"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.
Meanwhile the insane contest at the head of the stairs had arrived at a state of complete impasse. Four different energies pulled in four different directions, one balanced just enough against the other to hold the urn perfectly motionless. Other than a rapidly deepening blueness in Marc's face, there was no evidence that the men had not simply joined together to provide a grotesquely decorative stand for the urn. That this constituted a condition of utter absurdity, Toffee was the first to realize. She placed herself impatiently at Gerald Blemish's side and raised her hands to her hips.
"Just what do you think you're doing, you nincompoop?" she hissed. "Let go."
Gerald looked up at her unhappily, considered, then let go. The three remaining contestants staggered drunkenly aside, still clinging doggedly to the urn.
"Show him your gun," Toffee directed.
Gerald thought about it, then bestirred himself. He went over to the maitre de and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. The maitre de looked around.
"Look," Gerald said, taking his gun from his pocket and shoving it under the poor man's nose. "See?"
The maitre de knew when he was licked. Instantly, he let go of the urn and backed away. A look of great disillusionment came into his eyes. With a soul-searing sob he turned and sat down heavily on the steps.
"You've ruined me," he blubbered. "You've deliberately come in here and ruined my reputation. And I know who's behind it all; Felix of the Gaylord!"
"Oh, dear!" Toffee said. "Please don't do that. Don't cry. I just can't stand to see a man cry."
Cecil Blemish relinquished his hold on the urn and joined his brother at the ruined man's side. In the background, Marc sagged limply under the sudden weight.
"What's the matter with him?" Gerald asked.
"We've ruined him," Cecil explained briefly.
The maitre de shuddered with a new convulsion of self pity.
"Now, look here," Toffee said kindly. "There's no reason to go on like this. I'll tell you what. Why can't we all cooperate in this thing? We want food and you want to throw us out. Why don't we just compromise? We'll take a table and eat and then we'll let you throw us out. You can make a terrible scene, and we won't say a word." She turned to the Blemishes. "That's fair, isn't it?"
"Oh, very," Cecil said enthusiastically. "We're wonderful at being thrown out. We act cowardly as anything, we snivel."
"Oh, we snivel beautifully!" Gerald confirmed.
"Fine," Toffee said. "Why don't you do a little sniveling right now? Just show the gentleman what he can expect. It's bound to cheer him up."
Together the Blemishes descended to their knees beside the sobbing maitre de. Then, contorting their faces into expressions of despicable self-abasement, they began to make small damp sounds of cowardly beseechment. Tears began to course down their faces and into their beards. Slowly, the maitre de raised his head and looked around. Then with a cry of purest horror he leaped to his feet and bolted from the room as though pursued by a thousand devils.
"I quit!" he screamed as he disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. "I go back to the automat!"
"Poor man," Toffee murmured. "Definitely the ulcerous type." She turned to the sniveling Blemishes. "Stop that awful noise and get up."
Marc struggled forward under the weight of the urn. "I can't hold out much longer," he said.
Supremely unaffected by the horrified silence which had fallen over the room, Toffee turned, surveyed the table accommodations, and sighted a place in the center of the room.
"Follow me, men," she said.
As the strange party made its way to the middle of the room in sedate silence, heads turned everywhere to follow its progress. Marc just made it to the edge of the table. Toffee and the Blemishes seated themselves as though their arrival had been accomplished in a completely orderly manner. The Blemishes, in a formal mood, didn't bother removing their hats.
"What about me?" Marc gasped. "Am I supposed to hold this thing in my lap?"
Toffee studied his predicament through thoughtful, half-closed lids. "No," she murmured, "you couldn't do that." She glanced around, at the Wyman's markedly heavy silverware. She promptly picked up her own place setting and dropped it in Marc's pockets. The Blemishes quickly followed suit.
A moment later Marc's pockets fairly bulged with purloined silver. The other diners looked on with awed fascination.
"Have you ever seen anything so flagrant?" a woman at an adjoining table whispered. "I've heard of people stealing a knife or fork for a souvenir, but ... well ... cleaning out the whole table!"
"Even the salt and peppers," her companion observed, half with admiration. "Before they get through there'll be nothing left of this hotel but the hollow shell."
Toffee regarded Marc with satisfaction. "That should hold you," she said. "Unburden yourself."
Willing to risk anything by now, Marc put down the urn. He remained stationary. With an echoing sigh of relief and a loud clattering of silver, he seated himself at the table.
"Thank God!" he groaned.
The other diners, feeling that they were now in for a period of respite, turned back to their cooling meals and a general buzz of low-key conversation. It was at this moment that a waiter, just on duty and starkly unappraised of recent developments, made his entrance into the dining room, picked up a pitcher of water, and went to the aid of the newcomers. He moved forward with the light step of the happy and the innocent. Toffee saw him coming.
"May we have more silver?" she asked.
The waiter stopped short, put the pitcher of water down heavily on the table. The dining room quieted for a second time.
"What happened to the silver that was here?" he asked. "A Wynant table is never left without silver."
"Oh, that," Toffee said. "We used all that up."
"For what?" the waiter wanted to know. "What did you do with it?"
Toffee pointed blandly to Marc. "He has it in his pockets," she said.
Marc shifted in his chair with musical unease and refused to meet the narrowed gaze of the waiter. There was a long moment of silence before the waiter turned back to Toffee.
"You mean he just picked it up and put it in his pockets?"
"Oh, no," Toffee said. "Of course not. We picked it up and put it in his pockets for him." She nodded to her dark-browed accomplices.
For a moment the waiter stood undecided. One could almost see the desperate churnings of his mind. Finally he bent low toward Toffee in a manner of great confidence. "Since you're so open about the whole thing," he murmured, "I trust you and your friends are playing some sort of game to amuse yourselves. I assume that you intend to take the silver back out of the gentleman's pockets and return it to the table. Am I right?"
"Certainly not," Toffee said. "We wouldn't think of it."
"I'd be very pleased if you would," the waiter said a bit more firmly.
"Oh, you wouldn't be pleased at all," Toffee said. "You'd despise it. Now just run along and get some more silver."
"So you can stuff this fellow's pockets with it?" the waiter said. "If you put any more in them they'll rip off."
"We want to eat with it," Toffee said.
"How novel," the waiter said. He turned to the Blemishes and blanched slightly. "Would you ... uh ... gentlemen please remove your hats?"
"Now look here," Toffee said. "There's no use getting petty about this thing." She nodded toward the vacant chair on the other side of the table. "Sit down, and I'll explain everything."
The waiter gazed on her with heavy disdain. "I can't sit down," he said.
