Freunder heard the polite footsteps approaching his apartment and he opened the door. A stranger stood there and Freunder looked at him from head to toe. The stranger removed his hat and said: "The clock-repairer is dead." Freunder could think of no questions to ask, though he could think of some exclamations which would be appropriate, but judging these to be of no use to the stranger he kept them to himself - and the result of this reprehensible blockage was a silence which began to stretch uncomfortably. He began to close the door, gently, thinking perhaps that by this means the stranger would somehow not notice his disappearance. Then the stranger spoke again, smiling in between times so eager was he to show that he had not been offended: the clock-repairer had been run over by a train; they didn't know whether it was a suicide or an accident; happily the evidence pointed towards an accident - he was crossing at his usual place, the hood on his coat was up over his ears (there was a gale blowing) and of course he had been drinking. The stranger emphasised the matter of the crossing-point being the usual one: he seemed to think this of great importance, perhaps the conclusive evidence in favour of it being an accident and not a suicide. Had not the clock-repairer an acquaintance from the trade, a horologist who lived right by that railway-crossing? And did he not quite often visit the horologist, no doubt to talk of clocks, visit more often than might be expected of an acquaintance in many people's eyes perhaps - for was not the clock-repairer somewhat of a lonely man who fixed his attention on little save his clocks?
Freunder waved his arm expansively to indicate that though he knew nothing of this horologist, he could confirm that everything else the stranger said was true and that he was unlikely to be mistaken in any of his assumptions. Sensing intimacy, the stranger then lowered his neck to the level of Freunder's chest and turned his face which had a large grin on it, upwards - a manoeuvre which caused Freunder to step back in disgust, noticing for the first time as he did so how round the man's face was, just like an orange and how little hair it had on top.
This stranger explained that no he had not been acquainted with the clock-repairer - had the gentleman been assuming such a thing? - that he had never seen the man in his life, and that he was the brother of a policeman assigned to the case who like all policemen, as the gentleman must surely know, was so unbearably overworked that he had to send out members of his own family on police work which was of an unimportant kind. Freunder, seeing that the man had run out of things to say, began to wonder how he could end this conversation. The newly-identified policeman's brother looked at him suddenly and as if he'd thought of it for the first time asked: "A bereavement! Do you need comfort? Should someone come? I would not be put out if you told me to run and fetch someone; I'm quite willing in fact. I am good at running, you just try me. Would you like a nurse?" He looked at Freunder and laughed quite loudly. His own suggestion struck him as ridiculous and seemed to amuse him greatly. "A relative, perhaps, whom I could summon on my way back?" Then he shrugged his shoulders in resignation. "Ah no," he resumed "I can see that you're not the kind to need a messenger; I've known it all along I suppose . . ."
With that, the stranger quickly put on his hat again and was gone, not bothering to look back as he turned on to the pavement. Freunder watched him until he reached the end of the street, leaned, and disappeared around the corner. Then he closed the door.
He would hurry to the crossing first and fix that as the place of his friend's death, after which he must get to the clock-repairer's home.
The crossing lay behind a wicker gate set in the railings alongside the line, and pulling his collar up against the cold he crossed the road to approach it. A tram which had been travelling before him, seeming to diminish in size quite visibly the further it moved from him, slowed and in two sharp jolts, one inwards and the second to straighten up, drew near to the kerb. Three people alighted from the back platform before the tram had stopped, ran alongside the vehicle leaning back and swinging their arms stiffly, then split up, two men in long coats turning and walking towards him and one woman continuing in the opposite direction. When the tram had gone, the street was left silent and empty of people except for a couple (a young woman and an old man) who were talking to each other while standing at a tram-stop on the opposite side of the street, and next to them a fattish man on a bench who, as he watched about, transferred something (probably a sweet) in a secretive manner from his pocket to his mouth.
