Benny shrugged. "Well, maybe we should cooperate with her. What have we got to lose?"
Together they went to the side board to investigate. They pulled open a drawer that fairly gleamed with expensive silver.
"Oh, boy!" Benny said. "Just look at that stuff."
"Yeah," Dippy said, and picked up a handful. But his manner was hesitant. "You know," he said, "it don't seem fair to the profession."
"Uh-huh," Benny said. "I know. Funny, ain't it? We always been complainin' about how people take such an uncooperative outlook on our trade and all, but ... oh, gosh...."
"Yeah," Dippy said gloomily. "Why didn't she just go on about her own business and leave us alone? She could have at least screamed and carried on or somethin'. That ain't too much to ask from somebody you're robbin'. She's just takin' an unfair advantage of us, that's all."
"Maybe she just don't know any better," Benny suggested charitably. "Anyway, let's take some of the silver, just a little. She might get her feelings hurt and get sore as hell if we don't."
Just then Toffee came into the room and observed the scene at the side board without concern.
"Oh," she said brightly, "taking the silver, I see."
With a sigh, Dippy gently replaced the silver he'd taken from the drawer. "You see, Benny?" he said. "See what I mean? She just ruins everything. She don't give us a chance."
Benny turned to Toffee. "We were only takin' a few pieces," he said half-heartedly.
"That isn't going to do you any good," Toffee said. "If you're going to take any of the silver you'd better take it all. But, of course, that's your business, not mine."
Dippy's shoulders sagged dejectedly. "She makes me feel like bawlin'," he said.
"Yeah," Benny said. "She went and took all the heart out of it."
"I wonder if you two would mind doing something else for me?" Toffee asked. "The phone's dead...."
"Yeah," Benny said. "We cut the wires. I'm sorry. I wish it had been my throat."
Toffee looked at them curiously; she couldn't imagine why anyone should want to cut the wires to their own telephone. Then it occurred to her that perhaps it was their way of shutting off the service. Obviously they were packing up to leave on a trip.
"Well," Toffee said. "I wonder if you'd mind running me into town? I have to see the police."
The shattered burglars started violently.
"You see!" Benny cried. "You see! It's a trap! She's gonna turn us over to the police."
"Turn you over to the police?" Toffee said, thoroughly confused. "What on earth for? You've been very nice to me. Your private lives are your own business as far as I'm concerned. It's very urgent that I get to the police immediately. Won't you help me?"
For a moment the two thugs just stood and stared at each other. Then Benny heaved a great sigh.
"Come on," he said. "Let's take her in, Dippy. Let's give ourselves up. After tonight I ain't never goin' to feel the same about the racket no more."
"Yeah," Dippy said. "Me neither. Come on, lady. We got a car down the road."
As they turned to leave, Toffee crossed the room to join them.
"Aren't you taking anything with you?" she asked.
The two erstwhile thieves stopped and turned to her with expressions of overwhelming grief.
"Lay off, lady," Benny said with sad solemnity. "You just ruined our whole careers. Ain't you never satisfied?"
Meanwhile, back at the old house, the Blemishes and George, after a fruitless search for Toffee, had returned to Marc's chair. The Blemishes had fallen into a mood of dark contemplation, while George had returned to his scaffolding and his day dreams. Then suddenly Cecil broke the stillness with a snap of his fingers.
"I'll bet I know!" the little man said. "Hey, George!"
George roused himself. "Yeah?" he said.
"You say you hit Mr. Pillsworth and the girl disappeared? Just vanished?"
"Uh-huh," George nodded. "So help me, that's what happened."
"Then that's it!" Cecil cried. "I've read about it, but this is the first time I've seen it!"
"What's that?" Gerald asked.
"The girl is a thought creation! She isn't real!" He turned to Marc. "That's true, isn't it, Pillsworth?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Marc said.
Cecil turned to Gerald. "With him awake, she's probably running around somewhere, looking for the police. We've got to do something to bring her back." He thought for a moment. "Do you remember where we put those hypodermics?"
"I'm not certain," Gerald said vaguely.
"Then run along and look for them. Hurry before she goes too far."
As Gerald hurried away, Cecil turned back to Marc with a slow smile. "This is going to work out just fine," he said. "We'll give both you and the girl a nice long sleep. I doubt she's had time to do any harm yet."
It was only a few minutes later that Benny pulled the car to a stop in front of the police station.
"Well," Dippy said with muted gloom, "here it is, lady."
Toffee opened the door and started to get out. "You coming along?" she asked.
Benny shook his head. "They'd never believe it if we told 'em even. We're goin' to open up a religious liberry instead."
"Well," Toffee said affectionately. "I certainly want to thank you two for being so kind. I just hope I didn't interrupt anything for you."
Frantically, Benny threw the car into gear and it fairly leaped away from the curb. Toffee stood for a moment staring after them; she could have sworn she'd heard a strangled sobbing sound echo back from the car as it sped away. She turned and started up the steps to the station.
She walked to the door and was just about to shove it open when her gaze went to the stack of newspapers lying to one side of the entrance. She looked at the headline: PILLSWORTH DISAPPEARANCE SHROUDED IN MYSTERY! She picked up one of the papers, folded it quickly under her arm, and continued inside.
Finding herself in a hallway, she paused uncertainly. Then a door at the end of the hall opened and a large man in a blue uniform moved into view. She ran forward.
"Look!" she cried. "Maybe you can help me. I want to speak to someone about Marc Pillsworth. I know where he is."
