Find the Clock

by Harry Stephen Keeler

  “I see,” he apologized. “Then the facts about the clock haven’t come out even yet.” He uncrossed his legs and drew in a whiff on his cigarette.

  “Well, the last night I was in the bungalow I tiptoed upstairs in the empty house to get hold of a book I wanted. Upstairs I had a curiosity to see whether I had any mail. Stepping out in the shadow of the porch I glimpsed a white letter in my mail box. I took it downstairs and read it. It proved to be from Cyrus Woolweather, an old and dear friend of my uncle’s who lived for years next to him on Ritchie Court. He and his wife were sojourning in London, and there had just come to them, he explained, by a roundabout way, the news that Uncle Jarndyce had died suddenly during their absence.

  “Their letter to me went on to say that uncle had called them in his house some months before to witness a new will he had made, vitally altering the terms of the will with which probably all you gentlemen are familiar. It appears that uncle, judging from his last conversations held with his old friend, Cyrus Woolweather, had developed a sort of phobia from an article he had read on the subject of how frequently and with what ease wills were altered by unscrupulous lawyers to whom they were entrusted.

  “Uncle was eccentric indeed,” continued John Cooper Jarndyce, “and there is little surprise that he developed the distrust which he did — the distrust which made him decide to entrust the location of his new will only to Cyrus and Martha Woolweather, Cyrus’ wife. From Mr. Wool weather’s description of this will, I was brought to realize later, when I lay prisoner in that rat hole, that Catherwood’s plans were checkmated completely. Mr. Woolweather also stated in his letter that he was dispatching by the same steamer a similarly worded letter to Iris Shaftsbury of Arcadyville, Louisiana, whose name now appeared in connection with the new will.” John Cooper Jarndyce paused uncertainly.

  “Now — well — if only I had the clock in question, I’d show you people exactly what Cyrus Woolweather wrote me from London about it.”

  “Well,” declared Crosby, jumping up, “the article in question is here.” He opened the small office safe in the corner of the room and brought forth the clock which emitted a cheerful tick apparently at its liberation. “But I don’t mind telling you that if you are expecting to find the document in this clock, Mr. Darrell claims he’s already had it examined by a watchmaker while running this story down.”

  John Cooper Jarndyce laughed.

  “That means nothing,” he declared. “Uncle Jarndyce was a clockmaker himself in his youth before he piled up a fortune. I think if anyone could find a place in a clock to conceal a voluminous will, Uncle Jarndyce was the man.” He looked about him. “Haven’t got a hammer and a cold chisel in the plant, have you?” he asked of Crosby.

  “Give him those tools,” directed Notman,” that you photographed for last night’s sob story — the ones we found at the robbery of the safe of the United Charities.”

  From the safe Crosby drew forth a stout hammer and a cold chisel.

  Amid great silence John Cooper Jarndyce stepped to Crosby’s desk and took up the clock and the chisel. Inserting the chisel between the round brass plate that comprised the back of the clock, and the nickel-plated cylinder that made the sides, he wrenched the back violently away, a shower of tiny brass nuts accompanying his quick cut to its interior. Bit by bit he jerked forth the works, and bit by bit, occasionally wrenching, now hammering, he completely demolished them. When he finished, Crosby’s flat-top desk over which he had worked bore a scattered mass of brass cogs, levers, escapements, nuts, and bent brass; but in John Cooper Jarndyce’s fingers, held up to the inspection of the room, was — the mainspring of the clock!

  Then he proceeded to do a further strange thing. Through the steel loop riveted to the end of the spring, he thrust Crosby’s sharp-pointed letter opener. Then he drove the letter opener deep into the edge of the desk with a blow of the hammer. This done he unrolled the spring. It showed only an unmarred steely blue, shiny surface. But he proceeded nevertheless to continue to unroll it, the spring itself unable to curl back upon him because its end was fastened. And of a sudden the blank steel ribbon turned into a veritable steel ticker tape — upon its surface appeared the beginning of a line of etched characters — characters comprising human handwriting; and they continued to add themselves to the line until John Cooper Jarndyce stood clear across the room holding the steel ribbon completely unfolded.

