Frank Gruber - The Talking Clock

“I know, Fox. Stop the car behind the big Cadillac.”

Fox obeyed and they climbed out of the limousine. Johnny walked forward to the limousine and looked at the mongram on the door. “NB” he commented.

“So what’s it to you?” snapped the heavy-jowled man sitting behind the wheel.

Lieutenant Madigan looked at Detective Fox and jerked his head in the direction of the tough chauffeur. As Detective Fox walked forward, Madigan and the others entered the office of the sponge company.

The girl with the Roquefort-cheese complexion regarded the group uneasily. Her hands fluttered and went under her desk.

“Go ahead,” grunted Madigan. “Give him the signal. We’ll just breeze in.”

They did and when they entered Nicholas Bos’ office, the sponge man was leaning back comfortably in his upholstered chair, manicured fingers making a tent of his hands.

“Good morning, Lieutenant Mad’gan,” he said pleasantly. “And my friends the private detectives. You have find the clock for me?”

“We’ll talk about that in a minute, Bos,” said Johnny, heading off the detective. “That’s another little matter I want to clear up. You got a punk named Carmella working for you?”

“Carmella? I don’t knowing the name.”

“He’s one of your collectors. He made a small loan to my pal here and he’s been bothering him since.”

“Collector?” said Bos. “Loan? What is this Carmella?”

“You know what he is,” Madigan cut in. “One of your strong-arm punks.”

A sad look came over Bos’ face. “Mr. Lieutenant, You make refer to that old trouble. Ah! the deestrict attorney he say nothing, because he can prove nothing. I am sponge importer. That’s all. I make a leetle money and I buy the clock, for hobby, because I am liking clock very much. That’s all. I don’t bother nobody and I have good friend all over…”

“You’ve got friends,” said Madigan, ominously. “Don’t I know you’ve got friends. In the right places. But there’s some things about which your friends can’t help you. And murder’s one of them—”

“Wait a minute!” snapped Johnny. “One thing at a time. Mort’s getting cold chills by the minute, thinking about that punk Carmella. Look, Bos, Mort Murray borrowed a hundred and twenty bucks from Carmella. I want you to call off Carmella… You can take the dough out of my retainer. ’Member?…”

Bos shrugged expressively. “All right, I don’t knowing this Carmella man, but if I do knowing him I telling him, hokay, lay off Mor’ Murray. Now, what’s this murder business?…”

Johnny tapped Mort on the arm. “Okay, pal, you can run along now. You’re squared off. I’ll see you later.”

Sighing heavily, Mort took his departure.

Then Johnny turned again to Nicholas Bos. “You’ve read the morning papers and you know about Joe Cornish…”

“Is bad. Why somebody killing watchman?”

“I was going to ask that,” snapped Lieutenant Madigan. “I understand you’re in this up to your neck. You’ve made a fancy offer for a certain Talking Clock.”

“Sure, I telling you. I like clock and this is very good, old clock. I wanting have him for my hobby. I also buying many other clock.” Bos waved a manicured hand around his office, to indicate the clocks.

“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” said Madigan, angrily. “If you won’t talk here, Bos, we’ll go down to Headquarters.”

“Sure. You got warrant? I’m thinking all this happen in Wes ’chester County.”

“I’m working with the Westchester police and I can get a warrant easily enough. You know I can. Where were you yesterday afternoon, Bos?”

“Right here in my office. I am working…”

Madigan’s forehead creased. “I was a chump to even ask that question. You wouldn’t soil your hands, anyway. And you’ve got so many thugs working for you it’d take me a month to round them all up. I’ll start over… Why do you want this particular Talking Clock?”

“I’ll ask a question,” Johnny Fletcher cut in. He leaned forward. “What does the Talking Clock say at three o’clock?”

That was the first time Johnny saw any emotion on Nicholas Bos’ face. The olive complexion of the importer loan-shark actually became two shades lighter.

“I… I don’t knowing what she say,” he stammered.

Johnny nodded quietly and half turned to the door.

“Guess we’re wasting our time, Lieutenant.”

Madigan backed away reluctantly. He sighed, wearily. “Okay. I’ll be seeing you later, Bos.”

Outside, the chauffeur of the Cadillac was dabbing a handkerchief at his nose. Detective Fox was leaning against the police limousine, rubbing the knuckles of his right fist.

Madigan headed for the car, but Johnny held back. “Guess I’ll be leaving you here, Lieutenant.”

“What for?”

“I still have to make a living, you know. Thought I’d go and sell a few books.”

“You’ve got something up your sleeve. It’s about that clock. I saw Bos’ face when you asked him what the clock said at three o’clock…”

The police radio, in the limousine, said suddenly: “Lieutenant Madigan, call in. Lieutenant Madigan, call in.”

Madigan opened the door of the limousine and reaching in, flicked a switch. “Madigan talking, what is it?”

“Merryman of Hillcrest telephoned,” replied the radio voice. “The Talking Clock has been returned.”

“What?” exclaimed Madigan, then he switched off the radio and pulled out of the car. “Okay, Fletcher, run along.”

Johnny Fletcher scowled, then signaled to Sam Cragg. They walked leisurely to the corner, then rounding it, Johnny broke into a run for a cigar store across the street. When Sam caught up to him, Johnny was already inside a telephone booth, stuffing nickels into the slot.

A moment later he was speaking to a servant in the Quisenberry home. “I want to talk to Eric Quisenberry. Tell him it’s Johnny Fletcher calling.”

It was a long moment before Eric Quisenberry’s voice came over the telephone. “Yes, Mr. Fletcher?”

“I just learned from the New York police that the Talking Clock has been returned. How was it returned, Mr. Quisenberry?”

“Why, that’s the surprising thing, Mr. Fletcher. I don’t know. It most certainly was gone yesterday — from the safe. But this morning when I went into the clock room, there it was, standing amidst all the other clocks. I notified the police immediately. They… well they’re here now.”

“Oh!” Johnny bit his lip. Then, “Mr. Quisenberry, do you plan on going down to your office today?”

“Why, yes. In fact, I’m going to leave as soon as I finish with the police.”

“Good. I’ll drop in at your office sometime during the afternoon. I think… I’ll have something important to tell you at that time.”

“What? I mean, why are you taking such an interest in this? You’re not—”

“I’m an old friend of Tom’s, that’s why. I’ll see you later, Mr. Quisenberry.”

He hung up abruptly. As they left the store, Sam Cragg groused, “That’s screwy, the crook returning the clock, after killing a man for it.”

“You’re telling me, Sam? It’s not only screwy, it’s impossible. I don’t believe it. Unless… the clock was never swiped at all.”

“Huh? You think Quisenberry’s the guy? Say — why couldn’t he be?”

“He could. Eric’s gotten a grip on himself. He tossed out his wife yesterday and gave the grand bounce to the Tamarack lad at the factory. Two things he never had nerve enough to do before. I wonder… if the clock-stealing stuff wasn’t just some business to bring things to a head with Bonita. I’ve underestimated the guy.”

“He’s been sweet on the Rusk kid’s mother. She looks like a dame who’s got some steel in her backbone.”