The officer swung about abruptly. "Marc Pillsworth?" Toffee nodded. "Come with me."
"We'd better hurry, though," Toffee said. "I may not have much time."
The officer led her rapidly down the corridor, up a flight of steps, along another hallway, and finally stopped before an unmarked door.
"Come on in here," he said. He opened the door and held it back for her.
But suddenly Toffee had stopped and a curious look of panic came into her eyes.
"Oh, no!" she gasped. "Oh, Marc! Not just yet!"
And then, as the officer's eyes grew wider and more frightened, she slowly faded away....
Back at the old house, Cecil watched with satisfaction as Marc sagged limply in his chair. He withdrew the hypodermic from Marc's arm and turned to Gerald.
"Okay," he said, "let's go to work on him."
CHAPTER XII
Within the old house there was little evidence of the morning outside. Mr. Adams had boarded over the windows and now the daylight shone through only at the openings of the turrets where the tracks of the catapults reached for the sky. Even these openings, however, had heavy metal shutters which could be closed against bad weather.
For the moment everything was quiet. The Blemishes were settled at a small table, poring over several sheets of paper. George slumbered loudly on his scaffolding, while below him Marc drooped limply in his chair, held there only by virtue of the chains about his shoulders.
Then, as the patches of day at the turret openings grew lighter, Marc stirred. As he sat up, the chains made a small rattling sound. The Blemishes glanced up sharply from their studies.
Painfully, Marc lifted his head and looked out at the world around him with dulled eyes. A blurred vision of Toffee instantly swam into view. She seemed to be holding a newspaper in her hand.
"There, you see!" Cecil told Gerald. "I was right. She's a thought creation."
"Never heard of it," Gerald said.
"Very rare," Cecil commented shortly. "Particularly one that positive."
Across the room Toffee ran quickly to Marc's side.
"What have they done to you?" she cried. "What happened?"
Marc shook his head, forced awareness into his brain. He concentrated on Toffee's words.
"Happened?" he said. Then his mind cleared a bit. "I don't know. They doped me. With a needle. They found out about you."
Toffee whirled on the Blemishes with utmost loathing. "If I had a rat trap, I'd offer you some cheese," she said. She turned back to Marc. "I should have stayed away, I suppose, but I had to find out what they'd done to you."
"Did you reach the police?" Marc asked anxiously.
Toffee shook her head.
Marc sighed. "I feel awful."
"They won't get away with it," Toffee said. She picked up the paper from where she'd dropped it on the floor. "Look. They're searching for you." She read the article quickly:
Foul play was suspected since Marc was known to be the inventor of a new explosive. It was believed that he had fallen into the hands of foreign agents and might even have been removed from the country. The search for him extended around the world.
"You see," Toffee said. "They'll find you sooner or later."
"If they don't kill us first," Marc said. "I feel dead already."
Toffee got up and went over to the Blemishes. "Just what did you little vultures do to him?" she asked angrily.
Cecil shrugged. "A little of this and a little of that," he said. "A lot of truth serum."
"Yeah," Gerald sniggered unalluringly. "Enough to get the formula out of him." He looked down significantly at the papers on the table.
Toffee stiffened. "Why, you ... you ... reptiles!"
Ignoring her, Cecil turned to Gerald. "I guess we don't need Pillsworth any more, do we?"
"Well," Gerald said, "we'd better keep him around until after the test. Just in case, you know. We should be able to whip out the formula before tonight if we get right to work. We can take care of Pillsworth tomorrow."
Cecil nodded toward Toffee. "What about her?"
"Oh, she's no problem at all. She'll go automatically when he does."
"How'll we do it?" Cecil asked.
For a moment Gerald stared dreamily off into space. "We could starve him for a day and just let him drift off of his own accord."
"That would be fine," Cecil said. "Sort of poetic."
"On the other hand," Gerald said, "that wouldn't leave us any corpse to show for our trouble." He sighed. "You know very well, Cecil, that corpses always distress me, and in any line of work but ours I'd be definitely opposed to them. Still, for business reasons it would be a nice thing to have one around. You know, just tossed casually over a chair or table somewhere, where people can see it when they come to interview us for spy work. It makes a good impression."
"That's right," Cecil said solemnly. "A dead body can be impressive as the deuce when it's used to good advantage. Of course it should be in good condition. But nothing ostentatious."
"Oh, my gosh!" Toffee moaned. "They talk about dead bodies as though they were Spanish shawls!"
"Anyway," Gerald said, "let's worry about Pillsworth when we come to him. Right now we've got to get busy with the formula."
"All right," Cecil said. "Only just remember, if we decide to keep the corpse, there mustn't be any blood on it. I can't stand blood; it's so common."
At that point the brothers turned to observe Toffee with expressions of small annoyance.
"What about her?" Gerald said. "Hadn't we better chain her up again?"
Cecil nodded. "And we'd better make sure Pillsworth doesn't go to sleep. You stick by him and keep him awake while I work on the formula."
With that the brothers parted, in pursuit of their individual duties. Cecil returned Toffee to her chair and her chains. Toffee told Marc about the truth serum and the formula.
"Oh, Lord!" Marc said. "They'll destroy the city!"
"I know," Toffee said. "I know."
After that the hours wore on endlessly. Cecil busied himself with Mr. Adams' machine, adjusting dials, turning knobs, throwing switches with hateful diligence. Cecil stuck to Marc and Toffee as per plan. Alternately he gave Marc food to keep him earthbound and powders to keep him awake. In between times, he talked. He explained about the bomb shell that he and Cecil had completed during the night while Marc was unconscious.
