For a moment the little group stopped, transfixed in a horrified tableau, then in unison, they all became wildly animated in an attempt to retrieve the wayward pouch and return it to the place from whence it had come. By the time the policeman had drawn close enough to see what was going on, these activities were in full cry. The man of law stopped short with a startled gasp. Just why these demented people should be clutching so furiously at this woman's stomach was beyond him.
"Here, you!" he called out. "Stop that!"
The trio looked up with matching expressions of fright and guilt. All hands, except Toffee's, suddenly abandoned ship. Toffee, left to shift for herself, bent forward in a sort of agonized, doubled-up position.
The policeman drew closer for a second look, and, getting it, instantly clamped his eyes shut, his features crowding together in a look of pain. The glimpse he'd had of Toffee's mid-section had twisted his very soul. When he opened his eyes again he was careful that their gaze fell no lower than the girl's chin.
"I don't understand it, lady," he said. "What seems to be the trouble?"
Toffee flushed a deep red. "I ... I don't know, officer," she said demurely. "It just came over me all of a sudden. It's terribly embarrassing."
"I can imagine," the policeman said shortly. "If I were you, I'd be throwin' fits all over the place."
"If you were me," Toffee observed reasonably, "you'd be entitled to every fit you throw. I shouldn't think a few convulsions would go amiss, either."
This didn't rest well with the policeman and as much was registered in a disapproving scowl. "You come with me," he said sternly. "We'll find a place for you to lie down and rest a bit."
Toffee darted entreating glances to her companions, but when she received no response from either quarter, she resignedly hugged the bulging coat to her and hobbled forward in a tortured half-squat.
But the policeman didn't leave immediately. Instead, he lingered long enough to favor Marc with a long and searching glance, a glance that clearly implied an unusual interest in Marc's face. Marc didn't like the look of it. Plainly, it was the manifestation of a methodical mind that was moving methodically toward a memory that Marc feared would not be to his advantage.
All this was accomplished to a musical accompaniment that issued from the general direction of the stage. When the policeman and Toffee had gone, Marc moved quickly toward the wings.
Left with nothing else to do, the little taxi driver followed Marc, filled with the wonder of it all. It was his own impression that he had fallen in with people of true greatness. Show people. He was not concerned over the curious presence of the money bags. These folks were clearly artists given to eccentric practices in all matters ... including those of money. If they chose to carry their loose cash about in a couple of official bank sacks, why, who was he to ask questions? It was enough that they suffered him to remain in their wonderful company. The little fellow clamped the gift horse's mouth tightly shut and looked blankly in the opposite direction.
On the stage a whole regiment of very remarkable chorus girls were doggedly stomping their way through a lot of expensive scenery in pursuit of a dance routine that seemed hardly worth the effort. Marc's gaze darted beyond the girls to the other side of the stage, and his heart suddenly lifted, then shortly after, scraped against his shin on its way south of his instep. Julie, apparently awaiting a cue in the opposite wings, stared back at him wretchedly, her face too filled with fright to have room for recognition. The miracle that was needed to pull her through to success obviously hadn't come to pass.
At Marc's side, this impression was being vigorously corroborated by two diminutive bit actresses, chummily exchanging job tips to be looked into first thing in the morning.
"Too bad Linda Godfrey isn't in that dame's shoes," one of them commented sadly. "We wouldn't have to beat the pavement for the next two years."
"Yeah," the other agreed. "You know, this show was really written with Godfrey in mind. I heard the author say so himself, the other night. The poor guy was ready to hang himself when he saw La Pillsworth murdering all his best numbers."
"I hear this Pillsworth put up enough cash to steal the show from under Godfrey," the other replied. "Bet it cost him about a dozen solid gold fortunes. Money still talks, I guess."
"Too bad it doesn't sing, too. This show could use some good singing."
"Oh, I don't know. The dame's got a nice little voice when you come right down to it."
"I don't think the audience is going to get that far down, though. Anyway, that's just the trouble with her voice, it's too nice and too little. What this show needs is a big dirty voice with lots of guts. Like Godfrey's."
Marc edged away, too saddened by what he'd heard to listen to any more. Out on the stage the chorus had ceased to stalk the scenery and Julie, looking terribly alone and lonely, was moving uncertainly before the footlights. Marc felt his heart head south again as her nice little voice began to quaver over the words of a musical cynicism called "Love is a Clop in the Chops." The words of the song to the contrary, she looked and sounded like a very small girl singing in a church choir. Her lovely blondness seemed suddenly dulled and all the natural animation was drained from her blue eyes. The audience was starkly unresponsive.
Marc watched his wife's performance as long as was bearable, then turned away. He wondered how he would ever manage to say the right thing to her when it was all over. The taxi driver, however, still in the wings, seemed completely enthralled by what he saw. Marc only wished there were a thousand more of his benighted kind in the audience. Somewhere backstage a chorus girl yipped, turned about, and slapped the nearest male within reach. Apparently, George was also enjoying himself.
