The Complete Adventures of Toffee

by Charles F. Myers

  AS bedlam became the general order of the day in the salon, Sergeant Feeney and his crew charged heroically up the stairway, announcing their arrival with a shrill blast from the sergeant’s whistle. At the sight of the scrambling customers and models, the men in blue jolted to a flat-footed halt.

  “Lord in heaven!” the sergeant gasped, removing the whistle from his lips. The fur-bearing customer and denuded model shot past him, collided with a plaster manniquin and tumbled to the floor in a frantic tangle of arms, legs and mink. The sergeant flushed furiously and turned back to his followers. “Scour lightly here, men,” he said. “We don’t want nobody bruised.”

  Taking advantage of the sergeant’s momentary dismay, Marc shoved a bill into the hand of the screaming manageress, grabbed Toffee, who had now struggled into the dress, and, flanking the befuddled law, led her quickly to the stairs.

  “Hurry!” he said. “And be quiet.”

  “You’re under arrest!” the sergeant roared behind them. “Everybody’s under arrest—probably!”

  In record time, Marc and Toffee gained the level of the second floor and kept on running. As they ran, Toffee returned Marc’s coat and he slipped it on.

  The pain from the gas medicine had departed now, and Marc was feeling better. In fact, now that he stopped to think about it, he was feeling so much better he was actually beginning to enjoy himself. Striding forward, counters, customers and gaping clerks fading rapidly into the background, he even found time to admire Toffee’s new finery.

  “That’s probably the briefest dress known to man,” he remarked amiably.

  “I hope, it shall be well-known to man,” Toffee returned happily. “One man in particular. At least I shall endeavor to make it count for the most.”

  “Or the least,” Marc said.

  Arms and legs flashing, they quitted the china department and, according to the signs, entered Sportswear on the left and Imported Liquors on the right. Thinking this a curious arrangement of merchandise, Marc turned to Toffee. He started to speak, then jolted to a halt with a thin wheeze of astonishment. Toffee stopped and turned back.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked. “What are you gaping at?”

  Marc could hardly believe his eyes. He had turned to Toffee only to observe one of the most astonishing and upsetting things he had ever witnessed. Before his very gaze, her new dress was slowly dissolving into nothing. Already, the skirt had melted away to her thighs.

  “Holy smoke!” Marc gasped. Then, feeling that affairs were rapidly going too far, he looked quickly away. He fixed his eyes firmly on a female manniquin costumed for tennis.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Toffee demanded.

  “Your dress ...” Marc said weakly.

  “My dress?” Toffee said. “What’s the matter with my dress? I thought you liked it.”

  Marc opened his mouth to answer, but the words refused to come; suddenly he was confronted by still another cause for alarm. The phenomenon that had so mysteriously struck Toffee had now transferred itself to the manniquin. As he stared at it, the clothes began to fade from its plaster torso with unbelievable rapidity.

  “Good heavens!” Marc rasped. “Look at that!”

  “Look at what?” Toffee said, staring at the manniquin. “What are you carrying on so about?”

  Marc took a breath. “Don’t you see anything funny about that dummy?”

  Toffee observed the dummy more closely. “Very dull,” she said. “No sex appeal. Maybe it’s those shorts she’s wearing.”

  “Shorts?” Marc said. “You mean you can still see shorts—and things?”

  “What are you babbling about?” Toffee said hopelessly. “What’s wrong with that dummy, anyway?”

  Marc stared at the manniquin wonderingly. “Good Lord!” he breathed, “I’ve developed X-ray eyes! As far as I’m concerned that dummy’s as naked as a plucked chicken.”

  “But that’s impossible!” Toffee said.

  “Yes,” Marc said, “but it’s true. To me, that dummy is sheer unadorned plaster and nothing else. This is awful!”

  “Maybe it will wear off,” Toffee said uneasily.

  JUST then a bejewelled matron appeared at the end of the aisle. Inadvertently Marc glanced in her direction, then shudderingly looked away again; the woman’s dress had melted away and she had been left strolling amongst the counters in only her girdle. Marc lowered his head and waited for her to pass.

