He walked to the door and reached for the knob, but he never quite completed the motion. Suddenly, the door burst open in his face, and its edge caught him squarely between the eyes. For a moment he rocked crazily back and forth, then, he closed his eyes and crumpled to the floor.
The young reporter bounded into the room and stopped short. He could have sworn he’d seen the redhead when he’d first thrown the door open, but now she didn’t seem to be there at all. He searched the room systematically and finally decided the girl had only been a trick of the imagination. Settling for second best, he turned his attention to Marc.
He looked at the unconscious man and frowned. There was something odd in the way the fellow’s lips kept moving. Also, something odd in his expression. He seemed to be holding a whispered conversation with someone. The reporter dropped to his knees and lowered his ear to Marc’s murmuring lips.
“No, no,” Marc was saying. “No, Toffee! Stop wrapping your arms around my neck like that. What are you trying to do, throttle me? Can’t we say goodbye without all that?” Then he made a strange whooshing noise as though a fist had been jabbed into the pit of his stomach. For a moment his expression was angered, then it slowly relaxed. “Goodbye,” he whispered. “Goodbye.”
THE reporter sat up, deeply perplexed. If he had been expecting to overhear an inadvertent confession, he was sadly mistaken. He wasn’t quite sure just what he had heard. It didn’t seem to make sense.
It might have made a great deal of sense, however, if the reporter had only known of the valley of Marc’s mind and the blue mists from which Toffee had come, and to which she was returning. If the young man had only known of these things, he might easily have written the most startling story of the year. As it was, though, he only shook his head, got to his feet, and went in search of water with which to revive Marc.
It was an apprehensive Marc that left the elevator and made his way slowly toward apartment 17-B. Since the sudden departures of George and Toffee a sobering reaction had set in and certain salient facts, relative to his financial and domestic status, had made themselves hatefully apparent. That George had managed to guide the courtroom fiasco to a satisfactory conclusion hadn’t really resolved any problems other than those that he, George, had created himself. Otherwise, everything was just as unsettled as before. Probably more, by now. Marc sighed heavily, and proceeded to the apartment door, where his ring was quickly answered by the diminutive maid, Marie.
Marie’s distress was ill concealed. “Madam is most wretched,” she said. “She awakened only a bit ago, and the papers seem to have upset her terribly. I took some breakfast to her, but.... Perhaps if you went to her now. . . .”
Marc left Marie wringing her hands in the hallway. He knocked lightly on Julie’s door and when he received no answer, went on in.
Julie, looking very small and miserable against a cloud of pillows, was lavishly salting a plate of scrambled eggs with a flood of tears. She was so absorbed in this undertaking that she didn’t notice Marc until he sat down beside her on the edge of the bed. Immediately, she threw her arms around his neck, buried her face against his lapel and proceeded to soak it through.
“Oh, Marc!” she sobbed. “I feel like such a horrible mess. I could die! I didn’t know until I read the papers. Why didn’t you tell me? I thought we were rich!”
With his free hand, Marc reached out and plucked the paper from between the pillows. The article was easy to find since it was still damp around the edges. It was the review of “Love’s Gone Winging.”
“Marc Pillsworth,” it said, “the big advertising man from whom the Broadway wiseacres were unanimously predicting a swift and unconditional trip into the unholy state of bankruptcy, last night proved himself to be the same shrewd businessman who raised the Pillsworth Advertising Agency from a pup several years ago. With last night’s opening of “Love’s Gone Winging,” a musical, starring none other than Mrs. Pillsworth, herself, our hero has turned out to be the sole owner of the season’s most lush theatrical gold mine. He laughs best, it appears, who has the inside info on Julie Pillsworth’s extraordinary talents.
“Mrs. Pillsworth, appearing courageously under her own name, has proved herself a musical comedienne of no mean standing. It is true, of course, that during her first scene she appeared nervous and restrained, but that can be attributed to first night jitters, an occupational malady that is easily forgivable on the occasion of an opening night. The real story, however, was told after the first scene. Mrs. Pillsworth, having apparently found her footing with the audience, hit the footlights with a surging vengeance that reacted on the paying customers like an electric shock. After that, she carried the show, almost single-handed, to a raging finish that had the boys and girls out front cheering the house down.