Freunder walked a little way past the gate-crossing and looked across the railings, craning his neck and forcing his hands deep in his pockets for he began to feel this cold quite badly. He must be sure that this was indeed the crossing he wanted. Someone would be bound to know. News of such accidents travelled fast locally didn't it. He thought of the three people behind him, then glanced at them quickly while pretending to look up at the windows on the opposite side of the street. Hadn't he seen the fattish man come out of one of the doors overlooking the line, when he was approaching? Surely he had. He decided that a word with the fattish man would probably confirm his thoughts. Looking back at the railway, he noticed on the further side of the line, a small building, a signal-box probably, where very high up, a yellow light glowed at a window. He walked opposite and stood on his toes, bobbing the top half of his body from side to side, trying to see into the window which was far too distant to allow him a view inside. He considered cupping his hand to his mouth and calling out the signal-man as loud as he could (he would surely know all about this accident) - then abandoned the idea and turned his attention back to the fattish fellow.
The couple who had been at the tram-stop were walking away now, silent, and so he studied the fattish man who was looking up the street after the couple, but who surely had him in the corner of his eye. He began to cross towards the fellow. As he opened his mouth to speak, the fattish man suddenly leaped up from the bench, startling Freunder and making him step back, ran a little way down the street, and stopped to look at him malevolently. For a moment he was confused by the fellow's behaviour. The man's gaze seemed to leave his and rest longingly on the bench. Stupid creature, he said to himself. The man thinks I want to take his seat and push him onto his feet! He began to explain: "Hey! You're mistaken, you know," and took a few steps towards the man which only caused him to turn, run a little further down the street, and stop again with an even more aggrieved expression on his face. Freunder laughed which caused the man to flee, and he set off in fast pursuit suddenly desperate lest he be misunderstood.
The pursuit ran through many small streets where their shoes rang on the flagstones, causing some irritation to the few passers-by, some of whom sidestepped in an alarmed fashion out of the way. There were moments when, thinking of the time he was wasting in this pursuit and spitting up painfully from the back of his throat, Freunder was spurred on by anger and drew close on the shoulder of this fattish man, almost breathing in his ear; but the man's fear obviously matched Freunder's anger, for despite his unathletic appearance he managed to put a distance between the two of them each time by frantically raising his legs and clawing the air with his fingers.
They burst into a wide street full of people and vehicles nosing around each other where the fattish man ducked and feinted before dipping into a confectioner's - however he had been watched carefully by Freunder who now eased himself forward pushing out his chin. Hardly pausing at the confectioner's door, which triggered a loud bell as he pushed his way through, Freunder strode inside and saw at the far and dimly-lit end of the shop, the man in frantic and earnest conversation with the confectioner whom he had grasped by the neck and pulled close to his face. At the sound of the bell the confectioner looked up quickly and shuddered. A small retailer, round shoulders, plays with his fingers (thought Freunder) - I can soon handle him. The confectioner broke free from the grip (at which the fattish man instantly dropped into a chair where he slumped sideways apparently resigned to whatever might follow) then fled behind his counter and from that safety-point tried to clear himself of any involvement in the matter. "Do you have some grievance to settle with this man?" asked the confectioner. "Perhaps you do. I don't know anything about that. I hardly know the man of course, that goes without saying. He is a regular customer, I admit; but then so are many people. There's nothing in that. It doesn't mean that I'm a friend of theirs does it? It doesn't mean that they have a claim on me. No."
A small group was gathering around the three, looking from one face to another. Ignoring the confectioner, Freunder decided that he could not rectify the fattish man's mistake in front of these people - he might become tongue-tied and even splutter, then where would he be? Anyway, what business was it of theirs? Therefore he hauled the fattish man out of the chair, making him squeal like a mouse, and pulled him by the jacket-front to a door at the back of the shop through which they disappeared, watched by the confectioner who leant over his counter.
