The Complete Adventures of Toffee

by Charles F. Myers

  Julie regarded Marc thoughtfully.

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “It doesn’t seem now that there was ever anything wrong.” She turned toward the door.

  “Julie—”

  “Yes?” She turned, and as she did so Marc caught her in his arms. He kissed her briefly and released her, stepping back embarrassedly. Julie smiled up at him for a moment, and then said quickly:

  “It’s a wonderful job, I wouldn’t quit for anything.” The door closed softly behind her.

  When Toffee entered the living room she found Marc staring out of the window with a curiously foolish grin. She stood beside him for a moment and looked out at the city.

  “Go put some clothes on,” he said. Toffee was wrapped in a huge towel, draped precariously over one shoulder.

  “What for? At this moment, more of me is covered, than at any time since we met.”

  “Yes I guess so.” For a moment they stood silently before the window.

  “Toffee—,” Marc began.

  “Yes, Marc?”

  “Why are you here? What is it you want—really?”

  “My wish is for you Marc, it has been from the beginning. If I’ve caused you trouble, perhaps it was because you needed it. I’ll be returning soon, but I can’t help wanting to linger for a while.”

  “But how will your return be accomplished?”

  “You’ll know when the times comes.” She smiled up at him. “Maybe it’s time I put those clothes on after all.” She went into the bed room.

  Marc slumped into a chair. In a way he had enjoyed Toffee and her trouble, but now she would be in the way. “You’ll know when the time comes,” she had said. He was certain that the time had arrived, but he still hadn’t any idea about sending her back to the subconscious. Perhaps it would be best to go back to the beginning. How had it started? He reviewed the strange occurrence over and over again. For the fifth time, he went back to the beginning. Suddenly, he brought his fist down on the arm of the chair.

  “Of course, that’s it,” he murmured. “Her father was a Welsh.” He laughed shortly. “It’s so simple, I should have known all along.

  AFTER a time, the bed room door flew open. Toffee was making a grand entrance. As she moved toward him, Marc thought briefly that he had never seen her so beguiling. At the center of the room, she paused.

  “Isn’t it wonderful? I like it even more than the black one.”

  “You might say, it leaves everything to be desired,” said Marc.

  “Oh?”

  “—by some young swain,” he added.

  “Marc there just isn’t any hope for you.”

  “I’d have agreed with you two days ago.”

  “And now?”

  “Who knows?”

  “I’m sure I don’t.”

  “That’s as it should be.” Marc started for the bed room. “I could use a little sprucing up myself.” At the door he turned back. “Suppose we make a special occasion of dinner tonight—go somewhere, where the food is especially good? I know a place that serves a wonderful welsh rarebit. I was there just night before last.” Toffee’s smile immediately disappeared and for a moment her eyes searched Marc’s face, which had, suddenly, become quite serious. Her smile reappeared as suddenly as it had faded, but it seemed a bit more set.

  “I’m sure I’ll love it,” she said.

  Marc spoke slowly and his voice carried a touch of sadness.

  “And remind me to stop by the drug store for sleeping tablets. I ran out the other night.”

  “Sure Marc.” Toffee looked away toward the window as Marc left the room.

  THE countryside had somehow reassembled itself—as lovely and serene as before, with a blue mist playing about the trees. Toffee and Marc moved down the hillside toward a small valley obscured by the midst.

  “I should be angry with you,” said Toffee. “You didn’t waste any time in sending me back, once you knew how.”

  “You said I’d know when the time came.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “I kept wondering where it had all started, and then I remembered that foods sometimes cause certain kinds of dreams. Then too, I remembered that you had said that your father was a Welsh. I didn’t have to be clever to put it all together and get welch rarebit, especially since it was the very thing I had eaten the first night. It all seemed pretty silly, but somehow it sort of fitted in with what’s happened. You’re not angry are you?” He looked down at her affectionately.

