The Colonel considered. “Yes, yes,” he murmured. “I suppose I’ll have to shoot the dog; there isn’t enough of him to flog.”
“My water’s getting cool,” Mrs. Hunter Reynolds mentioned fretfully.
“Good,” the Colonel said absently. “Good. Keep it that way.” He started from the room.
“Help!” Marc yelled.
The Colonel whirled about at the doorway.
“Not a word out of you, sir!” he said tartly. “Not a word!”
HE LEFT the room and almost instantly was back bearing a pair of ominous bone-handled dueling pistols. These he cocked carefully and aimed in Marc’s general direction.
“Make your peace, sir,” he said. He turned to his wife. “Close your eyes so you won’t see this.”
“No!” Marc yelled.
“Just a moment, dear,” Mrs. Hunter Reynolds interrupted. “I don’t like to interfere in the affairs of menfolk, you know that, dear, but don’t you think we ought to keep in mind that we still have southern blood in our veins even if we are in the North?”
The Colonel observed his wife scowlingly. “How do you mean?” he asked.
“It isn’t southern courtesy to shoot a man when he’s a sittin’ target.”
The Colonel turned it over in his mind. “You’re quite right, dear,” he said finally. He turned to Marc. “Sir, would you mind movin’ about a bit out there so I can shoot you in honor?
“I can’t!” Marc gasped. His arms were so tired, and his head so thick with blood, that he didn’t care much at this point whether he was about to be shot or not. “Shoot me in cold blood,” he said. “To hell with your honor.”
The Colonel turned questioningly to his wife. “Should I?” he asked. “You heard what he said about my honor.”
Mrs. Hunter Reynolds was hesitant. “Suppose the news got out around back home?” she said. “Folks would say you weren’t a real southern gentleman anymore. They’d say you’d been tainted by the North. You’d never be able to hold up a julep in public again.”
“For the love of heaven!” Marc moaned. “Either help me or shoot me, only make it snappy.”
“Better not risk it,” the Colonel decided. “I’ve got to have a moving target.”
The bathroom became quiet with the heavy stillness of impasse. Then there was a ripple from the bathtub as Mrs. Hunter Reynolds brightened.
“I know!” she cried. “If the target can’t move, why don’t you? Wouldn’t it be all right that way? You could rush about a bit and when you’ve got up your speed turn and shoot him.”
The Colonel was silent for a minute, seeming to picture his wife’s suggestion in his mind. Finally he nodded. He turned to Marc.
“Is it all right with you, damnyankee?” he asked.
“Anything’s all right with me,” Marc said hopelessly. “Go ahead. I don’t even give a damn anymore.”
The scene that followed established a new and fascinating high in sheer insanity. Girding his rusty loins against the first physical effort they had been forced to in years, the Colonel busily began to cavort about the room like a bloated rhino. Clumsily loping through an obstacle course of plumbing appliances, the old boy found it rough going at best. As for the Colonel’s lady, she languished calmly in her cooling tub, soaped her arms, and watched her laboring husband with nodding approval. Marc, even beyond the point of mere resignation, closed his eyes and waited.
“Well,” the Colonel wheezed, rushing once more to the end of the room and starting back again, “this is it!” As he ran, he trained the pistols loosely in Marc’s direction. “Here I come! Ready ... aim!”
It was at this climactic point in the bathroom drama that the door burst open and Toffee, closely followed by the two Blemishes, rushed into view.
“Stop!” Toffee screamed.
In mid-gallop, the Colonel turned sharply to observe the intruders, tripped over a clothes hamper, and descended to the floor in a deafening roar of gunfire.
As a cloud of smoke billowed up around the gallant man from the South, Mrs. Hunter Reynolds turned, looked briefly at Toffee and the Blemish brothers and sank into the depths of her bath with only a small gurgle to mark her departure.
TOFFEE ran to the window, motioning the brothers to follow. She emerged through the rising screen of smoke just in time to see Marc’s fingers, white with tension, slip from the sill and disappear out of view.
