Frank Gruber - The Talking Clock

“Could be. Mort could have been followed by Carmella or one of Bos’ other gorillas. That applies to Partridge, too. Any employee of his would know where we lived. And we don’t know them by sight. Mmm, could be one of Partridge’s men went up to Minnesota to throw in with the Kid. Damn it all, anyway. I’ve a good notion to chuck the whole thing.”

“Swell,” said Sam Cragg. “I’m all for that. Let’s get back to work and earn a few bucks. The season will be opening in Florida soon and I’d like to go there this winter.”

Johnny shrugged, gloomily. “Who wouldn’t?”

“It’s a deal, then?”

“Maybe,” Johnny took a nickel from his pocket and tossed it into the air. He caught it expertly. “Guess I’ll make a phone call.”

Sam Cragg groaned. “But I thought you just said—”

“It isn’t winter yet. Florida won’t run away.” He went into a drugstore, leaving Sam outside. Looking up the number of the Quisenberry Clock Company he went into a booth and dialed.

“Has Mr. Eric Quisenberry got into the office yet?” he asked when the operator answered.

“He has, but he’s unable to come to the phone at present. Some important matters in the plant…”

“All right, then let me talk to Mr. Wilbur Tamarack.”

“I’m sorry,” was the reply, “but Mr. Tamarack is no longer with us.”

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Johnny. “Mr. Tamarack’s your sales manager, isn’t he?”

“He was. He severed his connections with this firm yesterday.”

Johnny pretended astonishment. “Well, can you give me his home address? It’s important that I get in touch with him.”

“Just a moment… Yes, here it is. He lives at the Chanticleer, on East Fifty-seventh Street.”

“Thanks,” snapped Johnny, banging the receiver on the hook. He glowered at the phone. “That’s loyalty for you. How did she know I wasn’t a process server looking for him? They ought to know better than to give out a man’s home address…”

He left the drugstore and picked up Sam. “Just for the fun of it, let’s run over and talk to Tamarack. He lives near by. He’ll be plenty sore at Quisenberry and may give us the real dirt on him, that we mightn’t be able to get at any other time.”

“Lead on,” sighed Sam. “Who am I to make any protest? I’m only your stooge, you know.”

Johnny grinned. “Feeling sorry for yourself?”

They walked briskly to the Chanticleer. Johnny was impressed when he saw it. “They must have paid this guy a good salary. Either that, or he was tapping the till.”

A doorman opened the door for them and in the richly furnished lobby, a uniformed attendant took their names and telephoned Tamarack’s apartment.

“Mr. Tamarack will see you. Suite 1104.”

On the eleventh floor Tamarack had the door of his apartment open and nodded curtly to them. “Who gave you my address?” was the first thing he asked.

“Your office. I telephoned—”

“They would. Well, come in. I was just packing.”

They entered the apartment. It was furnished in even better taste than the lobby downstairs. “Nice diggings,” Johnny remarked. “You moving?”

“Why not? I’ve lost my job. I suppose they told you that at the office, too?”

“They said you’d severed your connections.”

“Severed hell! Quisenberry came down and fired me without notice. Well, he’ll be sorry for that.”

“I imagine he will. From what I’ve heard he doesn’t know much about the business.”

Tamarack looked sharply at Johnny. “He’s going to learn… quick!”

Johnny looked inquiringly at Tamarack, but the latter did not amplify his comment. Instead he went to a liquor cabinet and opened it. “Drink?”

“Yeah, sure,” said Sam.

“No, thanks,” said Johnny. “We haven’t had breakfast yet.”

“You must have got out early.” Tamarack cleared his throat. “Look, Fletcher, maybe I’ve had you all wrong. I was pretty sarcastic last night, but the Kid — Diana, I mean, got to talking to me and she just about convinced me.”

“That I was just a nosey dope?”

Tamarack almost grinned. “Your friend, the detective, talked to me, too.”

“Oh, Madigan? I solve his cases for him. What’d he talk to you about?”

“Usual things they ask suspects. Where was I on the night of June 12th.”

Johnny coughed. “Where were you?”

“I’ll start all over. When did Eric Quisenberry leave for Minnesota?”

“The night of June 12th?”

“The same day the sheriff of that place telephoned. I got the message at the office and delivered it to him. He left inside of an hour. He was gone three days.”

“And you were in New York during those three days?”

Tamarack laughed outright. “I thought you were getting around to that. No, Fletcher, I wasn’t in New York those three days. I was in St. Louis and Kansas City. And Omaha, too. I was gone five days altogether.”

“I see,” said Johnny, thoughtfully.

“Do you? It so happens that I was the sales manager of the Quisenberry Clock Company. In that capacity I spent an average of ten days of each month on the road, calling on the bigger accounts.”

“Well,” said Johnny, “you can’t blame me for trying. Just one more question. How long did you work for the clock company?”

A bitter look crossed Tamarack’s face. “Fourteen years. It was the only job I ever had. I went there right from college.”

“I worked in a place once,” said Johnny. “The boss’ son came into the place and worked his way up to be vice-president. In six months. I haven’t worked a day since.”

Tamarack almost grinned. “I heard what you pulled in Hillcrest the other day. Don’t you call that work?”

“Sam does the work. I just talk. I like to talk.”

“So I’ve gathered,” said Tamarack dryly. “But if you don’t mind, I’ve got a lot of packing to do. It happens that my month is up today and since I’m now unemployed, I’ve got to move to a cheaper place.”

“The 45th Street Hotel is a cheap place,” said Johnny. “But if you go there, don’t give my name as a reference. They’d make you pay in advance! Well; be seeing you, Tamarack.”

Leaving the Chanticleer Johnny and Sam walked back to Lexington Avenue. There they descended to the subway and rode to Grand Central, where they shuttled across town to Times Square. Coming up to the street they went to their hotel, where they had a belated breakfast in the dining room.

Finishing, they went to their room and Johnny took the copy of the American Hobbyist from his pocket.

“Sam, I want you to think carefully. When we were in that hock shop in Columbus — Uncle Joe’s place — and the Talking Clock went off, what did it say?”

Sam rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. “Something about this is five o’clock and it’s the end of the day.”

“Well, that’s close enough. It said: ‘Five o’clock and the day is nearly done.’ Now, look, here’s an article in this magazine about the clock, with a list of the things it’s supposed to say at the different hours. For five o’clock it recites a line of poetry. ‘I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.’ ”

“I read that in a book once,” said Sam.

“So did I. Now, for three o’clock it says: ‘There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough hew them as we may.’ Is that statement worth twenty-five grand?”

“Huh?”

“It was three o’clock the day before yesterday when we were in the Quisenberry shack. Remember? The clocks all went off right after Nick Bos had offered fifty thousand for the Talking Clock. When the noise started he put his ear down to the clock and listened. Then, as soon as there was quiet he raised his ante to seventy-five thousand.”