The Clockwork Man

by William Jablonsky

  “It’s more complicated than that, sir.” The sergeant’s voice was tinged with agitation.

  Herr Linnhoffer folded his arms and began to tap his foot. “I don’t see how.”

  Sergeant Albright rolled his eyes. “I’m sure you don’t, sir.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  The sergeant began to usher Herr Linnhoffer out. “It’ll take some time to get the judge’s order, Mr. Linnhoffer. Until then youcan come visit, but we won’t be releasing him.”

  “Thank you, Officer,” Herr Linnhoffer said. “And I’ll be seeing you soon, Ernst. I’ll be glad to finally bring you home.”

  I bade him farewell, and the sergeant closed the door behind him.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Sergeant Albright said. “I can’t stand that guy. He and the captain are golf buddies.”

  “I am his property. He has a right to me.” The sergeant shook his head and sighed. “If it were up to me, I’d just let you go. But I have to think, once the judge sees you and that diary of yours, he could never just give you back.”

  “Thank you.” For the first time since I arrived here, I sensed the faint possibility that I might not be dragged in chains back to my window prison.

  26 June 2005

  1:53 p.m.

  At 8:36 this morning, the sergeant knocked softly, then eased open the door with an almost imperceptible creak. The hallway outside was mostly dark, and there was little commotion. “Follow me,” he said. “And if anyone asks, I never did this.”

  “I understand.”

  For a moment I believed he was attempting to release me, though were that the case I might not have gone willingly. To be perfectly frank, despite my ragged condition, if I so chose I could escape any time I wished; the interrogation room door is neither thick nor heavy, and I could easily rip it from its hinges. But my current incarceration—if that is the proper term for it—is fraught with complications, and I would not wish him to incur the judge’s wrath.

  He led me through a series of hallways dotted with doors similar to my own, with tiny shaded windows. At the end of the corridor was a heavy door labeled Fire Exit Only, and my apprehension grew. However, we stopped at the last door; he opened it, and gestured for me to go inside. I entered a small, squarish room bare but for a tiny table and a large rectangular mirror on the far wall.

  “Well, good mornin’, ol’ boy!” Herr Greeley sat at the tiny table, his dark skin shimmering in the harsh light, a plate of doughnuts and a small cup of black coffee in front of him. He rose and embraced me, patting my back so roughly my insides rattled. “I was gettin’ worried about you.”

  Sergeant Albright laughed. “He’s been here every day since you were brought in. When I got here, he was banging on the back door.”

  Greeley gave him a stern look. “You shoulda let me in sooner,” he said brusquely. “But thanks for breakfast.” He lifted a doughnut off the plate and took a large bite.

  “My pleasure,” the sergeant said. “I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

  Greeley smiled widely and clapped his free hand on the tabletop. “So when they lettin’ you outta here? We oughta go out and smash up some more bad guys.”

  “I do not know. I think the judge may give me back to Herr Linnhoffer.”

  “Aw, man,” he said, a small speck of doughnut flying from his mouth and sticking to the edge of the table. “They can’t do that. Don’t they know who you are yet?”

  “Yes. But they may not care.”

  He shook his head in disgust. “Man, you don’t belong to nobody. You belong to you.”

  Sensing his irritation, I attempted to change the subject. “How is Carrie?”

  Greeley’s face seemed to lose some of its harshness. “A little better now. They roughed her up pretty good. She’s still in the hospital. Prob’ly be out in another week. Her momma came down from Green Bay to get her.”

  “Good.”

  Greeley smiled. “But man, did you make ’em pay for it. Heh. You shoulda seen yourself—that was unbelievable the way you picked up that van and tipped it over. Just like Superman. By the time the cops got to him, that son of a bitch was cryin’ like a baby.”

  “I am glad,” I said.

  Herr Greeley finished off one doughnut and took a long slurp of his coffee. “A-ma-zin’,” he said. “Hell, you could spring yourself anytime you wanted to, couldn’t you? They put you in a cell, you’d just bend the bars and walk right through.”

  “It is not that simple.”

