Frank Gruber - The Talking Clock

“Yes.” He poked his elbow in Sam’s ribs. “Since you’re buying drinks, how about ordering one for me?”

“Uh, sure,” grunted Sam. He signaled to the bartender. “What’ll you have, Johnny?”

“Since you’re drinking martinis, I’ll have one, too.”

“Sure, three martinis, bartender.” Out of the corner of his mouth, Sam whispered, “He’s a new man, here.”

Johnny winced. “So you’re learning, Sam… Well, what have you been doing all morning? Did you see Mort?”

“Oh, sure. He’s… coming to see us some time today.”

“What for?”

“You know what for.” Sam chuckled. “Like to see a new trick?”

“No.”

Sam picked up a package of cigarettes from the table, lit one and puffed on it. After a moment, he pulled out his handkerchief and flipped it out. “Watch now.”

He spread the handkerchief in his left hand, took the cigarette in his right and stuffed it into the handkerchief, about which he closed his fist.

“Isn’t he clever?” Vivian Dalton exclaimed.

Sam opened his hands, flipped the handkerchief and showed that the cigarette had disappeared — without burning the handkerchief.

“Not bad, huh, Johnny?”

“It’d be a better trick with a clean handkerchief.”

Sam grimaced. “The darn laundry. But look, here’s another trick.” He took a cigarette holder from his pocket, stuffed a cigarette into it and lit it. He puffed, “Watch now.”

There was a faint click and the cigarette disappeared from the holder.

“Gadgets,” grunted Johnny.

“I was over at Max Holden’s Magic Shop. There was a magician there. Look…” Sam took a brand-new pack of cards from his pocket, squared them and gripped the deck in his left hand. He let half of them fall back into his palm and attempted a one-hand cut. He only attempted it, for the cards spilled from his hand to the table.

Johnny chuckled and his annoyance at his friend disappeared.

Vivian Dalton sensed it and leaned across the table. “I just checked in here today. Glad there are some interesting people. I’m in the show at the Lucky Seven Club. Why don’t you and Sam run over tonight and see me do my stuff?”

“With a bottle of beer selling at seventy-five cents, Sam and I could buy about a thimbleful and I’m afraid they don’t sell beer in such small quantities.”

“Broke? Why, Sam told me you’re the best pitch-man in the country.”

“I am,” Johnny said, modestly. “But did Sam also tell you that he cut high card this morning for every dime we had?”

“What about you, matching for two hundred bucks?” Sam growled.

“We didn’t work for that money. Which reminds me I’ve got to do something about the financial situation. It’s nice meeting you, Miss Dalton, but—”

“Oh, I’ll see you around. I’ve got to run now anyway. Get my hair done for this evening…”

“It looks good enough now,” Sam said, loyally.

She smiled at Sam, but got up. Sam waved to the bartender. “Just charge this to Room 821.”

He tossed a quarter tip on the table.

Vivian Dalton went out of the cocktail lounge through the front door, to the street. Johnny turned toward the lobby door and gripped Sam’s arm savagely.

“All right, now, where’d you get the dough for this tip — and that magic stuff?”

Sam grinned. “I put the bite into Eddie Miller for a fiver.”

“The bell captain? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?…”

“Why should I be? The kid makes good dough here…”

“He does, eh? Well, just a minute…” Johnny left Sam near the desk and walked across the lobby to where Eddie Miller was presiding over the bell stand.

“Hi, Eddie,” he said, confidentially, to the bell captain. “How’s business?”

“Pretty good these days, with the fair. How’s things by you, Mr. Fletcher?”

“So-so. Just getting started on a big season. Look, Eddie, how much do they pay you here?”

“Fifteen bucks a month.”

“Fifteen bucks! Why!…”

“Oh,” grinned Eddie, “the salary’s just nominal. They got to pay something, by law. It’s the tips. I average ten bucks a day in normal times and now, with the fair, I been running close to twenty… And of course, all the hops kick in a buck per day.”

“Maybe I’m in the wrong racket,” Johnny said.

“Nah, I’ve heard plenty about you, from the boys. Why, they say you’ve made seventy-five G’s in a year, selling those books.”

“I did, one year. I lost it all in the stock market.”

“Easy come, easy go. That’s the way with me. Maybe you don’t think the nags take me for plenty.”

“Sam’s the horse player for us,” said Johnny. “Well, look, Eddie, I’m a little short today and I wondered if you could slip me, say, a twenty, until tomorrow?”

“Oh, sure, Mr. Fletcher. I don’t mind. I wouldn’t do it for regular guests, but you — I’ll bring the dough up to your room. I only got silver here and Peabody might breeze in while I’m counting it out…”

“Thanks, pal. I won’t forget it.”

Johnny went back to Sam and they rode up to the eighth floor in the elevator. As they went into their room, Sam complained, “You shouldn’t have bawled him out for lending me that five, Johnny…”

“I didn’t bawl him out. I’m borrowing twenty bucks from him. You piker!”

Eddie was already tapping on the door. He brought in a fistful of half dollars and quarters. “Here you are, Mr. Fletcher.”

“You’re a pal, Eddie. Someday I’m going over to my friend, who’s the manager of the Barbizon-Waldorf and put in a word—”

“Nix, you promised me that once before.”

“That’s right, I did. Come to think of it, you wouldn’t want to hop bells in a snotty joint like that, anyway.”

“’S all right, Mr. Fletcher. I like your style, see. You’re the slickest guest ever came to this hotel and I’m a smooth bird myself. I don’t use a blackjack, but there ain’t one guest a month gets by here without slipping me something, see?…”

“I see, Eddie. Someday you’ll be manager of this hotel.”

“Me, manager? Nothin’ doing. You know what they pay Peabody? Two fifty a month. And he don’t make any tips. I make twice as much as he does.”

Johnny shook his head sadly after Eddie Miller had gone. “There’s no justice in this world. Look at me, one of the smartest guys who ever slicked a slicker. I’m dead broke and I’ve got to borrow from a bellhop. And the bellhop makes more than the manager of the hotel.”

“There’s nobody can make more’n you, when you pay attention to business and quit fooling around with murder cases…”

Johnny frowned. “That reminds me, did you know that talking clock isn’t worth any seventy-five grand? I talked to a clock expert and he says ten thousand would be plenty for it.”

“Huh? Why, we heard the Greek offer seventy-five thousand.”

“And he’s no chump. This clock man knows Bos and says he drives a hard bargain. So what do you make of it?”

“I dunno,” said Sam. “I been thinking. What’s so wonderful about a talking clock? What the hell does it say?”

Johnny stared at his friend a moment. Then he inhaled softly: “Yes, what does it say?”

“We heard it in the pawnshop in Columbus. It didn’t say anything special. And that not too clear…

It said: ‘Five o’clock and the day is nearly done.’ But what does it say for the other hours? I wonder…”

“What?”

“Whether we have missed the whole point. Maybe it isn’t the clock at all that’s so important.”

“What else could it be?”

“It could be… the things the clock says… Look, Sam, when we were in the Quisenberry place yesterday and all the clocks went off, what happened?”