Frank Gruber - The Talking Clock

“Smart boy,” commented Mickey.

Johnny watched Sam stretch himself out on one of the beds, hands over his head. Charlie went to the head of the bed and reaching through the iron rungs, caught hold of one of Sam’s wrists. He pulled it up to a rung and lashed the rope about it. Knotting it, he cut the rope and used the remaining piece to tie Sam’s other wrist to another rung.

The task completed, he turned to Johnny. The latter shrugged and got down on another bed and was quickly tied. He could move his body, but his hands were rigid in the awkward position.

Charlie had just completed the task when a telephone rang somewhere. Mickey went off to answer it. He spoke in a mumble and Johnny could not hear his words until he came back and reported to Charlie.

“The boss is coming over. Be here in ten minutes.”

“That’ll be interesting,” Johnny commented.

“Yeah, you can spend the time between now and then guessing who he is.”

“I don’t have to guess. I know.”

“Nuts,” said Mickey. “You ain’t got the foggiest idea.”

“Well,” said Johnny, “if it isn’t Jim Partridge, I’ll eat a can of that Soapo they used to make here.”

“What makes you think it’s Partridge?” demanded Charlie.

Johnny laughed. “Because if he was a regular crook he wouldn’t have a couple of stupes like you two working for him. Only a private dick could be as dumb as you birds.”

Charlie swore roundly and came over to Johnny’s bed. He looked down at him. “Someday,” he said, “that big mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble. For instance—” he stooped suddenly and smashed his fist into Johnny’s face.

Sam Cragg yelled hoarsely. “Why, you dirty—! Come and hit someone your size!”

Charlie walked over to Sam Cragg’s bed and Johnny heard the smack of flesh against flesh.

“You’re my size,” Charlie sneered. “What do you think of that. And this!…” The smack hit Johnny’s ears again and he winced.

Sam remained quiet after that.

Mickey spoke. “That’s enough, Charlie. Once more and I’ll bend the barrel of this shotgun around you.”

“Put it down,” challenged Charlie, “and I’ll give you the licking of your life. Who the hell you think you are? I don’t have to take anything from you.”

From the direction of the stairs, Jim Partridge’s voice cut in: “Don’t you like your job, Charlie?”

Johnny strained his head up from the bed two or three inches to watch big Jim Partridge come forward. There was a pleasant smile on his face.

Charlie choked. “Uh, didn’t hear you come in, boss. Yeah sure, I like my job. Just blowing off steam to Mickey, tha’s all…”

“Sure,” said Jim Partridge, “that’s all.” He came up to Charlie and his smile widened. Then without warning, his fist came up and exploded on Charlie’s jaw.

Charlie sat down on the floor with a thump.

“Get up, Charlie,” Jim Partridge said, pleasantly. “Get up and I’ll knock you down again.”

“Cut it out, boss,” whined Charlie. “I was only kidding. We… we got these bums for you, didn’t we?”

Jim Partridge came over to Johnny. “Why, Johnny Fletcher, what’re they doing to you? Tying you up like a moose! That’s no way to treat a pal, is it?”

“It isn’t, Jim,” replied Johnny. “And my arms are beginning to get tired. I’m ready to make a deal with you…”

“Hey!” cried Sam Cragg. “Don’t quit now, Johnny. I’m just beginning to get mad!…”

“Shut up, Sam. I’m running this. Okay, Partridge, cut us loose and I’ll play ball.”

“Why, you haven’t got a ball, Johnny. You haven’t even got a bat, have you?”

“Uh-huh, I have. You’ve been outsmarted, Partridge. You think you’ve won, but you haven’t. He’s just stringing you along until he can grab the boodle and skip.”

“He? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Nix, Partridge. I know the score. You were ahead when you were playing for yourself, but when you teamed up you lost. I know where the dough is, and so does he. The phonograph record you heard was a phony. He didn’t have it made until yesterday.”

“Whoa! What do you know about phonograph records?”

Johnny sighed. “I know just about everything. The Talking Clock had a little gold record in it that told where Simon hid the dough. Your chum swiped the clock, then put it back — without the record. When you put the squeeze on him, he showed you the record, played it on a machine too. But he didn’t let you hear the real record…”

“All right,” Partridge said, harshly, “what’d the real record say?”

“That’s my hole card,” said Johnny. “You cut these ropes and walk with us to the next corner and I’ll tell you.”

“Do you see any holes in my head?” snorted Partridge. “Once you got out of here, you’d run like hell to that copper pal of yours. You’re talking to hear yourself talk. You don’t know what the record said.”

“I not only know, but if I told you how I found out, you’d know I was telling the truth. But you’ll have to work fast, Partridge. It’s getting dark…”

“So what?”

“You’re going to meet him, eh? And you’re going to get the money together. But suppose you get there and he doesn’t show up? You wait for him while he grabs the money from the other place and beats it. He’s got a nice start on you.”

Doubt came to Jim Partridge’s face. But he shook his head, stubbornly. “I’ve got to have something to go on, Fletcher.”

“Okay, the dough is buried somewhere around Twelve O’Clock House. Simon Quisenberry was laid up for two years. Where else would he bury it but around the house?”

“Talk some more, Fletcher. I’m beginning to get interested. I didn’t know about Simon being laid up that long. I can check on that.”

“You should’ve checked before. All right, I’ll tell you something else you’ve overlooked. Where’d I first meet you, Partridge?”

“In Ohio. I was casing the hock shop…”

“Where the Kid’d pawned the Talking Clock. At that time you didn’t know about the big dough, so you didn’t crowd it. You should’ve, Jim…”

“All right, I should’ve,” snapped Partridge. “But I was working on a salary, then. You got the clock in Ohio, I know that. And like a sap you turned it over to the girl…”

“You’re missing the point again, Jim. You haven’t got any sense of the aesthetic in you. Uncle Joe, the pawnbroker, had a keen sense. He liked the Talking Clock. He liked it so well he kept it wound up. And for three months, he listened to it talk, once every hour, every day…”

“Gawd!” cried Jim Partridge.

“Check! Uncle Joe knew what the clock said — before the record was changed. Do you believe me now… Jim Partridge?”

“I can check up on that! I can telephone him long distance…”

“That’s what I did, Partridge. And I told him I was the New York Police Department and if anyone else called, not to give out the information. But call if you like, Jim. It’ll help the telephone company, anyway…”

For a long moment Jim Partridge stared down at Johnny Fletcher. Then he cursed. “All right, Fletcher. You’ve got me over a barrel. What did the clock say?”

“I can’t talk with my arms tied like this,” Johnny reminded him.

Partridge reached into his pocket and drew out a knife. He opened the large blade and cut the rope that held Johnny’s wrists to the iron rung of the bed. Johnny groaned as he brought his arms down. He sat up on the bed then, hugging his arms as blood rushed into his wrists.

“Spill it, Fletcher. I haven’t got any time…”

“Cut Sam loose.”