Freunder found himself in a high-sided yard illuminated by a powerful yellow lamp (it was already growing dark) standing in the lane on the other side of the wall. The fattish man grabbed one of his hands which had been hanging loosely by his side, and crammed into it, after first thrusting his fingers into his own pocket, a sticky mess of brightly-coloured sweets which immediately began to trickle down his arm. Freunder flicked his hand with annoyance, showering the sweets which stuck where they landed over the yard, and the man cried out in horror.
Recalling the clocks and the urgency of his getting to the repairer's home, Freunder began to explain how the mistake had been made - that all he wanted was information; about the accident; the one involving the clock-repairer; was that the crossing where the tragedy occurred or not? That was all. And look how easily panicked the fattish man was, eh? Look how much time their little chase had cost them! Wasn't he ashamed of himself? The fattish man seemed thunderstruck. He walked to the end of the yard, his hands working in his pockets. He turned to Freunder his face grimaced as though he were about to cry: but he didn't, drawing instead a deep breath preparatory to saying something which he then thought better of, and so closed his mouth.
After a while Freunder noticed the man shivering a little, the heat of their run having long since evaporated, and he commented "It's cold here" quite matter-of-factly. Then the fattish man rounded on him and complained, tilting his voice in a peevish manner: "I suppose you want me to return you to the crossing now! Well, don't you? I know your type, not knowing where you are once you've left your beaten track. If I don't show you, you'll wander the whole city trying to find your way back I'm sure." Freunder explained in a conciliatory way, for he had indeed succeeded in calming the stranger and he was (the man was quite right in this respect) quite lost - that he needed to get to the repairer's home instead, and should the fellow happen to know the way to that particular place then he could do Freunder a great favour indeed.
The man made a move towards the door through which they had come, but Freunder suddenly alarmed, held him back. "No!" he said, "Why go that way? We'll only be held up with explanations to your acquaintance, the confectioner, in there, and any others who might have been present that we didn't notice; let's get on; there's bound to be a back route." The lane on the other side of the wall was met by a narrow gap alongside the confectioner's along which they could only just squeeze by walking sideways. They soon set off down the thoroughfare.
Freunder fell to musing on his own - wouldn't it be better to go to the house unaccompanied instead?This fellow wouldn't mind if Freunder didn't want his company all the time. But what was this the man was doing? The fellow seemed friendly, almost familiar with him now. A strange creature. Once his fear is allayed, apparently we are to have him stick to us like those confections of his. I'll bet we are to fall in love with him (so to speak) - that'll be the design. It'll come out in these questions he's now asking; now, how do they go? Is Freunder a married man? No? Plenty of time for it . . . The man fell behind him and asked these questions with his chin resting on Freunder's shoulder, sometimes turning his head sideways and nibbling at the bottom of Freunder's ear - something which made him shrug the man off although he could see the innocence in the man's habits.
While the man was talking, Freunder's hand brushed against something in his side pocket, and he thought of the bottle of cherry cordial which he carried there. The accident encouraged a thirst in him which he could not smother, and his attention wandered from what the man was saying, distracted by schemes to consume the liquid in a leisurely way, without the man noticing. It was not that he was greedy, or selfish (he had thought this through before) the point was that he had brought just enough for his own use and no more, and anyway he had now anticipated just this one bottle's worth of pleasure, not something less. To have to do with something less would be extremely irritating, and he simply wouldn't do it. He didn't mind buying for the man at all (that was the point) he would have bought the fellow a whole bottle for himself if he'd wanted; though admittedly he didn't see why he should - but that would have to be in addition to his own fill.
A chance glance at the man which caught him eyeing the neck of the cherry cordial sticking out of his pocket now, told him that the game was probably already up. And, yes, more than likely this explained the man's sudden intimate intentions and ear-nibblings: he was going to pass his arm round Freunder's waist, probably, and tap the pocket with the back of his hand, grinning, nodding that head of his, and only when Freunder had stubbornly kept his mouth shut, would he be so forward as to ask when Freunder was likely to take out his cordial. Freunder suddenly took out the bottle. He unscrewed the cap, wiped the neck on his sleeve, then tipped the bottle up at his own tilted-up head, not taking any care to steady or slow his walking for that would be just the opportunity the man was waiting for. It turned out that the man's way of tackling the matter was sheepish, which gave Freunder no room to burst into a fit of fury - for he politely asked Freunder, being careful all the while not to snatch at the bottle or to make the least move towards it, whether he could possible share a little of the cordial (which he had noticed some time ago) for he had a thirst on what with all that running the two of them had been doing. Freunder thrust him the bottle petulantly after first wiping the rim on his sleeve again.