Marc, on his side of the table, had looked away for a moment, his attention caught by the frankly admiring glance of a dark, heavy-lidded lady at the next table. There was about her an unmistakably continental air, and Marc couldn't help noticing that her neckline had plunged and crashed somewhere in the neighborhood of theArc de Triumph. He flushed and turned away.
"Oh, please," he said anxiously, to no one in particular. "Please give me something to eat."
"Can't sit down?" Toffee said to the waiter. "For heaven's sake, why not? Has something happened to your...?"
"Of course not!" the waiter said quickly. "It isn't allowed. Waiters never sit with the guests at the Wynant."
"Why not?" Toffee asked. "Is there something the matter with the waiters here?"
The waiter opened his mouth to answer, then was silent with thought. "I don't know," he said finally. "I guess there's nothing wrong with us. At least I think I'm all right. I don't see why I shouldn't sit down. If I'm invited, that is."
"Then have a seat," Toffee said.
"Thank you," the waiter said with a slight bow. "I don't mind if I do." With great deliberation he turned, regarding the other diners with a look of scornful defiance, then crossed around the table and sat down. "Now, about that extra silver you wanted...."
A gasp echoed through the room. At the far side a bejeweled matron rose from her place with a snort of outrage and stiffly departed the room. In the meanwhile Marc had turned imploring eyes to the only quarter from which he had so far received any attention at all. The heavy-lidded lady smiled slowly.
"Would you give me something to eat?" Marc asked weakly. "You have so much there and.... If I don't get something soon I'll drift off into space."
"It is such a feeling as I have often suffered myself," the woman said in a heavy French accent. "But never for the want of food. I could not forgive myself to turn away a man with the hunger."
"I've got the hunger something fierce," Marc said.
"Of course, monsieur will pay the bill?"
"Sure," Marc agreed eagerly. "Anything."
The lady reached out a tapering hand to the table and picked up a piece of paper covered darkly with figures. She handed it to Marc.
Marc glanced at the total and blanched.
"Champagne is so expensive in this country," the lady said regretfully. "And to me it is like water."
"Obviously," Marc murmured. "You must wash your clothes in the stuff." He held out his hand. "But never mind. Just give me the food."
"You have only to open the mouth," the lady smiled. "I will feed you with my own hands." Her eyes held his own with a suggestive glint. "It will be sweeter that way."
"Just give me the plate," Marc said.
The woman paid no attention. "You will drink the wine of my country from the cup of my hand, like a great, thirsting beast." She laughed throatily. "It is so that we make love with the meal."
"Doesn't it get awfully messy?" Marc asked ruefully. "Or do you wear gloves?"
"Love is never tidy," the woman breathed, leaning close to him. "Not when it is worthwhile. Love is always a beautiful, beautiful mess."
Marc, more embarrassed than enthralled at this invitation to amour among the foodstuffs, was not aware that Toffee had paused in her conversation with the waiter and fastened her eyes with brooding hostility to the back of his neck.
"And now," the French temptress was saying, "the monsieur will part the beautiful lips so Lisa can give him the food of love."
"Oh, yeah?" Toffee put in hotly from across the table. "If the monsieur parts the beautiful lips Toffee will part his teeth for him!"
Marc started guiltily. "Now, Toffee...!"
"Stand back from that French pastry, you philandering gourmet!" Toffee said, getting up from her chair. "When I get through with her there's going to be a lot more broken than just her speech!"
"She's only feeding me!" Marc said.
"Yeah," Toffee sneered. "The food of love. I heard her." She swung toward the woman. "I'm the dietitian around here, honey, and don't you forget it."
"I only show the monsieur how she is done in the old country."
"Well," Toffee said, "get a load of how she's done in the new one. Prepare yourself to get fractured, you Parisian petunia!"
And with that the turbulent redhead snatched the plate of squab that rested in the tapering hand of the enchantress and carefully emptied its contents into the lady's elaborate hair-do.
"Mon dieu!" the woman screamed as she shot out of her chair. She swung about and eyed Toffee malevolently through a trickle of gravy. "So! The mademoiselle would be the wildcat, eh?" She glanced quickly about for ammunition and found it on a neighboring table. Scooping a plate of soup from beneath the owner's very spoon, she turned furiously and prepared to hurl it into Toffee's face. "I have never been so insult in all my life!"
"Put that soup down, Fifi," Toffee warned, "or you're going to get insult in places you didn't know you had."
The soggy siren did as she was told, but only by accident. As she started toward Toffee, the plate of soup slithered out of her hand, looped gracefully through the air and landed upside down in the lap of a lavender-laced matron. Heaving herself from her chair, the matron trumpeted her displeasure to the assemblage at large, armed herself with a pitcher of water, and entered the fray. Stepping with great dignity to the side of the besieged European, she heaved the contents of the pitcher in the general vicinity of her mid-section. Then, with great pleasure, she threw back her head and laughed. Just in time to receive a plateful of oysters squarely in the face.
In the next moment the entire room had entered into the spirit of the occasion. Naturally repressed, the guests of the Wynant were quick to seize upon this opportunity to give expression to their pent up feelings. Pandemonium ruled the room from end to end. Trays and diners slid across the floor together with an air of abandoned democracy. Mrs. Jones, having long resented the upward tilt of Mrs. Smythe's nose, did her level best to lower it with a sauce bottle. The action, for the main part, however, gravitated frenziedly toward the center of the room where it had started. Toffee, having applied the squab to her victim, was now gustily engaged in massaging it into the scalp, all the way to the bone if possible.
Marc, for his part, was busily engaged in reaping the spoils of the battle. He picked up an abandoned roll here, an unwanted steak there, and even occasionally caught a delicacy as it flew through the air. He stuffed himself as ravenously as a starved road-worker at a free lunch. The Blemishes remained seated at the table, thoroughly confused and disillusioned at the activities of the upper classes. The waiter merely leaned back in his chair with an enigmatic smile and enjoyed to the fullest the spectacle of these people doing to each other what he had been secretly tempted to do to them nightly for several years.
Marc, still concerned with the matter of dining, reached out for an abandoned pudding and discovered new and still more alarming element in the fracas. Just as his hand was closing in on the dessert, the dish suddenly leaped into the air, poised itself carefully, then sailed across the room to catch a portly gentleman neatly at the side of the ear. In a seizure of surprise, as the gooey mess dribbled into his collar, the man whirled about and dealt his female companion a stinging blow across the bridge of her nose.
"Oh!" he gasped in instant regret. "I'm so terribly sorry!"
For a moment the woman only stared at him without expression. Then, with slow calm she reached out to the table, picked up a bottle of wine, carefully removed the cloth from around it, and belted her abject attacker a solid blow across the crown of the head.
"Perfectly all right, lover," she murmured as she stepped over his prone figure and started from the room. "Don't bother getting up."
