“Don’t get smart,” Marge mumbled. “I’m goin’ straight.”
“To where?”
“Say! I oughta chop you off at the pockets for a crack like that. You ain’t no angel yourself. Why, if you ever showed up around headquarters in that dress you’re wearin’, they’d throw the book at you.”
“Which book is that?” Toffee asked with genuine interest.
“Huh?” Marge said.
“The book they’re going to throw at me. Which one is it?”
“Yeah, Marge,” Pete put in from across the table. “Which book is that?”
“How should I know which book!” Marge cried with sudden confusion. “Any one that’s handy, I suppose. I don’t care if they throw the whole library at her. I wish they would.”
“Now,” Toffee said thoughtfully, “if this book was ‘Forever Amber’ . . .”
“Skip it!” Marge cried distractedly. “For the love of heaven, skip it, can’t you? I’m sorry I brought it up.”
“You should be,” Toffee said sternly. “Besides, flinging books about seems a very loose way of upholding the law. I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.”
Marge winced, completely demoralized. Across the table, Pete dug an affable elbow into Marc’s ribs.
“You’re plenty smart, Mr. Pillsworth,” he said. “That business about the note is the nuts.” He tapped his coat pocket. “It leaves Marge and me in the clear. Of course, I think the whole deal is kinda loopy, but if that’s the way you want it . . .” He shrugged his beefy shoulders significantly.
For a moment Marc was completely mystified... but only for a moment. Plainly, Pete was confusing him with George. The best thing, in that case, was probably just to string along with the gag and find out what was going on . . . what kind of a “deal” George had made.
“Let’s see the note,” he said, holding out his hand.
“What for?” Pete wanted to know. “You give it to me to keep.”
“I want to make a correction,” Marc said quickly.
A crafty look came into Pete’s eyes. “Say, you ain’t tryin’ to back out, are you? You said I wasn’t to let you, if you did. Remember?”
Things, Marc could see, were going to take a bit of doing. Perhaps a little firmness . . . “Give me that note,” he ordered.
“In front of her?” Pete nodded toward Toffee. “You wouldn’t want her to know about it. It’d shock her somethin’ awful. You wanted this all secret.”
Marc decided to drop the matter. Anything that would shock Toffee’s rawhide sensitivities was better left in the dim regions of Pete’s pocket for the time being, anyway. Uneasy thoughts of blackmail coursed quietly through his mind.
Pushing her chair back, Marge got to her feet. “Come on, Pete,” she said. “Let’s get outa here and get some fresh air.”
“You ain’t finished breakfast yet,” Pete reminded her.
“All of a sudden I got sour stomach.” She glanced meaningfully at Toffee.
Together, the two of them left the table and moved across the dining room, to the door leading onto the veranda. Marc stared worriedly after them.
“Don’t look so glum,” Toffee said gently, reaching out to pat his hand. “You still love me, you know, no matter what happens.”
“I don’t deserve you,” Marc said sadly. “I’ve never been that mean.”
It was then that he caught sight of the jug. It had begun to behave very strangely in the last few seconds. Surreptitiously, it was inching away from his chair like a footless penguin.
“So you’re back, are you?” Marc said addressing the ambling jug.
The jug came to a guilty halt. “Uhhuh,” George’s voice said quietly.
“What have you been up to behind my back? What’s this deal with Pete?”
“Nothing . . . much.”
“You sit down,” Marc commanded irritably, “and materialize. I want to tell you what I think of you right to your treacherous face.”
THE jug swooped over to the chair that Pete had just left and settled on the floor. The chair moved briefly out from the table, then back again. Slowly, George came into view, looking very sheepish. That no one besides Marc and Toffee seemed to notice this singular occurrence was probably due to the failing eyesight of the other guests of Sunnygarden Lodge.
Marc leveled a tense finger at George’s nose. His lips parted angrily, but he didn’t speak. An alien hand had suddenly closed over his own. He looked up to find the decrepit gypsy standing beside him. She was bent over his hand, staring at it myopically.
“You,” she said in heavy, theatrical tones, “are destined to live a long and happy life. It is written in your hand.”
