The Complete Adventures of Toffee

by Charles F. Myers

  “Never mind that!” Marc yelled. “Let’s get out of here, before Ruby and Manny wake up. If they get ahold of us now, they’ll tear us to ribbons.”

  “But, I thought you wanted to talk to Manny about your brief case.”

  “I don’t think he’ll be feeling very conversational,” Marc rasped, grabbing Toffee’s arm, and shoving her through the crowd. “Besides, he doesn’t know anything about it. That was just a gag. All I’d get out of Manny would be a fractured skull. That’s what Ruby was counting on.”

  “But what are we going to do now?”

  “There’s only one thing to do,” Marc said, glancing hastily at his watch. “It’s nearly eleven now. I’ll have to go to the cemetery and try to make a deal.”

  “Is a cemetery anything like a night club?” Toffee asked excitedly.

  Marc glanced back at the unheeded litter of prostrate figures that graced the Loma Club. “Quite a bit like this one,” he said wryly.

  TOFFEE settled herself comfortably on an ornate tombstone, and leaned languorously back to rest her head on the buttocks of a stone cupid.”

  “Get down from there,” Marc said sternly. “You look obscene.”

  “In this moonlight, you’re no work of art, yourself,” Toffee replied lazily, making no effort to move.

  Marc shrugged helplessly, and seated himself watchfully at the base of the stone. “It’s past eleven,” he murmured. “I wish someone would show up. If I don’t get that copy back, I might as well kiss my business goodbye right now.”

  “Maybe Manny’s got it after all,” Toffee suggested. “And he’s still out.”

  “I don’t think so. And speaking of him, I’d sure like to know who the little man under the table was. He just about saved my life when he grabbed Manny’s ankle.” Marc glanced around peering intently into the darkness that, except for occasional patches of bright moonlight that filtered through the trees, was all around them. “It looks like we’re all alone here with the spooks.”

  “What are spooks?” Toffee leaned forward, interested.

  “They’re something like you,” Marc said absently. “Sometimes they are, and sometimes they aren’t. Anyway, I understand they’re always raising hell with somebody.”

  “They sound fine,” Toffee said. “How do you go about stirring up a few?”

  “Never mind,” Marc replied, “we wouldn’t have time for it, even if you could. Besides, no self-respecting spook would have anything to do with you. He’d rather be caught dead.”

  “Oh yeah?” Toffee said unexpectedly. “I’ll bet I’m looking at one right now.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “If you don’t believe me,” Toffee said woundedly, “just look over there.”

  Humoring her, Marc turned his gaze in the direction that she had indicated, and suddenly froze. A claw-like hand was moving stealthily around the edge of a nearby head stone, and the effect was something worse than ghostly.

  Transfixed, Marc watched it as it came to rest at the foot of the stone, and was suddenly followed by a wizened head. Marc tried hard to suppress a gasp of astonishment as he identified the ferret-like face as the same one that had appeared beneath the table at the club. He had only a moment in which to recognize it, for as before, it vanished as quickly as it had appeared, to be followed by the clicking sounds, that now echoed weirdly through the cemetery.

  “Oh, that’s not a spook,” Toffee said disappointedly, and then, on second thought added, “at least I don’t think it is.”

  “You bet it isn’t,” Marc cried, jumping quickly to his feet. “That’s probably the guy that’s got my brief case!” Swiftly, he took a step forward, caught his toe on a low marker, and sprawled, head long, into a landing that was all grin and gravel. His breath unhesitatingly rushed out to meet the night air, and apparently liked the company, for it didn’t bother to come back for a while. In the ensuing stillness, hasty footsteps could be heard making their way out of the cemetery.

  “Well, that’s that, I guess,” Marc groaned moroely, then he had regained his breath. “I scared him away, and he was my last chance. And to think that he was right next to us in the night club all the time!” He sat up and rested his chin defeatedly in his cupped hands. “With my wife gone, and my business gone, I might just as well go away and try to forget it all right now.”

  “Maybe you could go where those other men went,” Toffee said in a baffling attempt to be helpful.

  “What other men?”

  “The ones that work for you. You said they’d gone cavorting, and that sounds pretty forgetful. Did they have something to forget?”