Marc turned back to the table and frowned sternly.
"George," he said tentatively. "George, I know you're there, so there's no use hiding. Show yourself."
"Of course," George's voice said out of space, with malicious levity. "In a moment. Wonderful fight, isn't it?"
"George!" Marc said.
But there was only silence from the ghost. Marc gazed speculatively around, peering anxiously into the ranks of the warring diners for some sign; there was no telling what the sporadic spook might undertake in a situation of this sort. It was only a moment before the worst of his fears were realized.
There was only a slight disturbance around the cigarette urn at first, a faint billowing of the table cloth. Then, as though someone had secured a grip on the thing ... as George indeed had ... it suddenly lifted into the air. There was a period of shifting and balancing, then it lifted steadily upward until it was above the heads of the embroiled diners.
"No!" Marc yelled at the top of his lungs. "George! Put it back!"
Instantly all was silence in the dining room as the warring guests froze in various attitudes of combat and cast frightened eyes upward at the floating urn. The enchantress from France, her hand clutching at Toffee's hair, was somewhat more affected than the others.
"I haf loose my reason!" she wailed. "I am departed from my wits in this land of barbarians!" Then, becoming considerably more heavy-lidded than before, she wilted quietly to the floor.
Meanwhile the urn had continued upward, paused, sighted its course, and started viciously in Marc's direction. George's plan was hideously plain; he meant to dispatch his earthly part to the hereafter by means of bombardment.
"Run, Marc!" Toffee screamed. "Run!"
Marc, however, now laden with food, silver and lead weights, was all but incapable of flight. He started forward, but only ploddingly. Loaded to the teeth with ballast, his progress was not only extremely noisome, but greatly retarded.
"I can't run!" he panted.
In the next moment the urn had arrived at a position almost directly above him. It shuttled nervously back and forth, evidently adjusting for a direct hit. Toffee dashed toward the table and the petrified Blemishes. She bent quickly over Cecil and snatched the revolver from his hand.
"Bombs away!" George's voice sang out jubilantly from the region of the urn. "Fire one!"
"Oh, Lord!" Marc moaned fervently. He struggled desperately to reach one of the tables so that he might take shelter under it.
And then, just as the urn plunged downward, three shots thundered deafeningly through the room. Marc was suddenly caught in a rain of sand and shattered pottery.
At the table, the Blemishes jumped to their feet and threw their hands above their heads.
"We surrender!" they yelped in unison.
Then Cecil turned around, saw Toffee, the gun in her hand. He reached out and took it from her.
"You're not supposed to have that," he said woundedly. "What kind of prisoner are you, anyway?"
"Sorry," Toffee said. "It was an emergency."
Then she ran to Marc, followed by the Blemishes, and began to scrape some of the debris from his head and shoulders. No sooner had she arrived, however, than another crisis loomed on the horizon. The door of the dining room flew open and the manager of the Wynant, accompanied by two of the city's finest, ran inside.
"Arrest them all!" the manager screamed shrilly. "Arrest everybody!"
"Get down!" Toffee said quickly and dragged Marc with her to cover beneath the nearest table. The Blemishes followed swiftly after.
In the deathly stillness that ensued, the manager and the two policeman advanced menacingly into the room. Then suddenly they stopped as a jangling sound broke the quiet. It was as though a handful of silver had been dropped to the floor somewhere across the room. It was obvious, however, that there was no one in that direction.
"Okay, Bill," one of the policemen said. "Let's round 'em up!"
In the activity that followed no one noticed the kitchen doors swing open, quietly and slowly, to permit the curious passage of four crawling figures.
"I don't know," Toffee said, crawling over the feet of an astonished chef. "I don't know where everyone gets the idea this hotel is so elegant. I've been here only twice and it's been raided both times."
CHAPTER X
Marc and Toffee, on their feet now and making strides as rapidly as possible, emerged from the alley behind the Wynant and hurried along the sidewalk, bound in the direction of the green convertible. At a distance, the Blemishes scurried along after them with grim determination.
Turning the corner at the end of the block, they arrived at the front of the hotel which was now the location of considerable activity. Toffee paused to watch the dining guests being escorted by the police from the hotel to several official conveyances which had arrived under the canopy.
"Come on," Marc said. "Get in the car before they see you."
Toffee nodded and followed the suggestion. Marc crossed around the car and slid quickly under the wheel.
"There still may be time to catch Julie," he said anxiously.
Toffee favored him with a sullen stare. "I almost hope there isn't," she said. "For her sake. If she didn't have grounds for divorce before, she's certainly got them now—the way you were dallying around with that French trull...."
"I wasn't dallying," Marc said. "I was only trying to get something to eat. Lord knows you were willing to sit there and let me starve to death."
He switched on the ignition and started the motor.
The car was just pulling out from the curb when the Blemishes arrived in a grim dog trot and placed restraining hands on the edge of the door. Together they regarded Toffee and Marc with baleful hurt. And produced their revolvers. Marc braked the car to a stop.
"Golly," Toffee said, turning to Marc. "I forgot all about them."
"What do they want?" Marc asked.
"You remember," Toffee said. "They captured us up on the roof. They think we're their prisoners." She turned back to the pouting brothers. "Look, boys," she smiled like a patient parent with a pair of fanciful and rather dreadful children, "we just haven't got time to be your prisoners right now. We'd love to, really but we've got to leave. Why don't you call Marc up on the telephone some time and...."
The brothers shook their heads in doleful coordination.
"Now, why be difficult? We'd be just crazy to have you capture us some other time, but right now.... It's not that you're not perfectly sinister and all that.... Now put those guns away and go spy on someone else for a while."
"No," said Cecil. "Huh-uh."
"Huh-uh," Gerald echoed.
Marc leaned forward impatiently. "Look here," he said firmly. "I don't have time for any more of this nonsense. I've got to get home. Now either you get off this car or you don't, but I'm leaving."
For a moment the brothers looked at each other in sad consultation. Then, as though having reached a decision by telepathy, they simultaneously quitted the side of the car and stood back a pace. Marc threw the car into gear and prepared to leave. However, just as he was pressing down on the accelerator the whole street suddenly boomed with the sound of gunfire. The car jarred forward, then settled into a lop-sided stop. The Blemishes grinned happily on their handiwork; they had air-conditioned both tires on the right side.
Attracted by the sound, one of the officers in front of the Wynant started forward, but Cecil waved him back.
"Just a blowout!" he called. He pointed to the crippled car. "We'll see that he gets fixed up."
The officer nodded and went back to his chores with the Wynant guests.
"Why, you little...!" Marc grated.
"Holy smoke!" Toffee broke in, staring steadily at the two brothers. "Those kids are using real bullets and everything!"