A small chamber was to contain the final chemical. Through a device to be set when the bomb was launched, the chemical would be released into another small chamber which was adjacent to the main body of the bomb and separated from it only by a very thin metal diaphragm. In a predetermined period of time the diaphragm would be eaten away by chemical reaction. In that way all the chemicals would be united at precisely the right moment to produce the explosion.
The moment of detonation was to be timed so that it occurred in the air directly above the target. The chemicals would be scattered in a fine spray over the desired area. It was all very precise and exact.
"An old plan we stole a long time ago," Gerald explained modestly. "We were just kids then."
Toffee glanced around to see what George was up to.
The ghost had been curiously quiet all day. Occasionally he had wandered over to the catapult and observed it with quiet speculation, then returned to watch Cecil at his chores. Through it all, though, he had kept a careful eye on Marc and Toffee and Gerald. He seemed to have something on his mind.
It wasn't until early evening when he came over to join the group. With the air of a kibitzer he strolled to a position behind Gerald. He stood there for a moment or two, teetering nonchalantly on the balls of his feet, then reached out and touched Gerald on the shoulder.
"I think Cecil needs your help, old man," he smiled. "He's getting ready to stuff the bomb."
"Stuff it?" Gerald asked.
"Well, whatever it is."
"I can't leave," Cecil said. "He told me to stick here."
"I'll stick in your place," George offered. "I'll be positively gluey."
Gerald hesitated, but not for long. "Well," he said finally, "all right." He got up and disappeared through the forest of apparatus.
Toffee favored George with a scathing look. "Have a seat, Judas," she said. "I only wish it were wired."
"You misjudge me," George said, sitting down. "I'm trying to help you."
"Pass the salt," Toffee said.
"I'm hurt that you take that attitude," George said. "You don't really believe that I'm so depraved as to let those two destroy the whole city?"
"I haven't heard you screaming for help," Toffee said.
"I've been waiting for the right moment," George said. "When their attention would be on the bomb and not us. Right now they think they've got everything they want, and...."
"They have got everything they want," Marc said futilely. "Do you know what they're planning to use for a test target?"
"Oh, that," George said. "Just the Whittle monument."
"The Whittle monument!" Marc said. "It's a landmark!"
"I think they're doing a public service getting rid of it," George said. "With that fat politician standing on top and all."
"But it'll cause a panic!" Marc said. "It may start all kinds of trouble. We've got to stop them."
"I'm afraid we can't," George said. "The bomb is almost ready now and it's dark. They're waiting to catch the after theatre crowd with this demonstration. They figure there'll be more of the international set in that group."
"The dirty little opportunists," Toffee said.
"Anyway," George said, "we can stop them bombing the city tomorrow night."
"Tomorrow night!" Marc gasped.
"That's what they're planning. If this test works out."
"Dear God! We've got to stop them!"
"Exactly," George smiled. "That's why I'm here to turn you two loose."
"Beautiful George!" Toffee cried. "Hurry!"
"Let me tell you my plan first," George said. "I'll unchain you, but you've got to promise to do as I say."
"Anything, George, darling," Toffee said.
"Very well. The door is locked, as you know, and Gerald has the key with him, so you can't get out that way. The only other way out is through the catapult openings. Gerald and Cecil will be working by the small one, so you'll have to climb up the large one and get out on the roof. I'll go over and get everything ready...." He paused to eye Marc excitedly.
"Now, wait a min...!" Marc began.
But Toffee caught his eye with a glance. "Why that's wonderful, George," she said. "Hadn't we better get started?"
"Okay," George said eagerly. He got up and began working at Toffee's chains. "I knew you'd like the idea."
"But are you sure...?" Marc said.
"We love it," Toffee put in quickly. "I'm sorry I've misjudged you."
"That's all right," George said, releasing Marc's chains. "Now, you stay here, and I'll be right back." He disappeared in the direction of the catapult.
"What's the matter with you?" Marc asked. "Don't you realize that fiend is getting ready to shoot us off into eternity?"
"Yes, I know," Toffee said. "But we don't have to wait for him to do it, do we? We're free now. Let's get moving."
"But we haven't the key to the door. And that's the only way out."
"I know," Toffee said. "We've got to work fast. Come on."
Already she was moving toward the scaffolding, looking for something. Presently her eyes fell on a small length of pipe. She picked it up and brought it to Marc.
"I can't unlock the door with that," Marc said.
"Yes, you can," Toffee said. "Hang onto it."
"What am I supposed to do with it?"
"You'll know when the time comes," Toffee said. "Quickly! Get back in the shadows." Then suddenly she began to scream at the top of her lungs.
"Marc!" she wailed. "You're floating again! Catch my hand!"
Marc jumped back into the shadows completely by surprise. And not a moment too soon.
Instantly there was the sound of running footsteps and Gerald appeared around the edge of the scaffolding. He stopped, looked at Toffee, then glanced apprehensively upward. It was then, true to Toffee's promise, that Marc knew what to do with the pipe. Stepping forward, he placed it firmly on the back of Gerald's skull. With a small cry of surprise, the little man dropped to the floor. Quickly Toffee bent over him, put her hand in his pocket and brought out a key.
"Thank heavens we got the right one," she breathed. "Hurry!"
She and Marc sped for the door, dodging swiftly through the tangle of apparatus as they ran. Behind them there was the sound of running, exclamations.