“He’s gone!” she screamed. “He’s gone!”
The Blemishes crowded beside her at the window and leaned forward. They were just in time to catch the last glimpse of Marc floating serenely out of sight beyond the rim of the building as they watched.
“Come, on!” Toffee yelled. “Up to the roof!”
“What for?” Gerald Blemish said bitterly. “He’s gone, now.”
“Well, at least we can wave goodbye,” Toffee said. She started rapidly toward the door.
“My!” Cecil Blemish said, picking his way carefully over the prone figure of the Colonel. “Look at all the water in here. The old gaffer got the water pipes, two out of two.”
It was barely seconds later when the skylight door at the top of the hotel flew open and Toffee and the matching Blemishes ran out onto the roof. They scanned the distant sky as they moved.
“He’s gone!” Toffee cried despairingly. “He’s clear out of sight!”
The brothers stopped and looked at each other without hope.
“Well,” Cecil muttered. “There goes everything.”
Then suddenly the trio straightened as a small voice called Toffee’s name. It might have come from anywhere and might have been any voice, it was so weak. Toffee whirled about, and instantly her gaze darted to the flagpole at the other end of the roof. There, like a flag unfurled, Marc was clinging to the top ornament for dear life.
“Marc!” Toffee screamed and ran to the pole. “Grab the rope and I’ll pull you down!”
Cautiously, Marc took hold of the ropes, first one hand, then the other.
“Hold on tight!” Toffee cautioned and slowly began lowering him toward the roof. As she did so she glanced around at the twins. The two, in what seemed a rather pretty but confused tribute, were holding their hats stiffly over their hearts.
Toffee turned back to the pole, renewed her efforts, and brought Marc safely to ground. Then as he clung to the pole for security, she removed a couple of metal weights from the ropes and slipped them into the pockets of his jacket. Briefly, she kissed him on the forehead.
“You damned floater!” she breathed with relief and affection.
Gingerly, Marc released his hold on the pole and smilingly discovered that he was again stationary. With Toffee’s help, he made his way to where the twins were standing, their hats still clasped to their chests.
“Retreat’s over,” Toffee said. “You can put the lids back on.”
In unison the twins swung their hats up to their heads and held out the revolvers they had been holding under them.
“Get ’em up!” they snarled in chorus. “You’re coming with us.”
CHAPTER IX
EVEN THE elevators of the Wynant, and the procedures attendant thereto, had a tone of delicate breeding about them. As the doors parted, ever so smoothly, the mechanism emitted a sigh of unmistakable refinement, like a great lady giving vent to a genteel yawn of boredom behind an ivory fan. In the foreground was revealed a uniformed and finely drilled operator who always stood at rigid attention on the occasion of his passengers’ debarkation. Thus it was, with all good taste, the Wynant guest was given every opportunity to arrive before the general public and the management with his best foot extended well to the fore. It was one of those small touches that contributed so much to making the Wynant the Wynant, and vice versa.
Now, however, the procedure of the elevators, like the best laid plans of mice and mollusks, suddenly went amuck. Eyes turned and widened sharply as the elevator doors flew open with an exclamatory rasp, and not the passengers but the operator quitted the conve
yance. Putting one foot forward of the other with all the earnest haste of a scared wombat, it was evident that the poor devil didn’t know or even care which of them was the best; he skittered across the foyer and around the edge of the desk with the speed and directness of a well-aimed shot.
“It’s him!” the wretched man jabbered, cowering beside the clerk. “He’s come back to get even with that statue!”
Meanwhile a scene of rather complex agitation had been revealed within the narrow confines of the elevator. It seemed that Marc, still increasing in the degree of his buoyancy, was no longer afforded any particular measure of security from the weights in his pockets. Even during the brief interval which had transported him from the roof to the foyer, he had levitated to the height of about a foot and was still inching upward.
Marc’s companions were inclined to take a sour view of the whole procedure. Indeed, the Blemishes felt called upon to express their displeasure with firearms. Cecil Blemish aimed his gun at the small of Marc’s back and sighted tensely down the barrel.