"That's what we've been trying to tell you," Cecil said mildly. "We're just as mean as we can be."
"You certainly are," Toffee agreed. "You're just about the most awful little grubs I've ever run into."
"Sugary phrases aren't going to get you anywhere," Gerald said virtuously. "Now get out of that car and come with us."
Marc and Toffee stared at each other with silent bewilderment; they were completely nonplussed. Slowly they got out of the car and presented themselves on the sidewalk.
"Now, just a minute, boys ..." Marc said.
"Shut up," Gerald snarled. "Our car is right behind you. Get in the back seat and sit quietly."
Toffee turned and looked at the black sedan. "I wish that thing didn't look so much like a hearse," she said unhappily.
"It's going to look more like a hearse if you don't shut up and do what we say," Cecil said.
With that clammy piece of news, Marc and Toffee advanced to the forbidding vehicle in question and deposited themselves stiffly in the back seat. Cecil and his gun joined them in the back, while Gerald climbed into the front and started the engine.
"It's so embarrassing," Toffee said disconsolately as they pulled away from the curb. "That's what hurts; being shoved around like this by a pair of subnormal pygmies."
"Where are you taking us?" Marc asked. "What do you want with us?"
"None of your business," Cecil answered promptly. "And what do you care?"
"Oh, go on, Cecil," Gerald said from the front, guiding the cumbersome automobile through traffic. "Tell them. They're going to find out anyway."
"We never told in the movies," Cecil said sullenly. "It spoils the suspense. We always said none of your business and what do you care. You're just sore because I said your line."
"Go on," Gerald said. "Tell them."
"Oh, all right," Cecil said. He directed his attention as well as his gun toward his waiting captives. "I think you're familiar with our profession?"
"Profession," Toffee murmured. "That's a laugh."
Cecil ignored it. "Then you should be able to guess that our real interest is in you, Mr. Pillsworth, and your formula. That's what we want."
"I haven't got the formula," Marc lied. "I turned all my papers over to the government."
"That's a lie," Cecil said flatly. "We're in the complete confidence of the government, and we know you still have the formula yourself. You shouldn't be so dishonest, Mr. Pillsworth; it makes a bad impression."
"Please forgive me," Marc said with heavy irony. "And what if I do have the formula? I don't have it with me."
"You can recreate it," Cecil said with confidence. "Just so long as we get it first, before anyone else does. That's the important thing. If you don't recreate it, we'll kill you. Quite dead, you may be sure. We can always find your papers. Really, the only reason we've taken you into custody, so to speak, is to keep the formula from the government. Otherwise, you're actually not important to us at all."
"What do you want with the formula?" Marc asked. "What in the world would you do with it?"
"Electrify the world," Cecil said with an unexpected intensity. "This is just the sort of thing we've always been waiting for. Your formula will give us a chance to do something really big. Everyone will be talking about it."
"About what?" Marc asked apprehensively.
"The bomb, of course," Gerald said from the front. "We're going to make a bomb from your formula, like those government men talked about."
"What for?" Marc said. "What good would it be to you?"
"What good?" Cecil said. "Are you serious? We're going to make our reputation with it. Everyone will be after us to come spy for them when we've finished with the bomb. Won't they, Gerald?"
"Everyone," Gerald agreed. "With the possible exception of the United States. Personally, I even anticipate a few offers to make a comeback in the movies."
A look of eager anticipation had washed unbecomingly over Cecil's awful face. "We're going to make this mammoth bomb, you see," he said, "and we're going to float away this whole entire city. Just like that!"
"What!" Marc started. "You mean you're actually going to...!"
Cecil nodded dreamily. "They won't be able to overlook us then," he said. "People will stop being so friendly and treat us with proper respect for a change. We'll just make the city disappear over night!"
"Oh, no!" Toffee said.
"Good grief!" Marc murmured. He gazed out the window at the passing city, the people, the shops, cars, sky-scrapers. He tried to imagine all these things torn loose from the earth, twisting and turning into space. His mind revolted before the picture. The idea was too terrifying for words. Marc trembled with horror. That he should be the one to provide the instrument by which such a fantasy could be set into motion was too awful to contemplate.
"You can't!" he breathed. "You can't be human and even think of such a thing!"
"You see!" Cecil said, his eyes bright with enthusiasm. "You're already impressed, and we haven't even started. Of course, if you want, we'll cut you in on the deal. It would be worth it to get your cooperation." He turned to Toffee who was staring at him with unguarded loathing. "You, too."
"I'd rather die," Toffee said.
"Well," Cecil shrugged, "if you'd really rather, it can be arranged."
"It won't work!" Marc said desperately. "It's preposterous!"
"It worked with you, didn't it?" Cecil pointed out.
Marc thought back to his frenzied flight to the top of the Wynant. A chill passed through him; anything was possible.
"But why the whole city?" he asked. "Why not just a building or a retired battleship?"
"More spectacular," Cecil said. "It'll cause more comment."
"That's so understated," Toffee said, "it's below the level of reason." She looked at Marc. "They're mad," she said, "raving."
"I know," Marc said in hushed tones. "They're just mad enough."
"Oh, you bet we are," Cecil said with a sudden mood of happiness. "We're regular ogres, aren't we, Gerald?"
"Well, I wouldn't sayregularogres," Gerald answered.
"Would you sayirregularogres?"
"No," Gerald said with due consideration. "Irregular sort of suggests those advertisements. You know the ones about people who are uncomfortable because...."
"Just listen to them!" Toffee moaned. "They're planning on blowing up the city and they go on about it as giddy as a couple of spinsters in spring! What difference does it make what kind of ogres you are? You're perfectly abhorrent, both of you."
Cecil smiled his crooked smile at Toffee. "Thanks," he said modestly.
"Don't mention it," Toffee said. She turned away with a little shiver. Then suddenly she brightened. Gerald had just brought the car to a stop at an intersection. At the center of the street a truly enormous cop was presiding over traffic. Toffee looked back at the revolver in Cecil's hand, then at the cop. She decided to risk it. She threw back her head and screamed with all the sureness and tonal brilliance of an operatic heroine saying farewell to her lover.
"Murder!" she screamed. "Arson! Blackmail! Fire! Flood! Famine."
Then, satisfied that she had covered the field of catastrophe sufficiently to capture the attention of even the most unimaginative cop, she stopped and settled comfortably back in her seat. Noting that the cop was already on his way toward the car, she folded her arms complacently and smiled at Cecil.
"Now we'll see who gets taken into custody," she said smugly.
The cop stuck his head in the window, looked bewilderedly at Marc and Toffee, then took in the Blemishes. His face widened with a grin.
"Hello, boys," he said amiably. "What's the trouble? Read any good plans lately?"