  “No. They all got urgent telegrams.”

  “Who from?”

  “How should I know?”

  For a moment, neither of them spoke, and then, all of a sudden, Marc’s chin lifted, and his hands fell to the ground. “I’ll bet that was a frame up too,” he said. “It was! I’m sure of it! Whoever has my brief case, sent those wires to get the boys out of town, so they couldn’t get out another campaign. They’re all out on a goose chase.”

  “Then all we have to do,” Toffee said brightly, “is find out who sent them. Then we’ll know who to see about the brief case.”

  “Yeah. But how?”

  “Call up their homes again.”

  “It might be an idea,” Marc said, his hope rising faintly. “Come on down from there. We’ll have to find a drug store with a telephone.”

  With a shockingly familiar hand, Toffee grasped the cupid, and boosted herself away from her perch. “Let’s go!” she cried gaily, landing lightly beside Marc. “I don’t like this place much, anyhow. There isn’t enough life in it.”

  IN THE drug store, Toffee had just finished her third soda, and the teen aged fountain attendant, chin on counter, to have a better view of her, had just completed his fiftieth blissful sigh. He’d never seen so dazzling a creature anywhere, before. Suddenly, they both looked up as the door to the corner telephone booth burst open, and Marc came hurrying out.

  “I’ve got the name,” he said excitedly. “It was a Mr. Polasky, whoever that is. A few of the wives I talked to, said their husbands didn’t know who it was either, but left because the messages were so urgent. It’s my guess that the name’s a phoney.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, as though just realizing it for the first time. “Good night! It’s just another dead end, isn’t it?”

  For a moment, they gazed at each other worriedly, as the boy, overcome by his consuming curiosity about Toffee, edged closer.

  “I have it!” Toffee cried suddenly.

  “What?” yelled Marc and the boy simultaneously. Marc turned witheringly on the youngster, and he moved away again.

  “I know what you can do,” Toffee continued, pausing long enough to reassure the boy with a radiant smile. “You call up the telegraph company, and tell them you’re Mr. Polasky. Tell them that you were expecting answers to the wires you sent and you still haven’t received any. Then ask them to check to see if the wires were really delivered and check back with you. When they say they will, ask them to check the address and telephone number they have written down for you, and insist that they read it to you, just to make sure. That way, you’ll know where Polasky lives, anyway,—or whoever it is.”

  Marc stared at her in amazement for a moment. “I don’t know if it’ll work,” he said, “but it’s certainly worth a try. Toffee. You’re wonderful!” He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.

  “I’m pretty darned surprised, myself,” Toffee replied happily. “I’ll say it all over again, if you’ll kiss me again.” But Marc was already on his way to the phone booth.

  Toffee turned to the boy and shrugged. “I don’t know what he’d do without me,” she said, her voice heavy with theatrical weariness. “I simply don’t know!” Then she smiled as the boy leaned his chin back on the counter and sighed.

  MARC paid the cab driver and turned to regard the apart
ment house questioningly. “I didn’t expect anything quite so shabby,” he said.

  “Are you sure this is the number you got from the girl at the telegraph company,” Toffee asked.

  “Positive,” Marc replied. “Well, we can be sure of one thing, at least. Mayes wouldn’t be living here. I’ll bet he’s never ever seen this part of town.” A small frown creased his forehead. “Maybe it’s just another run around. Maybe Ruby sent the wires; she could have easily. I’d hate to run into her again.”

  “If it is Ruby,” Toffee replied heavily, “I’ll rip that yellow hair of hers out by it’s black roots. Her and her Irish blood!”

  “Well, there’s only one way to find out,” Marc said wearily, starting forward. Then, he stopped, as Toffee tugged at his sleeve.

  “What if it turns out to be Manny?” she ask apprehensively.

  Marc winced. “We’ll just have to face him, I guess. Anyway, it might not be. It could be the little fellow that tripped Manny.”

  “Yes. I guess it could be,” Toffee admitted. “Well, in that case, let’s go.”