Toffee looked on these proceedings with high disapproval. “You quit holding his hand, you old moll,” she put in heatedly, “or your life won’t be worth living.”
The woman looked up in alarm. “Alright, dearie,” she said, dropping Marc’s hand. “No harm done.” She tottered briskly away from the table.
Not to be deterred by this interruption, Marc leveled his finger back at George’s nose. “Now, listen, you . . .” he began. But there he stopped.
A. strange expression had come into George’s face and he was beginning to look a little ill. He glanced uneasily around the room, then swallowed . . . hard. For a moment he looked like he was going to speak, but all of a sudden there was a sharp popping sound, like a blown fuse, and he instantly vanished. In the same moment, the jug beside his chair began to tremble violently, then, astonishingly, leaped about a foot into the air, as though seized with a fit of anger. It lingered there, undecidedly suspended for a moment, then suddenly crashed to the floor, sending shattered crockery and liquid fanning out in a messy arc. Marc and Toffee stared at the wreckage as the little white-haired lady, who had found George’s feet so fascinating, suddenly started from her chair.
“I can’t stand it another minute!” she whimpered. “I must see! I must!” And whirling around to face Marc she stared at him wretchedly for an intensely silent moment. Then, with a quick movement, she reached quickly down beneath the table and started tugging at the legs of his trousers,
Marc was instantly on his feet. “Lady!” he yelped in surprise. “What a thing to do! Let go of my pants!”
“Yes,” Toffee put in excitedly, rising from her chair. “You should have given up ideas like that long ago!”
The little woman hesitated in her activities, seeming to realize for the first time what she was doing. And, clearly, it shocked her even more than Marc or Toffee. With an agonized upward glance at Marc, she made an unintelligible sound, turned chalk white and slumped to the floor in a dead faint.
At this point the situation might have straightened itself out. It might have, that is, if the woman had only thought to release her hold on Marc’s trouser legs. But she hadn’t. Falling back, she dragged Marc’s balance after her. Clawing the air in a sort of breast stroke, Marc crashed to the floor, and sprawled out full length.
At this, the woman’s male companion, who had been watching these proceedings through a nearsighted haze, shot from his chair like an avenging angel. “He attacked my wife!” the little man screamed. “The fiend! I seen him! He attacked my old lady!”
THE quiet atmosphere in the dining room suddenly gave way to riot. The patrons of the lodge were magically transformed into a league of formidable warriors . . . no longer the slowly disintergrating remnants that they had first appeared to be. Summoning hidden vigor, from heaven only knew what source, they rose as a body and swarmed toward the scene of outrage. One of their number had been attacked and they were plainly not to be found wanting. Crutches, ear trumpets and miscellaneous silverware were instantly pressed into service in lieu of weapons. One old gentleman, racing his wheelchair at break-neck speed, hurled himself into the fray with all the proud spirit of a knight astride a charger. Other ancient enlistees, in their nearsightedness, promptly engaged each other in ferocious battle, no questions asked. Crockery flew
in all directions and crashed unheeded against the walls. The orderly dining room was reduced to a raging ruin in only a matter of seconds.
At the first signs of hostilities, Toffee had jumped to Marc’s defense. It was her thought that the whole thing could be prevented with a few pertinent words of explanation. But no sooner had she opened her mouth than the arm rest of a crutch caught her rudely under the chin and pinned her against the wall, silent and helpless. Her captor was a wild-eyed little lady in subdued lavender.
“Hussy!” the little woman screamed. “Runnin’ around with fiends! You’re just as bad as the company you keep. Don’t you dast open your painted mouth to me!”
Somehow, Marc, by this time, had managed to stagger to his feet. Seeing Toffee’s predicament, he started toward her, but was cut off by his howling tormentors. Wildly, he swung about in the opposite direction. Then he stopped short. For an instant his gaze had swept over the open door leading onto the veranda. Coming up the steps, and losing no time about it, were Julie and Dr. Polk.
Marc whirled back toward the door. “Julie” he screamed.