"No, they haven't," Toffee put in quickly. "But they're trying to. Officer, arrest these two."
The cop's smile faded into an expression of purest astonishment. "Arrestthem?" he asked incredulously. "What on earth for?"
"They're abducting us," Toffee said. "That's what for."
For a moment the cop just stared at her, then he threw back his head in a roar of laughter.
"Those two?" he gasped. "Abducting you?"
"That's what I said," Toffee snapped. "What's so funny?"
"That's right, officer," Marc said. "They're trying to steal a valuable formula from me."
"Of course they are," the cop said with amusement. "They're always trying to steal a valuable formula from someone. And every once in a while they actually get one. But what difference does it make? They couldn't do anything with it if they wanted to. Now why don't you just make them out a copy like a good fellow and hand it over? It'll make them happy as hell, and it won't do you any harm."
"No harm, you dumb flatfoot!" Toffee said, losing control. "Just step inside here for a minute and I'll hammer that thick skull of yours till you can use it for a serving platter."
"There's no call to get nasty," the cop said.
"But you don't understand," Marc said earnestly. "These men mean to use my formula to destroy the city. They're going to float it off into space."
The cop turned and observed Marc closely. He nodded to Gerald. "Better keep a close watch on this one," he said. "He's got some funny notions in his head. He might do you harm."
"My God!" Toffee cried. "Nowwe'recrazy!"
"That's a good sign, lady," the cop said soothingly. "They say if you realize your condition and are willing to fight it there's hope of a cure."
"I'll kill him!" Toffee cried. "I'll kill him with my own two hands! Look here, you jelly-headed gendarme, these two are dangerous criminals!"
"Criminals?" the cop said. "Them? Why they wouldn't hurt a fly. Just look at their faces."
Toffee looked at the Blemishes, then came close to choking. The twins had assumed expressions of angelic innocence such as might have been equalled only by Little Eva in the moment of her ascension.
"Why, you dirty little frauds!" she hissed.
"All right," the cop said, "you'll have to get along now; you're blocking traffic."
As Gerald set the gear and put the car in motion once more, Toffee fell back in her seat, weak with emotion.
"There's one guy I'll enjoy seeing blown into space," she said. "I hope he gets air sick."
The mood in the car deepened after that, and there was silence. Gerald made a left turn and headed the car away from the center of the city. Marc and Toffee stared pensively at the passing scene while Cecil hummed a soundless tune and smiled annoyingly over private thoughts; presumably of the devastating thing he and his brother were planning to do. Evening deepened into final night and lights began to glitter everywhere. And then the incident of the door occurred.
It was just as Gerald brought the car to a stop at an intersection that the door promptly opened itself, wavered for a moment, then closed. Unmistakably it marked George's arrival. Toffee looked up sharply.
"George?" she said, and her voice was almost hopeful.
There was silence. Gerald glanced around with a smile.
"Did you see the door open and close just now?" he asked without alarm.
"Uh-huh," Cecil said casually.
"A ghost, I guess," Gerald said.
"You two may think you're joking," Toffee said. "It really was a ghost."
"We know," Cecil said. "Gerald and I believe in ghosts. Always have. We've had quite a few of them around from time to time. At least we think we have; ghosts are hard to tell about sometimes."
Gerald turned to the empty space beside him. "Make yourself comfortable, ghost," he said graciously. "Just knock twice when you want to get out."
"You see," Toffee said to Marc. "They're getting crazier by the minute." Then she paused thoughtfully. "Or are we?"
"Pretty tough getting a ride at this time of night, I imagine," Gerald was saying chattily to thin air. "Particularly being a ghost and all." He waited but there was no answer. He turned back to Cecil. "Doesn't want to talk, I guess." Then, as the traffic ahead began to move, he shifted gears and started forward. Thus occupied, he didn't notice that his revolver had suddenly become possessed of a life of its own; he didn't see it nose out of his pocket and take flight into the air.
Toffee nudged Marc excitedly. "Look," she whispered. "He's going to help us."
Together they watched breathlessly as the gun moved furtively upward. Then they started with surprise and horror as it righted itself and pointed its muzzle purposefully in Marc's direction.
"No, George!" Toffee cried. "Don't shoot! It's those two you want! They're planning to blow up the city and float it away. Liquor and all, George!"
The gun faltered, then started to turn uncertainly toward Cecil. But not fast enough. Cecil suddenly reached out and slapped it free of George's invisible grasp. The gun described a small arc into the back seat and landed in Toffee's lap. Marc, Toffee, Cecil and presumably, though there was no way of proving it, also George, all reached for the gun at once. The result was a writhing snarl of reaching arms and clutching hands. Toffee giggled dementedly.
"Stop that!" she screamed. "I'm ticklish!"
"This is no time to indulge in mad laughter," Marc grunted sharply. "Our lives are at stake."
"I know!" Toffee trilled light-heartedly. "I'm frightened sick! Only get your hands out of my ribs!"
As three sets of madly working hands rose, twined together, the gun danced wildly from the fleeting grasp of one to that of the other.
"Good grief!" Toffee said. "Even if I got hold of the thing I'd never know it; I can't tell which hands are mine!"
The hands and the gun traveled higher in the air, then suddenly one of the hands rose above the others and reached viciously for the errant fire-arm. It struck it, without catching hold of it, and sent it crashing to the back of Gerald's unsuspecting head. Gerald instantly let go of the wheel and slumped down in his seat. The car swerved dangerously to the wrong side of the street. Momentarily the warring factions in the back seat, now concerned with more immediate matter of navigation, disengaged their hands and forgot the gun as it fell to the floor at Toffee's feet.
"George!" Toffee screamed. "Grab the wheel!"
Apparently the ghost followed the suggestion for the car suddenly veered sharply to the left and, with a screech of the tires, darted into a gas station. George's voice echoed worriedly out of thin air.
"How do you stop this thing?"
But there was no answer. Toffee, now certain that the car was at least temporarily under control, reached down for the gun. So did Cecil. So did Marc. The struggle in the back seat started afresh just as it had left off.
When the black sedan entered the station, Pat O'Brien, a young and stalwart Irishman with red hair, viewed its arrival from within the station house and strode forward with the simple thought of serving his public. As the car sped past the pumps and circled back, Pat assumed that the driver was merely bringing the vehicle in line with the pump of his choice. However, Pat thought it somewhat queer when it continued past the pumps the second time. As it turned back for the third time, and he noticed that there was no driver and that the back seat was the scene of a life and death struggle between two men and a girl, he began to have quite a definite feeling that things were not exactly as they ought to be.
"Faith," Pat said to himself. "There's an uncommon thing goin' on here."