  INSIDE, the old apartment house held all the stale, musty smells of old cooking and all the other activities of daily, crowded living, and the gloom in it’s hallways was almost angible. Slowly, Marc and Toffee, like a couple of conspirators, crept along the downstairs passage, pausing before each door to read its carelessly stenciled number. Presently, at the rear of the hall, where the gloom was the thickest, they stopped.

  “Well,” Marc whispered uneasily, “this is number seven. This must be it.”

  “Yep,” Toffee echoed. “This must be it, all right.”

  For a long moment, they just stood and stared at each other with apprehension.

  “Well,” Toffee said finally, “don’t just stand there,—knock, ring a bell,—do something!”

  “Don’t rush me,” Marc hissed irritably. “I’m looking for a name plate.”

  “Well, don’t look at me. I’m not wearing one. Try looking on the door.”

  Marc, realizing the wisdom of her advice, turned his attention to the forbidding panel, and subjected it to a more thorough scrutiny than was absolutely necessary. All he needed was a magnifying glass to complete his impersonation of Sherlock Holmes on one of his more important cases. He was so close to the door, that when it suddenly opened, he nearly pitched into apartment number seven head first.

  “I heard you snooping around out here!” a metallic voice shrilled above him. Marc could hardly believe his ears.

  He had always known that, as long as he lived, he would never see a more horrible looking woman than Miss Quirtt, but now, as he looked up, he was dismayed to find that even she, this time a prickly nightmare in pin curlers, had surpassed herself for sheer frightfulness. And just to complete the picture, there was a strange light in her pallid eyes, that he had never seen there before. The movie monsters would have to go a long way to match this, he thought.

  “Nice of you to drop in,” Miss Quirtt said, and her usual twangey voice had something else in it that was almost undefinable. “Might as well ask your girl friend in too.”

  From outside, Toffee was spared the alarming sight of Miss Quirtt, but the voice had already suggested to her what she might see, if the door were fully open. “I think I have to be running along,” she said uncertainly. Thanks.”

  “I think you’d better come in,” Marc warned shakily. “She’s got a gun.”

  Toffee peered around the edge of the door and her face went starkly white. Her nose had almost brushed against the business end of a pistol that was almost as formidable as Miss Quirtt, herself. Then, unaccountably, as though remembering a joke, Toffee suddenly smiled and stepped into the room. “Well, if you really insist. . . .” she said breezily.

  TOFFEE’S manner had an instant calming effect on Marc, and in the moment in which Miss Quirtt closed the door behind Toffee, he felt his sense of reality slowly returning, “Is this a joke, Miss Quirtt?” he demanded.

  Miss Quirtt regarded him with a sidelong, hostile glance, “I’m not laughing, am I?” she shrilled.

  “Then, what. . .”

  “You’d sure like to have your hands on that again, wouldn’t you?” she gloated, gesturing toward a shabby table in the corner. On it, looking like a diamond in the mud, rested Marc’s brief case. He started automatically toward it, but stopped short as, from the corner of his eye, he saw the gun swerve quickly from Toffee to him.

  “Don’t be greedy,” Miss Quirtt said amusedly.

  “I can’t get a million dollars together right away,” Marc began feverishy, “but I’ll. . . .”

  “Don’t be silly,” Miss Quirtt broke in, with a weird laugh. “I wouldn’t give it to you for two million. And if you went to the cemetery, I hope you had a lovely time. I’m sorry that I couldn’t make it.”

  “We saw your friend there,” Marc said sourly, “but he got away.”

  “My friend?” Miss Quirtt’s eyes rolled, and came dangerously close to crossing, in a futile attempt to express perplexity.

  “Yes. The little fellow you sent; the one with the ferret face.”

  “That clicks,” Toffee added helpfully.

  Miss Quirtt looked at them unbelievingly. “I didn’t send anyone out there,” she said, her voice racing uphill, out of control. “I had no intention of going myself, either. That was just a touch of mystery to throw you off the track. I don’t intend to give you that brief case at any price. Besides,” she added thoughtfully, “I don’t know any little ferrets that . . . that click.”

  “I wonder who it was?” Toffee said, deeply absorbed in the question.