  “This is shocking!” he groaned. “I can’t go around like this, seeing everyone without their clothes! It’s indecent!”

  “But how did it happen?” Toffee asked. “If we knew what caused it, maybe we could do something about it.”

  There was not time for Marc to answer this, for right on cue, with a blast from his whistle, Sergeant Feeney and his underlings swarmed at the head of the aisle.

  “Duck!” Toffee hissed and, crouching down, vanished swiftly into the inner reaches of Imported Liquors.

  Marc, followed this example, dropped to his hands and knees and scrambled behind the nearest counter in Sportswear. The official scufflings at the entrance grew louder.

  “Spread out, men!” Sergeant Feeney thundered. “Check everybody!”

  Behind the counter Marc settled back against the merchandise drawers. Then he jumped as a feminine voice sounded close beside him.

  “May I help you, sir?” the voice inquired.

  Marc, without thinking, looked around. A large, brassy blonde with circles under her eyes had hunkered down beside him. She smiled broadly at his glance.

  “It’s nice to get down here away from the noise and confusion, isn’t it, sir?” she said throatily. “The customer is always right in this store—especially as far as I’m concerned.”

  As she spoke, the upper half of her dress slowly disappeared, revealing the most remarkably full net brassiere. Coloring prettily, Marc hastily snapped his eyes shut.

  “Leave me alone!” he said in tones of anguish. Please go away!”

  “Go away?” the blonde said woundedly. “But I thought ... Three men have pinched me already today and the way you crept in here, I thought maybe you were the more earnest type.”

  “I’m quite earnest,” Marc said soberly. “In fact ... ”

  “Goody,” the girl said. She snuggled down beside him. “Now, what do we do?”

  “I don’t know what to do,” Marc said miserably, “that’s just it!”

  “You don’t?” the girl said unbelievingly. “You certainly don’t expect me to tell you, do you?”

  “How could you?” Marc asked reasonably.

  “Well, I could, I guess, if I wasn’t a lady,” the girl said with a touch of pique. “Why are you squinting at me like that.”

  “The light hurts my eyes,” Marc said briefly. “Really, I think you ought to go away.”

  The girl sighed deflatedly. “I guess I might as well,” she said. “You’re too ignorant and I’m too refined. I must say, though,” she added wistfully, “for a minute there I expected great things.” She started to move away.

  “Just a minute!” Marc said quickly.

  The girl fairly whirled around again. “Yes?” she said. “Have you thought of something?”

  “Yes,” Marc said. “Since this is the sportswear department, I assume you have dark glasses?”

  The girl sighed again. “There are some around somewhere,” she said.

  “Well, find me some,” Marc said, “only make them darker—dark enough that I won’t be able to see through them at all. Paste cardboard inside them or something.”

  The girl looked at him quizzically, then shrugged. “Okay,” she said. “I know when I’m licked.”

  “And hurry,” Marc urged. “There’s no time to lose.”

  THE blonde departed, and Marc’s attention was taken by a hurried scuffling in the aisle. He opened his eyes and cautiously peered out. A series of blue-clad legs, that, even as he watched them, turned bare and hairy, raced by. When they had passed, Marc leaned
back again and gave himself over to a moment of quiet and confused contemplation.

  He tried hard to find some clue to the cause of his extraordinary eye affliction, but arrived at nothing definite. There was a rustling at his side and he turned to find that the blonde had rejoined him. He closed his eyes again as the net brassiere, for a second time, began to appear from beneath the fading fabric of her dress.

  “Here are the glasses,” the blonde said coldly. “I put tape on the inside of the lenses.” Marc held out his hand and she gave them to him. “Your eyes certainly must be sensitive.”

  “You’ll never know,” Marc said gloomily and slipped the glasses on.

  “Can you see anything at all?” the blonde asked inquisitively.

  “Not a thing,” Marc said. “It’s a great relief.”

  “Mister,” the blonde said flatly, “I guess I just don’t understand you.”

  There was the sound of stealthy approach from the direction of the aisle, and Marc quickly lowered the glasses to observe Toffee approaching on tip-toe. She was carrying a bottle of champagne under each arm and she looked enormously pleased.