“A new dancer, a redhead unfortunately not listed on the program, appeared briefly to set the stage afire with a routine that did not dwell on inhibitions. The young lady’s unusual exit was an effect that. . . .”
The paper fell from Marc’s hand and sprawled out on the floor. He could hardly believe his eyes. He gently lifted Julie’s face away from his sodden lapel.
“But that’s wonderful!” he said excitedly. “You were a sensation!”
“I know,” Julie said dejectedly, blinking back the tears. “That’s just the trouble.”
“What!”
Julie nodded. “The only reason I was any good, though, was just because I was so mad I didn’t know what I was doing. I haven’t an ounce of talent, really. I couldn’t possibly give another performance like that, even if I had to.”
“Oh,” Marc murmured unhappily. “Then we’re washed up after all.”
“Oh, no!” Julie cried. “Linda Godfrey came backstage after the show and I talked her into taking over. She knows the songs already and she’s stepping into my place tonight. The show will run forever with her in it.”
Wonderful relief surged through Marc. “Then why all the weeping?”
THE tears welled in Julie’s eyes again. “I nearly ruined you. I badgered you into it, and you let me do it, you dope. I feel awful. I feel like a fraud, too. I’m not a star. I’m just an ex-chorus girl with delusions of grandeur.”
“Nonsense,” Marc said. “You are a star. The paper says so. It’s nothing to cry over, darling. Retiring like this, after a one night triumph, you’ll be a Broadway legend. And on top of all that, you’ve steered me into one of the best investments I’ve ever made.”
Julie blinked. Apparently she hadn’t thought of it quite that way. A thoughtful smile played over her lips. “It does kind of add up that way, doesn’t it?” she murmured. “Everything did turn out pretty well, didn’t it?”
“Sure it did. So let’s have no more of this crying. Why don’t you put on your best clothes and go out and bask in your own glory, just for the thrill?”
Julie gazed up at him, and there were stars in her eyes. “You’re so wonderful,” she sighed. “You make everything seem so right. I wish I’d wakened you when I came in last night so we could have talked it over then. It would have saved me so much misery. But it was so late, and I felt so awful, I just didn’t have the courage.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Marc said quickly. “Probably it was all for the . . .”
Suddenly he stiffened.
His gaze had wandered absently to the outspread newspaper on the floor, and a caption was shrieking up at him; “Marc Pillsworth and Unidentified Woman Jailed on Suspicion of Robbery!”
Marc’s hand reached down and caught the paper in a strangle hold. Obviously, Julie hadn’t bothered to look any further than the theatrical section, so, for the time being, he was still safe. He stuffed the paper under his coat and turned back to her. His throat was dry.
“Maybe you hadn’t better go out after all,” he said in a rush. “Maybe you’d better just stay right here, where you are. Don’t get out of bed.”
“What?”
“I was ... was thinking,” Marc gasped. “You ...
you must be awfully worn out after all those rehearsals and last night’s per ... and everything. Maybe you should just stay here, and rest for a few days. You know, complete rest . . . no telephone calls and . . . uh . . . newspapers Nothing to upset you.”
Julie gazed at him questioningly for a moment, then she smiled. “Maybe you’re right, dear,” she said. “I do feel pretty tired at that.” She reached out and patted his hand fondly. “You’re so thoughtful. You do worry about me, don’t you?”
Marc nodded uneasily, and gazed quickly out the window. He was feeling a little guilty.
But not very.
TOFFEE TURNS THE TRICK
The fixage pills caused a major change in Marc’s life—they not only made him a babe in arms—but Toffee’s to boot!
THE strange valley, its glossy emerald carpet unruffled and unmarked, its scattered groves of odd, feathery trees undisturbed by the blue mists languishing at their feet, lay dozing in the diffused light of a sunless sky. Then, at the crest of a distant knoll, the mists suddenly stirred and gave way to a slender, gold-sandaled foot which was neatly attached to a really top-notch leg.