  “Of course not, Marc. There’s something you’ve forgotten. I exist only in your mind. I am as you see me. If I had stayed longer, if I had come to stand in the way of your happiness, I should have become ugly and wretched. I’ve served my purpose and its time for me to return. Really, you haven’t so much to do with it as you suppose. It’s been a wonderful adventure for me, Marc.”

  “I’m glad, Toffee,” Marc said simply. “I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me.”

  “Just remember Marc, that I’m not so unlike other, ordinary women. There is none of us who can remain lovely unless she does so in the eyes of a man whom she loves. Be good to Julie.”

  “You knew about Julie?”

  “Of course,” laughed Toffee. “I knew from the beginning, before you did. I know more about you than you do yourself. That’s another point I hold in common with other women.”

  They had reached the edge of the valley and suddenly Toffee stopped.

  “This is where I have to leave you.” She smiled up at Marc. Suddenly, he took her in his arms, very tenderly, and kissed her. As he released her, the bell began to ring in the distance, as it had before.

  “Goodbye,” Toffee said softly, starting toward the valley.

  As she moved, the earth seemed to dissolve behind her, leaving a narrow chasm between them. With each step the bell became more and more distinct. Suddenly, impulsively, Marc turned toward her.

  “Wait!” he called, and reached out a hand to her.

  Marc’s hand fell to the alarm clock and he awakened to a bright, new morning with a vague sense of loss. Suddenly he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and got to his feet.

  Julie would be at the office. He didn’t want to be late.

  YOU CAN’T SCARE ME

  Toffee knew that Marc Pillsworth was in trouble again, so she came out of his subconscious mind to help him.

  WHETHER or not they had passed through the portals of Earl Carroll’s, the girls that threaded their way daily through the offices of Marc Pillsworth’s advertising agency were undeniably some of the most beautiful in the world. It was probably this abundance of beauty, more than anything else, that caused Marc to shun the more seamy things in life. It was this also that made it so doubly unbearable that, nine times out of ten, every time his office door opened, it was only to admit to his presence one of nature’s most vulgar experiments with American womanhood. What Marc, by marrying Julie, had gained in a wife, he had quite certainly lost in a secretary.

  Miss Quirtt closed the door primly and turned to face Marc—very easily the nastiest thing she could possibly have done to anyone. As always, just to add stark horror to the picture, she smiled and revealed to her unappreciative employer that she had accomplished the extremely doubtful triumph of whitewashing the old fashioned cow catcher, without, in any way, detracting from its accustomed appearance of upswept grandeur. The proof of this lay in the sudden appearance of her amazing teeth. As the tight, dry skin of her face drew back to reveal this hideous accomplishment, it was hard to believe that the accompanying creaking sound that echoed through the room, was only a trick of the imagination.

  “Yes, Mr. Pillsworth?” she inquired, and thereby added to this already astonishing display of hideosities, the horror of her voice, which held all the melody of a palsied hand searching vainly for the key of E on a rusty guitar.

  Marc shuddered and quickly turned his gaze to a strip of oak paneling which had suddenly become, to him, an object of indescribable loveliness. He had
only lately come to know why Julie had insisted on the employment of Miss Quirtt. The very qualities which he now found so repulsive had been, to his wife, the attributes that made the woman so desirable for the job. It might as well be admitted that Julie had become unreasonably jealous of Marc’s association with a group of girls that seemed to her, pretty stiff competition for the most glamorous “Glamour Chorus” in town, let alone herself.

  “Well,” Marc said with false heartiness, “today is the day, Miss Quirtt. Will you please bring me the layouts for the Reece campaign? I’m going to submit them this afternoon. You have the key to that file, I believe?” He tried hard not to hear her answering rasp, and heaved a sigh of relief as he heard the door close; the signal that this horribly jarring note had once more, at least momentarily, gone out of his life.

  When she returned, it was not quite so bad. This time, he had the contents of the brief case to distract him. It was important that the layouts be complete. His hands ran over them almost lovingly—a full year’s advertising material for the most sensational medical product ever to be offered to a suffering public.