  “There you are, gentlemen,” he said, gazing about him with a smile, “just as Cyrus Woolweather said they would be. Etched in the spring with acid — written out by hand with a glass stylus instead of a pen. The original indestructible, unalterable will — intrusted to two faithful old friends rather than to a lawyer. Read it aloud, some one. I already know the terms of it, and I’ll say it’s an expensive will for yours truly!”

  Darrell had already stepped forward with the rest to examine it. Amid a craning of necks around him he read forth the writing which traversed feet and feet of the steel spring, moving slowly from left to right in order to cover it all. The etched message, traveling in a single line, couched in fully legal terms, and leading off with the date of March 10th, the year as yet unexpired, read:

  “In the name of God, Amen. I, Edward Thurston Jarndyce of Chicago in the County of Cook and State of Illinois, being of sound mind and memory, and considering the uncertainty of this frail and transitory life do, therefore, make, ordain, publish and declare this to be my last will and testament. Believing that my previous will, dated February 5, 1921, works an injustice to kith and kin all of whom are of equal blood relationship to me, its terms are hereby completely revoked. I give, devise and bequeath all my worldly estate to my two nephews and one niece: John Cooper Jarndyce, of Chicago, Catherwood Jarndyce, of Chicago, and Iris Shaftsbury, of Arcadyville, Louisiana, in the following manner: One third shall be paid outright to said John Cooper Jarndyce; one third shall be paid outright to said Iris Shaftsbury; and one third shall constitute a permanent trust fund, managed by the Union Trust Company of Chicago, from which said Catherwood Jarndyce, at heart a good lad, but a hopeless spendthrift, shall draw monthly the sum of $100 until his death; the trust fund with its accumulated interest will thereupon revert to the John Crerar and Newberry Libraries of Chicago, half and half. I make, constitute and appoint the Union Trust Company of Chicago executor of this my last will and testament. In witness whereof I hereunto subscribe my name: Edward Thurston Jarndyce. Witnessed this same day, Cyrus Woolweather; Witnessed this same day, Martha Woolweather.”

  As Darrell finished reading the unusual will aloud, John Cooper Jarndyce walked slowly forward again and allowed the steel ribbon to roll itself neatly up once more. There was a general resumption of seats and a buzz of conversation. In his chair next to that of Iris, Darrell turned to her and spoke in a low voice.

  “My dear one,” he said solemnly, “it scares me — all that money — nearly ninety thousand dollars! If I had known — well — I would never have dared put that ring on your finger.”

  She squeezed his hand under the cover of a fold of her black silk dress.

  “Money is very useful,” she smiled. “Perhaps we may want to buy a newspaper of our own some day. How will that be, Mr. Particularity?”

  He gave an answering squeeze, and then turned his attention to John Cooper Jarndyce once more as Notman, raising his hand for quiet in the room, addressed a further question or two.

  “Now, Mr. Jarndyce, you’ve made it mighty clear why this gang has made such furious attempts to get this clock; their whole scheme involving the mysterious one-hundred-thousand-dollar note was worth nothing if Catherwood Jarndyce, by the terms of the new will, became merely the recipient of a paltry one thousand two hundred dollars a year from his uncle’s estate until his death. How did they manage to get hold of Cyrus Woolweather’s letter, and what pressure did they put on you to make you tell what you had done with the clocks?”

  “They got the letter away from me last Saturday night,” replied John Cooper Jarndyce. �
��I had put it in the breast pocket of my coat that last night on Logan Boulevard. When they were dragging me off that night, it slipped down into the lining. I had it out last Saturday night for about the hundredth time, and was reading it by the light of a candle they had condescended to let me have, when this fellow Murphy walked in unexpectedly on me. He took the letter away from me at once, and I suppose carried it without any further delay to some one in the gang — some one higher up than himself.”

  “How about that, Duke?”

  “Yes,” acknowledged Murphy, rather chipper now that he and his girl-wife had purchased immunity before a roomful of people by their mere signatures to a slip of paper. “Doc never would stand for any telephoning, you know; so I took the letter immediately across the city to his office. I knew it had some bearin’ on his scheme, whatever the scheme was.”