  “Sure it is.” Greeley put down his cup, raised himself, and took hold of my right hand. “Come on. There’s a door not ten feet from here. Why don’t you and me just walk out of it?” He tugged on my arm, but I did not move.

  “And then what?” I asked, certain that if I escaped, the police would quickly find me again.

  “Then we run like hell. Come on. Just follow ol’ Greeley and do what I do.” He pulled my arm harder still. But I did not wish to move. He steeled himself and heaved one final time, but his feet slid on the linoleum and he fell onto his posterior.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” he asked, picking himself up from the tile. “Don’t you want out of here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then come on.”

  “I cannot go. Herr Linnhoffer …”

  “Don’t gimme that! What, you think you’re still somebody’s property? Like a slave?”

  “I would not put it that way, but yes.”

  “So you a toaster now.” He sighed heavily. “Fine. You stay here and let ’em make a freak show outta you. I got better things to do.” He slipped the remaining doughnuts into his coat pocket and started toward the door. “See you in your window,” he said, and walked out into the hallway. At the time I felt a strong temptation to follow him, to run past Sergeant Albright and out the fire exit, a last attempt at freedom. Clearly, I remained. But perhaps it was for the best; I doubt Greeley would figure in to any plans Herr Linnhoffer might have for me. He did not return, and I do not know if I will see him again.

  The sergeant entered once Greeley had left. “Hmm. Your friend’s gone already?”

  “Yes.” I followed him back to the interrogation room.

  27 June 2005

  9:36 p.m.

  Quite abruptly, my fate has been determined.

  Judge Watkins, the first to even listen to Sergeant Albright’sclaims about me, returned from his vacation late this afternoon and entered my temporary quarters, escorted in by the sergeant and two other uniformed officers. He was a robust man of about fifty-five, and arrived wearing a checkered short-sleeved shirt, white pants, and blue shoes. (I had, for some reason, expected a flowing black robe, though I have no real experience with judges but the pictures I have seen in books.) He seemed irritated, and when he first laid eyes on me he raised his hands to his hips, snarled, and turned to the sergeant. “What in the hell is this?” he asked. “Is that a costume or something?”

  “No, sir,” Sergeant Albright explained.

  The judge was unmoved. “I told you, if this is some kind of joke … ” “It’s no joke. Ernst, why don’t you introduce yourself?” I stood in the magistrate’s presence and offered my hand. “Good afternoon, Your Honor,” I said.

  The judge jumped slightly and moved behind one of the uniformed officers, presumably to shield himself against me. “I beg your pardon. I did not mean to startle you.”

  “It’s talking to me, Albright,” the judge said.

  “He’s no ‘it,’ sir,” the sergeant explained, and I still find myself flattered by his defense of me, unwarranted as it may have been. “Ernst here is for real. He saved that runaway and caught Robert Kowalcyk and his accomplices.”

  The judge seemed uninterested. “Who?”

  “The florist—the kidnap-murder case.”

  “Oh, him,” the judge said. He approached me cautiously, reached out and flicked my forehead with his fingers. “Feels like an ‘it’ to me, Detective.” He tapped at
my chest and abdomen ina similar fashion, much as Herr Ford had done in his inspection of me. “What is this? Steel?”

  “Nickel,” I replied.

  “I heard about this when Linnhoffer’s bought him,” the judge said. “Amazing contraption.”

  I thanked him, but he ignored me. “Tell Charlie he can pick it up first thing tomorrow,” he said.

  “But, sir,” the sergeant protested, gently taking hold of the judge’s arm to prevent him from striking me again, “if you’d just talk to him for a few minutes …”

  “Nonsense,” the judge said. “The man’s got a right to his property. Just because it talks doesn’t mean we should open the door and let it walk out.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting that, sir,” the sergeant said. “But if you’ll just read this …”

  Judge Watkins briefly took the diary from the sergeant’s hands, but looked at it no more than five seconds before handing it back to him. “Tell me you don’t believe this. It’s obviously a fraud. Mechanical men don’t keep diaries.”