Toffee reached the door first and quickly thrust the key into the lock. Marc joined her and helped her unlock the door and shove it open. They darted across the veranda, down the creaking steps, and out into the night.
"Stop!" they heard Cecil yell behind them, "Come back!"
They didn't stop running until they had come to the end of the drive and onto the tree-lined lane. And then they paused only momentarily, to get their breath. Then they started forward again as they saw an ancient car, some distance away, pull up at the side of the road and park.
Dalmer Boyde, a pimpled youth of negligible sophistication, switched off the ignition, leaned back, and glanced covetously at the voluminous charms of Floramae Davis. Inwardly he experienced a certain jolting sensation. Haltingly he reached out and placed an arm against the back of Floramae's neck in a sort of amorous strangle hold.
"Floramae," Dalmer said with passionate overtones, "I think you're just every bit as pretty as a striped snake."
Floramae started in her seat with a jump that rocked the ancient auto to its very tires. Stout of heart in the face of bulls, bison or buffoons, the poor girl had one fatal fear which she could not control; she had such an abhorrence of snakes that even the mention of the word set her great frame atremble with panic.
"Snake!" she screamed. "Where?"
"There ain't no snake," Dalmer said. "I only said you was pretty."
"What a lousy time for compliments!" Floramae shrieked. "Here's this damned snake snapping at us, and you make sweet talk! You got no brains? Kill that snake and be snappy!"
Dalmer struggled to renew his grasp on the quivering girl. "I only try to say something nice and all of a sudden the place is full of snakes. Fer gosh sakes, Floramae!"
"There's more than one?" Floramae screamed. "Let go of me! Let me outa here!" She threw the door open and prepared to heave herself to the road. "What a fierce thing to do to a girl, Dalmer Boyde! Bringin' snakes on a date. It'll serve you good and right if I faint right here in the road and get squashed by a truck!"
"Aw, Floramae!" Dalmer pleaded. "Don't act so crazy about nothin'."
"You call it nothin'?" Floramae demanded to know. "I call it a dirty trick! If you ever dast to speak to me again I'll bite you!"
"Floramae!" Dalmer said.
But Floramae was on her way. Jumping from the car, she landed solidly in the center of the road. She started forward, then stopped as two figures, a man and a woman, loomed vaguely before her in the night. It was Marc and Toffee.
"Help!" Toffee cried, running forward. "Give us a lift!" She started toward the car, but was suddenly stopped by Floramae.
"Don't get in that car, honey!" she cried. "It's spillin' over with snakes!"
But just at this moment Dalmer came bounding out of the car.
"Now, Floramae...!"
"Git away from me, Dalmer," Floramae growled, "or I'll kick you in the stomach!"
She started off rapidly down the road with Dalmer following plaintively in her wake. In the next moment the pair had disappeared into the night, and Marc and Toffee were alone with the car.
"Come on," Toffee said. "You drive." Then she glanced back toward the lane from which they had just come. Headlights stabbed around the bend and started toward them. "Hurry!" She got in the car. Marc followed after, started the car, and maneouvered it onto the road.
"Can't you make it go any faster?" Toffee asked. She looked around. "They'll be here in a minute!"
Marc pressed the gas pedal to the floor. The car coughed daintily and continued at a steady speed of twenty five.
"For the love of heaven!" he cried. "That's its limit!"
It was then that a shot suddenly echoed through the night, and the old car skidded across the road to a forced stop against an embankment. Toffee looked back at the approaching lights.
"Come on!" she cried. "Run!"
They scrambled out of the car and started up the embankment. They were just about to the top when they were suddenly caught in the blinding glare of a spotlight. They stopped where they were. On the road there was a squeal of brakes and the slam of a door. Cecil Blemish, his gun in his hand, stepped into the light.
"Fun's over," he said. "Let's go home."
Toffee and Marc reentered the house with an air of morose finality. As they automatically took their places in the chairs and allowed themselves to be imprisoned again, Gerald appeared smirkingly from the tangled underpinnings of the small catapult. He regarded them with an air of almost personal triumph.
"Glad you got back for the launching," he said. "You're just in time."
Marc glanced fearfully toward the catapult.
"Listen," he said earnestly. "You don't realize what you're doing. The disappearance of that monument could easily start another war. Such small things can sometimes."
The brothers stared at him with rapt attention. For a moment Marc thought he had actually begun to impress them. Then Gerald turned to Cecil.
"Just think, Cecil!" he simpered. "Another war! We'd be in great demand as spies! Do you think it's too much to hope for?"
Cecil shook his head. "Certainly not. Now that I stop to think about it, if this bomb doesn't do it, the one tomorrow night is sure to."
"Let's fire the bomb!" Gerald cried. "Right now!"
But Cecil hung back for a moment. "What's happened to that traitorous spook?" he asked.
Gerald shrugged. "Dematerialized so we couldn't tell him to his face what we think of him. He's drifting about somewhere. Anyway, forget about him. Let's launch the bomb."
The two hurried off to the catapult. There, they argued briefly about which of them would officiate at the switch, but finally Cecil won the honor by drawing his gun on his brother. He stepped up to the switch and took hold of it. A thick silence of mixed expectancy took the old house.
"No ... no ..." Marc whispered, then watched with haunted eyes as Cecil's hand brought the switch suddenly downward.
There was a loud hissing sound and then an indistinguishable flash as the bomb shot up the track and out into the night. After that the silence returned, but with a new quality now. After a long interval, Marc and Toffee started in their chairs as a distant rumble echoed back from the night.
Marc closed his eyes and waited for the old house to stop trembling....
