The Complete Adventures of Toffee

by Charles F. Myers

  “Don’t do that!” he fairly screamed. “Don’t scare me like that!”

  “I don’t blame you for being jumpy,” Toffee said. “At the moment I could easily vault a twelve story building by sheer nerve power. That’s the most soul-shattering thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

  “Help me up,” Marc begged. He extended a hand toward Toffee, then promptly leaped to his feet, unaided.

  Victorious at last, the dashing bags suddenly emerged around the end of the clerk’s enclosure and sailed through the hinged barrier like a pair of high-spirited, slightly drunken seagulls. At the sight of them, the two policemen, who had finally managed to disengage their guns from their holsters, suddenly turned on each other in panic.

  “Do something,” one of them hissed. “Call a cop . . . I mean, yell at ’em to stop. Say halt or you’ll shoot. That’s always good.”

  The other fidgeted self-consciously. “I’d feel silly,” he demurred. “You yell at ’em.”

  “I’d feel silly, too,” the other admitted grudge-ingly. “Silly as hell.” He gave the matter his thoughtful attention. “Tell you what,” he said finally. “Let’s just turn the other way and make out we don’t see. It’s nothing no human eyes should be gazing at anyway. It’s indecent to say the least.”

  SIMULTANEOUSLY, the cops turned their broad backs on the fearful spectacle and pretended to engage each other in casual conversation. “Tell me,” one of them was heard to say in a strained voice, “and how is that charming wife of yours? And those two darling children?”

  This chatty arrangement, however, was not destined to endure. The president’s voice rang down from the mezzanine with such a volley of scalding invective and personal criticism that the two reluctant officers decided it would be the lesser evil to face their duty and do it, even if their souls fried in hell as the result.

  By now the flying bags had singled out Marc and Toffee and were headed toward them in an affectionate rush.

  “Go way!” Marc yelled desperately. “Beat it!”

  But the bags were not to be put off so easily. They continued forward, dancing through the air in a sort of bottom-heavy samba.

  “Let’s take steps!” Toffee cried. “Lots and fast! Let’s get the hell out of here before those fiendish bags put the finger on us!”

  Physically, mentally and spiritually, Marc was in complete and utter accord with Toffee’s suggestion. His whole being longed to its very depths to be away from those awful bags and the tailor-made life of crime that George so obviously meant to force upon him. Taking Toffee’s arm he took as few steps as possible to the main entrance and swung the door open. Behind, the bags hesitated, seeming somewhat taken aback at this unfriendly gesture, then with a sort of shrug, started out in playful pursuit. The two policemen, their duties now engraved on their sluggish minds in letters of flame, joined the chase reluctantly.

  Marc and Toffee headed instinct-tively toward the parking lot behind the bank, set on giving themselves every possible mechanical advantage in this mad race for respectability. Behind them, the bags steadily lost ground right from the start, probably because their weight held back their ghostly means of locomotion. Still further back, the two policemen, plugging along in their own flat-footed way, were hardly in the running at all.

  Marc and Toffee reached the grey coupe at about the same instant and threw themselves on it like a couple of drowning sailors who had just sighted a lifeboat. In the midst of their frenzied activities the wizened attendant appeared at the door of the shack and watched with quiet interest.

  “Wildest pair of young folks I ever seen,” he murmured. “Leapin’ around all over the place like they was crazy in the head or somethin’. Nervous type I guess.”

  Unmindful of the attendant’s concern over their hurried activities, Marc touched the starter and put the car into rapid motion. There was a sharp hiss as the tires spit gravel into the air, and a second later a loud clatter announced the abandonment of the wrecked bumper.

  But with the rapid exit of the grey coupe and its harried occupants, the little attendant’s worries were destined to increase rather than diminish. No sooner did the car disappear down the drive than two bags, alarmingly on their own, flashed onto the scene and presented themselves before him in mid-air.