  The strange, fanatic gleam suddenly burned more brightly in the horrible woman’s eyes. “I’m going to ruin you, Marc Pillsworth!” she announced dramatically, her stringy voice rising to such a pitch that it caused one to wonder if she hadn’t studied bird calls at one time or another. Then she added as an afterthought, “And I think I’ll kill you, too.”

  “But why?” Marc and Toffee chorused.

  Miss Quirtt’s eyes rolled again; this time in a painful attempt at coyness. “You promise you won’t tell?” she asked foolishly.

  Marc and Toffee exchanged a glance that held a full hour’s discussion on the woman’s mental status.

  “Of course not,” Toffee said persuasively. “Your secret couldn’t be in safer hands.”

  “Well,” Miss Quirtt said, becoming incongruously chatty, considering the formidable weapon in her hand, “I’ll tell you all about it. It’s all part of a plan, and it’s terribly clever. I’m sure you’ll think so.” She paused to smile at them like a five-year-old about to recite a poem before company. “I’ve been working for big firms for twenty years now . . . and just working that’s all. I’ve been watching my smug employers and their smug wives, going about their smug lives, never giving me a thought, for twenty years. Can you imagine what that can do to a sensitive woman, like me?” She turned pleading eyes on Toffee, “Has a boss ever made a pass at me?”

  “No!” Toffee cried, catching the confessional spirit of the thing.

  Miss Quirtt nodded approvingly. She seemed to like dramatic effect. “Has a boss’ wife ever been jealous of me?” she screeched.

  “No!” Toffee cried again, recognizing her cue.

  “THAT’S right,” Miss Quirtt continued sadly, brushing a tear away from the end of her nose with the muzzle of the gun, then promptly leveling the weapon directly to Marc’s heart. “They never have. So I decided to ruin the lot of them.” She turned back to Marc. “You’re not the first one,” she said, beginning to brighten. “There have been many others. I used to work for Mr. Burke.”

  “The . . . the Mr. Burke that committed suicide?” Marc faltered.

  “That’s right,” Miss Quirtt answered proudly. “That was one of my most poetic projects. Mr. Burke found himself with a lot of worthless stock on his hands one morning, and simply jumped out the window. He died without ever knowing who had bought the stuff for him. We parted
the best of friends. He left me one of my very finest references . . . along with the suicide note.”

  “It did end well, didn’t it?” Toffee put in blandly.

  “Yes. It was just lovely,” Miss Quirtt agreed, “Much better than the job I did on old Mr. Grant. He didn’t leave me any reference at all, and I had to write it myself. How I hate forgery! Of course, it may not have been entirely his fault. After all, they did rush him something awful when they came to take him away to the asylum.” A dreamy reminiscent look came into her eyes. “The job with Mr. Forbes was much better. He said some very nice things about me before he left for prison. I was the last one he said goodbye to.”

  Marc shuddered. “A very impressive career,” he said, “but you can’t get away with it this time. I know that it was you that stole my brief case.”

  “Yes,” Miss Quirtt answered promptly. “And that’s why I’m going to have to make corpses of you . . . so you can’t talk, you know. It’s really not my way of doing things, but I suppose that everyone has to make exceptions occasionally.” She turned to Toffee and smiled. “I’m sorry to have to put you out of the way, dear, but you understand, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, perfectly,” Toffee said helpfully, returning the smile.

  Marc was beginning to wonder just how many of them were crazy, and in what combination. Even Toffee was making less sense than usual.

  “And if I do say so, myself,” Toffee continued. “Marc and I will make lovely corpses.”

  “Oh, indeed you will!” Miss Quirtt agreed enthusiastically. “Some of the nicest I’ve ever seen. And you’ll be the very first ones that I’ve made all by myself. I’ll be very proud of you.”

  “That’s nice to know,” Toffee said, “but you’re not going to use that gun are you?”

  “Why not?”

  “It won’t work,” Toffee said simply. “You’d better think of something else.”

  Miss Quirtt looked at her suspiciously. “What do you mean, it won’t work?”

  “We hate to admit it, and we wouldn’t to anyone else,” Toffee said, “but Marc and I are a little odd in some ways. Guns don’t faze us. In fact, there’s very little that does. If you doubt me, shoot me, and see for yourself.”