  “Your Honor, this one does.”

  “I think we’re done here, don’t you?” Judge Watkins said. “And don’t get any ideas about setting it loose, Albright. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” Sergeant Albright escorted the judge out, then returned to me, his head bowed slightly. “I’m sorry. There was nothing I could do.”

  “I know. Please do not disobey him on my account. After all, he is correct.”

  The sergeant shook his head sadly. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

  “No. But that hardly matters.”

  “There are so many reasons why that’s wrong,” he said, and excused himself, closing the door loudly behind him.

  At present I am seated at my table, the only light in the room from the tiny window on the door. I have been alone for four hours, twenty-seven minutes; Sergeant Albright left the station after Judge Watkins’ ruling, and has not returned since. He seemed distressed by the decision, and may not have wished to be reminded of it by being in my presence. I remain appreciative of his efforts on my behalf, but what is done is done.

  I am not at all surprised by the decision. Legally, I am now Herr Linnhoffer’s property, and by all rights he may reclaim me. For now I can only sit and wait until morning, when he finally comes for me. I will at least meet many new people, and provide amusement to children and their parents. For the time being, I will simply have to make the best of it. Come morning, my new life begins.

  1 July 2005

  7:42 p.m.

  For the past three days I have not had the opportunity to make further posts in these pages, for reasons which I will explain momentarily. I am now, as Herr Linnhoffer put it, “back where I belong,” in the window of his department store. He has installed a few modifications to this niche—namely an electric eye inside the display which keeps watch on me at all times, a barred gate made of three-inch thick, solid steel bars, the key to which is held by the armedsecurity guard just outside, and two cables, thin but strong, protruding from slits in my trousers, binding my ankles to a heavy panel on the floor. He has also replaced the thin glass of my window with a much thicker, stronger variety he claims will stop a bullet. While I believe I am capable of breaking the cables, the gate and window are another matter. To make matters worse, I am now being monitored at all times, and would be discovered immediately.

  I initially objected to Herr Linnhoffer as the gate was being constructed, and the harnesses fastened to my legs—I have offered no resistance since my return here, and indicated I would fully acquiesce to his wishes. But he was unmoved. “I just can’t take that chance,” he said.

  Fortunately, thus far I have managed to keep possession of this diary. I had feared he would confiscate and destroy it, or worse, sell it as a curiosity. But as it will not interfere with his plans for me, he took no interest in it. Upon my removal from the station I offered to give it to Sergeant Albright in the hope that he would preserve it, but he refused.

  “Keep it,” he said. “It’s all you have of your home.”

  My return to the store was met with little fanfare. At 5:30 on the morning of the twenty-eighth, an armored truck appeared in the police station’s parking lot, and three burly, armed men came into my holding area to escort me into the truck. Sergeant Albright followed, presumably to walk me to the door. I searched the grounds for a glimpse of Greeley, but did not see him. Perhaps he has washed his hands of me in frustration. Though I insisted I would not flee, one of the armed men put a pair of handcuffs and leg irons on me.

  “Are those really necessary?” the sergeant asked the senior guard, a round, balding man in a gray jumpsuit.

  The man shrugged. “Mr. Linnhoffer wants him secured for the ride back. I’m just doing what he told me to.”

  “If he wanted to escape, he could,” Sergeant Albright said. “He overturned a van with his bare hands. Do you really think those will hold him?”

  The security guard appraised my restraints. “No,” he admitted. “But that’s Linnhoffer’s problem.”

  “I will not try to escape,” I reassured him, but he ignored my reply.

  When we reached the truck, Herr Albright bade me farewell and promised to come visit me in the store. Then, with great effort, the three jumpsuited men hoisted me inside and placed me in a large wooden crate much like a coffin, and fastened several metal clasps on the side to affix the lid. I am fortunate that, unlike many people, I am not claustrophobic, or the experience would have been most unpleasant.