  The little man looked at them, rubbed his eyes and looked again. For a long, tense moment he continued to stare at them. Then he turned about and stepped abruptly inside the shack, closing the door firmly behind him. He lowered himself into an ancient rocking chair, sighed deeply and closed his eyes.

  “Keep a grip on yourself, you old fool,” he muttered. “Sun spots ain’t nothin’ to get excited about. What if they do have People’s Trust printed on ’em?”

  THE little man’s grip on himself, however, might have slipped considerably had he remained outside to witness the subsequent movements of the “sun spots.” Racing to a green sedan, they threw the door open and disappeared inside. A moment later the car, with no apparent aid, leaped from its place in line, grazed the fender of its neighbor, and went rolling swiftly down the drive.

  As it was, two other grips were rudely pried loose by the incident. The two policemen, standing on the sidewalk, watched with horror-glazed eyes as the driverless sedan darted playfully toward them, then bounded over the curb and started in spirited pursuit of the grey coupe. To the one nearest the diabolical car this was not only the last straw, but the whole final load of hay. He turned disillusioned eyes on his companion.

  “That’s done it,” he said in a hollow voice. “After fifteen years on the Force I’m going down to headquarters and fling this badge of mine smack in the Chief’s homely mush.”

  “You can’t do that,” his partner protested, fingering his own badge. “You’d be quitting in the face of duty.”

  “If that’s the face of duty,” the saddened law enforcer replied, “then it had better be lifted before it gets any worse. I’d rather be buddies with Frankenstein.”

  “We gotta at least make an effort,” his friend reasoned. “After all, them sacks ain’t armed. And maybe there’ll be a reward for their capture.”

  This last thought seemed to put a fairer com-plexion on the face of duty. The two trudged to the center of the street and hailed a passing taxi.

  “Follow that car,” the more enterprising of the two growled, directing the driver’s attention to the careening sedan three blocks distant. “And if you catch it, I’ll have you stored in the pokey for the rest of your life.”

  In the grey coupe Marc was driving with a suicidal brilliance such as he had never before displayed. Some sainted sixth sense took him safely in and out and around cars at times when it seemed that sudden death would surely be the result. All the while, Toffee busied himself with the diverting task of observing and reporting the progress of their pursuers from the rear window. The green sedan appeared to be doing dishearteningly well, probably because of its driver’s hair-raising disregard for any and all traffic laws.. George, with a splendid lack of prejudice, was using both sides of the street indiscriminately. On the other hand, the taxi wasn’t faring nearly so well. Actually, it didn’t seem to be really trying. According to Toffee’s lights, it showed a distressing, sissy tendency to play strictly according to the rules.

  Probably the only thing that prevented this lunatic chase from strewing the streets with death and tragedy was its early and untimely end. Allowed to continue to its ultimate conclusion, unrestrained, heaven only knows what madness might have ensued. The beginning of the end came swiftly when Marc cut the coupe screamingly through an alley and onto a side street.

  Emerging from the alley, full speed ahead, he suddenly rocked the car to a jouncing stop that sent Toffee flying into his lap. Ahead and behind, the street was jammed to its curbs with automobiles of all descriptions, their horns bewailing their predicament in no uncertain terms. It was the worst traffic jam Marc had ever seen, and by some miraculous maneuver that even he, himself, couldn’t believe, he had managed to wed
ge the grey coupe very nearly into its center.

  From Marc’s lap, Toffee reached slender arms toward his neck. “You impetuous boy,” she giggled. “We love in the midst of danger.”

  Marc shoved her rudely back onto the seat. “We’ll languish in the midst of Sing Sing, if we don’t look out,” he growled. “Where is that green sedan?”

  Toffee peered out the window. “Good grief!” she cried. “It just pulled up in the alley. It’s so close I could hit it with a pebble.”

  “Hit it with a bomb.” Marc moved to Toffee’s side just in time to witness the arrival of the cop-laden taxi behind the green sedan. The sight of the policemen was not reassuring; and neither was the sudden appearance of the money bags, darting stealthily toward them from the door of the sedan.