CHAPTER XIII
Lord Asquith gazed out across Whittle Square and sighed an impeccable sigh that brought a new thinness to his lips, a greater flare to his aristocratic nostrils. It was evident that his Lordship had recently been in attendance of something quite odorous.
"I have never witnessed anything so abysmal," he told Lady Asquith with dry authority. "That play has as much chance for a prolonged engagement as ... as...." He flicked his case at the Whittle monument and its bronzed tenant at the top. "... as that chap up there has of flying to the moon. Even Sir Lawrence couldn't have saved it."
"Quite," Lady Asquith affirmed. "I'd rather be struck dead than attend another of these wretched American productions. May the fates deliver me."
At that very moment there was a deafening roar, as all the world seemed to explode before them. The night suddenly burned with a sullen light, and the pavement beneath their feet shuddered. In the trembling silence that followed, Lady Asquith, under the terrifying impression that the fates were doing their best to oblige her in her wish to be separated from the American theatre, emitted a small cry and promptly fell into a swoon at her husband's feet. Lord Asquith gazed down at his fallen lady with sad perplexity.
"Oh, dear!" he said. Then he shrugged. "But I suppose you really did bring it on yourself, old girl." Then suddenly struck with a horrifying thought, he glanced quickly in the direction of the monument in the square. He started back with a cough of horror.
"Lord above!" he cried.
Across the square, though the night elsewhere was starkly clear, the monument had become engulfed in a heavy mist. Even as Lord Asquith watched, the fog seemed to disappear, but in a most peculiar manner. It was as though the vapors were being absorbed into the marble of the monument itself. And then, staggeringly, the entire structure began almost imperceptibly to rise.
"Gad!" his lordship gasped. "The old bloater's setting sail!" He removed his glasses and wiped them quickly. "And taking his monument with him! Coo!" He started sharply as a hand fell to his arm.
"Hallo!"
He whirled about to find a pallid-eyed, slightly vaporish little man staring down at Lady Asquith with baffled concern.
"She just resting?" he inquired thickly, "or did somebody hit her?"
His lordship glanced down at his wife. "She's been struck dead by the fates," he explained pleasantly. "She rather asked for it, you know."
The small man gazed on Lord Asquith with beaming admiration. "That's what I like about you English," he said. "You cover your emotions so well. How do you do it?"
But Lord Asquith didn't answer. Suddenly he was too busy giving vent to an emotion that wasn't even thinly veiled, let alone covered. As he caught sight of the monument pulling away from the earth and bobbing upward like a cork in water, he reached to the street lamp for support.
"Look at that thing leap about!" he gasped.
The little man looked and joined his lordship at the lamp.
"Gord!" he groaned, closing his eyes tightly. "I've had a snootfull in my day, but never anything like this!"
By this time, others along the street had begun to recover sufficiently from the shock of the explosion to notice that something terribly strange was going on in the vicinity of the Whittle monument. A chorused cry of stunned surprise moved, in chain reaction, along the street and rose to a babble of hysteria.
In this rising tide of excitement, a taxi driver, unaware that he had gotten himself caught in anything more than an after theatre jam, directed his vehicle into the square, proceeded to the center, then glanced out the window to signal for a turn around the monument. He glanced, looked away, then glanced again. He shoved the whole upper portion of his body out the window and stared with blinking incredulity at the rising monument. He forgot completely about the taxi and the lady passenger in the back.
A greater scream rose through the crowd as the taxi toured complacently across the square, over the sidewalk, and lodged itself crashingly in the aquarium fitted window of a seafood restaurant. The driver remained oblivious to all but the uprooted monument, even as the windshield gave way before a deluge of salt water and flopping fish. Not so, however, his passenger who suddenly found herself staring nose to nose with a gimlet-eyed mackerel, who was peering up at her rather evilly from inside the front of her dress.
With a scream that echoed to the very heavens, the lady hurled back the door of the taxi and leaped to the sidewalk. There, before an enchanted group of onlookers, she began to clutch at herself with all the mad frenzy of a native dancer engaged in ceremonial rites dedicated to the god of human fertility. Reaching low within her dress, she withdrew the floundering fish and hurled it from her with a vengeance.
The fish looped high through the air and landed neatly on the thin chest of the still unconscious Lady Asquith. Her ladyship, however, had apparently been lying at her husband's feet, just waiting for a fish to take to her bosom. No sooner did the mackerel arrive, than she made a small whimpering sound and sat up. The fish dropped soggily to her lap. Her ladyship looked down at the fish, and it in turn looked up at her. Then with an exchange of horrified shudders, fish and lady simultaneously flopped over to their sides and lay inert.
Through the babbling crowd, two officers arrived on the scene in a manner of great haste. Running to the front of the crowd, they stopped, observed the rising monument with a start, and exchanged looks of complete confusion.
"Lord a'mighty!" the first cop exclaimed. "The thing's gone and pulled itself up by the roots!"
"I can't look," the second cop said, turning away. "It fair makes my skin crawl!"
"What can we do? We ought to take steps."
"There's a good idea," the second cop said fervently. "Let's get out of here. Let's run!"
"In front of all these people?"
"We could pretend we were after somebody, and just happened by this way."
The first cop nodded. "That's what we'll do! Draw your gun!"
Assuming expressions of great heroism, the two drew their pistols and brandished them frantically over their heads.
"Stop thief!" they yelled in chorus, and ran frantically through the crowd and away into the night.