Julie glanced frightenedly toward the scene of chaos. But Marc never saw her face, for at that same moment a warming dish, complete with heavy metal cover, came down thunderously over his head. Poached eggs were streaming into his eyes as he pitched toward the floor, but he wasn’t aware of them. Everything had already gone pitch black.
The little lady in lavender started forward a bit as the crutch gave under her hand and jolted against the wall. She stared quizzically at the wall. Then, dropping the crutch, she removed her glasses and wiped them vigorously with a delicate lace handkerchief. Replacing the glasses carefully, she stared at the wall again.
“Well, I’ll be blessed,” she murmured. “I could have sworn I had that little harpy all the time.”
Toffee had vanished into thin air.
A TINY bubble of awareness rose through the blackness of Marc’s mind, reached the surface and exploded with a flash of light. It was immediately followed by another ... then two ... and three ... and a score. Marc stirred and opened his eyes. His vision was pulsing and dim. Objects leaped into view, then disappeared. A chair, a table, a door, a window with the blind mostly drawn. His hands fell against softness and he knew he was lying on a bed. He rolled over. The motion must have had a clearing effect on his head, for the objects were suddenly more distinct and remained in focus longer. A seated figure swam into view very close by. For a moment it hovered over him, then faded, vanished, reappeared and remained. It was Dr. Polk.
The doctor’s precise features arranged them-selves into a sparse smile. “Well, my boy,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” Marc faltered. “How did you find me here?”
“We gave the police the license number on your car as soon as you ran off yesterday,” the doctor answered. “They didn’t have much trouble locating you.” He smiled sadly. “You’ve been a rather naughty boy. They tell me you’ve taken to beating old ladies.”
“No,” Marc murmured. “A mistake . . . it was a mistake.”
“Yes, yes,” the doctor patronized. “But we must face things as they really are, my boy. It’s the only way out, you know. Something has upset you badly, but everything can be set right again if we can get to the root of the trouble. You must be pronounced well again, you know, if you’re to go to court against Mrs. Pillsworth, We’ll have to re-establish your legal status.”
“What!” Marc didn’t know where the strength came from but he was suddenly sitting up. “Get out of here! I’ll stay nutty the rest of my life if that’s the way the wind is blowing.” He fell back, exhausted, but he was beginning to feel better. Stronger, anyway.
“Now, you must be reasonable,” the doctor went on, undisturbed. “You wouldn’t want to be put away in an institution, would you?”
Marc shook his head. It was the truth; he wouldn’t.
“Then you must help me to help you. First of all, I want you to go back in memory to your childhood, and tell me anything, everything that comes to mind. Just close your eyes and think back. Start with your earliest memory.”
Marc glared at the doctor for a moment, then resignedly closed his eyes. There was a long period of silence. Finally, he said, “The first I remember is the night I was born.”
“What!” the doctor’s voice was excited.
“Yes. I recall that someone gave me a pair of soft blue booties.”
“Yes, go on!”
“I used them,” Marc said flatly, “to beat the doctor’s brains out.” He opened his eyes and boosted himself forward. “How’s that for a memory?”
But the doctor wasn’t listening. In fact, he wasn’t even looking at Marc. Instead, his gaze was fastened in horrified wonder on the bureau across the room. A shudder crept through his thin body, and he turned away, one slender hand pressed firmly to his eyes. The reason for the doctor’s distress was instantly apparent; Toffee had materialized. Seated pertly atop the bureau, one perfect leg crossed seductively over the other, she was truly a vision from another world. There was something statuesque and unnatural in her pose. But when Marc looked at her, she came momentarily to life. Quickly, she raised one tapering finger to her lips, then shook her head. That was all. Immediately, she resumed the mannikin pose and held it rigidly. Marc nodded and slumped back on the bed.
“Well, doc,” he said brightly, “what do you think of my childhood?”
THE doctor drew his hand away from his eyes and stared at Marc stupidly. “Your childhood?” he asked bemusedly. “I ... think ...” He glanced quickly over his shoulder at the bureau and shuddered again. “Tell . . . tell me,” he faltered. “What do you see on that bureau over there?” With elaborate deliberation, Marc raised himself and squinted at the bureau. “A Gideon bible,” he said pleasantly. “That’s all I see.”
