The Alarming Clock

by Michael Avallone

  “Well, I was in the Mech Cavalry but we played around with the Signal Corps boys a lot. Had to. Code systems, communications, all that junk. We depended on it. The Signal Corps has special encoding machines that break down the messages and set them up. But there’s a gimmick to them. They can only be set up by using and knowing where to put a certain cog—do you follow me?”

  Monks whistled softly. Even he looked a bit more impressed now. Alma was just listening. Her confidence in my having all the answers was a wonderful thing.

  Monks nodded soberly.

  “I have been slow on the uptake. You figure this extra cog was one of our secrets and the Reds were shipping it over so they could duplicate it or work something at least where they’d have an Open Sesame into some of our top secrets? That it?”

  I spread my hands. “What else? I had to get rid of the thing even if I couldn’t be exactly sure what they were up to. I had all the facts. It was secreted from Washington so that means it was something we had. Not something they had. I had to keep it from getting into their hands. That’s why I destroyed it. I felt safer about doing it my way than any other. I couldn’t trust anybody. The risk was too great.”

  “You got a point there,” Monk said. “Here was this Ritz working in the Pentagon for them and all the time he’s a Red spy.”

  “Exactly. And that’s something I want to talk to this FBI man about. The one who’s dying to see me. Because you see there’s a leak somewhere. A pretty damn big one. But Washington will have to handle it without the help of the Noon School of Detection. I’m going to be pretty busy.” I winked at Alma. She winked back because she knew what I was talking about.

  “Leak?” Monks growled. “Course there’s a leak. Isn’t that what you’ve just been saying?”

  I grinned at him. “Ritz turned loyal and bucked his own party at the last minute. He knew he had his hands on something important but he couldn’t risk destroying the clock. So he came running to me. Which means only one thing to a man of my curious intelligence. Roland was only a middle man. A go-between for transferring the hot dope. But he didn’t pass the ball and that’s how the whole play got jammed. So—”

  “So what—?” Monks helped me along eagerly.

  “So this. The leak started somewhere else. Some other guy is responsible for the extra cog on that cheap alarm clock. So you see, another very large Red rat is still on the loose in this wonderful country. I hope J. Edgar Hoover is making all the necessary arrangements.”

  Monks had one more question for me while I searched for another cigarette.

  “How come these two characters—Max and Fairways—don’t know about the inside of the clock? That’s hard to take.”

  I shrugged.

  “It’s just typical of their form of ethics. Their way of doing things. The less the hired hands know about things the better. Max and Fairways were probably just instructed to nail Ritz and take the clock and pass it along. But the boys were very ambitious. So they wanted to find out what made the clock tick so loud. Maybe to work a double-cross, maybe to curry favour. Who knows? They loused themselves up by working against each other instead of together. Which, come to think of it, is just one reason why I think the leftist way of doing things is all wet.”

  Monks stared at me closely.

  “Yeah? And what about your way of doing things? What’s all this magoo about six o’clock? Just trying to be cute or something?”

  “No. I just took a chance. I told you the clock had a serial number in it. Well, I decoded it and I just wasn’t taking any chances.” I recited: “Three-three-one-nine-five-seven-one-eight-zero-zero. Mean anything to you?”

  Monks looked blankly at me. I laughed.

  “It didn’t to me either until I started considering just what might interest the Reds more than anything else. And then Maxim and all the rest of them acted so much in a damn hurry, I started to think about time.”

  Alma’s eyes sparkled. “I get it, Ed. Three for the third month, the second three for the third day and the one-nine-five-seven for the year. Of course, March 3, 1957. Sure, that’s it.”

  “That’s my girl.” I smiled at her. “And to an old Army man, the next four digits mean only one thing. One-eight-zero-zero can only be eighteen hundred Army Time, and NM might be New Mexico where they’ve been setting off those A-bombs. But I was wrong. Those figures don’t mean that at all.”

  Monks frowned. “What did they mean?”