And so, the sensational affair of the Whittle monument found its beginnings. An hour later, the news had traveled to the far corners of the earth. Teletypes rattled, and cables hummed. The nation's thinkers quitted their beds in the early hours of the morning to apprise the land of their thoughts on the matter.
The morning paper, which Gerald brought back to the old house from a nearby village, presented a fair cross-section of world opinion on the incident. Only Russia had no thoughts to vouchsafe on the question of buoyant monuments.
"There is more to this matter than the mere loss of a valued landmark," Gerald read aloud. "This may be the insult direct to every red blooded American, the final jab at his pride and sense of independence. For a long time our enemies have done everything possible to discredit our American heroes, and it would appear now that they are even willing to go to the extreme of removing their monuments. That they have chosen to employ a hideous secret weapon to accomplish this monstrous end, clearly indicates an intention to spread fear and panic throughout the nation. When the UN meets tomorrow...."
"You see?" Marc said unhappily. "You see? This thing could easily touch off a war. You fools!"
Gerald's smile, as he put down the paper, was mindful of an actor reading his notices after a successful opening night.
"We've done it at last!" he sighed.
"I always knew we would," Cecil said complacently. "Wait 'til tonight."
Ecstatically the two got up and left, intent on the preparations for the coming disaster.
"Those two haven't got a decent impulse to split between them," Toffee said.
"And I invented this thing!" Marc said wretchedly. "I'm as guilty as if I were bombing the city myself. I wish I were dead!"
"You will be," Toffee said, "if something doesn't happen. I heard them talking last night. They've decided not to give you any food today. After they've fired the bomb, they're going to let you float off into space with everything else." She closed her eyes against the thought. "We've got to get out of here and stop this thing." She looked at Marc imploringly. "Can't you go to sleep?"
"They've been giving me all those powders."
"If only that supernatural serpent would just show himself," Toffee said. "I'm sure we could talk George into something if we just had the chance and enough time."
After that they fell silent, lost in a mood of black desolation. Outside the sky failed to produce the full promise of day; the grey dawn lingered and became a dark storm color. Gerald left his work long enough to throw the levers that closed the metal coverings over the turrets. A moment later rain could be heard splattering against them. The tangled shadows of the fantastic equipment grew darker and more formidable under the glare of the overhead worklights. Toffee looked at Marc, and for the first time the dullness of true despair was in her green eyes.
"We've got to get out of here, Marc," she said. "We've got to!"
"But how?"
"We could try to get our chains loose. Our fingers are free, at least. If we moved close enough together.... We've got to try."
Marc glanced without hope at the tangles of chain that imprisoned them. "I suppose so," he murmured. Slowly, careful lest he upset himself, he began working his chair toward Toffee. Slowly he inched forward.
It was nearly a half an hour before they were close enough. Marc strained his hand forward and began fumbling with the chains at Toffee's wrists. It was difficult work, but he kept at it. At the end of several minutes, however, his hands were stiff with pain, and he had to rest.
"I can't even see what I'm doing," he said.
"Let me try loosening yours while you rest," Toffee said with determination. "We'll take turns."
The hours wore on without result. There was no interruption from the Blemishes, however. The brothers were far too absorbed in their preparations for destruction to pay any attention to their captives. They did not bring food.
"I'm beginning to feel hungry." Marc said.
"This is no time to think of your stomach," Toffee said.
"It's not my stomach," Marc said. "I just hope I don't start floating away from you. It could happen, you know." He glanced at her chains. "Do you feel any slack around your wrists at all?"
"Not yet," Toffee said. "Keep trying."
The rain outside continued with a steady monotony and grew louder. It was impossible to judge the passage of time. Hours dragged by, enough, it seemed, to round out several days. Toffee and Marc continued their efforts with the chains, but with a growing sense of futility.
"It's no use," Marc said. "My fingers are raw."
"We've got to keep trying," Toffee said.
Then suddenly they both were quiet as the sound of nearby yawning interrupted the stillness. It had the thoughtless, indolent tone of George about it. They turned expectant eyes toward the scaffolding.
Slowly, George faded into view, materializing himself with slow luxury. He yawned a second time and stretched his arms above his head. Then he glanced in their direction and waved with airy insolence.
"That's a clubby picture you two make," he commented. "Spending your last hours in romantic rapture."
"Louse!" Toffee said. "I'd like to see you spend yours in intolerable agony."
"How can you bear me such ill will?" George asked innocently. "Didn't I let you loose last night?"
"Stop lolling around," Toffee said, "and come down here."
"Sure," George said, and drifted blithely down to the floor. "Something on your mind?"
"Yes," Toffee said. "Murder!"
"George!" Marc said. "You've got to help us. Regardless of your personal feelings ... or lack of them ... you can't...."
George shrugged with great indifference. "What difference does it make to me if they blow up the city?" he asked. "The High Council will be recalling me at any moment now. Let the city go or stay, I won't be around to see it."
"How do you kill a ghost?" Toffee murmured.
Marc glanced in the direction of the Blemishes. It was evident that their labors were nearly at an end. The rain was beating in a steady roar, high on the roof above them. There couldn't be too much time left. He turned decisively toward George.
"George!" he said. "I'll make you a proposition. What you want, is to get rid of me forever, isn't it? So you can stay on earth?"
"That's the idea," George admitted.
"Then listen to me," Marc said, his voice level. "You have no special liking for Cecil and Gerald, so it shouldn't matter to you if they get hurt." He cleared his throat. "If you'll just turn me loose and give me a chance to stop them, I'll let you send me off in the catapult."
