Frank Gruber - The Talking Clock

“A tramp!” exclaimed Eric Quisenberry. “They always claim it was a tramp who did it, when they’re trying to— No offense… I mean, I just never like those tramp stories.”

“This one’s true, Mr. Quisenberry. And I’ll tell you something else that’s true. It’s about the Talking Clock. Nicholas Bos paid Miss Rusk forty thousand dollars for it. I checked with a clock dealer on Lexington Avenue, a man very well posted. He said the Talking Clock is worth no more than five thousand dollars.”

Quisenberry stared. “But I heard Bos offer my father — before he died — fifty thousand dollars for the clock.”

“Then Bos knew that your father was hoarding money. He probably learned when he loaned him the money, with the collection as security.”

“That would have been just like Father. Trusting strangers before he did his family. When I think of what he did to me years ago…” Quisenberry’s mouth twisted, bitterly. “Well, never mind that. Perhaps Father did hide money somewhere. Where?…”

Johnny looked thoughtfully at Eric Quisenberry. “I’m not absolutely sure, but perhaps I can help you find it. That would necessitate spending some time at your home in Hillcrest. A night, preferably.”

“There’s plenty of room. Tonight?”

“Fine. We’ll be out there before dark. There’s something I want to check up on first.”

They left Quisenberry and the building. As they stepped to the sidewalk, Sam said: “I don’t get it yet, Johnny. If you’re not going to make a play for the dough yourself, why didn’t you tell Quisenberry where it’s stashed?”

“Because he’d be interested only in finding the money. I’m interested in nabbing the killer too. And I’ve got an overpowering hunch that he’ll show up out there tonight.”

Sam winced. “We’re going to be bait for a trap, Johnny. I don’t like it.”

Johnny gripped Sam’s arm. “That picket, Sam… Look!”

He was coming toward them, the sandwich sign flapping against his knees, but not quite concealing his ragged clothing.

“Old-Timer!” whispered Sam.

“Here’s where we get him…”

Johnny stepped away from Sam to flank the man carrying the picket sign. He said: “All right, Old-Timer!…”

And then Old-Timer brought his hand out from behind the sign. There was a huge .45 caliber automatic in it. “Pile into that car, you two!” he gritted, “or I’ll let you have it right here on the street.”

Johnny came up to his toes, but before launching himself forward, shot a quick glance at the black automobile that had drawn up beside him at the curb. The window of the car was lowered and from the aperture protruded the muzzle of a double-barreled shotgun. Over the gun was a snarling, vicious face.

Sam saw it too.

Johnny relaxed. “All right, you win, Old-Timer. Get in Sam…”

There were two men in the car, one behind the wheel and the other with the shotgun, in the rear seat. The driver swung open the door at his right. Sam climbed in and Johnny, reaching for the rear door, was gestured to the front. He got in beside Sam.

The motor of the car was already running and the driver shifted into gear and stepped on the accelerator. The car jerked away.

Behind Johnny and Sam, the man with the shotgun said: “This thing’s right behind your ears and there are two loads, one for each of you if you start any funny stuff.”

“We won’t,” Johnny promised. “But what about the other guy — isn’t he coming?”

“What I said before goes for questions,” retorted the man behind Johnny. “Shut your trap.”

The car whipped to the left up 47th Street, scooted to Eleventh Avenue, just catching the green light. It went to the short block to Twelfth Avenue and then turned south.

It rolled under the express highway for a few blocks, then turned again toward Eleventh Avenue. But it did not go all the way through. Halfway up the block, the car stopped before a run-down loft building.

“This is it,” said the man in the rear of the car. “Now wait until Charlie gets out and opens the door. Then you cross the sidewalk, quick. I’ll be watching for the funny stuff.”

It was a little-traveled street and with the precautions, the abduction was successfully concluded. Charlie got out, crossed the sidewalk and unlocked the door of the old building. He went in and out of sight of the sidewalk, drew an automatic from his pocket and gestured.

Johnny and Sam climbed out and crossed the sidewalk. When they had entered the building, the man with the shotgun put the gun under his coat and followed.

The building seemed to have been used, at some previous time, for the manufacture of a cleaning preparation. A number of rusty cans stood around. Old labels stated that they contained Soapo, the Kitchen Wonder.

Charlie locked the door after his companion with the shotgun had entered, then both herded Johnny and Sam toward a rickety flight of stairs, leading to the second floor.

The loft, while dusty, had evidently been used more recently than the lower floor. Three or four cots, on which were blankets, stood around and there were also a few chairs and a couple of tables. At one side was an electric plate, standing on a packing case.

“All right, boys,” ordered the man with the shotgun. “Turn around now, for the frisking. Reach for the ceiling.”

When they had obeyed, Charlie came up behind them. He pressed his automatic in Johnny’s back and slapped his pockets. He took nothing out of them, because there was nothing bulky, but when he got to Sam, he exclaimed:

“What’s all this?” He relieved Sam of two packs of playing cards and several articles whose use was not apparent. Sam growled.

“Let that stuff alone. I can’t shoot you with it.”

Charlie’s answer was to throw the stuff on the floor. “We can use the cards, Buddy,” he said, “we got a long wait.”

“What for?” Johnny asked.

“What’s it to you,” snapped the man with the gun. “You got some place to go, huh? Go ahead, we ain’t keepin’ you.”

Johnny turned around and finding a chair sat down. “You going to hold us for ransom? I know a fella’ll pay about a dollar and forty cents for us.”

“That’s more’n you’re worth. The boss said you were a wise guy. Look around, Charlie, and see if there’s some rope. I don’t figure on sitting here holding this gun on them all night.”

Charlie rummaged about the room and finally produced two lengths of rope, one, a piece of clothesline about seven feet long. The other, half-inch manila rope, was a little longer.

“There ain’t enough here to tie their hands and legs both, Mickey,” he complained. “How’s about making them lie down on the beds and we’ll just tie their hands to the rungs over their heads?”

“Okay, Charlie,” said Mickey. “All right, you punks, get down on a couple of those beds. Stretch your hands up over your heads.”

“Nix,” said Johnny. “It isn’t even five o’clock and if we’re going to be here all night, we can’t keep our hands up over our heads all that time.”

“No?” sneered Mickey. “You don’t know what you can do until you have to do it.”

“We’ll give you our word.” Johnny offered.

Mickey laughed raucously. “Your word, huh? That’s rich! Get down on those beds before I laugh myself sick.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Sam said. “Put down your guns and I’ll fight the two of you.”

“Now, look,” said Mickey. “There’re two ways to do this, the easy way and the hard way. The easy way is to tap you over the head… You want it that way?”

“Lay down on the bed, Sam,” Johnny ordered. “No use getting that thick skull of yours cracked.”