“I told you,” Marge put in argumentatively. “That ain’t nothin’ human that’s makin’ that noise. Leastways, it ain’t nothin’ that would own a car.”
“You’re nuts,” Pete retorted, “That’s somebody sleepin’ in there.”
For a moment they paused and listened. George’s snoring was swiftly building to a stirring crescendo. It sounded like a sawmill in mid-season.
“Oh, that!” Marc laughed. “That’s George. He’s my ... uh ... my dog. I keep him locked in the back.”
“You mean this here is yore car?” Pete asked.
“Sure,” Marc patted the car fondly. “All mine.”
Pete glanced at Marge. “Shall we do it?”
“Yeah,” Marge said, helping herself to the jug. “We ain’t got all night.”
MARC and Toffee watched interestedly as Pete wedged an immense hand into his coat pocket and set it into a complicated series of fumbling motions. Presently, the hand seemed to locate what it was searching for and emerged once more into the bright moon light. It was holding a gun.
“Put up your hands,” Pete growled, “before I blow your heads off.” Then he glanced at Marge uncertainly. “Is that right?” he asked.
The blonde nodded. “You could put more guts into it, maybe, but it’ll do in this case.”
Pete nodded with satisfaction and turned back to Marc. “Will you give me the keys to this here car, please?” he asked politely. “Me and Marge, here, are goin’ to steal it, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Oh, for the love of Mike!” Marge snorted disgustedly. “Now you’ve went and messed it all up. Don’t be so polite. How many times do I have to tell you? And don’t ever say please. Tell ’em to hand over the keys and no funny business. Make it sound professional. When you’re snatchin’ a valuable article like a car, the victim’s entitled to a first class hold-up with plenty of rough talk. Please, he says! What’re people gonna think?”
Pete grinned at Marc apologetically. “Marge is coachin’ me,” he said. “She’s learnin’ me the profession. Only I’m kinda dumb. I always louse up.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Toffee put in kindly. “I don’t think you were so bad. I think a bit of politeness in a stick up lends a refreshing new note. It’s original.”
“See, Marge!” Pete said triumphantly. “Did you hear? I’m original.”
“You’re the original dope,” Marge snapped. “I don’t care what she says, we’re stickin’ to standard methods. If they were good enough for my old lady, they’re good enough for me. Now get them keys, and let’s blow.”
For a moment Pete looked crestfallen. “Sometimes,” he murmured, “I wish I was just a juvenile delinquent again.” Then, with a sigh, he jammed the gun into Marc’s ribs. “Hand over them keys, buddy,” he snarled. “And no funny business, see?”
Marc turned unconcernedly to Marge. “I like the other way better too,” he said. “It’s got more class.”
“Who’s runnin’ this stick-up?” Marge said angrily. “Do I tell you your business? This is what I get for messin’ with amateurs.”
“Aw, Marge,” Pete pleaded. “You ought’n to talk like that. I’m tryin’ hard to do like you tell me.”
“Sure,” Toffee broke in. “Anyone can see he’s sincere, and that’s the important thing. Anyone who’s sincere is bound to get ahead. You’ll be proud of Pete someday. He may get to Sing Sing before you do, yourself.”
“You stay out of this,” Marge rasped, nearly at the end of her rope. “He’s my boy friend, and I’ll train him my way.”
“What do you want the car for?” Marc asked, brushing Pete’s gun gently away from his side. “Do you really need it, or are you just practicing?”
“We need the thing,” Marge said wearily, tears of bitter humiliation beginning to well in her eyes. “We were makin’ a getaway, our heap broke down about a mile back. We gotta get outa here, mister. Honest. Now, won’t you please cooperate and let Pete stick you up?”
“Sure,” Marc said agreeably. “Stick me up, Pete.”
“What about us?” Toffee asked suddenly. “We need the car too.”
“Yeah,” Pete said, gesturing at Marge with his gun. “What about them?”
Marge threw her hand up in a gesture of despair. “That rips it!” she wailed. “I don’t care what about anything anymore. You’re all nuts ... or drunk ... or both.” She sat down heavily on the running board and cupped her chin dejectedly in her hands. “Things have sure gone all to hell!”