The doctor’s face turned ash grey. “Been working too hard,” he muttered. “Got to . . . to . . . to take a rest.” He turned misery-ridden eyes on Marc. “You’ll have to excuse me. We will continue . . . later . . . maybe.”
He got unsteadily to his feet and moved slowly toward the door. Reaching it, he stretched his hand toward the knob, then withdrew it. Clearly, the good doctor was struggling against some inner conflict. Suddenly, with a determined lift of his chin, he turned and gazed squarely at the bureau. It was a grave mistake.
It wasn’t so much that Toffee met the doctor’s gaze unblinkingly. The real damage was done when she smiled and winked at him. That was too much. With a cry of purest despair, the doctor pivoted, threw open the door and bolted into the hall. A second later his footsteps echoed on the stairs with machinegun rapidity.
Marc swung himself off the bed and impulsively crossed to Toffee and kissed her on the cheek. “You were wonderful,” he said. “You certainly stewed his prunes.”
Toffee leaned back and giggled. “You only say that,” she murmured, “just because I’m gorgeous. I wonder if Julie ever found . . .”
“Julie!” Marc’s eyes were panic stricken.
Perhaps Julie was a bit high tempered at times, but she was still his wife. It seemed, now, that he had been caught in a raging flood of madness and Julie was the rock of reality to which he must cling at all costs. Whirling away from Toffee, he raced toward the door.
When Marc reached the foyer of the lodge, he was surprised to find it completely deserted, except for the little manager. Astonishingly, at the sight of Marc, the fellow clasped his hands ecstatically before him and ran to meet him. “Oh, Mr. Pillsworth!” he cried. “You don’t know what you’ve done! You just simply don’t know! You’ve absolutely rejuvenated my guests with that little riot of yours. They all said they didn’t know when they felt so young. They’ve all gone out in the woods for a picnic . . . with beer! They took up a collection for the damage in the dining room, and . . .”
Marc wasn’t listening. “Where’s my wife?” he asked. “Where’s Julie?”
“The pretty
blonde young lady?” the manager asked.
“Yes, yes. Where is she?”
“Out on the veranda, I believe. Down at the far end, around the corner. Poor dear, she was crying terribly when she went out.”
Marc turned and darted for the door. Then he stopped abruptly. A large hand had fallen over his arm and was holding him back. He looked up to see Pete standing beside him.
“Let go,” he said impatiently, “I’ve got to find my. . .”
“Never mind,” Pete said. “You just come along with me. Let’s get it over with, huh? Marge and me, we want to get outa here.”
“Get what over with? What are you talking about?”
“You know. Our deal.”
“What deal? Say, what is this all about, any-way?”
“You know. The deal you said I wasn’t to let you back out on. Remember?”
SUBSEQUENT development had completely banish-ed the scene at the breakfast table from Marc’s mind. “No. I don’t remember any deal.” He tried to pull away, but the big man held him firmly.
“Oh, come now, Mr. Pillsworth. Remember at breakfast when you told me how you come up here to commit suicide ’cause your wife is leavin’ you? Only you didn’t have the nerve? Remember how you give me two C’s to bump you off? And I wasn’t to let you back out no matter what you said? And the note you give me, sayin’ how you was knockin’ yourself off over a busted heart, so’s Marge and me, we’d be in the clear on doin’ the job? Remember?”
“I’ve been framed,” Marc said desperately, recalling the note he’d seen George give to Pete. “That was George you made the deal with. He wants me out of the way. You weren’t talking to me. You were talking to George!”
Pete started to laugh. “That’s pretty funny, Mr. Pillsworth!” he roared. “George, the talkin’ dog, done it, eh? That’s real good. I’ll have to tell Marge.” His hand moved close to Marc’s side. It was holding a gun. “You paid me for a job, Mr. Pillsworth, and you got a job comin’. It wouldn’t be honest otherwise. And I ain’t goin’ to let you talk me outa it, neither. Aren’t you glad?” He gave the gun an extra shove. “I’d rather not do it right here. Let’s go outside. Whaddaya say?”
The Complete Adventures of Toffee Page 20
