Frank Gruber - The Talking Clock

When he was six feet from it, a pimply-faced youth of about nineteen, carrying two suit boxes, came in.

“Ah,” Johnny exclaimed. “Here you are — from Hagemann’s!”

“You Mr. Peabody?…” mumbled the youth.

“Of course! Tell Mr. Hagemann I appreciate the quick service. And here, my boy, is a half dollar for you.” Loftily he dropped the coin into the boy’s hand.

He turned away and just then one of the elevators opened and Mr. Peabody, white carnation and all, stepped out.

“Ha! Mr. Fletcher,” he said. “Been buying some clothes?… You must be prosperous. Mmm, Hagemann’s; a good store.”

“Only fair, Mr. Peabody, only fair. I just wanted a knock-about or two and my Park Avenue tailor…” He let the words trail off and stepped past Mr. Peabody into the elevator.

Upstairs, in Room 821, Sam Cragg was perspiring freely. “It worked!” he cried, in relief.

“Of course it worked. My stunts always work… well, almost always.” He chuckled. “I bumped into Peabody. You know, I’m tempted to let the suits go through on his bill…”

“No!” howled Sam. “The first of the month is only three days off.”

“Right you are, but all day I’ve heard the faint whisper of far-off money… and the sound is coming closer.”

“I hope so, Johnny, I hope so. Things been tough too long.”

And so that evening, nicely shaved, shoes shined, their hair trimmed and wearing the new clothes, Johnny Fletcher and Sam Cragg entered the Lucky Seven Club.

The headwaiter showed them to a table, not too far from the handkerchief-sized dance floor, and when the waiter came, Johnny ordered. “Two bottles of beer… and a bowl of pretzels!”

“Beg pardon, sir,” said the waiter, “you know there’s a $3.00 minimum?”

“Ha? And how much is a bottle of beer?”

“One dollar, sir!”

“All right, we’ll have a couple of bottles later to make up the minimum.”

“Don’t look now, Johnny,” whispered Sam “but isn’t that the clock fella over there by the wall?…”

Johnny twisted his head. He smiled and nodded to Wilbur Tamarack. The latter looked puzzled for a moment, then his face broke in recognition.

“Sit here and watch our beers, Sam.”

Johnny got up and worked his way to the table, where Tamarack was seated with a girl wearing a white fox evening cape. The girl’s back had been toward Johnny, but when he came up he was astonished to see that it was Diana Rusk. Somehow, he hadn’t expected her to go to a night club so soon after her husband’s death.

“Well, well!” he exclaimed.

“Hello, Fletcher,” Tamarack said shortly.

Diana Rusk was more cordial. “Mr. Fletcher. Won’t you… join us?”

“Sam is holding down a table for us. Later, perhaps you might dance?”

A slight frown creased her forehead. “Perhaps…”

Johnny nodded. “How’s the clock business, Mr. Tamarack?”

“Fine. And your… business?”

“Ticking… See you later.”

Johnny returned to his table to find that Sam had already guzzled most of one bottle of beer. “After this afternoon, this is a let down,” Sam complained.

“Maybe your girl friend will pick you up? Where is she?”

“I asked the waiter. She goes on in a minute.”

The drummer in the orchestra rolled his drum and the master of ceremonies was focused into a spotlight.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “I give you that popular song stylist, Miss… Vivian Dalton!”

Vivian Dalton, wearing a white evening gown that revealed plenty, walked into the spotlight. She had an excellent voice, low and throaty, with a catch to it now and then that caused a little ripple to race up and down Johnny’s spine.

“Say, ain’t she swell?” Sam Cragg whispered across the table.

Johnny nodded. “Shut up, I want to hear her.”

She had caught his eyes now and gave him a half sad smile. His pulse began to throb slowly and for the moment he forgot that he had suspected Vivian Dalton of being a decoy.

She finished the song, amid tremendous applause, then sang “The Gaucho Serenade” for an encore. When she left the floor, a trio of tap dancers came on.

Johnny relaxed. “Not bad. A girl like that could cut your throat and you wouldn’t even mind it.”

“I think you’re wrong about her, Johnny,” said Sam. “For my money she’s okay.”

“What money?”

“Shh! Here she comes.”

Johnny pushed back his chair quickly. Vivian Dalton came slowly toward them, smiling tantalizingly. “Hi, boys,” she greeted them. “I see you came anyway.”

“How, you’ll never know.” Johnny grinned. “You’re pretty good, you know.”

“You haven’t seen any Hollywood talent scouts knocking me over, have you?”

Johnny pulled up a vacant chair from an adjoining table. “Sit down a while, won’t you?”

“For a minute.”

“And how about a bottle of beer?”

“Beer?”

“We’re on a budget. Besides beer is healthy. With a voice like yours, you’ve got to—” He stopped for Vivian Dalton was staring past him.

He turned, just as Sam Cragg exclaimed: “Jeez, Partridge and— Look!…”

It was Jim Partridge. Jim Partridge in evening clothes and with — Bonita Quisenberry.

“Oh- oh!” Johnny breathed. Then he looked up quickly at Vivian Dalton. “Ah, so he’s the one.”

She shook her head as if to clear it of a haze. “What?”

“You know Jim Partridge.”

“Yes, I know him. I also know…” She laughed, shortly. “Dalton is my stage name. It used to be… Partridge.”

Johnny almost knocked over his glass of beer. Sam Cragg whistled in astonishment. “Your husband!”

“Husband? How old do you think I am? He’s… my father!”

“And Bonita?” gasped Johnny.

She nodded. “I haven’t seen her since the divorce, seven years ago, when I was thirteen. I didn’t know…”

“That they’d made up? Neither did I.”

Vivian got up suddenly. “I must change for my next number. Excuse me…”

When she had gone, Johnny pushed back his own chair. “Hold the fort, Sam. I want a word with Partridge.”

“Holler if he gets rough.”

Partridge had already seen Johnny. He said something to Bonita as Johnny approached and she turned and watched him with an expression of distaste on her sulky face.

“Hello, pal,” Johnny said, easily, as he stopped beside Partridge’s table.

“You’ve got your neck washed,” Partridge said, sarcastically.

“I washed it for you. It’s sticking out.”

“Must you talk to this man, Jim?” Bonita asked sharply. “You said you would leave your work at the office.”

“Did I say that?” Partridge asked, coolly. “I don’t remember. That’s why I’ve been trying to get a stake.”

“Well, you’ve got it now.” Johnny looked at Bonita.

Partridge shook his head, slowly. “You’re slipping, fella. The game’s one move farther ahead. Buy a paper when you leave.”

“Something bust?”

“So long, Fletcher,” Partridge said, pointedly. “I’m dealing you out.”

Johnny retreated to his table, his face screwed up in thought. That Bonita had thrown in with Partridge was a significant development, but Partridge was referring to something else… something that he expected to be printed in the papers. But he wasn’t telling. He had arranged for Johnny to be here at the Lucky Seven this evening, but in the interim something had happened and he no longer needed Johnny.

Why had he needed him in the first place?

“What’s up, Johnny?” asked Sam.

“Something. I don’t know what.”

“The Rusk kid’s been looking over here. I think she wants to talk to you.”