A thoughtful silence fell over the little group for a time. Marc was the first to speak. “I tell you what,” he said brightly. “We’ll all go together. Toffee and I were only looking for a place to stay. You two come along with us, and when we find a place we like, you can stick us up all over again and steal the car. How’s that?”
Pete smiled hopefully at Marge. “Yeah, Marge,” he said. “That’s fair, ain’t it? And on the way you could coach me some more so’s I’ll do it right, the way you want it. I’ll really stick ’em up this time, too. I’ll scare hell outa ’em.”
“Oh, all right,” Marge said resignedly. “But if I wake up in a padded cell tomorrow, I ain’t even goin’ to ask how I got there.”
Silently, the little party arranged itself in the car. Marge followed Pete into the back seat, scowling sullenly. Hugging the jug to her, Toffee slid across the front seat to make room for Marc behind the wheel. As she did so, the snoring, that had grown in intensity, was suddenly interrupted by a loud snort.
“If that was my dog,” Marge said bitterly, “I’d strangle the beast.”
WHEN Marc turned off the ignition, the convertible seemed to sigh with relief . . . so did the occupants of the back seat. Otherwise, everything was quiet. George’s snoring had stopped completely some minutes before.
“Oh, Moses!” Marge murmured faintly. “Now, when they say death rides the highways, I’ll know who they’re talkin’ about.” She tugged at Pete’s sleeve. “And did you see that jug floatin’ around up there all by itself?”
“You’re just excited, Marge,” Pete told her soothingly. “You didn’t see nothin’ like that.” He turned to Marc pleadingly. “She didn’t see no jug floatin’ around up there, did she, mister?”
But Marc didn’t answer. He and Toffee were concerned with a light glowing through the pines just a few yards away from the road. Finally, Marc opened the door and got out of the car.
“I can’t tell what it is,” he said, “but I’ll see if they can put us up for the night.” He moved away in the direction of the glowing light.
It was several minutes later when Marc, followed by a balding little relic of a day gone by, retraced his steps through the open door and stepped onto the antiquated veranda, of Sunnygarden Lodge . . . “A Haven For The Weary.”
“You needn’t come along,” he said uneasily to the little man. “My friends are waiting in the car. I can get them myself.”
“Oh, but I insist!” the little fellow piped in a managerial voice. “I always greet each and every guest of Sunnygarden Lodge personally. I just wouldn’t forgive myself if they came in without a personal welcome.”
Marc hurried down the steps as though trying to lose the little manager. “My friends won’t mind if you don’t welcome them,” he said. “They won’t care at all. In fact, I’m sure they’d rather you wouldn’t bother.”
“Tut, tut!” The manager clung doggedly to Marc’s side. “I like to know my guests. I take it as a sort of responsibility. As a rule, my guests are rather elderly and come regularly for the quiet. I like to make sure that any newcomers are ... uh ... well, compatible. Courtesy of the house, you know.”
Reaching the drive, Marc started energetically down its center, hoping the manager would tire of the pace and drop out. But falling into a sort of jittery dog-trot, the fellow tagged persistently along. It was just as they were rounding the first curve by the corner of the lodge that the blast of the horn suddenly shattered the stillness, and the blue converti
ble bounded into sight. Headlight beams searched wildly through the pines for a second, then fell to the graveled drive and stabbed forward.
Marc and the manager stood transfixed as the car bore down upon them. Then, just in time, Marc reached out, hugged the little man to him, and leaped to the safety of the lawn. The car raced past in a flash, but not so fast that it did not disclose several disconcerting facts, not the least of which was the empty space in the driver’s seat. Apparently driverless, the car streaked by, the wail of its horn horribly augmented by terrified shrieks from the back seat. In startling contrast to all this, Toffee leaned gaily out of the window, opposite the wheel, and blew Marc a hurried kiss. Coming abreast of the veranda a split second later, the car came to a sudden, jarring stop, spitting gravel to the winds like rice at a wedding. A final blast from the horn announced the completion of these demented operations, and everything suddenly fell into a deep, throbbing silence.