  I took a deep breath.

  “Finding the cog was the solution. The numbers had to refer to that and that alone. They can only mean the position or the place where the cog is to be adjusted on the encoding and decoding machine. And NM is the name of the machine that this particular cog is to be used on. Once you put those facts together you know why the clock was so damn dangerous.”

  Monks looked at me and sadly fished for his cell keys. But his eyes held a slight twinkle.

  “Come on. We can wait in my office for that FBI man. Besides, that St. Peter kid’s in there worrying about the both of you.” He shook his bull head. “I don’t know how you do it, Ed. You’ve always got an out. No matter how thick the soup or high the moon, you’ve always got an out.”

  Alma laughed happily. “It’s easy for him, Mike. Can’t you see? The man has an amazing mouth.”

  “You’ve been listening to my friend Ambruzzi,” I kidded her.

  I looked at her sweet red lips. I felt great. Her mouth wasn’t so bad either.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  That’s just about all there is to tell about the alarming clock thing. Soviet espionage had received a big kick in the teeth and business went on as usual down in New Mexico.

  Maxim, Fairways and all their little fishes have really gone to school now. Only some of them will never graduate. Myra Colby was sensational front-page copy for about two weeks. Her lovely face was with every morning cup of coffee and rolls for days. The flower of American womanhood gone to seed in the Red garden—you know how the papers play those things up. But pretty soon it all petered out because there were other big murders, other sensations to occupy front page space. Yesterday’s Big Story is, after all is said and done—yesterday’s Big Story.

  It got kind of quiet in the West Fifties. Alma’s vacation time was ended and she went back to Washington to tie things up for herself before coming back and helping me share my troubles. Alec St. Peter was back in business, still at the same old stand, mending and repairing sick watches. Benny was proud as hell of me and my small share in keeping the country safe so he could still keep and tend his own bar. But like I kept telling him, he’d had a hand in it too.

  The day came when he was even prouder. I thought he’d pop the buttons on his vest when I came into the emporium and showed him the Special Delivery from Washington.

  It was from the White House, of all places, and addressed to one Edward Noon, kindly requesting his presence in a special interview with Mr. President at which the Washington press would be present along with the various heads of the Army, Navy and Air Forces. I tried to be about as humble as a .200 hitter facing the best pitcher in the league but I couldn’t. You know what an honor like that does to you? Makes you feel like you can hit anything.

  Benny had to read the letter over and over again. When he finally handed it back to me over the bar, his eyes were goggle-eyed with wonder and pride.

  “Geez, Ed,” he husked. “This ain’t nothin’ small. The President! Wantin’ to see you. How about that.” His eyes popped on an idea. “Hey—maybe they wanta give you a medal or somethin’.”

  I tucked the letter carefully into my wallet and rested my hands on the flat top of the bar. I looked across at Benny with a warm smile, the happiness singing in my soul.

  “Benny,” I said fondly. “It’s a wonderful world.”

  He poured us both a Martini. It was early in the day but hell, this wasn’t any other day. This was A day.

  “Cheers, kid,” said Benny.

  “Cheers, Benny.” W
e drank together.

  I had one last thought for him before I went back up to the mouse auditorium to do some packing.

  “And you wanted me to go into Real Estate,” I scoffed.

  “Huh?” he said, not getting my meaning right off.

  I laughed.

  “Ever hear of a Real Estate man getting to a conference with the President? I’ll say you haven’t. I haven’t either.”

  Benny suddenly realized something and his eyes bulged with warning.

  “Geez, Ed. Wear a good suit. Don’t go in looking like a stew-bum. I know you don’t care none about spiffin’ up but this is different. It’s special. You ain’t a highbrow but you wanta make a good impression.”

  I sobered up and nodded. He was right.

  Ed Noon, a private detective, was calling on the President. And like Benny had said, he shouldn’t walk in looking like a stew-bum.

  “So long, kid,” Benny said. He winked at me. “Say hello to Ike for me.”