"Marc!" Toffee cried. She turned to George. "Don't listen to...."
"Whether I win or lose, George," Marc said.
"You can't!" Toffee cried. "That's suicide!"
"Not exactly," Marc said. "If he doesn't finish me off, they will." He turned back to George. "You'll be sure of getting rid of me. And the city will be saved."
"Well," George hesitated. "I don't know...."
"Hurry," Marc said. "You've got to do it. They're loading the bomb right now. This is your chance to do something decent for once."
George closed his eyes thoughtfully and rocked back on his heels. There was a moment of tense silence as he swayed forward. "Okay!" he said. "It's a deal. Not that I have any particular feeling one way or another about this city of yours. Actually, I'm only doing it as a personal favor to you. After all, I can understand why you don't want to move on to the next world to make room for someone else. It takes time to get adjusted to the idea that...."
"Stop orating," Toffee put in harshly. "If you're going to let us loose, you ghoul, then do it."
"Hurry, George!" Marc said.
Happily George went about the business of releasing first Marc, and then Toffee.
"Now don't try any funny stuff," he said to Marc. "Remember you made a bargain."
"I won't," Marc promised gravely.
"Good!" George said. "I've been dying to use that catapult anyway." He chuckled softly. "You'll die when I do. Isn't that funny?"
"Screaming," Toffee said, and followed Marc as he moved swiftly into the shadows.
They crept quietly forward to a position behind an enormous dynamo. Marc stopped and peered around. A few yards away, the Blemishes toiled with the enormous bomb, adjusting it to the catapult, getting it ready to be fired. They paused briefly in their activities.
"Is it time yet?" Gerald asked excitedly.
Cecil consulted his watch. "A quarter after eight," he said. "Just fifteen minutes to go."
"I can't wait," Gerald said.
Toffee moved closer to Marc and put her hand on his arm.
"You aren't really going through with that deal, are you?" she asked. "With George, I mean?"
"I don't see how I can avoid it," Marc said. He nodded over his shoulder toward George, who was watching them from a close distance. "He isn't letting me out of his sight for a second. I'm so weak now from lack of sleep and food, I may not even be able to handle those two out there. Then too, if it weren't for George, we'd still be helpless."
"There must be some way out of all this," Toffee said miserably.
Marc turned to her for a moment, his eyes clinging worriedly to hers. "I only hate doing this to you," he said. "I know you'll go when I do, and I can't really believe you aren't completely real any more. Sometimes, I feel that I've known you for years and years."
"You have," Toffee said softly. "You have." Then, boosting herself to the tips of her toes, she reached up and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "It's all right. Do what you have to. I'll help if I can."
"I'm sorry," Marc said.
They waited a bit longer. Marc glanced around for a weapon and found the length of pipe Toffee had given him the night before. He picked it up and moved cautiously to the edge of the dynamo. The rain sounded ragingly against the metal coverings over the turrets. He watched the demented brothers until their backs were turned toward him, then sprang forward.
The moments that followed were covered with noisy confusion. At Marc's first movement, the brothers left their work with a cry of dismay. Cecil whirled about, a heavy wrench in his hand. He raised it menacingly and Marc ran toward him. Toffee ran toward Gerald, but her value as a combatant was negligible. Gerald quickly shoved her aside and, as she fell to the floor, ran to the aid of his brother. It was just as Marc raised the pipe over Cecil's head that Gerald, in a headlong dash, butted him squarely and brutally in the pit of the stomach and sent him doubling forward in a convulsion of agony. Cecil was quick to seize the opportunity to use his wrench. He swung it upward and brought it down with savage strength. But the blow was inaccurate. It missed Marc's head and crashed dully into his shoulder. With a cry of pain, Marc twisted to one side and fell to the floor. He lay inert as though the blow had paralyzed him.
Toffee, from her position, had a jumbled impression of Gerald running in another direction, toward a table upon which lay two guns. He was going to kill Marc! She jumped quickly to her feet and ran unknowingly to the switch panel on the wall. Something had to be done! She began pulling switches with frenzied swiftness. It was as her hand pressed frantically on the fourth one, that everything was suddenly plunged into blackness. For a moment she leaned against the panel, weak with relief.
There was stark silence in the old house for a brief moment, and then the darkness was filled with sound; curses, a dull dragging, the clang of equipment being tumbled over. Toffee waited breathlessly, then moved forward to the place where Marc had fallen. She felt in the darkness for him, but he wasn't there.
"Marc!" she called.
But her voice was drowned out by the sudden loud rumblings of machinery. Then a great blast of cold air swept through the building, and Toffee felt a dampness on her face. She turned and looked upward. The turret at the top of the large catapult had been opened! Even as she looked, a flash of lightning squirmed through the sky and illuminated the entire building. Toffee caught a glimpse of George, lifting Marc into the cartridge on the catapult.
"Marc!" she screamed, and ran forward.
There was also a cry from the Blemishes. But she didn't stop to listen. In the darkness she felt her way rapidly through the machinery to the base of the catapult. As another streak of lightning writhed across the sky, she saw George climbing down from the scaffolding and moving toward the switch. She reached out and grabbed wildly at his sleeve.
"Stop!" she cried. "It isn't fair!"
But George moved doggedly forward. In the darkness, Toffee knew that he was reaching toward the switch. Then, as the enormous room once again flashed with light, she looked upward toward Marc, and almost laughed with relief. Even in that small interval, she had seen his lank figure rise buoyantly above the cartridge and start inching into space.