Then he jumped back into his enclosure as the car turned for still another swooping run at the pumps. Pat sat down on a stool to collect his thoughts in his own sluggish way. The company policy dictated clearly that the customer was always right, but Pat wasn't certain but that this mightn't be the exception that proved the rule. Then he grew more positive of it as he watched the black sedan plunge to a crashing stop against one of the gas pumps and send it tilting a bit to the leeward. Pat reached for the telephone and asked for the police.
As he waited he noted that a revolver had leaped from the back window of the car and skidded across the pavement, that the rear door of the car had flown open and three struggling figures had tumbled out. Then a gruff voice, equally as Irish as his own, took his attention.
"Faith," Pat said.
"Faith, yerself," the voice said. "And who's callin'?"
"It's me," Pat said. "Pat O'Brien."
"Is it now? That movie actin' fella?"
Pat flushed modestly. "Oh, no, sir," he said. "Just plain Pat O'Brien, down at the gas station."
"Oh," the voice said with a new note of chattiness. "There's a good lad. And how's yer dear ma, Pat?"
"The picture of health," Pat said, "even if she is down with the gout, poor soul." Then suddenly he turned away from the telephone, his eyes drawn to the struggle by the pumps. Things seemed to have gotten quite far out of hand. The girl had taken the hose loose from one of the pumps and was swinging it determinedly at the head of the small man in the derby. It did not help matters that she had managed to trip the mechanism and was hurling gasoline in all direction. Worse than that, however, was the behavior of the water hose; all by itself it had risen in the air, like a huge, spiteful snake, and had begun adding water to the deluge.
"Faith," Pat commented darkly. "It's a terrible thing."
"Do stop repeatin' yerself like that," the voice on the telephone answered. "It makes you sound like a proper ninny, it does. What is it that's a terrible thing? Is it in a professional capacity that you're callin' me?"
"And so it is," Pat affirmed. "It's a bit of advice I crave. The company that owns this station says that the customer is always right, but I'm wonderin' if it's still true when the world's gone mad?"
"And in what way has the world gone mad, Pat?"
"Well," Pat said, "there's a girl here in the dooryard who's spittin' out gasoline all over everything."
"How's that!" the voice said. "This girl, you say, she's spittin' out gas? Do you mean to say...."
"With the aid of the pumps, to be sure," Pat explained fairly. "And, if you'd believe it, it's butterflies she's wearin' in the place of her clothes. They're all hollerin' and yellin' and carryin' on something frightful. It's probably the end of the world all right."
"Patrick O'Brien!" the voice said with sudden sternness. "Shame on you! It's a fanciful lad you've always been, and I've been of a mind to forgive you it for bein' a comfort to yer gouty ma, but when you start callin' up a poor tired cop like me and runnin' off at the mouth about gassy girls and yellin' butterflies.... Shame is all I've got to say to you."
"I didn't even mention the water hose," Pat said stubbornly. "It's the end of the world, I'm confident."
"It's the bottom of the bottle!" the voice snapped. "My advice to you is to soak yer head in cold water and say a prayer that the devil doesn't take yer soul. Goodbye to you."
The telephone clicked loudly in Pat O'Brien's ear.
"Faith," Pat said sadly. "And that's the last time I'll hold conversation with the law." He slumped back on his stool and turned his eyes to the company rules which were pasted on the wall; there was no mention anywhere as to proper procedures in the event of the world's end.
Outside, however, the struggle at the pumps came to an abrupt end as Cecil won possession of the revolver. He turned and aimed it at Marc. Promptly the splatter of gasoline stopped, as did that of the water.
"All right," Cecil said, "get back in the car and wake up Gerald."
For a moment Marc and Toffee stood motionless, gazing at the fanatic gleam in Cecil's eyes. Then slowly they turned and started toward the car. Both of them knew very surely that the little man would hesitate considerably less than a second at the act of murdering a man ... or a city....
CHAPTER XI
Though it couldn't possibly have been more than a couple of hours, it seemed that they had been twisting and turning through the night for eternities. Long ago the lights of the city had slipped away into the darkness behind them. Marc had completely lost track of where they were.
George, the unpredictable ghost, after a brief narrative about how he had fender-hopped his way back into Marc and Toffee's company, had drifted off into unconcerned and discordant slumber. Between snores, made forgetful by sleep, he had fully and completely materialized. If the Blemishes noted the exactness of the ghost's features to Marc's they didn't bother to comment on it; apparently the brothers, in their feverish dementia, were perfectly willing to credit anything as natural.
Gerald sped the car through a long wooded lane, then turned sharply to the right into a private drive. At last, for better or for worse ... with the balance heavy on the less attractive side ... Marc and Toffee arrived at the destination chosen for them by their crazed captors.
As the car ground to a stop Marc and Toffee peered fearfully out the window and were greeted by the sight of an enormous, turreted old house that loomed in the night like a preposterous, rococo mountain. It was the sort of place that the newspapers would surely describe as a 'mystery manse.' Neither Marc nor Toffee felt called upon to make any comment as to the majesty of the structure or the loveliness of the gardens that surrounded it. Cecil nudged his gun in their direction.
"Get out," he said. "This is it."
"Yes," Toffee said glumly. "Butwhatis it?"
In the front seat Gerald shook George and the recital of the nasal passages snorted to a stop. Blinking, George sat up, observed his state of materialization, then looked around.
"Eh?" he said. "Where are we?"
Toffee turned back at the door of the car. "You know, George," she said, "next to an open grave, I think we've found the ideal place for you to settle down. I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't meet a lot of your old friends here."
The party climbed out of the car and assembled before the old house. Then, with Gerald leading and Cecil guarding the rear, they creaked up a long set of wooden steps, crossed a littered veranda, and brought up before a formidable oak door that was easily large enough to accommodate the comfortable passage of a fat elephant with its ears flapping. Gerald produced a key and unlocked the door. As he shoved it open it swung back on a cavern of unbroken darkness.
"Look out for bats," Toffee said.
"Just step inside," Gerald said.
"Leaving all hope behind," Marc added in a whisper.
The company moved slowly forward into the darkness. Even George seemed somewhat loathe to cross the threshold, but he managed it. When they were all inside Cecil closed the door after them and relocked with a gritting sound that fairly scraped the spine. There was the sound of movement close by, then the click of a switch. Instantly there was light.
"Oh!" Toffee cried in amazement. "Oh!"
Staring dumbfoundedly at the amazing thing that had risen before them, the three newcomers remained where they were, incapable of movement.
It was as though the hulking house had simply been scooped hollow with an enormous spoon. Where there had once been partitions and floors, there was now nothing but an area of great gaping space. The house had originally been four stories high, now it was merely one; from where Marc and Toffee and George stood gaping, the garret ceiling was clearly visible. Within the walls of the old house there were literally acres of unbroken space. But that was only the least of it.