  OLD Gregory Reece really had something this time; a cure-all to end all cure-alls, and one that was the real McCoy into the bargain. It did everything that the old-time medicine doctor claimed, and a good deal more, as well. And that was the very thing that made the drug’s initial presentation to the public so difficult. It was too wonderful to be true.

  Reece had been cagy in asking all the agencies to submit advertising campaigns. That way, he would be certain to get just the right publicity slant, since this was easily to be the largest account to be had by any agency, ever. It would “make” the agency that got it, and quite likely break the ones that didn’t. The firm handling this Reece product would be able to pick and choose the rest of its clients, and Marc was well aware that if the Mayes Agency, his most formidable competitors, beat him out on it, they would hesitate considerably less than a second to pick and choose the very accounts which he, himself, was now handling. However, he was not disturbed. The campaign that his boys had turned out was just the ticket—honest, imaginative and convincing. Besides that, he was already handling a number of other Reece products with considerable success. Confidently, he slid the material back into the brief case and rose from his chair. It was then that he noticed that the room was still haunted by the spectre of the outer office.

  “Is there something else, Miss Quirtt?” he asked stiffly.

  “Yes, sir. Mrs. Pillsworth called to say that she would meet you here for lunch.”

  “You told her that I would be out, didn’t you?”

  “No sir.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t tell her, sir.” Miss Quirtt shrilled halfwittedly. “She always makes a fuss about those things. She always thinks that you. . .”

  “I wasn’t aware that Mrs. Pillsworth was causing you so much trouble,” Marc cut in sarcastically. “I’ll have to speak to her about it. In the meantime, Miss Quirtt, call her back and say that I’ll be tied up in some very important business during the lunch hour.”

  There was sincere concern in Marc’s eyes as he picked up his hat and left the room. Julie’s jealousy was fast becoming an office scandal. Something would certainly have to be done about it, he thought, as he hurried through the outer office, down the steps, and out, onto the sidewalk.

  This ugly facet in Julie’s, otherwise completely beguiling nature, still had a firm grip on his thoughts as, at the sound of the traffic signal, he stepped from the curb, into the street. The city, in this quiet, pausing moment, just before the noon rush, seemed almost too serene. In the mid-day sun, the usually busy intersection had become almost unnaturally still. Perhaps it was this stillness that made the scream appear so dreadfully shrill.

  It was a scream that, like a certain cough medicine, came with a three-way action—earsplitting, hair-raising and nerve-wracking. Marc stopped short, and spun quickly around to discover the source of this dismaying performance. What met the eye didn’t match up at all. He wouldn’t have been a bit surprised to have seen a banner stretched across the intersection with the query, “What’s Wrong With This Picture?” written across it.

  At it was, the girl simply stood there on the sidewalk and yelled her head off, for no apparent reason whatever. If there had been a man with an evil looking glint in his eye, running either from or toward her,—it made no matter which—there might have been some reason for this wretched recital, but there was not. Suddenly, the girl unbelievably increased her volume and pointed directly at Marc. It was then that he heard the automobile behind him. He turned just in time to receive a montage impression of flashing chromium, black enamel, and spinning wheels,—all headed squarely in his direction.

  WHAT happened after that was a bit confused, except for the one clear fact that the pavement, apparently overcome with a mad desire to have a better view of Marc’s face, was rushing impetuously toward it. It may have been this topsy-turvy indifference to the natural laws of gravity that dislodged the manhole cover, but whatever it was, a dark, black hole had instantly appeared in the center of the street, and Marc was unaccountably plunging, head first, into it.

  As he descended into the thick darkness of the hole, he had no sensation of fear, however. He was falling slowly, almost floating downward; and his occasional contact with it, told him that he was moving through a sort of cylinder, the wall of which was of a consistency that brought to mind a sort of soft sponge rubber. Indeed, he had almost begun to enjoy his mishap, when he came easily to rest on what apparently was the bottom. This time, his hands came in contact with a different substance. He seemed to be lying on a small plot of grass.

