Frank Gruber - The Talking Clock

He was still fighting, though. He kicked and squirmed and even butted with his head. But at that sort of thing, in close quarters, no man could beat Sam Cragg, even though he had but one arm free. His fist went back and smashed forward, once, twice… and the man went limp.

Now, Jim Partridge came charging, gun in hand.

In the partial light from the veranda, he recognized Johnny Fletcher.

“You!…” he cried, in consternation.

Johnny, on hands and knees, lunged forward suddenly and clawed for Partridge’s ankle. He caught it, jerked, and Partridge crashed to the ground.

Sam reached forward, then, pulled on Partridge’s squirming body and quickly subdued it with a single blow of his fist, a terrible blow.

“Well, that’s that!” said Johnny. “You take Partridge.”

He twisted his hand into the collar of the roughly clad, unconscious man, and getting to his feet, pulled. Sam, meanwhile, caught an arm of the unconscious Jim Partridge.

Linked together, then, dragging a man apiece in their free arms, they went back to the lighted veranda. As they came in sight, Ellen Rusk popped out of the house. “I’ve called the police. They’re coming!…”

“No need, now,” said Johnny nonchalantly. “There won’t be any more trouble.”

“Mr. Partridge!” gasped Diana Rusk.

“Uh-huh, but he was only the cat’s paw for the other bozo… Mr. Quisenberry, this is the mysterious tramp I told you about. The one who killed your son up in Minnesota. We… called him Old-Timer!”

“But he’s just — a tramp!” cried Eric Quisenberry.

Johnny let the unconscious tramp fall on his back, so that light fell upon his face.

“Isn’t he? Can you wonder, now, why we paid no special attention to him in Minnesota? That make-up is as good as any I’ve ever seen…”

“Make-up?” exclaimed Diana Rusk.

“Sure,” said Johnny easily. “The whiskers are phony. The dirt is greasepaint…”

Far down the hill, a police siren screamed.

Johnny said, quickly: “Prepare yourself for a surprise. I was surprised myself when I found out this afternoon. I wouldn’t have been, though, if someone had told me that he’d been a track man in his college days.”

“Track… college?” exclaimed Quisenberry, bewildered. “That man?…”

“Uh-huh. I went up to his diggings today. He was packing. I saw a picture of himself in a track suit with the letter H on his shirt. Look…” He whipped a handkerchief from his pocket, stooped, and in two quick movements swept the ragged whiskers from the tramp’s face and swabbed it with the handkerchief.

“Wilbur Tamarack!”

The police car was coming up the hill now, its siren splitting the night with a hideous scream.

Johnny said: “Who was more in Simon Quisenberry’s confidence than the man he put in charge of his clock factory? And who was in a better position to know if the business was making money?”

The headlights of the police car turned into Six O’Clock Drive. Policemen piled out of the car, came running with guns.

Later, after Johnny Fletcher had found the handcuff key in Partridge’s pocket he continued his expose. “Tamarack was always traveling for the firm. He flew to Minnesota, beating you there by a full day, Miss Rusk. The disguise wasn’t difficult for him, because he’d been interested in theatricals in college. He knew that Tommy had pawned the clock because his private investigator — Jim Partridge — had traced it to Columbus. So Tamarack had himself arrested in Brooklands, but didn’t reveal himself to Tommy. He probably figured to pick the boy’s pockets while he slept. Something made Tom suspicious and he gave me the ticket. When Tamarack searched Tommy, Tommy either woke up and Tamarack had to strangle him, or he became enraged because he couldn’t find the ticket and — did it… He may even have seen Tom slip the ticket to me and killed him for that reason, but he didn’t quite dare tackle me — or Sam.

“He came back to New York. We obligingly retrieved the Talking Clock and you returned it here. In the meantime things became complicated. Bonita tried to sell the clock to Nick Bos, who having loaned Simon a lot of money on his collection, suspected that the old man was hoarding the money.

“Bonita may have wanted to steal the clock, but Joe Cornish beat her to it. Tamarack, by clever deduction, figured out who had stolen it, killed Cornish and got the clock himself. All he wanted of it was the talking-machine record which he took out of the clock. He then returned the clock to the house.

“During all this time, Jim Partridge, as slick a private detective as ever blackmailed a client, was doing a lot of nosing around. He’d got into the business originally through Wilbur Tamarack, who had employed him to locate Tommy Quisenberry… and the clock. Tamarack told him he was acting for Simon Quisenberry, the boy’s grandfather. But when he got back to New York and heard about the Talking Clock and the old man’s affairs, he put two and two together. Since Tamarack had hired him originally, the thing was easy enough for Partridge to figure out. He put the squeeze on Tamarack and the latter pretended to throw in with him…”

“That’s all right,” said Sam Cragg, “but when you called Columbus, Ohio, that pawnshop fellow — Uncle Joe — said someone had already telephoned to find out what the clock said. If Partridge didn’t know and Tamarack had the record himself, who was that?…”

Eric Quisenberry cleared his throat. “After all… I had some interest in that money.”

Johnny Fletcher looked at Ellen Rusk. She dropped her eyes. He grinned. “Well, there’s a legal question involved but I guess it’s all in the family anyway, so it doesn’t matter. You found the money, Mr. Quisenberry?”

Quisenberry hesitated a moment, then he nodded.

Merryman, the Hillcrest chief of police, returned. “My friend, Lieutenant Madigan, from New York is here. Uh… he wants to talk to you, Mr. Fletcher.”

Johnny winced. “Be right back, folks. Sam, come along.”

They went out of the house, where Lieutenant Madigan was waiting. He had a folded piece of paper in his hand. “Merryman told me what you did here, Johnny. Not bad, but — I’ve got to serve this paper anyway. Your hotel manager, Peabody…”

Johnny sighed, wearily. “So now I’ve got to figure out how to soft-soap Peabody. D’you suppose he’d listen to reason if I paid the bill?”

“He might. Have you got forty bucks?”

“No, but…” Johnny grinned. “Look, Lieutenant, we’re old pals, aren’t we?…”

Madigan backed away. “You’re not going to borrow that money from me!”

“Just until tomorrow. Miss Rusk will probably force a commission on me for selling her clock. But even if she doesn’t, I’ve got all this out of the way, and can get back to business and—”

“Yah!” said Sam Cragg, derisively.