My name is Nick Quarterpast. I come from a long line of clockmakers. My father was a clockmaker, my grandfather was a clockmaker, and as far as anyone can tell my great grandfather might also have been a clockmaker. But he also might have served prison time for a string of train robberies.
I carried on the family clockmaking tradition in my shop I call The Nick of Time. Clever name.
In The Nick of Time I made all kinds of clocks, from wristwatches to wall clocks, from cuckoo clocks to grandfather clocks. I did it all. But purchasing one of my clocks costs a lot more than just money.
Upon entering my place of business, the customer was cordially invited to sit and discuss their horological needs. Perhaps it was to make a clock with a personal message, or to replace a family heirloom. Whatever the reason, I assured them that the job would be done to their utmost satisfaction. When I sensed that the customer was comfortable with my knowledge and skills, I then quoted a price and presented them with my standard agreement:
“In exchange for making a clock or timepiece, as per the customer’s specifications and for the agreed upon price, it is agreed that The Nick of Time will perform the necessary work in a timely manner and deliver said clock or timepiece to the address indicated within.”
But then this last part was buried on the back of the contract in very small type so that it escaped the notice of the customer:
“In exchange for these services, you agree that the clock or timepiece shall remain in your possession for the remainder of your natural life. Upon your demise, said clock or timepiece, AND ALL YOUR WORLDLY POSSESSIONS, shall immediately and irrevocably become the sole property of The Nick of Time.”
I needed to resort to this method of doing business since train robbery was no longer a viable option. It worked for me, and it even seemed to work for the customer, since the terms were not executed until after their demise, so in fact they were never aware of what was happening. It was the customer’s family and heirs who freaked out.
You may ask, “Hey Nick, how did this benefit you if you needed to wait years or decades until the customer passed away?”
Well… it seems that every customer who bought one of my clocks ‘mysteriously perished’ within a short period of time. And when they did, I swooped in with the contract in hand and took everything they owned: house, furniture, silver, money, artwork. Everything.
For example, as I was putting the finishing touches on a mantel clock, I received word from an associate that Mr. Tillingham of Redstone Lane had passed away that day. A year earlier, Mr. Tillingham had purchased a wall clock from me — a very nice carved mahogany clock with mother-of-pearl inlay and a pendulum mechanism.
Upon hearing of poor Mr. Tillingham’s untimely demise, I gathered my crew and raced to Redstone Lane intent on packing the truck with all of his belongings. Ignoring the wailing and protestations of the Tillingham family, I gathered up all I could find and brought it back to my warehouse. Among the prizes was a Steinway baby grand piano and a gold plated chess set in mint condition.
Shortly after the Tillingham job, a Mr. Joseph “JoJo” Bonaventure arrived at the morgue. I jumped into action and emptied the man’s house even before Mrs. Bonaventure returned from identifying the body.
Later on I learned that Mr. Randolph Bankston had passed. This one I was very excited about, for Bankston was rather wealthy, being a practitioner of jurisprudence. I had three trucks arrive at the Bankston residence and packed everything away: beautiful baroque furniture, elegant Victorian silver, three Renaissance paintings and a sculpture, Persian rugs and a substantial bank account. That was quite a successful haul, despite the distraught widow who refused to leave the house.
But today, my ultimate undoing was the attempted repossession of Madame Gaston’s “Grand Maison” at 403 Rue de L'Horloge. The Madame had purchased a clock tower two years ago — a forty five foot elaborate terra cotta tower with a twelve foot beaux arts clock operated by a weight and pulley system. When Madame passed this morning, I assumed that there would be a treasure trove of loot for me to claim, so I hired a crew of twelve able-bodied men with six moving trucks, two forklifts, one crane, generators and lights to keep the process going well into the night, a secretary to catalogue it all, four security guards and even a film crew to document the operation.
We arrived at 403 Rue de L’Horloge at noon, but instead of finding the “Grand Maison” as I had expected, filled with valuable furniture, art and whatnot, what I saw was an empty house stripped of absolutely everything. Even the doorknobs and light switches were gone. I was flabbergasted! For a long moment, time stood still. (I could make a joke out of ‘time stood still’ for a clockmaker, but that doesn’t feel like the right thing to do under these circumstances.)
The clock tower! I needed to see the clock tower. I ran to look out the window, and there it was - the forty five foot terra cotta tower was standing there, but with an empty space where the clock had been. That wonderful beaux arts clock — gone.
I stared motionless at the scene for well over five minutes. The film crew expected me to say or do something, so they kept filming until I told them to stop. That was the extent of the documentary.
The crew foreman asked what they should be doing. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. Slowly the crew and everyone else departed and left me alone in the empty house.
Before leaving, the secretary quietly pointed to the other side of the parlor room, where there was a handwritten letter taped to the wall. I read that letter maybe ten times, each time trying to process the sequence of events that led to this debacle.
I will leave you with that letter, and then I will retire to the corner of this room to await my imminent doom.
Mon Cher M. Quarterpast,
I do sincerely hope that this note finds you well, though I am sure “vous êtes de mauvaise humeur” in this moment. You have my deepest sympathy.
The abominable clause in your contract did not escape my attention. Shame on you, M. Quarterpast!.. Not for your evil ways of doing business (for that is your own Bête Noire), but shame on you for assuming I am too stupid to take action against it and to ultimately vanquish you.
I am not dead, monsieur. I am quite alive and living in Marseille with what remains of my possessions from Grand Maison. You, however, will soon be dealt the rightful retribution for depriving me and the poor Mrs. Bankston of our darling meal ticket.
You see, I was meant to rendez-vous with M. Bankston the evening he was murdered. Yes, murdered! I had arrived for our tryst a few minutes early, and through the window of our pied-à-terre I saw monsieur walking on the sidewalk. I waved to him and he waved back. Then tout à coup!, I witnessed that dastardly act you perpetrated on his person. I know all about it M. Quarterpast. And now the authorities know too.
M. Bankston was more than my ‘financial advocate’. I had affection for Randolph. And he for me. And now he is gone forever and I am exiled to a crappy town that I don’t like and forced to sell my possessions that you sought to deprive me of.
Look out the window, s'il vous plaît. By now the police must be arriving. Do you see them, M. Quarterpast? They are here for you with a warrant for your arrest. You will be charged with fraud, theft, conspiracy and of course murder.
If there is any poetic justice to your eventual incarceration, it would be that you spend your life sentence occupying the same prison cell in which your great grandfather spent his remaining days.
La vengeance sera la mienne! Vengeance will be mine!
Meilleurs sentiments,
Mme. Gaston