  “Trapped!” Marc groaned. “What’ll we do?”

  Of course, the only answer was flight. Opening the car door, Toffee tugged at Marc’s sleeve. “Come on,” she urged.

  “Where to?” Marc asked hopelessly. “We’re jammed in here tight. Bumper to bumper and fender to fender, so to speak.”

  “Sounds lecherous,” Toffee murmured. “Come on.”

  MARC was willing to be led, it appeared, even when he didn’t know where he was being led to. He didn’t object even when Toffee blithely opened the rear door of the next car, nodded cheerfully to its startled owner, and bounded through to the other side. In fact, he heartily endorsed the idea by rapidly following suit.

  And Marc was not the only one to realize the wisdom in Toffee’s methods. Soon, not only the pursued, but the pursuers as well, were romping in and out of strange vehicles with a reckless abandon that indicated a decided taste for the sport. The sound of wailing horns slowly died to be replaced by excited screams and dark curses. Toffee, easily the most fleet of foot, took a fast lead, Marc bringing up a close second. The skittering money bags, an early entry in this car-hopping sweepstakes, followed hot on the trail, flitting felicitously past the noses of astonished motorists like a pair of featureless rag dolls suddenly come to life. The two policemen, definitely dark horses without a prayer, brought up a couple of blue serge rears that lent a certain full-bodied homeliness to the affair. The reactions of the jammed-in motorists were varied and extreme.

  One dapper little gentleman, the proprietor of a low black sedan, watched with bemusement as Toffee leaped lightly into his presence and made for the next car with businesslike directness. But when Marc hinged after the lithesome redhead, the little fellow began to take an active interest in the proceedings, which, as he saw them, were becoming rather sordid. He held an arresting hand up to Marc.

  “Why don’t you let her go, mister?” he asked reprovingly. “You’re running the poor kid nearly ragged. Maybe she just doesn’t like you.”

  Marc brushed the hand impatiently aside and continued on his way.

  The little man squared his shoulders manfully, slid across the seat and hopped quickly out the door.

  “Maybe it isn’t any of my business,” he muttered, jumping to the running board of the next car, “but somebody’s got to be there to protect that poor child when he catches her!”

  The little man had no way of knowing that he was setting a dangerous precedent. Flinging one’s self in and out of strange automobiles seemed to be just the sport that all America had been waiting for. Within only a few minutes after the beginning of the chase, the number of participants had increased by leaps, bounds and broad jumps. Clearly, there was an irresistible appeal about the thing that captured the imagination. With a why-didn’t-I-ever-think-of-this gleam in their eyes people were soon leaping from car to car like a horde of salmon shooting the rapids at spawning time.

  THERE was, however, a dreary minority in the traffic jam that found certain aspects of this frolicsome pastime highly objectionable. One of this number, particularly, was Mrs. Priscilla Carthwright, a matron of some standing who hadn’t been known as “Prissy” during her girlhood for nothing. Mrs. Carthwright suffered an unconditional defeat, however, in her efforts to defend the sacred confines of her limousine from the ravages of the joyous herd. Crouched on ample knees on the seat of the car, she came dangerously close to falling into a swoon as the door burst open under her protesting, bejeweled hand, and a lank young man burst unconcernedly into her august presence with a broad wink and a primitive whoop that was strongly reminiscent of the cries of avenging Indians in the days of the early West. In the end, though, drawing on the waning reserves of her courage, Mrs. Carthwright managed to waylay one lean bespectacled reveler long enough to score her own little moral triumph.

  “What does all this mean, young man?” she demanded imperiously. “Just where do all these people think they are going?”

  The young man paused long enough to take the question under thoughtful consideration, obviously a matter that had heretofore not troubled him. “I think we’re marching on Washington,” he murmured finally, “to demand our rights.”