"He's floating!" she cried triumphantly. "He's getting away!"
George suddenly brushed past her in the darkness and leaped to the scaffolding. In the next flash of light Toffee saw him climb to the top of the cartridge and grab vainly at Marc's rising coat tails. Suddenly, she knew what she had to do. She whirled about and reached for the switch, found it, and pulled with all her might.
Instantly there was a terrible sucking sound and a great flash of light. As George fell back into the cartridge, it streaked up the track of the catapult and out into the night so fast, that it seemed, a moment later, never to have been there at all. There was a beat of silence, and then, frighteningly, all the heavens seemed to tremble with an angry light. A moment later a roar of thunder rolled back across the earth and crashed deafeningly against the walls of the old house. It was as though the whole universe shook with a destructive rage.
Toffee gazed weakly toward the now darkened heavens. "Bon Voyage, George!" she murmured. Then she turned back to the darkness. "Marc!"
There was no answer, but as she waited, the beam of a flashlight knifed the darkness in the direction of the small catapult. The Blemishes, murmuring together, were back at work. Toffee crept forward until she was close enough to hear what they were saying.
"I don't care what they're up to," Cecil said. "I don't care if they all went to eternity, it's eight thirty and we're going to launch the bomb. After that, they can live or die or sit around in their stocking feet. It won't make any difference to us."
Gerald directed the beam of the flashlight up the track of the small catapult, then to the face of the turret.
"There he is!" he cried.
Marc, spread eagled across the face of the metal covering, was clinging frantically to the cable that lifted the contrivance. As the light caught him, he glanced around, but made no effort to avoid discovery. He seemed curiously agitated.
"Fine!" Cecil said. "That's a good place for him. We'll get him with the bomb. Put the light back here so I can see what I'm doing."
"That damewouldhave to blow out the lights," Gerald said sullenly.
"Never mind. We can manage. The bomb is all set now. You take the lever that raises the turret shelter. I'll pull the switch on the catapult. I'll give the signal and we'll pull together."
"Okay," Gerald agreed. The beam of the flash moved off at a distance, then darted upward again to illuminate Marc's activities in the turret. "I'm ready!"
"Marc!" Toffee screamed. "Get away! They're firing the bomb!"
Marc glanced back at her, but didn't move. He seemed to be pulling frantically at the cable, almost as though he had somehow gotten caught on it.
"Ready!" Cecil yelled. "Aim...!"
"Marc!" Toffee screamed. "Marc! Marc!"
"Fire!"
In the dreadful flash that followed, Toffee couldn't be certain of what she saw. It seemed that Marc had darted away from the face of the turret, but she couldn't be sure. In the same moment there was a cry of terror from Gerald.
"It didn't open!" he screamed. "He jammed the cable!"
The tracks of the catapult gleamed red with friction, and the room was lighted with a dull glow. And then Toffee saw that the metal covering had remained secure, blocking the passage of the bomb. She had only a glimpse before the crash came.
There was an awful rending as the old house groaned and screamed under the impact of the blow. The turret tore loose from its moorings on the roof, but the bomb had been deflected. The great metal cylinder looped away from the track, tore through a section of the ceiling and streaked upward into the night, traveling in a straight line. There was a breathless silence as Toffee and the brothers watched the terrible thing move into the sky directly above the house. It hovered for what seemed to be minutes, then started down again in a definite course.
"My God!" Cecil screamed. "It's coming down on top of us!" He began to run.
And then the bomb struck. The whole world glared with screaming light, and then exploded.
In that last moment, Toffee had only a brief, horrified glimpse of the lank figure, some distance above the house, soaring away into the darkness, and the rain.
The world gasped and crumbled around her....
CHAPTER XIV
A small hum stirred at the back of the darkness, a glimmer of sound, like a faint ray of silver white light in an area of great stillness. Somehow sound and light had gotten themselves mixed up together, so that one was difficult to distinguish from the other. But this was sound and it had started with a humming smallness and grown shrill. It screamed in Marc's head so that he had to open his eyes to let it out.
A great brightness rushed forward, stabbing at his eyes, thrusting deep into the nerve centers at the back of his head. He blinked painfully and looked away, but the light came at him again, nervous light that moved toward him, then away, but always in the same direction, jittering along with small, irregular spurts.
Marc was aware that he was lying on his back, and there was a sharp pain in his shoulder. It didn't make sense. The last he could remember was the night drawing him upward, squeezing the breath and the life out of him. He lay back and gave himself over to the effort of breathing. And then a voice spoke close by, irritably.
"Of all the perfectly insane places to wind up, this snags the prize!"
There was no question that the voice was Toffee's. Marc glanced around, then up. The redhead was standing over him, an evil glint in her eyes.
"Toffee!" he said.
"Of course," Toffee said. "Who'd you think? Who else would be silly enough to sit up here in this ridiculous place with you?"
"What place?" Marc asked. "Where are we?"
"What place?" Toffee said. "We're back in the city. In fact we're right smack in the center of the city." She waved a hand at the jittering lights that were still skittering along behind her. "That," she announced amusedly, "is the news sign on the face of the Dispatch building. You know, the one that has the lights that spell out words and keeps moving all the time? We're on the ledge right in front of it. And a fine spectacle we make, too, I imagine."
"My gosh!" Marc exclaimed. He sat up. Now that Toffee had told him he could see that the jittering lights did spell out letters as they moved along.
"In fact," Toffee said, "talking about being in the news, the story of the explosion is coming through right now. She turned to the sign and paused to read: