Marc looked to the people at the tables about theirs, but none of them seemed at all disturbed by this hysterical performance. He shrugged and picked up the bottle from the ice bucket. He had never been a drinking man but he felt that it might help him to understand what was going on.
“Oh, don’t we know her?” asked Toffee suddenly.
“Stop pointing—who?”
“The girl just coming in, the one with the white dress and perfectly haunting man.”
Marc turned and looked in the direction Toffee had indicated.
“Why it’s Julie!” he exclaimed.
“Who’s that with her?”
“Jack Snell, he’s an artist with the agency. I never did like him, but he’s too good a layout man to lose. I wonder what Julie’s doing with him.”
“Ask him over,” urged Toffee.
Marc raised a hand and wig-wagged in their direction. Jack Snell was a born “Gathering Appraiser,” and it didn’t take him long to catch the signal. As they moved across the floor toward him, Marc couldn’t help noticing that Julie looked especially wonderful. This was the first time he had seen her outside of the office and her white lace dress emphasized all the glamour that her customary business suit suppressed.
“She looks like something out of a dream,” he thought and then blanched. He revised the thought hurriedly: “She looks like something out of real life.”
“Hello,” said Jack. He addressed Marc but looked at Toffee. His face lit up like a pin ball machine. Toffee had run up a winning score.
“Oh, yes,” said Marc quickly, “I want you to meet Toffee, my—uh—my cousin.”
“She was your niece earlier today,” Julie said evenly.
Marc laughed self-consciously as Jack and Julie seated themselves at the table. Julie turned to Toffee.
“Are you enjoying your visit here?”
“Oh, yes,” replied Toffee with enthusiasm. “Everyone seems so friendly. Do you know what one man said to me today?”
“I could guess,” said Julie flatly.
“I think we should dance,” Jack cut in quickly. “Oh, I’d love to,” beamed Toffee.
THEY rose and started for the dance floor. Turning, Toffee said: “You’ll excuse us?” She was looking directly at Julie.
“Did you want to dance,” asked Marc without enthusiasm.
“No, thank you,” replied Julie. “The floor is much too crowded.”
“That’s good, I don’t know how very well.”
“You never go out much, do you? That is, you haven’t until lately.”
“Why, no. I’ve been too busy—until lately. Perhaps that was a mistake.”
“Perhaps,” said Julie cryptically as she turned to the dance floor.
“You’re looking very beautiful,” said Marc.
“Am I?” Julie continued to look away but she couldn’t restrain a faint smile.
Marc found himself with nothing to say, but continued to stare at Julie. He couldn’t get over the change in her. His mind wandered off into a lovely, imaginary land without night clubs, in which he and Julie were the only inhabitants.
This was extremely unfortunate for, out on the dance floor, Jack Snell suddenly found himself dancing, inexplicably and most embarrassingly, alone. Toffee had suddenly vanished into thin air.
He also found himself alarmingly confronted by Mrs. Claribel Housing, a matron of tremendous prominence, in more ways and places than one. Mrs. Housing understood any misdemeanor perpetrated in the Spray Club as a personal affront, to be dealt with personally. After all, it did cast unflattering reflections on her “Set.”
“Young man,” she boomed. “I wonder if you realize what a disgusting exhibition you are presenting. I should think that if you must get roaring drunk, you could do it somewhere less public.”
Jack turned to her dazedly. “But I had a girl,” he said unhappily, “I seem to have lost her.”
A soft light came into Mrs. Housing’s eyes. “He’s gone mad,” she shouted, turning to her partner. “He’s lost his girl, and it’s driven him crazy.”
If there was anything that put life into Claribel Housing, it was “straightening out” someone else’s life. She looked on Jack with the air of the practiced social worker.
“There, there, son,” she roared. “Don’t take on so about it. I’m sure she wasn’t half good enough for you.” She placed a beefy arm about his shoulder, and nodded to her partner. “Everett, we must do something for this pour soul.”