“Come down,” he threatened. “Stop doing that or I’ll shoot. I will, too.”
“Stop that,” Toffee said agitatedly. “Look where you’re aiming. He’s risen another four inches. There’s no need to be vulgar about it.”
“Oh, excuse me,” Cecil said, and aimed the gun higher.
“If you two don’t put those guns away and stop waving them about,” Toffee said, “I’m going to snatch them away from you and beat your brains out with them. I’ll admit it’ll be something like hunting butterflies with a sledge hammer, but I’m willing to have a go at it. How about it?”
The twins paused in their activities and looked at each other.
“I’ll bet she would at that,” Cecil said.
“Those poor defenseless butterflies,” Gerald nodded. “I shudder.”
“And well you should shudder,” Toffee put in. Together the brothers turned to her with undisguised admiration.
“You’re really mean,” Cecil said. “Have you ever thought of being a spy?”
“Have you ever thought of being a dead spy?” Toffee said waspishly. “Now stop that nonsense and help me get him down. Find something to weight him down with.”
MARC, ALREADY beginning to crouch to keep his head away from the ceiling of the car, looked down imploringly. “Just get me something to eat,” he pleaded. “I’ll be all right if you’ll only feed me.”
“You see,” Gerald Blemish said. “He’s just being stubborn. This is all just a childish trick to get us to feed him.” He raised his gun again in Marc’s direction.
“Don’t be silly,” Toffee said. She explained to the Blemishes that food reacted chemically to temporarily relieve Marc’s condition of buoyancy.
“Just help me get him down, and we can get him something to eat in the hotel dining room.”
The brothers were thoughtful.
“I suppose we’ll have to take her word for it,” Cecil said. “Anyway, he’s not much good to us up there.”
“I suppose so,” Gerald agreed, “but personally I think he’s just the flighty type.”
Cecil went to the door of the elevator and looked out. Then he stepped outside and called back to Gerald to come and give him a hand.
Absentmindedly, Gerald started to hand his gun to Toffee, but at the last moment he thought better of it and put it in his pocket.
“It’s hard to tell who’s captured whom sometimes,” he said sadly, and went outside.
In a moment the brothers were back, progressing slowly under the weight of a tremendous sand-filled cigarette urn. They shuffled to the center of the car and laboriously hoisted their cumbersome burden up to Marc.
“Here,” Gerald panted. “Take it.”
Marc regarded the thing without enthusiasm. “Good grief!” he said. “That thing’ll break my back. Can’t you just get me something to eat?”
“Take it,” Toffee said shortly. “You can come and get your own food. And don’t drop it. Personally, I don’t intend to go galloping up to the top of this hotel again after you. Next time you take off, I’ll just forward your mail to the moon and let it go at that.”
With a sigh of hopeless resignation, Marc took hold of the urn, and the Blemishes let go and stepped back. Instantly Marc and the urn crashed to the floor with a tooth-rattling thud.
“Ugh!” Marc said.
“There, you see,” Toffee beamed. “It works beautifully. Now, come on, let’s eat.”
And so it was that a moment later the diners in the Wynant dining room were suddenly shocked into silence by the arrival of the most bizarre dinner party ever to venture forth in quest of food. It was not enough that a combustible-looking redhead, garrishly clad only in a few precarious sequins, had arrived in their midst, this had to be followed by a tall, anguished gentleman bent double under the weight of an enormous cigarette urn. Why either the girl or her grimacing escort had chosen to arrive at dinner in their respective conditions was beyond comprehension. With this mystery to brood over, hardly anyone even noticed the duplicate, derbyhatted, bush-bearded horrors in the background. With great unconcern the party arrived at the head of the short stairway leading to the dining room and paused grandly in full view of the entire room. No one was more stunned at the sight of this questionable quartet than the maitre d’hotel. If the circus had come to town this elegant and formidable gentleman had not heard of it. He hastened forward to correct what was obviously a gross mistake.
“I’m terribly sorry...” he began in private tones.