The leg swung gracefully into view and was instantly joined by various other notable appointments; another exquisite leg, for instance, a body of disquieting shapeliness and a pert young face. As an almost needless bonus there were also two vivid green eyes, a full red mouth and a plethora of gleaming titian hair. Together, these dazzling bits of merchandise added up to Toffee, blithe mistress of the valley of Marc Pillsworth’s subconscious mind.
Certainly, Marc Pillsworth was not the first man to have a girl on his mind but at least he could claim the distinction of being the first to have one actually dwelling therein!
The girl paused a moment, gazed at the glowing sky and frowned. Barely discernible in the distance, a number of tiny storm clouds had bunched themselves together and were rapidly being joined by more of their kind. Thoughtfully Toffee started down the slope and across the valley, her slender hips weaving an indolent rhythm beneath the green transparency of her brief tunic.
She watched the gathering clouds with mixed emotions. They meant, of course, that Marc was suffering some sort of mental annoyance, some sort of anxiety . . . and for that she was sorry. On the other hand, however, they might also be an indication that she was soon to be released into the world of actuality, a prospect that delighted her beyond words. Compared to the well ordered tranquility of Marc Pillsworth’s subconscious, the outer world seemed to her a wonderful region of boundless pleasures and delightful excitements. If there was even a remote possibility that she was soon to be materialized in that glittering world she wanted to know about it at the earliest possible moment.
Crossing the valley, reaching the rising slopes at its outer boundaries, she turned into a sharp ravine and stopped. Ahead lay the region of Marc’s conscious mind, and she could not enter there, she could only watch from the distance and wait.
Marc’s conscious mind . . . at least the portion of it that was visible to Toffee . . . was like nothing so much as a great, dark cavern. At one end, however, the darkness was relieved by a large circular screen-like arrange-ment that reflected scenes and images with a penetrating, third dimensional clarity. These reflections were, of course, of the innumerable things upon which Marc gazed throughout the day. Looking at the screen from within was like looking through a great, round window.
As Toffee watched, the screen registered only a blank expanse of ceiling. Then the scene shifted abruptly, and an oak panel slid into view. A blur followed. Then a window. The window remained a moment, then skidded nervously out of range to be replaced by an eager, hawk-featured face.
Behind Toffee the storm clouds began to thicken and multiply more swiftly.
The face on the screen was furiously animated, the mouth wagging away at a terrific clip. Toffee couldn’t hear the words that were the result of this frantic facial activity, but she could watch closely and try to read the lips.
IN HIS private office in the Pillsworth Advertising Agency, Marc Pillsworth stared fixedly at the little man as though trying to will him out of existence. The fellow had been yammering at him steadily for half an hour and had yet to show the first signs of weakening. Marc’s gaze wavered and moved wearily to the small green bottle standing before him on the desk. He sighed.
“Just think of it!” the little man was saying. “All humanity will be fairly trampling itself, trying to get Fixage. And you will be in on the ground floor for a whole twenty-five percent! Think of it!”
“I don’t want to think of it,” Marc muttered, then, realizing with a start that he had actually managed to get a word in edgewise, he pressed his advantage. “As I understand it, Mr. Culpepper, you want me to bring this . . . uh . . . this . . .” he waggled a finger at the bottle on the desk “. . . to the attention of the manufacturers in the interests of gaining a backer. In exchange for this service you will make me a quarter owner of the invention.” He fixed the little man with a severe gaze. “In other words, you haven’t been able to slither through a single door with the thing ... except mine. And no wonder, if you ask me. Pills that are supposed to make a person immortal are just too ...”
The little man held up an arresting hand. “You misunderstand!” he cried. “They don’t make you immortal. Mercy, no! Nothing as fantastic as that. Oh, they might prolong your life twenty years or so, but their main effect is to arrest physical deterioration. In other words . . . How old are you, Mr. Pillsworth?”