The place was simply crammed with strange, incomprehensible equipment, mechanisms whose purposes were completely unguessable. Enormous coils writhed sinuously, twining themselves about great metal tubes that stretched high into the air. Wheels turned smoothly within wheels that turned within wheels. At the far end of the room a great slide shot gleaming metal tracks upward into one of the turrets, and then on into the night. A panel of switches ran the full length of one wall.
"Well?" Cecil said. "How do you like it?"
"If you'll pardon the vulgarism," Toffee said, "this is the damnedest shanty I've ever seen. What is all that stuff for anyway?"
"Well," Gerald said slowly, "we're not exactly sure about all of it ourselves. Of course our main interest is in that big machine in the center." He pointed to a mammoth arrangement of wheels, tubes, dynamos and levers. "We call that the production unit. With the proper adjustments you can produce almost any mechanical or chemical device known to man. With that machine alone, and enough raw materials, of course, a single man could match the output of any of the nation's largest factories. The inventor only made it just to have something to do. Actually, he was going to destroy it. Said it would make mankind useless." He turned to Marc. "There won't be any trouble making the bomb ... or even a thousand bombs ... with that."
"What happened to the inventor?" Marc asked uneasily.
"Oh, him," Gerald said with a note of sadness. "Unfortunately he met with an untimely end just after we met him." He nodded to the gleaming track. "He was explaining that space catapult to us, telling us how a man wearing the proper equipment could be thrown out into space, even into regions unknown to man, and live to tell the tale. He was just telling us how to work the lever when suddenly the thing went off with him in it." He lowered his eyes delicately. "If ever a man went to heaven, it must have been poor Mr. Adams. At least he was certainly headed in that direction the last time we saw him. Anyway, Cecil and I like to think he's just away on a little trip."
"How terribly sweet and sentimental," Toffee said acidly. "I suppose he wasn't wearing the right equipment at the time?"
"Alas, no," Gerald said. "Anyway, Mr. Adams was a very strange man. He had no practical sense at all. He just stayed here all alone and built all these things just to see if they reallycouldbe built. He had no idea of ever putting them to any commercial use. He never saw anyone or had any friends apparently. It seemed a little sad at the time that Cecil and I, both virtual strangers, were the only ones here to see him off."
"Still, he seemed lonesome for company," Cecil put in. "He was very nice to us when we came here. It was only by chance that we found him, you know. We were out this way looking for a hideout ... we thought we ought to have one since all the other spies did ... anyway, we got lost and stopped here. Mr. Adams took us in just like we were old friends. I guess he wanted someone to show his inventions to. Maybe we really shouldn't have pulled the switch on the old man that way, but he kept saying he needed to get away somewhere...."
"The only decent thing to do, really," Toffee murmured.
"Exactly," Cecil said. "At first ... after Mr. Adams left ... Gerald and I toyed around with the idea of making mankind useless, but we decided that mankind would probably enjoy it too much, and things are moving in that direction fast enough anyway. But we always knew this stuff would come in handy someday if we just waited." He turned to Marc. "And now you've come along with your bomb."
"May God forgive me," Marc said bitterly.
Cecil pointed to another catapult arrangement, smaller than the one which had launched Mr. Adams into regions unknown to men, and aimed considerably lower.
"We'll send the bomb out with that," he said. "That was Mr. Adams' first experiment with the catapult. It will direct a missile accurately anywhere in the world. In fact, at full strength, it can throw a two-ton weight around the world three times. Non-stop."
"A two-ton weight of what?" Toffee asked.
"How should I know?" Cecil asked. "What difference does it make?"
"All the difference," Toffee said emphatically. "It would be perfectly preposterous for anyone to want to go flinging a two-ton weight around the world three times." She paused. "Unless, of course, it was a two-ton weight of something you hated so much you wanted to see it going away from you three times."
"That's neither here nor there," Cecil said shortly. "The main thing is to get the bomb made as quickly as possible." He turned to Marc. "I hope you're ready to go to work?"
"Right now?"
Cecil nodded. "We plan to start tonight. Fortunately, every known chemical is on hand here. Mr. Adams was amazingly thorough. Would you rather write the formula down for us, or call out elements as we go along?"
"And let me warn you," Gerald put in, "you'd better be accurate. We're planning a test bombing, just to make sure. If it doesn't work you may have an opportunity to meet Mr. Adams in person."
Marc was hesitant. "It'll take time to scale the formula to your needs," he said. "I don't know that I'll be able to do it tonight."
"Well, we can get started at least," Cecil said. He turned to Gerald. "Don't you think we should tie them? Wouldn't it be more professional?"
"Oh, sure," Gerald said. "Only I think chains would be better than ropes. More effective. You know, like the ones we used in our last picture,Mr. X and Madam Q? We can chain them up and threaten them for a while."
"We haven't got time to threaten them," Cecil said. "Do we have any chains?"
"Oh, lots," Cecil said. "I'll go get them."
In the meantime, everyone had forgotten about George. Unobserved, the materialized ghost had wandered interestedly in the direction of the giant catapult. Noting the compartment provided for the human missile, he turned back and studied Marc's lean figure with thoughtful calculation. He stroked his chin for a moment, then nodded with satisfaction.
In a moment Cecil returned, dragging several lengths of chain after him. At gun point, Marc and Toffee seated themselves in chairs at the far side of the room and submitted unhappily to an iron-clad captivity. George, however, was permitted to move about freely; the brothers had quite rightly reasoned that since ghosts were notorious for romping about in chains, George would probably be quite unhampered by them. After that, cautioning Marc to get to work immediately thinking about the formula, they dispatched themselves to the huge contrivance in the center of the room and began busily setting dials and levers.
Marc and Toffee considered the current state of affairs without heart. Toffee turned to George, who had left the catapult and had now arranged himself lazily on a nearby scaffolding. She smiled demurely.
"Nice George," she cooed. "You're going to help us, aren't you George? You're not going to leave us sitting here in these awful cold chains. We might catch cold."
George crossed his arms complacently over his chest and shook his head. "You should have been nicer to me," he said pettishly.
"If there's anything I hate," Toffee said, "it's a spoiled spook." She turned to Marc. "What are we going to do?"
Marc shrugged hopelessly. "Just stall, I guess," he said, "as long as we can, anyway."
"And then what?" Toffee asked. "Are you going to give them the formula?"
Marc shook his head. "No."
"They'll kill you."
Marc sighed. "I suppose they will. I only wish I could see Julie again, and explain everything to her."
Toffee smiled with unexpected softness. "You really do love her, don't you?" she asked.