  “Just as I thought!” Mrs. Carthwright boomed triumphantly, dismissing her victim. “Communists!”

  And having said, she settled back in the seat, cross-legged, her features fixed in a glassy stare that suggested haughty royalty in exile.

  And there were other unfortunate incidents. Particularly bad was the one in which Toffee, completely innocent of purpose, threw the door open on a young couple locked in an amorous embrace. The lovers, looking up to find themselves observed by what appeared to be a surging sea of prying eyes, came close to sharing an hysterical fit. The young lady, in a seizure of confused madness, turned on her adored one and dealt him such a stinging blow in the mouth that several of his front teeth were completely dislodged. Clearly, it was the death blow to a beautiful, if careless, romance.

  More gratifying was Toffee’s foray into a bus load of energetic young basketball players. Though the delighted redhead was relayed from seat to seat and finally lifted out of a rear window with all dispatch, when she waved good-by to her instantly-won admirers, she was wearing a crimson sweat shirt with a golden N splashed across its front. Also, she had been unanimously elected the team’s mascot in favor of an infant pig.

  And so the racing procession continued, unabated, in limousine and out sedan, over jeep and under truck, for the better part of a quarter of an hour. And it might have continued longer had it not been for the enterprising spirit of a nearby restauranteer who rolled several kegs of beer onto the sidewalk thereby introducing into the occasion a further distraction. And since spontaneous entertainment is invariably the best, the wandering motorists were not long in realizing the inherent possibilities in this delightful turn of events. Other divertissments, including street dancing and a sidewalk performance by a theatrical troupe from a neighborhood burlesque, were quickly added to the program.

  Never in the history of the city had the police been confronted by such an ungovernable, pleasure-bent traffic jam. After several futile attempts at laying down the fun-loving uprising, the Chief of Police and his aides finally accepted the inevitable, roped the area off from further traffic, and went in search of a cooling tumbler of beer. The Chief, sitting democratically on the curb, bending his elbow with refreshing regularity, was a little worried, however. He wasn’t at all sure how the Mayor was going to look on this incident, and tomorrow there would be the tiresome business of restoring abandoned vehicles to their subdued owners. For his own part, he didn’t feel there was any harm in the thing. Here was a group of jaded, work-weary city dwellers having their first delightful taste of real, communal fun in a long time. After his fifth mug of beer, though, the Chief’s worries began to vanish. He decided he didn’t really give a damn what the Mayor thought.

  TOFFEE and Marc, however, were not among those participating in these impromptu sidewalk fes-tivities. They had resigned their charter membership in the reveling brotherhood some time before the beer rolled onto the scene.

  Stylishly garbed in a fur coat and the flaming red jersey, which came nearly to her knees, Toffee burst onto the s
idewalk from the door of a glittering convertible, looking a little like a grand dame who had recently suffered some extremely devastating losses in a cloak room crap game. Her face a bit flushed from her recent triumphs, she turned and waited expectantly for Marc. Soon, her vigil was rewarded. Marc, hatless, tieless, his hair hanging loosely in his eyes, staggered through the convertible and moved breathlessly to her side. His eyes were immediately drawn to the garish sweat shirt.

  “Where on earth did you pick that up?” he asked with distaste.

  “A charming group of youngsters gave it to me,” Toffee told him proudly. “Also, they favored me with several choice bruises.” She ran a hand gently over her thigh. “Those kids sure know their way around.”

  Marc wasn’t really interested in the precociousness of the younger generation. Not at a time like this. He glanced nervously over his shoulder. “Have you seen those ghoulish bags lately?”

  Toffee shook her head. “I think we’ve given them the slip. The cops, too. The last time I saw those two flatheaded flatfoots they were slobbering all over each other like a couple of rejected brides. I really think they’ve lost their reason. One of them was mumbling something about hurling the Chief into the Mayor’s face, whatever that means.”

  “Now what do we do?” Marc asked. “We’re free, but we haven’t a car any more.”