Everett Housing had learned to accept his wife’s “projects” with resigned good humor.
“Yes, dear,” he sighed, and followed obediently as his wife led the hapless Jack from the dance floor. It didn’t seem to concern the matron that the dancers were stopping to observe their progress.
BACK at the table, Julie noticing the excitement, reached for Marc’s sleeve.
“Something’s happening to Jack and Toffee!” she cried, jumping up. Marc, jolted from his reverie, followed after her. They reached the group on the dance floor just in time to witness Toffee’s reappearance.
“What’s going on here?” screamed Toffee, confronting Mrs. Housing.
“Please get out of my way,” said Mrs. Housing regally.
“Get out of your way!” Toffee flared. “You should be ashamed of yourself picking up a girl’s man when her back is turned—and on public dance floors too! And at your age!”
Mrs. Housing seemed to explode.
“How dare you! I should think that you had caused enough trouble,—you little floosey!” It was apparent to her that this was the young lady who had unseated Jack’s reason. At this point Jack did, indeed, appear somewhat demented. Through the ensuing uproar, he tried valiantly but vainly to make himself heard, and seemed merely to be babbling to himself. Toffee was beside herself with rage.
“Why, you—a—you—you old back issue,” she yelled. “You outsized pickup!” She swung her foot behind her and calculated the distance to Mrs. Housing’s shin. Unfortunately, her heel caught on the rung of Mr. Kently’s chair. That good gentleman, unconcerned of the tumult raging just behind him, was, at the moment, determinedly offering a toast to his wife on the occasion of their twenty-fifth anniversary. He lifted his glass, and with the words: “And to you, my dear—,” tossed its entire contents neatly into Mrs. Kently’s face. Toffee had jerked the chair swiftly from under him. Mrs. Kently shot out of her chair with a scream designed for blood chilling.
Across the room, a guest, somewhat befogged by too much drink, raised a heavy head and shouted: “Murder!” at the top of his lungs. Across from him, his companion looked up with startled eyes and quietly slid under the table, unconscious. The man looked down at her without concern.
“Can’t stand the sight of blood,” he explained to no one in particular.
The center of this excitement suddenly dissipated itself with the stately, if hurried, departure of Mrs. Housing and her obedient husband, but the fever of hysteria had already spread to the remaining guests and was raging unabated. The orchestra, caught in the spirit of the occasion, struck up a raucous rendition of “The Beer Barrel Polka.” Several guests, similarly inspired, rapped their partners rather ungently over the head with whatever bottles were at hand. The door to the manager’s office opened briefly and slammed to. Finally, Marc managed to fight his way through to Toffee.
“Now, see what you’ve done!” he yelled.
“So this is night clubbing,” squealed Toffee delightedly.
“We have to get out of here,” Marc guided her away from the dance floor.
“Just when things were really getting started?” asked Toffee. “Where are Jack and Julie?”
“They’ve gone and we’d better do the same.”
“Just a moment,” replied Toffee and disappeared into the crowd again. Marc made a grab for her but missed. Presently she returned, beaming triumphantly. Under her arm, she carried a bottle of champagne.
“I don’t see why we should let it go to waste,�
� she explained. Marc groaned and hurried her off toward the entrance.
Outside, they were greeted not only by the cool, evening air, but also by what appeared to be the entire police force. The manager of the Spar Club stood behind them.
“There they are, boys!” he yelled excitedly. “Grab ’em!”
TOFFEE was delighted to find herself once more, the center of attention. She looked up at the judge with a disarming smile. She felt a little sorry for the poor little man—he seemed so perplexed by everything. Marc stood beside her, wondering vaguely if he weren’t dead, and if not, why not. The judge fixed Toffee with a baleful stare.
“Who did you say your parents were?” His voice was that of a martyr.
“A moonlit night and a yearning spirit,” said Toffee blandly. The judge’s eyes rolled ceilingward.
“Oh, good Lord,” he sighed in pure supplication.
“What she means—,” began Marc.