  As though his landing there had been the signal for it, a thin rim of bright light appeared evenly around the bottom of the dark tube, and began to widen steadily. As Marc looked up to discover down what passage he had come, he realized that it was withdrawing into what appeared to be a cloudless blue sky, and instantly his attention was drawn to his immediate surroundings.

  There was something familiar about the tranquil little valley, with its emerald greenness and its soft blue mist that gave everything a shimmering chiffon-like softness. It was like a place long forgotten that, once remembered, would surely recall happy memories. Marc got to his feet and turned to the tree that stood, alone and lovely, behind him. Then, suddenly he started back in alarm. The tree seemed to have given bud to a pair of extremely well shaped legs.

  “Well, it’s about time!” Toffee said shrewishly, peering out at him from the foliage. “You’ve no idea how bored I’ve been, just sitting around in this awful stately mind of yours. I don’t see how you can stand the silly thing, yourself. Don’t you ever think of anything off-color,—something I could really get my teeth into?”

  Marc stared at her in dismay as she swung lightly out of the tree. Her red hair, caught by the breeze, seemed like flame.

  “Good grief!” she continued fretfully. “I’ve been sitting around up here, waiting for you, for so long, I’ve nearly got middle-age spread.”

  Marc quickly closed his eyes as she prepared to prove this statement. “I’ll take your word for it!” he cried hurriedly.

  Toffee’s deep green eyes suddenly came alight as she grinned. “Oh, all right, you hypocritical old Puritan,” she said affectionately. “Now that you’re here, I might as well admit I’m glad to see you again.” She started toward him. “Kiss me and say hello,—in that order.”

  Marc’s hand was instantly raised in defense. “Oh, no!” he cried. “We’re not going to have any more of that! It just leads to trouble.”

  Toffee looked grieved. “You haven’t changed a bit,” she said disappointedly.

  “And that isn’t all,” Marc replied evenly. “I’m not going to change, either. When I think of the way you messed things up for me last time, my flesh fairly crawls. You’re going to have to sit this one out alone.”

  Toffee smiled mysteriously. “Don’t you bet any money
on that,” she said confidently. “Anyway, it won’t hurt anything if we just talk over old times, will it?” She motioned toward the tree. “Let’s sit down. You look tired.”

  Slowly, and definitely against his better judgment, Marc started in Toffee’s direction, then suddenly he stopped short.

  “Run! Run!” boomed the voice. It didn’t seem to come from anywhere in particular. It was just in the air. Even the mist seemed to stir under its heavy tone. “Run! Run!” it repeated, and Marc, not knowing clearly why, felt an impelling urge to follow its commanding advice.

  Suddenly, in the grip of an unknown panic, he was running without direction or reason, until, in the influence of an impulse, he looked back, over his shoulder.

  The black cylinder, now flexible, was twisting and turning after him, gaining on him at every step. Frantically, he increased his speed. In spite of the disturbing presence of Toffee, now that he had found his way back to the peaceful Valley, he was reluctant to leave it. He tried desperately to dodge, as he saw the mouth of the dark passage almost directly overhead, yawning threateningly. Then, resignedly, he knew it was no use. It had followed him, and was already shutting away the light of the valley.

  “Run! Run!” the voice continued vainly, but edging its way through, was also the voice of Toffee.

  “Wait! Wait for me!” she screamed, and suddenly, impetuously, Marc was holding a hand out to her through the remaining free space.

  All of a sudden, the tube closed over them with a dreadful sucking sound, and they were being lifted upward, Toffee clinging to Marc desperately, as though for her very life. The upward journey, thought Marc, was to be very like the descent, except for the accompanying sound of the voice, as it repeated over and over, “Run! Run!”

  “HIT and run,” someone was saying. “This guy was on the wrong end of it. Got it right in the middle of the street. According to his identification, his name is Pillsworth. He’s not really hurt, just bruised up a little.”