks a lot, Mr. McAdam.”

Johnny ran out of the store and fortunately caught a bus on the corner going back to the Grand Central. He made the Hillcrest train with two minutes to spare.

Walking through the business street of Hillcrest, on his way to the Rusk apartment, Johnny Fletcher spied Diana Rusk on the other side of the street. He crossed over to meet her.

“Morning, Miss Rusk. I was just on my way to see you.”

“Mr. Fletcher! I’ve been wondering how to get in touch with you. I suppose you’ve heard about — the clock?”

“That’s why I came out here. May I walk with you?”

“I’m on my way to Twelve O’Clock House.”

“Twelve O’Clock House? That’s the Quisenberry place? Swell, I’ll walk with you. I was going to go there later on… What do you think of this theft? The paper said the watchman—”

“Cornish would be insulted to hear you call him a watchman. He’s the estate manager. Yes, I heard his description of the — the marauders.”

“I was sleeping at the 45th Street Hotel at the time. I can prove it. But tell me about this Cornish fellow. How long has he worked on the estate?”

“Two or three years. He…” Diana made a wry face. “This sounds catty, but Bonita — I mean, Mrs. Quisenberry, is rather, shall we say, fond of Joe Cornish?”

“Oh… oh! I made a guess like that just yesterday. By the way, that was for Jim Partridge’s benefit.”

“Partridge! Is he here?”

“And how! He brought one of his gorillas to the hotel the first thing this morning. Sam slapped down the gorilla.”

“I don’t understand his interest in this. Unless Bonita…”

“He says no. And yesterday when I mentioned his name in front of Bonita she almost threw in the sponge. She seemed scared just at the mention of Partridge’s name.”

Diana’s smooth forehead creased. She shot a sidewise glance at Johnny, then looked straight ahead.

“Mr. Quisenberry came down to see us after you’d gone yesterday. He… he asked about my marriage to Tom.”

“Did you tell him?”

“I saw no reason to keep it a secret… now.”

“What’d he say?”

“Why… he was very nice about it. It… it wasn’t Mr. Quisenberry who objected…”

“Ah, the gentle Bonita. People might think she was getting along if a daughter-in-law suddenly showed up.”

“How old do you think Bonita is?”

Johnny pursed his lips. “Oh, about thirty. Well, maybe thirty-two or three.”

Diana sniffed scornfully. “That shows how much a man knows about a woman. Bonita’s type. She’s as old as my mother.”

“Huh? She — doesn’t look it.”

“She tries hard enough not to. I… I don’t like her. If it hadn’t been for her, Tom wouldn’t be—”

Johnny changed the subject quickly. “By the way, have you ever met this clock collector, Nicholas Bos?”

She flashed him a smile. “Once or twice. He came to see old Mr. Quisenberry now and then.”

They had climbed the steep hill to the gate of Twelve O’Clock House by this time and Johnny was caught again by the queer diagonal macadam paths leading away from the house.

“Say,” he exclaimed, “those paths are fixed up like the dial of a clock.”

“Of course,” said Diana. “That’s why the house is called Twelve O’Clock House. There are twelve such paths… the drive here is six o’clock, the walk to the right, five o’clock and so on— Shh!”

Joe Cornish came out of his cottage, a piece of adhesive tape stuck over his right cheekbone.

“Good morning, Joe,” said Diana. “I believe Mr. Quisenberry is expecting me.”

“ ’Morning, Miss Rusk.” Cornish opened the gate, but looked sullenly at Johnny Fletcher.

“Hi, Cornish,” Johnny said, flippantly. “Hear you had a little brush with burglars last night.”

Cornish’s mouth twisted. “Yeah… I almost got them, too. One of them looked like…” He shrugged.

Johnny winked and walked past the surly estate manager. As they climbed up the walk, Eric Quisenberry got up from a wicker chair on the veranda and came to meet them.

“Good morning, Diana.” He squinted at Johnny. “And Mr. Fletcher.”

“Did I get here too early?” Diana asked.

“No. Mr. Walsh is already here. He’s in the house with my — with Bonita. Uh, Mr. Fletcher, would you mind waiting out here a few minutes? It’s — Mr. Walsh was my father’s attorney and…”