“You stay out of this!” snapped the judge. “I’ll hear from you later.”
“But judge,” said Toffee. “I don’t know how I can make it clearer.”
“Never mind,” replied the judge hotly. “Let’s hear no more about it. I sincerely wish I hadn’t brought it up in the first place. Now, perhaps, you’ll tell me what went on in the Spar Club this evening, and never mind the poetry.”
“Well,” said Toffee brightly, “it all started when this old fright tried to steal Mr. Snell from me—right there on the dance floor, too.” An earnest expression crept over her face. “She should be locked up, judge,”
Marc’s thoughts raced wildly. If ever there was a time for Toffee to fade, this was unquestionably it. He clamped his eyes tightly shut and tried frantically to picture peaceful, pastoral scenes in an attempt to induce sleep. However, what occurred to him most frequently were bleak countrysides strewn with assorted wreckage, symbolic of his future.
“Exactly what is your relationship with this man?” The judge nodded in Marc’s direction without looking at him.
“Well” said Toffee. “You see, I sort of belong to him, in a way.”
“You mean he’s your guardian?” This appealed to Toffee and she nodded vigorously. The judge turned to Marc.
“Young man—,” he began, then looked questioningly at Toffee. “What’s the matter with him?”
Toffee turned to Marc and sudden anger flashed in her eyes.
“You double-crosser!” she hissed. Swiftly her hand shot to Marc’s unsuspecting rear and two fingers closed wickedly. Instantly, Marc’s eyes flew open and stared wildly at the judge as a piercing scream rent the courtroom and he leaped frantically forward. A small cry of terror was heard from the frightened judge as he disappeared beneath the bench.
“He’s attacking me!” he screamed from the floor. “Get him out of here! Get them both out of here! Lock them up before they kill someone!”
As two official brutes closed in on them, Marc angrily faced Toffee.
“If you ever do anything like this again, I’ll deliberately contract sleeping sickness!” he shouted.
MARC awoke wondering how long he had been asleep; and, in the grey morning light, began to inspect his quarters without enthusiasm. The cell that he occupied was like any other, but he had been lucky enough to have it all to himself. He lay, face up in the lower section of the steel, double-decker and reviewed the preceding night’s activities. Suddenly, he started forward and propped himself up on one elbow. There was a form clearly outlined in the mattress above him. He tried to remember if anyone had been brought into the cell during the night. As he was thinking about it, the form stirred. Slowly, he advanced a hand to the mattress and prodded it gingerly.
His suspicions were immediately confirmed.
“Good morning,” called Toffee with a hateful cheerfulness as she peered down at him from the upper.
“I thought they put you in the women’s quarters.”
“They did, but I decided to materialize here, to be with you.”
“But, if they find you here—,” Marc gave it up. Things couldn’t get any worse. “I hope you’re happy about this.” He waved his hand tragically at the cell.
“Well,” said Toffee slowly. “I can think of better places. Let’s leave.”
“And how do you propose to get out of here?”
“You mean they intend to keep us here?”
“It is likely, considering your performance before the judge last night, that we shall rot in this place.”
“We’ll just have to get out.” Toffee’s brow wrinkled sternly.
Marc looked grieved but made no reply. After several moments of concentrated thought, his face lit up.
“Now, look Toffee, he said, “You say that you can materialize anywhere. Suppose I doze off for a while, do you suppose you could manage to “come to” outside and get the keys to this trap? After all, they don’t have our names, our real ones, on any of the records yet.”
“I could do it with my eyes closed,” Toffee cried happily.
“Well, don’t get fancy about it.”
Marc stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes, and everything became quiet in the cell for a time. Toffee waited expectantly but nothing happened. Marc swung his legs over the edge of the bed and cupped his chin in his hands.
“It’s no use,” he sighed. “I’ve too much on my mind.
“Try again,” urged Toffee.
“It’s no use I tell you.”