  Ten minutes later the truck stopped, and I sensed the crate being lifted from its resting place, then placed upright on some sort of rollers. Moments later, the lid was pried off, and I found myself in the white room where, many weeks ago, I had been polished and refurbished. Herr Linnhoffer stood nearby, along with another armed guard and the two young men I first encountered upon waking.

  He smiled at me, bade me emerge from the crate, and patted my shoulder. “Welcome back,” he said.

  Until my installment in this window I spent most of my time in the same small room in the basement where I first awoke, lying disrobed on a long metal table. The indignity was almost impossible to endure, but the benefits far outweigh my momentary discomfort. Yet, even in this I have endured a loss, and this time it might be too difficult to bear.

  Two days ago, a clockmaker named Felix Lentz, who specializes in antique clock repair, came to the store from somewhere called Kenosha to assess my damage. He was a short, somewhat portly man, very old, with a wide face, pointy chin, and spectacles so thick the lenses distorted his eyes. He spoke in a muted German accent, perhaps of the Bavarian variety, and addressed me with a kind of reverence to which I am not sure I am entitled.

  When Herr Linnhoffer brought the clock repairman to see me, the elder man stopped in his tracks in the doorway, his face erupting in a wide, joyful smile. “So it’s true,” he said. “You are real.”

  “Yes,” I said, rising with a creaking sound and extending my hand. “I am pleased to meet you.”

  Herr Linnhoffer was apparently in no mood for pleasantries. “Enough of that,” he said. “Sit down, Ernst.” I complied immediately, and Herr Linnhoffer took my face in his hands and tilted it up toward the light. “He’s banged up. Think you can do anything about that eye?” He brushed a thumb over my damaged eye.

  “Oh, certainly,” Herr Lentz said. “But he’ll have to help me through it.”

  Herr Linnhoffer scowled, perplexed. “You told me you knew Gruber’s work.”

  Herr Lentz leaned in close, stared into my cracked eye, caught his breath. “I’ve studied some of his clocks, yes. But Ernst here is the most intricate piece of clockwork ever created.”

  “Can you do it or not?” Herr Linnhoffer demanded impatiently.

  “I think so,” Herr Lentz said. “But it’ll take some time. And it won’t be cheap.”

  Herr Linnhoffer snickered and patted my right thigh. “Oh, he’s worth it, Felix.”

  F
or just a moment, Herr Lentz glared at Herr Linnhoffer and appeared to be ready to chide him; then he blinked and his face softened. “He is indeed.”

  When Herr Linnhoffer left, Herr Lentz instructed me to remove my clothing—a process which, injured as I was, I found difficult and embarrassing—and to lie on a makeshift workbench prepared for us. (There were, fortunately, no electric eyes in this room, so the experience was, for me, akin to visiting a doctor—humbling, but private.) As I lay disrobed, the dents and scratches on my limbs and torso fully exposed, Herr Lentz patted my shoulder gently. “That man does not know what he has in you, Ernst.”

  I was intrigued by his knowledge of me. “You have heard of me, then?”

  He laughed. “Oh, yes. I even saw you once: in a museum after the war. I was only five years old at the time. They said you were a fraud, but I never believed it. You, and Karl Gruber, of course, made me want to be a clockmaker to begin with.”

  “The Master was a brilliant man.”

  “Indeed he was. My father owned one of his clocks. I learned everything I know from taking it apart and putting it back together again.”

  “Do you still have it?”

  “I do, actually. Father brought it over after the war. It’s a beehive, with fifty-six separate, moving bees.” He motioned for me to roll onto my side.

  “I was there when he first designed it,” I said, recalling those first few drawings on the train back to Frankfurt. It is somewhat irrational, but for just a moment I felt I was with him again.

  “I’m sure you could tell me some stories,” Herr Lentz said. Slowly, he began to pluck out the florist’s shotgun pellets from my suede skin with a pair of tweezers, depositing them one by one in a small bowl. “Hmmm. No real penetration here. Gruber built you well. What was it, a ten-gauge? Twelve?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Well, no matter.” He plucked out twelve pellets in total, taking only seven minutes to complete the task. “There we are. I can patch up that suede tomorrow.”