TOFFEE recognized the attitude instantly. “If you think you’re going to put us out of here,” she said, “you’re going to be much more than sorry.” She nodded toward Marc. “This gentleman needs food. He’s weak as a kitten.”
Marc took up at the maitre de and bared his teeth in what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
The maitre de glanced away with a pained expression. Then looked quickly back.
“Isn’t that one of our urns?” he asked sternly.
“We only borrowed it for a moment,” Toffee explained. “You can have it back when we’re through with it.”
“I suggest that the gentleman put it back where he found it right now,” the maitre de said coolly.
“I can’t put it back,” Marc gritted breathlessly. “For the love of Mike stop bickering and give me something to eat. I’m feeling weaker by the second.”
“If you’d put that urn back,” the maitre de said with growing hostility, “you wouldn’t feel so weak.” He turned to Toffee. “Does the gentleman fancy himself as an ash tray? Is that it?”
“Of course not,” Toffee snapped. “Give him a table.”
“If I give him a table to carry will he put down the urn?” the maitre de asked confusedly.
“Not to carry,” Toffee said. “Give him a table to sit at. And food to eat. Stop talking like an idiot.”
The maitre de became petulant. “I won’t give him a table until he gives back that urn. He turned to Marc. “Give it back.”
“I won’t,” Marc said. “I can’t.”
The maitre de stepped back a pace, then glanced wretchedly at the silent diners behind him. All eyes were trained incredulously on him and the unwanted foursome. He cleared his throat selfconsciously.
“Please,” he said, lowering his voice imploringly. “Please give back the urn and go away. Just set it down and turn around and walk out. You’ll ruin me if you don’t. I have a reputation to maintain. I’ve been known to send royalty back to their rooms for neckties before I’d give them service. A vice president fairly groveled before me once. These people are expecting something from me, and I can’t let them down. Please, please go away!”
The party of four remained unmoved, either emotionally or physically. They stayed where they were, staring at the man with stoic calm and determination. The unhappy man turned desperately to Marc.
“For heaven’s sake,” he said, “have you developed some sort of fetish for that urn? Do you i
magine yourself to be in love with it? Is that why you’re hugging it in that awful way?”
“I’m not hugging it,” Marc wheezed. “I’m carrying it.”
“Where?” the maitre de asked bewilderedly.
“Anywhere,” Marc said, “just so long as I get something to eat. Please give me a table and some food.”
The maitre de’s jaw squared with sudden determination. “No,” he said. “Flatly, no! I owe it to the Wynant dining room and these people here to stick to my guns. I’ll give you till ten to take that urn and leave this room.”
“I’d love to,” Marc said weakly. “But I can’t. Don’t you understand?”
“Then just give the urn to me,” the reluctant host said. “I’ll see that it gets back where it belongs.”
“No,” Marc said. “Flatly, no.”
The maitre de’s face turned vermilion with a flush of rage. “Then suppose I just take it!” he said hotly. And with that he stepped boldly forward, wrapped his arms resolutely around the urn and began to pull. “Give it to me now,” he grunted. “No use being stubborn, you know, it’s not yours.”
“Oh, good grief!” Toffee cried with exasperation. “Just look at them. Like a couple of crazy school kids with a dead mouse!” She turned to the Blemishes, “Do something!”
WITH DITTOED expressions of perplexity, the brothers regarded Toffee, each other, and the problem of the besieged urn. Clearly it was time for them to take steps, but they didn’t know in which direction. Simultaneously they moved forward to opposite sides of the urn, secured a hold on it, and began to pull against each other. The spellbound clientele of the Wynant looked on in confused wordlessness; no one could guess why the cigarette urn had become so furiously important to these struggling men all of a sudden; obviously it contained nothing more wonderful than a lot of sand and a few stubs. One gentleman, staring in entranced rapture, carefully lifted a sizeable portion of steak on his fork, lifted it upward, and with preoccupied care, deposited it, complete with mushroom sauce, in the depths of his breast pocket.
The Complete Adventures of Toffee Page 44