  “I think they’ve gone,” she said. Then, seeing the blonde, suspicion flickered in her eyes. “Leave it to you; all I have to do is turn my back and you’re snuggled up with some big blonde.”

  “I’m not snuggled up,” Marc said. “I’ve been making a purchase.”

  “Of what?”

  “These glasses,” Marc said. “The young lady was good enough to fix them so you can’t see through them.”

  “Just glasses,” the blonde murmured regretfully. “And that’s all.” She made a small sound of disillusionment. “And I thought this was going to be my lucky day, too.”

  “It is,” Toffee said. “If anything had passed between you two besides a pair of glasses, you’d be wearing your neck off the shoulder this season.”

  “Where did you get the champagne?” Marc broke in. “Or is that a subject too delicate to discuss?”

  “Almost,” Toffee said grandly. “I ran into a salesman in Imported Liquors with foreign ideas. We indulged in a bit of hand-wrestling amongst the East Indian wines, and he lost. He’s resting quietly now, however.” She held out one of the bottles of champagne. “I used this to defend myself. She shoved the bottle into Marc’s hand. “Let’s get slightly damp.”

  Meanwhile the blonde had begun to edge away.

  “Leaving?” Marc asked pleasantly.

  “I’m going over to Imported Liquors,” the blonde said.

  She departed, and Marc extracted the cork from the bottle with a fruity pop and handed it back to Toffee.

  “A pause for refreshment,” he said, “and then we’ve got to do something about my eyesight. Did you say the cops have gone?”

  “The last I saw of them,” Toffee said, “they were lumpering through ladies’ lingerie, headed for silverware and china.” She paused for a deep drink from the bottle. “With the head of steam they had worked up they should be far beyond the horizon by now.”

  “Good,” Marc said. He received the bottle from Toffee and drank thirstily. “Cops have a positive talent for being disagreeable.”

  “A bad lot,” Toffee nodded. “They tend to weigh on the spirit. And speaking of spirits don’t keep sucking at that bottle all day. Save some for me.”

  TWENTY minutes later, one bottle depleted, the other tucked protectively beneath Toffee’s arm, the two emerged unsteadily from behind the counter and started on an uneven course down the aisle.

  “You’ll have to lead me,” Marc said thickly. “I can’t see a thing.”

  Toffee took his hand. “Blind as a drunken bat,” she giggled.

  “You will probably lead me astray,” Marc said happily.

  “I shall do my best,” Toffee said. “Luckily, I’m familiar with the route.”

  Marc held back for a moment. “I’ve just figured it out,” he said. “It was that burp medicine that affected my eyes. We’ve got to go look up that druggist.”

  “All right,” Toffee said. “But if I had X-ray eyes I would be content to stand on street corners and whistle.”

  This concluded, they tottered on to the end of the aisle and down the stairs.

  “Going astray!” Marc sang vaporishly. “Going astray! I’m jus’ going astray!”

  With a wild lurch the two fugitives precariously left the stairs and emerged onto the first floor.

  As they started unsteadily down the aisle a veiled and voluminous lady in black turned from her examination of a silk blouse and observed their progress with smiling approval. She turned benignly to the sales girl who was serving her.

  “Isn’t that sweet?” she murmured. “Imagine a stunning girl like that sacrificing a day to take her poor old blind father shopping.”

  Toffee and Marc proceeded in a more or less orderly fashion to the doorway, leaving the good Sergeant to ransack a store now empty of its quarry.

  FIVE minutes later and three blocks removed from the department store, the two law-evaders paused to reconnoitre. Or, at least Toffee reconnoitred while Marc, still sightless behind glasses, awaited directions. He held out his hand in readiness, waiting to be led. At his side, Toffee momentarily broke her mood of concentration.

  “As I see it,” she said, “our next move is to flee the city.”

  “But what about the druggist?” Marc said. “I’ve got to find out about my eyes.” He stopped as he became aware of a nervous tugging at his sleeve.

  “Hey, man,” a voice said, “I’ve been lookin’ for you everywheres.”

  Marc hastily lowered his glasses. He glanced down to find a familiar shiftyeyed, weasle-like face peering up at him.

  “You!” he said.

