Frank Gruber - The Talking Clock

Old Simon Quisenberry was going to die. He was only four years past his allotted three score and ten, but hed put too much strain on the old heart and two years ago, Dr. Wykagl had given him only six months more. Hed made a liar of the doctor by eighteen months.

It wouldnt be nineteen months. Old Simon knew that and he sat in his wheel chair and listened to the ticking of the clocks as they tolled the moments that were left him. There were a thousand clocks and each told the same story. Each tick a second, sixty ticks a minute, a thousand ticks a thousand seconds No, a thousand ticks were only one second.

Simon scowled at the clocks. They were confusing him. Damn the things. Hed put so much into them and now at the end, they were betraying him. They were ticking out his life too fast.

There were a thousand clocks. They were of all shapes and sizes. Some were new, some old. Simon had gathered them from the corners of the earth, had delved into history to acquire some. A fifteenth century papal prince had owned one, another had been the prized possession of a Russian czar. The mistress of an archbishop had owned another and an eighteenth century pirate had gone to the gallows wearing one.

The clocks ticked, the grandfather clock in the corner, the tiny jeweled piece in the glass case, the burnished brass table model, from which a rooster crowed the hour, twenty-four times a day.

All the clocks ticked. All reminded Simon of the brief time he had left. His old blue eyes glared fiercely at the clocks and he dropped his withered hand on the bell that stood on the table beside his chair.

A servant came quietly into the room. Simon couldnt remember his name. There had been so many servants, since Bonita had taken over the management of the house. They came and went so fast that Simon couldnt even remember their faces. He scowled at the one he saw now.

Stop the clocks, he ordered.

The servant looked around the room. You mean all of them?

Of course, you fool! Simon snapped. I dont want to hear another tick out of any of them. Stop them all.

It was a herculean task that Simon ordered. The man had been employed to keep the clocks running. He wound those that needed winding, pulled the weights of those that operated by weights. He had been taught to keep the clocks running, but not to stop them.

Before he had clumsily stopped the third clock, Simon Quisenberry, purple from anger, wheeled himself out of the room. He summoned another servant.

I want you to telephone the factory, he instructed. Tell my son to come out here and bring Nicholas Bos with him. Let me know when they arrive.

Simon Quisenberry looked about the small circle of those interested in his affairs and was not pleased with what he saw.

He said to his son, Eric, Maybe its my fault that youre what you are, but if youd had the stuff youd have pinned my ears down and Id have liked it.

Eric was forty-nine. He was well-built and wore tweeds when he wasnt wearing riding breeches, boots and a broad-brimmed Stetson hat. Eric looked all heman. He only looked it. He flushed under his fathers sarcasm and shot an apprehensive glance at his wife, Bonita, who was regarding him with open contempt.

He said: Youre not being fair, Father. You put me into the business and you never let me have any authority.

Of course I didnt, snapped Simon. If youd been man enough youd have taken the authority. Well, Ive got a surprise for you, Eric. Im leaving you the business. Its yours, all yours. All youve got to do is pay off one million dollars of indebtedness.

Eric Quisenberry blinked. A million

One million dollars. Thats what the Quisenberry Clock Company owes the bank. Youve got six months. If you can convince the bank, at the end of that time, that theres a chance of paying them the million, theyll give you the chance. If they dont think so theyll take over and youll be reading the want ads, which might be a very good thing for you Were you going to say something, Bonita?

Bonita Quisenberry was Erics second wife. She admitted to thirty-five, looked forty and was actually forty-five. She was tawny and beautiful, if you like tigresses. She was about as subtle as a buzz saw. She said to her father-in-law, I was going to ask you about the clocks. You know Ive always been fascinated by them and I thought

Simon grunted. Yes, youve thought. Youve thought: Theyre driving me crazy. If it wasnt for the senile old fools money Id break every clock in the house. Isnt that what youve thought, Bonita? You dont have to answer. Because youre not getting the clocks. My Greek friend, over there, gets them. Tell them why, Nick.

Nicholas Bos was tall, thin and olive-skinned. He bowed. Because I am only man appreciate the clock. I am collector of clock, myself. And he coughed, politely and I am already holding the mortgage on the clock. Is not so, my friend?

Yep, agreed Simon Quisenberry. One time when I was hard-pressed Nick plunked down a half million dollars, in return for which I gave him a mortgage on every clock in the house but one, he to foreclose said mortgage on the event of my death

But that one clock, Mr. Quisenberry, murmured the Greek. She is most valuable clock of all. I will giving you fifty thousand dollar for her.

At which price it would be cheap, Nicholas. Still, its no sale. The Talking Clock I leave to my grandson, Tom Quisenberry, who the old mans voice rasped in his throat who may develop into as big a thief and scoundrel as his grandfather. He has already shown striking evidence of that by stealing the Talking Clock.

Simon looked fiercely from one to the other of those gathered about him. His eyes came to rest on Eric, his son. All right, he stole the clock. But he had nerve enough to do it. And he had nerve enough to tell you, his father, to go jump in the Hudson River. The boys entitled to the clock. I only hope he knows how much its worth, because its the most valuable thing Im leaving. His nostrils flared. Still hoping, Eric? Well, dont. The business is yours, for six months. This place is yours, for less than six months, since the bank will be pressing you soon. Yep, its mortgaged to the last nickel Did you say something, Bonita?

The natural color had receded from Bonita Quisenberrys face so that the rouge showed up like irregular red islands. Her nostrils flared and her eyes flashed. She said: Damn you, you old buzzard!

Simon laughed. It was a cackling, brittle laugh. I would have been disappointed if you had held that in, Bonita.

Bonita Quisenberry was the first to leave the house. She stood for a moment on the broad veranda, regarding the grounds with distaste. She had never liked Twelve OClock House from the moment she had come to it, four years ago.

The house itself was sumptuous enough for Bonitas tastes; but Simon Quisenberry was mad on the subject of clocks. It wasnt bad enough that he had the entire house full of crazy clocks, he had to extend the clock motif to the house and grounds.

The house was built on the summit of a steep hill and with it, as a hub, twelve macadamized paths fell away, with the symmetrical precision of a clock dial. The strip that indicated six oclock was the automobile drive down to the main gate.

Bonita Quisenberry walked down this drive, a distance of a hundred yards. There was a stone cottage beside the gate and as she approached it, a swarthy, heavy-set man came out. He looked beyond Bonita toward the house, then said:

Whats up Bonita? You look like a cat whose mouse has been taken away.

Bonita gave the man a cool look, then entered the cottage. The man followed her in and closed the door.

Arent you taking a chance? he asked. I let Eric in a little while ago.