Frank Gruber - The Talking Clock

“Of course. I’ll sit down right here.”

Eric Quisenberry took Diana Rusk into the house and Johnny seated himself in the wicker chair. From his position he could look down over the sloping lawns and drives to the Hillcrest road, running along the front of the property.

The macadam walks that divided the estate into pie-shaped wedges fascinated Johnny. Six o’clock was the drive leading up to the house. Johnny could also see the four, five and the seven and eight o’clock walks.

Johnny wondered if old Simon Quisenberry hadn’t been touched on the subject of clocks. He had put the Simple Simon clock into half the households of the United States and many foreign countries. Not content with that he had taken to collecting a half million dollars’ worth of antique clocks and finally carried the clock theme into his very dwelling place.

Well, he had died. But by his clocks he would be remembered.

After a while Johnny heard voices in the house and then footsteps. The Quisenberrys, Diana Rusk and a tall, gray-haired man came out.

Bonita Quisenberry ignored Johnny, but her husband introduced the gray-haired man. “Mr. Walsh, Mr. Fletcher… Well, good-bye, Mr. Walsh, thank you for your kindness.”

The Quisenberry lawyer went off down the drive. Johnny, watching, saw Bonita’s eyes smoldering as she regarded the retreating figure.

“Everything fine, Mr. Quisenberry?” Johnny said, casually.

Eric Quisenberry gave a start. “Fine? Uh, yes, yes. I mean, no. Father stated in the will that he’d made an outright gift of the clock to my son, Tom. Walsh construed that to mean that the clock belonged to Tom before Father died.”

“Which is just too bad,” Bonita said, nastily, “since the clock has been stolen.”

Diana Rusk’s chin came up proudly. “I wouldn’t have accepted it, anyway.”

“No? Well, I’m not accusing you, but you cultivate strange friends. Convicts—”

“Bonita!” Eric Quisenberry said, sharply.

“You!…” Bonita said witheringly to her husband, then turned and stormed into the house.

“I’m sorry,” Quisenberry apologized. “Bonita’s a bit upset.”

“ ’S all right. I was just going,” said Johnny. He stepped off the veranda, then hesitated. “I wonder if you’d mind telling me something, Mr. Quisenberry. You know I have an interest in the Talking Clock. Was the clock really in the safe last night?…”

“Of course. Since I knew its value, I wouldn’t have left it out.”

“That’s what I thought. But some of those other clocks are valuable too, and they’re not in the safe.”

Quisenberry frowned. “To tell you the truth, I haven’t been very interested in the other clocks. While Father was alive he practically lived in the room with the clocks and of course we have a watchman on the grounds, full time…”

“He wasn’t much good last night.”

“I know,” Quisenberry said, testily. “He hasn’t been much good for anything lately. As a matter of fact, I’m thinking of discharging him.”

Johnny nodded and was about to carry the conversation along, when Diana Rusk said, somewhat hastily, “I must be going home.”

Quisenberry was already going into the house, so Johnny shrugged and fell in beside Diana. As they walked down toward the gate, he said:

“I was going to ask him something else, but I guess he was too sore. Uh… it’s about a rumor I heard in town. Although I don’t suppose there’s anything to it.”

“You mean,” said Diana, “about Mr. Simon Quisenberry’s will?”

“Yes. The story is that he didn’t leave quite as much money as… well, as expected.”

“That’s true, Mr. Fletcher. I don’t suppose it’ll remain a secret very long. Actually, Mr. Simon left nothing at all.”

“Nothing? You mean, comparatively nothing?”

“No, I mean it literally. Mr. Simon had had business reverses and I understand that he mortgaged everything he owned. Even his clock collection…”

“The clock collection? Who’d loan money on that?”

“Why, that Greek sponge importer, Mr. Nicholas Bos.”

Johnny blinked. “You mean all those clocks go to him? I heard him say yesterday he’d come for the clocks, but I hadn’t dreamed he was referring to Simon’s entire collection. Why, it’s worth half million dollars, I understand.”

“That’s right, Mr. Quisenberry borrowed a half million dollars on it.”

Johnny whistled. “And Bos is willing to go another seventy-five thousand for the Talking Clock?”

“So I understand.”

Johnny shook his head. “Some people are screwy. Take yourself, why should you kick seventy-five thousand dollars in the face?”

“I think that should be obvious. When I married Tom I did so because… because I loved him. I didn’t marry him for his money, like…”

“Like Bonita married Tom’s father? Yeah, I think I begin to understand. Which reminds me, what becomes of Eric? The old man left him the business?…”

“What there is of it. Mother — I mean, I understand he’s getting only six months with it. If he is unable to pay back the million dollars the company owes the bank, they will take everything from him.”

“Oh… oh! Not so good. Tell me, this fellow who’s running the business now — Wilbur Tamarack — where does he come in?”

Her mouth seemed to tighten a little. “Why… why, I guess he may lose his position. You see… I might as well tell you. Eric never did much in the firm. Simon ran everything himself… with the help of Mr. Tamarack. He… he didn’t think Eric very capable and so…”

“I see. But now Eric’s in charge. For six months, at least. He may resent Tamarack’s former authority and kick him out.”

They were approaching the bridge which ran over the train tracks, beyond which was Hillcrest’s mainstreet.

“I get my train back to the city here,” Johnny said. “I’d like to ask you just one more question… What does your mother think of Eric Quisenberry?”

He looked at the girl’s widened eyes and said, quickly: “Never mind answering that.” She didn’t have to answer; her face told him.

He watched her walk up the street toward the Hillcrest Apartments, then finally turned to the railroad station.

Back in the city, Johnny discovered, as he walked from the Grand Central to the 45th Street Hotel, that his entire capital consisted of thirty-two cents. He wondered how much of the dollar he had given Sam the latter had spent for lunch. There ought to be enough left for a moderate dinner.

He entered the hotel and the bell captain advanced toward him. “Sam’s in the cocktail lounge, Mr. Fletcher.” He winked. “He’s picked himself up a pip.”

“Sam — a pip?” Johnny was startled. But not more so than a moment later when he entered the cocktail lounge and saw the blonde who sat across a table from Sam.

The bell captain had not overstated. The girl was a knockout. Blonde, with a figure. Her complexion was entirely due to excellent make-up, but it was a fine job.

Sam was positively drooling as he regarded his conquest. But when Johnny approached and Sam looked up, he flinched and turned a deep crimson.

“Johnny!”

“Hello, Sam,” Johnny said, coldly. “How’s everything?”

“Uh… uh, fine, Johnny. Uh, meet Miss Dalton.”

The girl turned mascaraed orbs upon Johnny. “And so you’re Johnny Fletcher! Sam’s been raving about you for two hours. Mmm… the name’s Vivian, to you.”

Johnny sat down on the cushioned bench beside Sam Cragg.

“Where’d you pick him up?” he asked Vivian, bluntly.

“Pick him up? Why… he insisted on buying a drink for me. But… are you his keeper?”