  “Yeah, man,” the diminutive peddler of lewd pictures grinned. “You still got the cool stuff, huh?”

  “The cool stuff?” Marc said with sudden stiffness. “If you mean that collection of disgusting pictures, no I haven’t got them. At the moment, I believe they’re listed as Exhibit A in the case of The People against Marcus G. Pillsworth.”

  “Man!” the little man wailed. “You mean somebody goofed and the cops got ’em?”

  “Precisely,” Marc said frigidly.

  “Who’s this Pillsworth cube?”

  Marc drew himself up into a living tower of glowering hauteur. “I am Marcus G. Pillsworth,” he said nastily.

  “You!” the little man said. “You got hooked with the goods?”

  “I got hooked,” Marc said flatly, “with the goods just where you planted it on me.”

  “Jeez!” the little man cried despairingly. “You just can’t rely on nobody no more.” He chewed his lip for a moment, then looked up at Marc anxiously. “What about the French Elixir? Did the bulls heist that, too?”

  “French Elixir?” Marc said. “I don’t know anything about your French Elixir.”

  “The hell you don’t, man,” the little man said. “I faded it into your coat pocket. Did they find it?”

  Marc paused. A chill of apprehension skittered up his spine. “Into my coat pocket,” he said. “A small brown bottle?”

  “It wasn’t a big blue jug,” the little man said impatiently. “You still got it?”

  Marc reached into his pocket and pulled out, first one brown bottle, then another. They were almost identical except that the liquid in the one marked ‘French Elixir’ had been depleted by approximately one fourth.

  “Good night!” Marc yelled. “I drank the wrong stuff!”

  “You drank the Elixir!” the little man said. He snatched the bottle from Marc’s hand. “You drank it?”

  “I said I drank it,” Marc said distractedly.

  “Then, you owe me twenty bucks, man. That bottle of genuine, hard-to-get French Elixir sells for fifty, sixty dollars.” He held out his hand. “Pad my palm, friend.”

  “I certainly will not pad your palm,” Marc said indignantly. “Do you know what that stuff’s done to me?”

  “Huh?” The lit
tle man paused reflectively. “How should I know what it done,” he said. “They say all sorts of stuff could happen to you, according to how you’re repressed.” He regarded Marc interestedly. “What happened?”

  “I’ve got X-ray eyes!” Marc said dramatically. “That’s what happened.”

  The little man looked at him skeptically. “What’s X-ray eyes?”

  “When I look at people,” Marc said, “I see right through their clothes. If I didn’t have these glasses on everyone on this street would be stark naked.”

  THE little man made a thin whistling sound, then began to chuckle. “Lord, man,” he laughed, “you ain’t got X-ray eyes, you just got a dirty mind!”

  “What!” Marc said.

  “That’s all!” the little man said. “It was all explained to me. The stuff works different on different people. It lets out what you’ve been pluggin’ up inside. Oh, man,” he chortled, “and you gave me the freeze for showin’ you those French postcards!”

  “I do not have a dirty mind,” Marc said, “and even if I did, it would hardly be any business of yours. The point is that this awful elixir of yours has made a mess of things.”

  “At least,” Toffee put in, “it’s given us a devil of a handicap.”

  The little man looked at Toffee directly for the first time and obviously was struck by what he saw. “Who’s the cool chunk of stuff?” he asked. He moved in close to Toffee and put a hand casually on her shoulder. “Just call me Hotstuff Harold, honey,” he murmured. “That’s how I’m referred to by all my intimate friends.”

  “If you don’t keep your grimy little paws to yourself,” Toffee said evenly, “they’ll soon be referring to you as ‘the deceased.’ ”

  “It’s nice that you two are acquainted,” Marc said sourly, “but that still doesn’t solve my problem.” Peering over the top of his glasses, he fixed Hotstuff Harold with a beady eye. “How do I get rid of the effects of this awful elixir of yours?”

  “As far as I know,” Hotstuff said, “all you can do is wait for it to wear off.”

  “And how long will that take?”

  “Who knows?” Hotstuff Shrugged. “I ain’t never messed with the stuff. Maybe I been repressin’ a better nature and it would come out and ruin my life’s work.”