"I guess I must," Marc said, "or I wouldn't feel this way."
For a moment they were silent. Then Toffee suddenly brightened.
"I know what!" she cried. Marc looked up hopefully. "It's so simple I don't know why we didn't think of it right away. All you have to do is go to sleep!"
"Go to sleep?"
"Sure. Don't you remember? I told you. When you go to sleep, I dematerialize. But when you wake up I'm automatically recreated through your awareness. But I can place my shots, so to speak. You see? All you have to do is go to sleep. I'll disappear and then, when you wake up again, I'll materialize somewhere else and go to the police for help."
Marc thought it over. "It's worth trying," he said. "Do you know how to get back to town?"
"No," Toffee admitted, "I don't. But the main thing is just to get out of here, isn't it?"
"I don't see how I'll ever get to sleep, though," Marc said. "With so much on my mind it doesn't seem possible."
Toffee nodded thoughtfully. She glanced around, looked at George.
"Hey, George!" she called. "Do you know what Marc was just telling me about you?" The ghost looked up. "He said you were the lousiest ghost in the racket. He said he wouldn't hire you to haunt a rabbit hutch."
An expression of dismayed hurt came over George's face.
"Well?" Toffee said. "Are you just going to sit there and take it? He also said you wear second hand ectoplasm. If I were you I'd belt him over the head with something."
George slowly roused himself from the scaffolding and drifted down to earth. He confronted Marc.
"Did you say all that?" he asked woundedly.
Marc exchanged a quick glance with Toffee. "Well, not exactly," he said. "All I said, really, was that you can't haunt worth sour apples."
"Oh, yeah?" George said. A menacing scowl came into his face.
"Yeah," Marc said. "You couldn't scare a nervous kitten."
George's face flushed with anger. "I could too," he said.
"You and how many Frankensteins?" Marc asked.
"Why, you...!" George exploded.
"Go tell your mother she wants you." Marc said. "Stop wasting my time."
George whirled about, reached down and picked up a large chunk of wood. He waved it under Marc's nose. "Don't you talk to me like that!" he said.
"Beat it, you phony, before you get your sheet dirty," Marc sneered. "You're not scaring anyone."
That did it. With an unintelligible burst of wrath and hurt pride, George lifted the block of wood and brought it down on the top of Marc's head. Then suddenly he started back, his mouth agape. It wasn't that Marc had slumped, unconscious, in his chair ... that was only to be desired and expected ... but Toffee, with a slight rattle of her chains, had mysteriously disappeared before his very eyes.
"Oh, my gosh!" George quavered. "How spooky!"
At the same moment, attracted by the noise of the chains, the Blemishes abandoned their work and advanced rapidly onto the scene. They surveyed the empty chair with wonder, then turned to George.
"What happened?" they chorused. "What did you do?"
George looked at them helplessly. "I don't know," he said. "I hit him and she vanished. That's all."
"Good grief!" Cecil said. He thought quickly. "She must be somewhere inside the building. She couldn't get out." He turned to Gerald. "Let's hunt her out."
Just as they were turning away, Marc stirred and lifted his head from his chest. With great effort, he opened his eyes and glanced at the empty chair beside him. He smiled.
"What happened?" he asked with great innocence.
Benny Buckingham and his partner Dippy Donahoe crept through the night in stealthy pursuit of their careers. If the two seemed to keep late business hours it was only because of the nocturnal nature of their chosen profession. Plainly, Benny and Dippy were house breakers, and if they took pride in their work and labored long to get ahead it was only a tribute to their mothers' faith in them.
Benny and Dippy were perfect partners in that they were perfect opposites. If Benny was large, Dippy was no bigger than a minute, or perhaps even fifty nine seconds. Where Benny was an extremely homely man, Dippy was terribly dapper. There was one thing, however, that this pair held in common; neither of them was noticeably bright in the head.
Now they crept toward the Maynard mansion, burglary in their hearts, black jacks in their hands and nothing at all in their heads. When, upon arriving at the veranda, they were greeted by the sight of a shapely young redhead decked out in a set of glittering butterflies, it never occurred to them for a moment that the girl could be any other than the mistress of the house, out for a moonlight stroll in her negligee. Summing the situation up thusly, they promptly ducked down behind the balustrade. But they had paused too long; the girl had already seen them.
"Hello!" Toffee called, leaping to the conclusion that she had discovered the occupants of the house. "Hello, there!"
Benny and Dippy peered up sheepishly over the edge of the balustrade.
"My heavens," Toffee said. "I'm glad you came along."
Benny and Dippy exchanged a puzzled glance; they weren't used to being welcomed on occasions like this.
"You are?" Benny asked suspiciously. "How come?"
"I need someone to help me. I can't get in the house, and I've got to use the telephone."
"Locked out?" Dippy asked politely. He proceeded warily to the veranda, waving Benny along behind him.
Toffee nodded. "Would you let me in, please?"
Dippy glanced uncertainly at Benny, and Benny nodded. He turned back to Toffee. "Delighted," he said. "Which door would you like opened?"
Toffee waved her hand at a long line of French windows. "Oh, any one of them," she said. "I don't care."
With a flourish, Dippy produced a small tool kit from the inner reaches of his jacket and went to work. In a moment the door was open.
"There you are," he said. "Bet you couldn't do it faster with a regular key."
"Thank you," Toffee said. "Were you just coming in?" she asked.
Benny and Dippy, mistaking this for an invitation, stood back for a moment, astonished. Then, loathe to look a gift horse in the mouth too long, they followed after her.
"Gosh, what a dame!" Dippy whispered to Benny. "She's got more guts than a fish cleaner. Or do you suppose we're losin' our menace?"
Toffee crossed the room, found a light switch, and turned it on. The most beautiful dining room she had ever seen rose up out of the shadows around her.
"Isn't it nice?" she said. "You must be very happy to have found this place. Everything's so expensive."
"Oh, we are, lady," Benny said weakly. "We're very happy." Just then the large suit case which he had been carrying under his coat slipped and thudded to the floor.
"Oh," Toffee said. "Were you thinking of packing up a few things?"
"Well," Dippy said unhappily, "yes, to tell you the absolute truth, lady, that's exactly what we had in mind."
"Well, don't let me stop you," Toffee said airily. "Go right ahead while I use the telephone." She left in the direction of the hall.
"Holy gee, Dippy!" Benny exclaimed. "Is that broad right in the head? She acts like she wants to be robbed."
Dippy glanced around the room.
"Maybe she don't like this stuff and wants to get rid of it. Or maybe it's some sort of insurance pitch. Maybe she's been out there choppin' up and down the front porch for nights, just waitin' for a couple of guys like us to come along. It's screwy."