“Oh, my heavens!” the little manager gasped. “Oh!”
“I . . . I can’t imagine what happened,” Marc faltered lamely.
“I don’t think my guests will like this,” the manager said reprovingly.
Together, Marc and the manager made their way back to the veranda. The door, on Toffee’s side of the car, was just starting to open, and Marc made a dash for it. Arriving just as Toffee placed the first slender foot on the drive, he reached inside the car, drew out a plaid lap robe and draped it over her like a piece of wet wash.
“Hey!” Toffee cried. “What’s the big idea?”
MARC turned, and smiled wanly at the manager who was now standing on the lodge steps. Looking back at Toffee, his smile faded. “I wanted to be sure you wouldn’t catch cold,” he hissed. “Now, keep it on.”
Marge’s voice sounded weakly behind them. “Outa my way,” she whimpered, fairly crawling from the car. Like the survivor of the wreck, she stumbled forward a few steps and turned baleful eyes toward the manager. “Shove a stretcher under me, pops,” she gasped. “I think I’m going to pass out.”
The words of welcome that had been determinedly forming on the manager’s lips froze there like an epitaph in granite. Then they vanished altogether at the sudden appearance of Pete. The big man lumbered blindly out of the car, his momentum carrying him half up to the steps of the lodge. Then he whirled abruptly, sat down, and put his head in his hands.
“It ain’t worth it,” he mourned. “I’m going straight.”
“Aren’t you going to steal the car?” Toffee asked disappointedly.
Marge looked up ruefully. “Wild horses couldn’t drag me back into that car,” she said.
Meanwhile, Marc, staring inside the car, had stiffened in an attitude of panic-stricken fascination. The jug, that had been resting on the seat, had suddenly jumped into the air and was floating lightly out, through the opposite door. It wasn’t until it had jauntily traversed the entire front half of the car and started to emerge around the edge of the right fender that the horrible possibilities of the situation suddenly bore down on Marc and pressed him into action. Leaping forward, he grasped the jug around the base and tugged at it. Hearing a gasp behind him, he glanced back over his shoulder and discovered that everyone, and especially the manager, was watching him with consuming interest. He grinned sheepishly and turned back to the matter of the jug.
With a defiant gurgle the jug immediately started to put up a fight. Shooting out of his hands like a live thing, it darted coyly behind him. He whirled and caught hold of it, just as it started to slip out of reach.
“Give me that thing,” he rasped.
“You’re always so greedy,” George’s voice came back. “If you want a drink so bad, why don’t you just ask for it like a gentleman?”
“Good heavens!” the manager exclaimed from the steps. “Is he actually arguing with that thing?”
Marc wrenched the jug free and clutched it firmly to his side. “I lost my balance,” he said self-consciously. “Gravel’s slippery.”
“Is it?” the manager asked coolly. He cleared his throat with an effort. “Well, if we’re all ready, we’ll go inside, shall we?” He glanced back at Marc disapprovingly. “Our guests,” he added warningly, “do very little drinking here.”
MARC awoke and instantly regretted it. Horrible memories of the previous day’s events trampled each other in a rush for his attention. His head ached and his feet felt oddly heavy and immovable. He groaned and propped himself forward with his hands, then he groaned again. No wonder his feet felt heavy. Toffee was sitting on his ankles.
“I don’t know how just one man can look so awful,” she said lightly. “I should think it would take at least two . . . maybe three.”
“What’re you doing here?” Marc asked thickly. “Go ’way.”
“And a happy good morning to you, too.” Toffee slid quickly toward him and brushed cool lips across his forehead. “You scare me,” she laughed. Then, suddenly quitting him, she moved across the room to consider herself critically in the bureau mirror. “I don’t know why you went to the trouble of getting me a room of my own,” she murmured, running her fingers lightly through her hair. “You know very well I wouldn’t get any use of it. I can stay materialized only when I’m projected through your consciousness. When you go to sleep, I have to return to your subconscious until you wake up.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of decency?” Marc asked.