Toffee sat up and glanced down at Marc. Slowly an intense expression crept over her face. Quietly, she reached down and removed one of her shoes, and regarded it sadly. She leaned over the edge of the bed and poised it over Marc’s head. Closing her eyes, she swung the shoe downward as swiftly as she could. Marc slumped to the floor soundlessly.
MARC had been right in assuming that Joseph wouldn’t be there to open the door for them. He fitted the key into the lock and turned it.
“You needn’t have hit me so hard,” he grumbled. Toffee looked hurt.
“I got you out of there, didn’t I? Of course, maybe I shouldn’t have left that note for the judge,” Marc looked alarmed.
“What note?”
“Well, the poor dear was so disturbed about my parentage that I left a note explaining the whole thing. I guess it wasn’t such a good idea.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That my father was a Welsh.” Toffee smiled mysteriously and crossed to inspect herself in the mantle mirror.
“I’m a wreck. You miss me while I fix up a bit?”
Marc fell into a chair as she left the room. He sat there regarding the apartment listlessly. It seemed to reflect his own life. Orderly, dignified, unexciting and infinitely lonely. Suddenly his reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door. He crossed and opened it, There, looking particularly miserable, stood Julie.
“I hope you’ll excuse my coming here,” she said timidly. “I’ve been waiting at the office for you all morning. I tried to call you here several times but there wasn’t any answer. I decided to come over and wait for you. It’s odd that Joseph didn’t answer the phone.
“He wasn’t in,” said Marc, “Is something wrong?”
“Well, no—not, exactly.” Julie hesitated. “It’s just that—well—it’s just that—I want to quit my job with you, Mr. Pillsworth.
“What?” Marc’s eyes widened with surprise.
“Yes, Mr. Pillsworth, I want to quit.” The words came in a rush. “Now—today. I don’t want to ever have to go back.”
“But you mustn’t leave,” There was an immediacy in Marc’s tone. “How would I get on without you? If it’s a matter of salary—.”
“No, it isn’t that. You give me more than enough to get by on. As a matter of fact, I don’t know where I’ll ever get a better job.”
Marc looked at her questioningly.
“Well, I don’t know just how to explain it. It’s just something that’s come over me all of a sudden. I’ve a strange feeling that I’m wasting my life the
re, as if something were closing in on me to cut me off from everything I really want—as though the job itself were a menace to my happiness. I guess it came over me yesterday when your cousin—”
“Niece,” interrupted Marc.
“—When your niece was in the office. She seemed so gay, so much that I should be, but am not. It seemed only fair to talk to you first, before leaving.” Marc glanced nervously toward the bedroom door.
“But what has the agency to do with it?”
“I wish I knew,” said Julie. “It’s just a feeling that I have.”
“But I can’t let you go, Julie,” The note of urgency crept back into Marc’s voice. “And you mustn’t envy Toffee. You see, she’s just escaping a dull existence herself—and only momentarily. She’ll be returning soon. Perhaps right away.” A sudden light came into Julie’s eyes. “Besides, I know what you feel. I’ve felt the same thing myself for years. The trouble was that I let myself get used to it and after a time, I didn’t know the difference. I’m sure I know how to help myself now and I think that I could help you too—if you’ll let me—if you’ll stay. Please don’t leave, Julie.”
As Julie listened to Marc, her expression became softly radiant.
“Perhaps you’re right, Marc,” she said quietly.
Marc reached out and took her hand in his. Suddenly, from behind the bedroom door, came the soft hiss of a shower. Instantly, Julie drew back.
“JOSEPH must be back,” said Marc quickly.
“Taking a shower?”
“Oh, yes—he often takes showers this time of day. Very clean man. Says cleanliness is next to Godliness, or something of the sort. Very clean—spotless, you might say.” Marc began to realize that he was babbling and stopped short.
“Of course,” said Julie, smiling. “I should have remembered Joseph. It gave me rather a start, I thought we were alone.
“You’ll be back in the morning then?” Marc asked anxiously. “Please say you will.”
The Complete Adventures of Toffee Page 3
