Frank Gruber - The Talking Clock

Mr. Peabody came storming out of his office. Over his arm was a pair of trousers; a pair of blue trousers with a white pin stripe.

“Mr. Fletcher!” he cried, in a hysterical voice. “Mr. Fletcher, I want to talk to you.”

“Sorry, Peabody,” Johnny said, hastily. “I’m rushing out to see a man about a big business deal. Talk to me later!…”

“No you don’t!” howled Peabody, springing in front of Johnny and blocking his retreat to the door. “Look at these trousers; they match your suit.”

“So they do. That’s a coincidence…”

“Coincidence! It’s… it’s robbery.”

“You mean they’re my pants and you swiped them?”

Mr. Peabody choked and sputtered. “Your trousers! You… you know what happened? Hagemann’s sent this pair of trousers to me. This pair and another as big as a tent…”

“I resent that,” murmured Sam Cragg.

“And you know what Hagemann’s man said?” Mr. Peabody went on. “He said in their hurry yesterday to deliver these suits to me, they forgot to include the extra pairs of trousers. But I didn’t order any suits from them. Somebody else did that, using my charge account and giving my name.” Mr. Peabody’s voice rose to a righteous shriek.

“You did that, Fletcher. You ordered suits for yourself and that baboon friend of yours and you charged them to me… These trousers match your new suit…”

“Tut-tut, Mr. Peabody,” said Johnny loftily. “I’m sure a mistake has been made. It can easily be straightened out… later. Right now, I’ve got—”

“No, you don’t! I’ve telephoned Hagemann’s and they’re sending their delivery boy right over to make the identification. And then — then, I’m going to have you arrested, for theft and fraud.”

Johnny placed his hand upon Mr. Peabody’s chest and shoved gently, but firmly. “Sorry, old man, but I’m in a frightful hurry.”

He stepped around Peabody, to the door.

“Eddie!” screamed Mr. Peabody. “Stop him. Call the police…”

The last glimpse Johnny had of the lobby, as he looked over his shoulder, was the bell captain walking leisurely to the telephone.

On the street, Sam Cragg trotted beside the swiftly walking Johnny. “Our goose is cooked now. Peabody’s been waiting for something like this to happen. He’ll press the charge against us so hard we’ll be lucky to get off with life.”

“It looks tough,” Johnny admitted. “But I’ll think of something. We’ve never been tossed in jail yet.”

“No? What about Minnesota?”

“That was different. Don’t bother me now for a minute, Sam. I’ve got to think.”

“Think of those extra pairs of pants.”

“You should have thought of that. I can’t keep track of all those minor details.”

They crossed Times Square and headed toward Eighth Avenue. Johnny’s brain raced furiously, as he strode swiftly along. He was in up to his neck and only a miracle would save him, he knew. The miracle was a large piece of money. It had to come from one of the principals of The Affair of The Talking Clock, and the only way Johnny could hope to get it, was by solving the mystery.

The solution, Johnny was sure, would come only after he learned what it was the Talking Clock said at three o’clock.

They reached the building of the Quisenberry Clock Company and Johnny was surprised to find two pickets pacing up and down in front of the building, bearing sandwich signs, which declared the Quisenberry Clock Company to be unfair to Union Labor in general and specifically to Local 87 of the Clock Makers Union.

“Tough on the old boy,” Johnny observed. “He’s only got six months to put the business on a paying basis and this isn’t going to make it easier for him. Well, let’s go in and see how his memory is.”

The receptionist in the outer office sent their names into Eric Quisenberry and a moment later they entered the door bearing numeral “1”.

Quisenberry looked harassed and not too pleased to see them. “What’s this important information you have?”

“Why, it depends on whether you can answer a question. Mr. Quisenberry, you had the Talking Clock around the house for some time. Did you ever pay any attention to what it said?”

“No. I didn’t bother about any of the clocks. It was a damfool hobby of my father’s. He sunk a fortune into those clocks. They did all sorts of crazy things. Some played chimes, others had dogs chasing rabbits and on one of them a ballet of twelve dancers came out every hour and jumped about. I never thought of the Talking Clock any more or less than any of the other clocks.”

“That’s unfortunate, Mr. Quisenberry, because it seems that it was an important clock. But don’t you remember during the last couple of days — after you’d learned that the Talking Clock was valuable, and that you had no other visible assets — don’t you recall hearing the clock talk during this period?”

“Yes, of course. I must have heard it. But I paid no attention to what it said. I saw no reason to do so. Now, what is this important business you have? I’m up to my ears in work here. It wasn’t bad enough, but we had to get labor trouble.”

“I saw the pickets outside. Have all the men walked out?”

“No. Only a few so far. That’s Tamarack’s doings. I fired him…”

“Could Tamarack call a strike of the employees? I thought he was the manager here.”

“Sales manager!” Eric Quisenberry corrected, sharply. “He was a smooth-tongued handshaker. Always played up to my father. I never thought much of the man myself.”

Johnny nodded thoughtfully. “He’s rather fond of Diana Rusk, isn’t he?”

Eric Quisenberry’s nostrils flared. “I’ll soon put a stop to that. I mean…” His face crimsoned suddenly.

A man in shirt sleeves suddenly tore open the door and cried out: “Mr. Quisenberry, one of the strikers has thrown a brick through a window in the back.”

“What!” cried Quisenberry. “I’ll see about that. I’ll have the police here…” He rushed past Johnny and Sam.

Johnny looked at Sam, then he reached out and touching the door, swung it shut.

“Don’t you think we ought to go?” Sam asked, a bit nervously.

“What’s the hurry? I’d like a few words more with Quisenberry. He interests me. He’s changed into a regular wolf overnight. Funny what a woman can do to a man.”

He walked around Quisenberry’s desk and plumped himself down in the big, cushioned swivel chair. “Do I look like a business tycoon, Sam?”

His elbow brushed the telephone. “Let’s see, who can I call up long distance?”

He toyed with the phone and then a startled look came into his eyes. “Goddam it, why didn’t I think of that before? Of course…”

“What, Johnny?”

“Uncle Joe, in Columbus, Ohio! Remember when we went into his place and he brought out the Talking Clock? It was running and he remarked that he’d gotten so fond of the clock, he didn’t even care if it was redeemed or not? Why… he heard that clock talk, for months!…”

Sam Cragg whistled. “That’s right. Maybe he remembers…”

Johnny picked up the phone. Sam cried, hoarsely: “Hey, you can’t. Not long distance on his phone.”

“Why can’t I?… Operator, give me an outside wire. That’s right, Mr. Quisenberry wants me to make a call for him…”

A moment later. “I want long distance, please. Columbus, Ohio. A pawnshop on Front Street, that does business under the name of Uncle Joe. Yeah, Uncle Uncle Joe, ‘The Friend In Need.’ That’s right.”

The receiver to his ear, Johnny heard the long-distance connections being made, heard Columbus, Ohio, answer and then a pause, as the directory search was made. They broke the connection for a moment then, and when it was re-established the operator said: