Jeff motioned me to the armchair. He rounded his desk and flopped down into the other armchair, opposite me. He opened a black cigare case, picked up a Havana. He lit it, took a couple of drags, then looked at me.

"Have you noticed anything?" he asked, exhaling a whiff of smoke.

I let my eyes sweep his office. Jeff had always been fond of antiques. Old medicine books and outdated equipment, some of which looked like torture instruments, filled his shelves and cabinets. Nothing, however, seemed out of place.

I shook my head.

"Try harder!" he said.

I took another glance round the room. It came to me like an epiphany. "Your old Swiss clock!"

"Bingo!"

"What happened to it? I remember you treated it like the apple of your eye!"

"Had no choice but let it go," he replied. "If only to prove I wasn't getting mad."

"Mad? You?"

"Uh-huh," he answered.

He set his cigar down on an ashtray, walked to one of the shelves with his back to me. He plucked a book I couldn't see, then came back. He sat, concealing the book into his lap.

"What do you think connects Isaac Newton, Albert Einstein, Napoleon, George Washington, Lenin, Niels Bohr and Otto van Bismarck?" he asked.

That list of assorted, random historical figures baffled me. "I'm not sure what you're getting at," I replied.

"Quite a puzzle, eh?" he said. "Now—" He laid the book on the table, and before I could see the title, opened it at a page that had been dog-eared. "Read that. The underlined passage." He slid the book across the desk to me.

I picked it up and read. I burst into laughter. "What kind of codswallop is this?" I asked. "Do you believe such nonsense, you, a doctor?"

He looked at me with a serious face. "See for yourself who wrote it", he replied.

I closed the book and read the cover. "The Uncanny and Disturbing Mysteries of History. Edward Grosvenor." The name rang a bell, but I couldn't place it.

"Grosvenor is one of the most competent historians," Jeff said. "Everything he writes down is documented and indisputable. I know the guy, I'd trust him with my life."

"Come on!" I protested. "Pretending that all those people heard a ghost clock ticking the day before their life took a turn for the best is simply preposterous. Dude's off his rocker."

"And why not?" he asked.

"And what would that be? God's clock?" I guffawed.

He stood up again and paced to and fro, his hands clasped behind his back. "God's clock, yes. Or destiny. Or fate. Whatever you call it. But not something they fancied. A real omen, that witnesses heard, too."

I couldn't believe he had turned superstitious. "Okay, okay…" I said. "Admittedly. But what the heck does that have to do with your clock?"

He stopped and glared at me. "I wanted to be certain," he answered.

"Certain of what?" I was confused.

He looked at his watch. "It's almost seven. Hush now, and listen."

I strained my ears. Jeff's office was located in a calm outskirt. What little noise came from outside double glazing muffled completely. The room was still.

Was it, really?

I must have turned pale, because Jeff's face brightened up. There were ticks. Faint, slow, but unmistakable. They grew louder and louder, until they filled the room, as if a giant pendulum swung above our heads. Then they receded, lost strength, faded into silence.

"You're kidding me, right?" I asked.

"No, buddy. This is no spooky or tasteless joke. You've heard the ticking. You can trawl the room, or the whole house, for any clock or electronic device. There's none," he answered, sitting back.

"But—"

"I've been hearing that ticking every Friday at seven for months," he said. "Oh, I know, I know. Newton, Einstein, Bohr. The same ticking and voila! They uncover magnificent equations. Bismarck, Washington, Lenin, Napoleon, they all rule over empires. Me? Me? Nothing."

"But—"

"Every day I expect a windfall. Will it be wealth? Fame? Power? Something else? I'm still waiting. In vain. Nothing ever happens to me. Nada. Zilch. God wants me to know I'm just a poor bugger. Sorry, Jeff, just suck it up and live on. And now, if you'd excuse me—"

He opened a drawer. Before I could even move a muscle, he put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.