When the bottle had been returned to the pocket, and after they had walked on in silence for a few minutes, the man spoke again. "The best thing to do is to stop every ten minutes and take a short drink, as it is a long way yet." Freunder could not ignore the man's face tilting before his own, and grunted an answer. The bold importunity of the fellow had frightened him a little.
The clock-repairer's rooms stood at the head of a long straight stairway. Freunder tried the switch and nothing came on. His disappointment over this was quickly quelled by the sound of several hundred clocks ticking in various rhythms, and he uttered a short cry despite his natural reserve. Blinking repeatedly he accustomed himself to the dark and saw that the rooms seemed to lead, one into the next, in a straight line. A faint source of light, unmistakably the night-sky from outside, the only source of light in the dwelling it seemed to him, was coming from a huge sky-light in one of the central rooms. He tried to cross the first room, stepping carefully lest he upset anything, but after a few steps he was forced to stamp his heels on the floor which set up a gentle rattling of glass and metal, and he was able to find the way round obstacles more by sound than anything else.
He knew what was happening - the clocks themselves were running down, each at a different rate, and one by one they were falling silent. At some point the very last clock in the very last cabinet would tick out its last sound and the repairer's apartment would finally be both silent and without movement. He would sit here, in this place, even if it took more than a week, and wait for the quiet. The quiet of his dear friend.
And who, after all, was this fattish man who was intruding on something intimate to him. A fellow for whom he felt - what? A mere acquaintance obviously and not even one whom he would consider inviting into his circle. An oaf (surely) likable enough to his own kind no doubt: but not of Freunder's kind.
The fattish man must go. Now. He turned to the oaf and told him so. This place was nothing to do with him. They barely knew one another and had been thrown together by chance not choice. Why, Freunder was going to be preoccupied now, and anyway hadn't even the inclination to watch over the fellow, checking his pocket, empty of confectionery now no doubt and perhaps filling up with someone else's property instead. No, no, listen! He was sure the fellow was honest and true - but how could he know that? And it was just this 'knowing' which it was his responsibility to settle. And anyway, what of those men and women who indeed have no intention of taking something they shouldn't - until you suspect them of it! Then they go right ahead and do it to get their own back for your lack of blind faith - and (incredibly) it becomes your fault.
He had been talking quite loudly and a banging (from a neighbouring apartment) was by now coming from one of the walls. He moved over to the wall and stood sideways-on, looking downwards, and began to apologise in a voice not trembling with the slightest bit of nervousness, nor raised in the least indignation over the rudeness of the request. His apologizing set up a banging from the adjacent wall, and a further tapping noise from the floor, and soon the remaining walls began to sound in frantic attempts to drown one another out.
Waiting for the complaints to silence, he picked up a medium-sized carriage-clock, held it aloft and turned it around to study its beauty. Shortly after the apartment once again became calm, the device without any warning fell quite silent in his arms.
The fattish man who had almost left the rooms, returned from the door and asked Freunder: "You're going to sit here for how long, did you say? Are you sure everything is all right?" The girl who dogged his thoughts every day at some point, chose to come to mind at this moment. One of the few loves of his life. She'd thrown him over for another years ago (though when she'd left she'd implied that she'd had no-one in mind, like they do) and he'd known right at that moment that he'd never in his life be able to see or hear of her again. It had been like a death ever since.
The tears began to flow without pity. Was everything all right? No, everything is not all right. People go.
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