Toffee nodded. “I’ve heard talk of it. But nothing interesting.”
Marc shook his head sadly. “Where are George and those two criminal types we picked up last night?”
“How should I know?” Toffee shrugged. “Probably downstairs, stuffing themselves at your expense. That’s what I’d be doing. It’s nearly ten o’clock.”
“Holy smoke!” Marc cried. “Is it that late? You mean those maniacs are probably running around loose down there?” He swung his long legs out over the edge of the bed. “Get out of here so I can dress.”
Toffee started slowly toward the door. “Puritan,” she said chidingly.
Marc looked up, startled. In daylight, in the lace dress, Toffee’s exquisite body seemed merely to be passing through a lightly shaded bower, completely unclothed. Clutching a sheet to him, he jumped up, pulled a scarf from a nearby table and threw it to her. “Here!” he called. “Put that on!”
Catching the scarf, Toffee held it out full length. “It’s not big enough to do much good, is it?” she asked innocently.
“Use it strategically!” Marc sighed, “where it will do the most good.”
Draping the scarf lightly over her shoulders, Toffee left the room.
ONLY minutes later, still needing a shave, Marc joined Toffee in the hallway. Together, they hurried downstairs and made their way directly to the dining room. Toffee had guessed right. Across the room, at a corner table, were George, Marge and Pete. Of the three, George was the only one facing in their direction and he was so busy talking he didn’t notice them.
George had done a good job of materializing . . . except for one little detail. His trouser legs terminated in two gaping holes. One leg crossed jauntily over the other, he was nonexistent from the ankles down. The explanation for this oversight probably lay in the jug nestled next to the leg of his chair.
In a chair that was almost back-toback with George’s, a little white-haired lady was nearly twisting her frail neck double in an effort to have a better view of George’s footless legs. Passing a trembling hand over her eyes, she shuddered with horror and finally turned away. Across the table from her, her elderly male companion cast her a questioning glance, but she ignored it and stared determinedly out the window. Her thin, colorless lips were silently forming the words: “I won’t. I won’t. I won’t look again!”
It was apparent at a glance that the entire clientele of Sunnygarden Lodge hovered dangerously close to the grave. Wheel chairs, crutches, and ear aids were much in evidence in the hushed funereal atmosphere of the dining room that was only occasionally interrupted by t
he inadvertent clatter of a slipping denture. In contrast, however, a lively, greying woman in a comic-opera gypsy costume moved from table to table, at the far end of the room, with hateful persistence, like a bee searching for honey in a cluster of toadstools.
Toffee nudged Marc and pointed to the woman. “What’s that?” she asked.
“A fortune teller,” Marc said absently. “They always have them in dumps like this. They’re considered quaint by the older set. She generalizes about your future at a buck a throw.”
He started across the room, and Toffee followed. As they drew near the table in the corner, George suddenly glanced up for the first time and saw them. Blanching, he hurriedly handed Pete a piece of paper, then got quickly up from his chair and started away. By the time Marc and Toffee reached the table, he had passed behind a dusty potted palm and melted away like a cloud of smoke in a heavy gale.
Marge started as she looked up and saw Marc standing beside her. “How did you get there?” she asked. Her hand, that had been stretched out toward a dark object lying opposite her, on the table, darted back guiltily. Marc glanced down and recognized his own wallet.
“How did that get here?” he asked.
“You left it just now,” Marge said confusedly. “I thought I’d better look after it while you were away.”
Marc picked up the wallet and opened it. Two hundred dollars in bills were missing, but three hundred dollars and several checks remained. Obviously, George had lifted the wallet sometime during the night. But what could he possibly find to do with two hundred dollars in a place like Sunnygarden Lodge? Marc couldn’t imagine. The matter would have to wait until George decided to reappear again. Helping Toffee into a chair, Marc seated himself in the place that had been George’s.
RESTING her elbows on the table, Toffee cupped her chin demurely in her hand and leveled an accusing gaze on Marge. “Having a little larceny for breakfast, dear?” she asked.
The Complete Adventures of Toffee Page 19