  Notman gave a derisive laugh.

  “You’re a good one, Duke. About as keen as an old razor blade. Carried the precious letter over to the South Side, and dropped off at Halsted and Fullerton at the Chinaman’s with your laundry bundle, and spilled the information in that very letter to the outside world, written on a handkerchief rolled up in one of your own shirts. You’re good, Duke. Hiring you was an expensive proposition, I’ll say.” He turned to the bearded young man. “And then, Mr. Jarndyce, they forced from you the location of the clocks in your uncle’s house?”

  “They did not,” said John Cooper Jarndyce blithely. “What do you think I am, inspector? A boob? Murphy came in Sunday night and told me he was ordered to find out where the personal property of my uncle Edward Thurston Jarndyce had been sold. He told me I was in for a beating if I didn’t come across. I put on a sad face and told the poor nut to go back and tell his superiors that they knew as much as I did myself; that some bailiff of the probate court had handled uncle’s furniture. Convincing Murphy is like taking candy from a baby. That’s the last I ever heard about Uncle Jarndyce’s clock.”

  Notman’s face was puzzled at this information, but Darrell’s, strangely, bore a satisfied smile. The inspector turned to Doctor Flandrau, who had remained silent during the last catechism. “Well, doctor, what have you got to say? Still going to maintain, are you, that you haven’t any idea where Brossmeier is, nor Von Tresseler, who is associated with him, and that you never have had?”

  “Absolutely,” said Flandrau frankly. “I have said I will tell all in connection with this case, and so I will. Bross, since selling out his undertaking establishment, has communicated with me solely by phoning or by coming personally to my office. I have absolutely no knowledge by which he can be located. He seemed fearful to give any information of his whereabouts. When Murphy brought me the London letter late Saturday night which he had taken from the prisoner, I held it until Sunday noon when Bross made a visit to my office.

  “Bross disappeared with it — then returned within about two hours, and directed me to order Murphy to find out from the prisoner what had been done with Edward Thurston Jarndyce’s furniture. I went out myself to the sanatorium and had Murphy interview the prisoner alone. Murphy reported exactly what Mr. Jarndyce has just related. I went back across the city and relayed it on to Bross who was waiting in my office. When Bross left Sunday night he was figuring on investigating the probate court records in order to get a line on the clock, and make sure that it was got safely out of the case. Of course his movements were directed, there is no doubt now, by his nephew, Von Tresseler, with whom he was in touch. But as I told you once to-night, my part was to provide safe-keeping for young Jarndyce and later to file the one-hundred-thousand-dollar note for collection.”

  “In other words, you weren’t selected to handle the murder and rough work, eh?” said Notman. “I see.” He turned to Duke Murphy. “Well, Duke, one last question from you and your wife, and then we’ve about got to the bottom of this affair. You and Berta it was, then, who took the green taxi on June eighth from the Twelfth Street depot?”

  “Yes, ‘nspector. We had written directions from the doc how to reach the old place, after gettin’ off the Cleveland train.”

  “I see.” Notman turned to the Italian girl. “And you, Mrs. Murphy, I take it, were the dark-eyed girl who went to Foy’s place Tuesday night at around eleven o’clock when he was killed, to get the laundry your husband had left there the previous Saturday night?”

  She nodded.

  “Yes, sir. I was the girl. But I remained only a minute, sir. I handed the Chinaman the half of that green ticket Duke gave me, got the bundle and paid him. Then I boarded a car and went back. The doctor had written to a friend of his in Cleveland for me, to find out what was going on in the Sicilian colony, and I had been over to his office to learn what the answer was.

  “Now about the Chinaman, sir, the last I saw of him was as I stepped out of his door into the street. He had gone into a back room and was tossing the two bits of green laundry ticket into a little rusty stove. As I started northward I saw a man standing across the street in the shadow of the trees around that big, red brick building. The last I saw of him he had started across the street as though he had been waiting for me to leave the laundry before going over to it. I was not able to see his face, nor did I even try, sir. But I swear to you, inspector, that I did not kill the Chinaman.”