“Thirty-two,” Marc sighed. “But it seems more like fifty.”
“Thirty-two! You’re right at the peak!”
“If I were at the peak” Marc said, “I would jump off.”
“Just think!” the man continued. “Just think what it would mean if you could remain thirty-two for the rest of your life! Even if you live to be a hundred and thirty-two! See what I mean? No loss of faculties. No decrease in vigor. Thirty-two till the day you die! And look at the commercial value of the thing. The women. My word, the women! There isn’t a woman alive who wouldn’t pauperize her husband and family for a thing like Fixage. They’d be young and beautiful forever!”
“Or young and ugly,” Marc murmured. With an air of finality he gripped the edge of his desk and boosted himself to his feet, “And besides, Mr. Culpepper, this agency is not interested in ventures of this sort, Frankly, I don’t see why you came to me at all. When you’ve a proven product, fully backed and on the market, I will be happy to do business with you. But not until. It’s my job to sell things to the public, not the manufacturers.”
Seemingly out of nowhere, the little man’s finger darted toward Marc’s face. “Those wrinkles, Mr. Pillsworth!” the little man rasped. He looked as though he’d just opened the door on a closet full of vampires. “Those marks of worry and age around your eyes! They can be stopped! Permanently!”
Marc backed away, afrighted. For a moment he was very close to hiding his face in his hands. He recovered his poise just in time however.
“This is incredible,” he said with hostile dignity. “My wrinkles were come by honestly, Mr. Culpepper, and if you don’t mind, I’d prefer not to have them pointed at. Also, I’ll thank you to stop talking in headlines and get out of my life and my office. You’ve already talked me out of my lunch hour and I’ve a great deal of work to do.”
At last Mr. Culpepper seemed to get the idea. He shrugged and turned partly away.
“Oh, well,” he said. “I’m willing to wait until you’ve made up your mind. In the meantime, I’ll just leave that bottle with you, and you can think it over. You could even try it yourself and see how it works. You’ll be surprised what it will do for you.”
“You’ll be surprised what I’ll do for it,” Marc said, “if you leave it here.” He picked the bottle up and started around the desk with it. “Here, take it with you. I don’t want you to have any excuse to come creeping back in here. Do you have your hat?”
But now the little man was as anxious t
o leave as Marc was to have him leave.
He raced to the door and threw it open. “Just keep it,” he called back. “I’ll drop back in a few days.” And just before closing the door, he added, “I don’t wear a hat.”
MARC returned to the desk and sank into his chair. He deposited the bottle before him and regarded it thoughtfully. “Holy smoke,” he murmured, “where do they come from, these crackpot ideas?”
The door opened and Memphis McGuire, Marc’s secretary, bounded into the room. She was a large, healthy girl with an equally large and healthy contempt for formal office procedures. She hadn’t had a decent girdle since the war.
“Hi, boss man,” she said airily. “You look awful. What’s the big beef?”
“I feel awful,” Marc said. “Whatever possessed you to let that little creep in here? Or is this Ground Hog Day?”
“He talked so loud and so fast and so crazy,” Memphis said, “I thought he might be a genius. Besides, he kept pointing at my wrinkles in front of the rest of the girls, and a lady can take just so much of that sort of thing. I had to get rid of him somehow. Get on your nerves?”
Marc nodded. “Got on ’em and stayed on ’em. My head is splitting.”
“That’s bad,” Memphis said. “Old man Wheeler just called about his soft drink account. He’s on his way over. If you’re in bad shape now you’ll be in ruins when he gets through with you. We’ll have to get you in condition for the attack. Here, come over and stretch out on the lounge and close your eyes.”
Marc did as he was told. No use arguing when Memphis was in a Nightingale mood. The secretary made retreating and returning noises and then, without warning, shocked Marc’s brow with a damp cloth. She pressed a glass of water into one of his hands and two pills into the other.
“Swallow those down,” she commanded. “I’ll take the glass when you’ve finished.”
The Complete Adventures of Toffee Page 28
