Frank Gruber - The Talking Clock

“His body was found early in the evening, in his cottage, but he’d apparently been shot sometime during the afternoon. Early afternoon.”

Johnny frowned. “Then the alibis are no good.”

“Partridge’s? Not if you mean his being here this evening. Nor his wife’s. Merryman — that’s my buddy in Hillcrest — says he’s questioned Eric Quisenberry. Quisenberry says his wife left him around noon, after a spat. He admitted that she had been friendly with this Cornish and that the argument had been partly because of him. In fact, he’d given Cornish his walking papers. It’s Quisenberry’s frau I want to talk to. And Partridge… and I’d better grab them. They’re getting ready to leave.”

He got up quickly and walked toward Partridge’s table, Johnny following at his heels.

“Hello, Partridge,” Madigan said. “How’s tricks?”

Partridge’s face was stony, but there was a gleam in his eyes as he looked from Madigan to Johnny.

“Hello, Madigan,” he said. “I see the punk’s talked to you.”

“Punk?” exclaimed Johnny. “Why the Lieutenant and I are practically pals. I help him solve his cases. The tough ones.”

Lieutenant Madigan grunted. “You know what happened in Hillcrest? And you, Mrs. Quisenberry?”

Bonita Quisenberry’s face was like old ivory, yellow and hard.

Before she could speak, Jim Partridge said, harshly:

“So the punk’s a pal of yours, Lieutenant, eh? He covered the Rusk girl’s escape. They were dancing together when you came in.”

Madigan turned to Johnny. “That right, Fletcher?”

“Was I dancing with Miss Rusk? Why, yes. But I didn’t know you were interested in her. I didn’t even know why you were coming in.”

“You!…” Madigan said, bitterly.

“She was with Wilbur Tamarack, the manager of the Quisenberry Clock Company,” Partridge went on. “And Tamarack’s a lad who’ll stand some questioning himself… What do you want with me, Lieutenant?”

“Where were you this afternoon?”

“In my office. All afternoon.”

“And you’ve got the office help to prove it? I know.”

Partridge smiled thinly. “Can you prove I wasn’t in the office?”

“Of course I can’t… Let’s get out of here. People are beginning to look.”

Johnny went back to his table and called for his check. The waiter figured a while and gave it to him. Johnny howled. “Whaddya mean, twelve dollars? I only had one bottle of beer.”

“So sorry,” said the waiter, giving Johnny a venomous look. “I’ll check up.” He went off and got into a huddle with another waiter. When he came back he corrected the bill. “It’s six dollars, sir, the minimum charge for two.”

Johnny counted out six dollars in silver, then added an extra quarter.

The waiter picked up the quarter from the tray. “What’s this, sir?”

“My breakfast money,” snarled Johnny, snatching the coin from the man’s hand. “And now you can whistle for your tip.”

“Thank you sir. Come again soon, I hope not.”

“Six bucks for two bottles of beer,” muttered Sam Cragg as he followed Johnny to the door where Madigan and the others were waiting.

When they reached the sidewalk, Johnny said to Madigan, “Will you be wanting to talk to me some more this evening, Maddy?”

Madigan chewed at his lower lip. He looked at Bonita Quisenberry and her former husband. Then he shook his head. “I’ll be busy for a couple of hours and I’d just as soon not have you around. Where you staying — that rat’s nest on 45th Street? Or Park Avenue?”

“Forty-fifth Street. I’ll put a lamp in the window in case you should come prowling around later.”

“Okay. And if I don’t show up, stick around in the morning. I’ll want to talk to you then.”

“Fine.”

As they walked down Sixth Avenue, Sam Cragg said, “if you ask me, Partridge did it. You practically told him that his ex was carrying on with this Cornish lad.”

Johnny shook his head. “Cornish was a surly monkey. Let’s step into this drugstore here a minute. I want to make a telephone call.”

“Who you going to call at this time of the night?”

“La Guardia. I want to tell him there’s a fire somewhere…”

He went into the drugstore and entered a phone booth. Dialing the operator, he was informed that a call to Hillcrest would cost him twenty cents. He dropped the coins into the slot. A moment later he said: “Hello, is this the chief of police of Hillcrest? This is the Homicide Squad of New York. Lieutenant Madigan just told me to call you and ask a question about the Cornish murder…”

“He’s got something?” the Hillcrest chief exclaimed.

“I don’t know. He’s still out. He telephoned in to say he’s picked up those people. What he wanted me to find out for him was about this man, Cornish. Was there a piece of adhesive tape on his face when you looked him over?”

“Why, yes,” replied the chief. “That was something I meant to tell Madigan about. The tape was on the face, but there wasn’t any cut or bruise under it. Which was funny, because the night before Cornish claimed to have had a fight with some burglars… Tell Madigan about that and have him telephone me himself when he comes in.”

“I will. Thanks.”

Johnny hung up and rejoined Sam. As they left the store, he said: “Cornish swiped the Talking Clock himself. And the person who killed him got it away from him today.”

“I still say Partridge,” Sam Cragg said, doggedly.

“I say no,” Johnny replied.

They were still arguing about it when they turned into the 45th Street Hotel. And there, Mort Murray, haggard, unshaven, got up from a chair in the lobby.

“Mort!” exclaimed Johnny. “What’re you doing here so late in the evening?”

“Didn’t Sam tell you I was coming here?” Mort asked, bitterly.

Sam winced. “I did mention it to Johnny.”

“That’s right, he did. But something… uh, something came up. What’s on your mind, Mort?”

Mort’s eyes roamed over the new suits that Johnny and Sam were wearing. “You know what, Johnny. That loan shark. You promised—”

“That’s right, I did. Come upstairs, Mort, and we’ll talk it over.”

When they entered Room 821, Johnny turned to Mort. “I guess Sam told you about our little bad luck. Why we didn’t come over to your place this morning?…”

“Sam told me. But did he tell you that Carmella, the loan shark, came in while he was there and made all sorts of threats, because I didn’t have the interest money for him?”

“I never got to tell him that,” Sam scowled.

Mort’s eyes were disillusioned. “You know what he did? He fined me twenty-five percent. I owe a hundred and fifty dollars now, plus the interest, which’ll be twenty dollars tomorrow. And if I don’t pay the interest, I get fined another twenty-five percent.”

“Why, the dirty—!” Johnny swore. “He can’t do that.”

“He can’t, eh? You come over tomorrow and tell him that he can’t. I tell you, I’m sunk if I don’t get some money tomorrow. The interest money, at least.”

Johnny went through his pockets. He found less than seven dollars. “How much have you got Sam?”

Sam shelled out a dollar and a half. “Those shirts and things we bought…”

“I know. All right, get Eddie Miller on the phone.”

“Can’t, he’s off this evening. But he’ll be on at seven in the morning.”

“Okay, we’ll nick him for twenty bucks the first thing in the morning. That’ll take care of Mort’s interest money in the morning. And sometime during the day I’ll rustle up some more money for you, Mort.”

“Thanks, Johnny. I knew you’d come across.”