  “And I, Inspector Notman,” interpolated Darrell, “am the one person in this room who knows to a certainty that Berta Murphy did not kill Foy, and that neither did Charley Yat Gong, who has been locked up at the detective bureau.” And with these words Darrell stopped, saying nothing further.

  A pregnant silence filled the air. It was broken, finally, by Inspector Notman.

  “But I fail to see,” he declared, “how this great scheme was to be put through. Here a trio of men conspire to hide a man supposedly dead, to present a note for one hundred thousand dollars to the next in line to his estate — or rather to the executors of that next man’s estate — and then decamp. But this next man in line — this Catherwood Jarndyce — claims he didn’t issue such a note. By Jehoshaphat, I tell you this fellow Catherwood Jarndyce is hand and foot in with ‘em on the scheme, and he’s no more on his way to New York for his employer this minute than I am. He’s making his get-away, that’s all.”

  But the inspector’s moody declaration was answered by a new speaker. It was Iris. She directed her words to the detective head.

  “I trust that I will be permitted to contribute something now,” she said in her low, melodious, Southern voice. “Catherwood, at the time he professed ignorance to both Mr. Darrell and myself as to how the schemers were to profit through him, assured us that he had signed no I O U’s nor promissory notes, nor written any entangling love letters to anyone. But to-night on his way to the depot he called at my apartment. He related to me the details of an incident which happened about a month ago, at least a couple of weeks you see, before John put through his death hoax. A well-dressed man, polished, courteous, well-spoken, yet a man whom Catherwood now feels instinctively was a German, at least by descent, called at his apartment in the Chetson Arms. He presented a card bearing the name of Robert C. Brownsley. He then asked Catherwood to step downstairs to the front of the building and look over a new make of car in which he had come. He termed it the Dorck seven-passenger six-cylinder. It was a handsome car, new and trim, although Catherwood felt that it resembled very much another popular make of motor car seen on the streets.

  “At any rate the stranger returned to Catherwood’s apartment with him, and a brief talk made him a remarkable proposition. He said that the new company, chartered in Pennsylvania, which was intorducing this car were endeavoring to put it out upon a unique plan of advertising. By this plan a certain number of men prominent in different circles and professions could obtain the car absolutely free in consideration that their name could be later published by the company in connection with a statement of the car’s merits.

  “If at the expiration of two months’ trial of the car the user did not wish to conclude th
e arrangements, he was permitted to return the machine and pay a very low price for the rental while he had had it, or he could furthermore cancel the entire arrangement and pay a cash sum outright for the car. The proposition was so manifestly fair, that Catherwood, so he admitted to me, jumped at it.”

  “I’ll say it was fair,” put in Notman. “Wish somebody would offer me a car on those terms. How about you over there, Brother Crosby, eh?” He stopped. “And then, Miss Shaftsbury?”

  “And then Catherwood signed the contract which the agent presented, becoming five minutes later the possessor of a beautiful new machine, license tag and all, practically for nothing. As for the agent, he called a taxicab and left in that instead of the car which now belonged to Catherwood.’’ The girl paused.

  “Now, while Catherwood was signing the contract, he happened by accident to drop on his signature a huge blot of black ink, with the result that the agent was compelled to fill out a new one from the pad of blank forms he had with him, and put the spoiled one away in his breast pocket. While Catherwood was signing the second contract, the agent went into the tiny bath-room of the apartment to wash his hands which had got some grease on them due probably to his demonstration of the car. There it appears that he must have removed his coat and laid it across the radiator, for the spoiled contract fell out of his pocket and back of the radiator, where the scrubwoman who cleans Catherwood’s apartment later found it, and turned it over to Catherwood, who in turn threw it without any further thought into his library-table drawer.”

  Again the girl paused.

  “That contract form which Catherwood damaged for further use by a blot of ink has lain in that drawer these many weeks among a mass of other papers and photographs, and to-night when the incident all came back to Catherwood with a new significance, he got it out and brought it with him to my apartment. And here I am, in turn, with it.” She opened her black-and-white striped silk bag and brought out a folded paper which she handed to Crosby, the city editor.