The Dealer Left His Warehouse Clock Beside My Spare Place

Conrad Mott put the clock where I usually kept a plate.

He did it without looking. Men who owned fine things often missed small ones.

"You can move that cup, can't you?" he asked.

I moved his clock instead.

My shop stood above the Whetstone Brook in Brattleboro. In wet weather, the brook sounded like a drawer full of loose screws. That October morning, rain tapped the front glass, and wet leaves stuck to Conrad's boots.

I was a thin white man of seventy-one, with a bent left thumb, pale blue eyes, and white hair that stood up over my ears.

My name was Edwin Fiske. I repaired clocks. I also kept a place at my workbench for whichever neighbor needed company. A clean cup, a plate, a folded napkin held down with a brass washer. Nothing grand.

Conrad Mott was a white man of fifty-two, with smooth silver hair, soft hands, and a neat brown coat that smelled of cedar.

He sold antiques from a bright shop off Main Street and kept stock in a warehouse near the rail line. His voice was gentle enough to make people lean closer.

"Poor old thing won't keep time," he said. "Much like the rest of us."

He smiled at me after that.

The clock had an oak case, a weekly winding arbor, and a lever for punching workers' cards. Above the slot sat a wheel marked with employee numbers. A worker chose a number, slid in a card, and pressed the lever.

"Still in use?" I asked.

"For the warehouse crew. A little tradition."

"What happened?"

"Started losing time in September. Perhaps August."

I wrote his words on intake sheet 6814.

"Estimate is $420. Deposit is $180. I photograph each stage. My records stay with me."

I turned the sheet so he could read the line above the signature box.

"At your age, I suppose pictures help you remember," he said.

"They do."

He signed. I gave him the yellow copy and put the white one under a brass weight. Every Friday I sent scans of my open jobs to a secure storage account. My accountant had taught me that after a flooded pipe ruined a drawer.

Conrad counted out nine twenties.

"Just get it running. No need to make a museum of it."

After he left, I lifted the clock onto a padded stand. Its serial plate read 4471. I photographed the case, the plate, his signed order, and the hands beside my shop's radio time display.

Inside, the oil had turned sticky. That was common.

The narrow tin cover behind the card bed was less common. It had two tiny screws, both scarred by the wrong blade. I had repaired one like it thirty years before.

I stopped before touching them and took another picture.

"What's in the little house?" a woman asked from the door.

Beatrice Chen held a paper bag against her raincoat. She was sixty-eight, Chinese American, and had retired from the Postal Inspection Service. She rented the upstairs rooms two doors down.

She had started bringing soup after my sister died. Then she had started staying to tell me what was wrong with my window latch.

"A second record," I said.

I explained that each press printed the worker's number and time twice. One mark went on the card. The other went on a paper roll hidden behind the bed.

"For the owner who doesn't trust the cards?"

"Exactly."

"Sensible machine. Miserable workplace."

She set the bag beside the spare plate. I slid the brass washer off the napkin for her.

The cover came away. I photographed the roll in place. Then I eased the paper across a clean tray in short lengths, taking pictures as I went. It held six weeks of entries. Near the end, I saw a date I knew: September 18.

Conrad had given an interview after a theft that night. Someone had taken $86,000 in stock from his warehouse. He had said the building was empty from six until morning.

The roll showed employee 04 entering at 10:14 p.m. and 07 at 10:19. More entries followed after midnight.

"Could the time be wrong?" Beatrice asked.

"Could be. Could also be honest workers doing something dull."

"Good. Keep that sentence."

I rewound the paper onto its spindle. I had not cut it or changed a setting. A paper feed was part of a clock repair. What the entries meant was someone else's job.

The phone rang while I was saving the files.

Conrad's voice had lost its soft edge.

"I've changed my mind. Close it up. I'll collect it tonight."

"I've found a second recording unit. It needs care."

There was a long pause.

"There is no second unit, Edwin. You're confused. Don't take any more pictures."