Marc was still deep in thought when the policeman suddenly bore down on him.
"You're Marc Pillsworth, ain't you?" the cop asked.
Marc nodded absently, and, before he thought, murmured, "Yes."
"I thought so!" the cop said triumphantly. "I was cautioned to look out for you around here. But I didn't have anything to go by except a picture in your wife's dressing room. I think the Chief might be interested in seeing you about a little bank robbery."
Marc started to back away. He'd been taken completely by surprise.
But, at that moment, Marc was not the only surprised person in the theatre. Many an eyebrow was being simultaneously hoisted out in the audience. The chorus, having accomplished a brief change of costume, had returned to the stage, their number mysteriously increased by one. At the very end of the line a blazing redhead dressed in a seedy fur coat and a red jersey ambled calmly onto the scene, two large sacks and a wisp of filmy grey material clutched tightly in her arms. Moving quickly before a mirror that was part of the scenery, this new performer proceeded serenely about the intimate business of removing the coat and shirt, and wriggling into a light grey dress that was obstinately uncooperative. Slowly, her efforts became more and more vigorous and, from the audience's point of view, more and more exciting. This gaudy newcomer was doing a dance they hadn't seen since the days of Little Egypt, and doing it surpassingly well. In her efforts to get into the dress, she was putting her provocative anatomy through a series of gyrations and contortions that seemed beyond the limitations of mere flesh and blood. Also, to some, they seemed to outdistance the limits of ordinary decency as well.
Julie, unaware of the performance in progress behind her, misunderstood the sudden enthusiasm of the audience. She thought they had at last caught on to her subtle style of singing and were showing their appreciation. Then, turning ever so slightly, she learned, from the corner of her eye, the awful truth. At the sight of the wriggling redhead, she stopped in the middle of her song and succumbed to a tremor of rage. She didn't know who this interloper was, but she did know the stage wasn't big enough to hold the two of them. Clenching her fists, she started toward center stage and the squirming dervish in the grey dress.
A chorus girl, seeing that events were coming to a head, danced close to Toffee.
"Better put up your guard, honey," she whispered. "Here comes the star with blood in her eye."
Toffee's round eyes peered out at the girl through a chiffon fog. "What's she so upset about?" she asked innocently.
"In case you haven't heard," the girl hissed, "what you're doing is called upstaging. Honestly, you didn't think you'd get away with it, did you? In a way I'm not going to blame that Pillsworth dame when she strangles you."
"Stage!" Toffee shrieked. "Isn't this the ladies' lounge? I saw all you girls coming in here, all undressed and everything, and I...! Oh, my gosh!"
Meanwhile, backstage, Marc was too busy watching his own troubles mount to notice Toffee's predicament.
"Also, Mr. Pillsworth," the policeman was saying with maddening deliberation, "there is a certain restaurant owner that would like to have words with you. Do you want to come along quietly, or shall we mix it up a little first?"
"Oh, no," Marc moaned. "Not now, officer. Can't you put all this aside for just a bit?"
The officer shook his head and grinned nastily at the sudden flash of fear in Marc's eyes. Had he known, however, the cause of Marc's fear, he might have been less flattered by it. Behind him a steel framed folding chair was floating swiftly upward, poising itself carefully over his head.
"No!" Marc yelled. "No!"
"It's nothing to get hysterical about," the cop laughed. "We'll treat you right...."
Marc started to yell again but his words were drowned out as the wooden bottom of the chair splintered noisily over the policeman's head. A moment later the policeman tumbled to the floor, rolled over once, and then began to slither weirdly, feet first, toward the darkness beyond a nearby screen of drapes.
"No, George!" Marc yelled. "Don't drag him away! Get him some water!"
George's voice echoed back from the vicinity of the policeman's ankles. "I guess I turned up just in time, eh?"
Marc rattled off a list of words that will never be found in any dictionary. Then he started forward. It was a mistake that, in his anger, he leaped. His foot became ensnared in the wreckage of the shattered chair, and he shot head-first into space. He came down heavily against the floor, rolled partly over on his back, grinned foolishly, and lay still.
It was precisely at this moment that Julie drew abreast of the struggling redhead out on the stage.
"I'll lay you out so stiff," she grated, "people will think you're a pool cue!"
She reached out a slender, red-taloned hand and clutched a handful of grey chiffon. There was a sudden ripping sound, and then it happened. The redhead, dress and all, instantly vanished into thin air. Julie drew back with a startled cry.
The explanation of Toffee's disappearance was simple. Since she was projected into the world of reality only through Marc's full consciousness, the blow that had temporarily put an end to Marc's activities had simultaneously snuffed out Toffee's earthly existence.
To the audience, though, it was a matter of even greater simplicity. The vanishing girl was merely an excellent stage effect, excellently executed, and they applauded it with bountiful enthusiasm. They were still applauding when the curtain swung together to hide the confusion that followed.
Behind the scenes, George was briskly brushing the dust of the law from his hands as he returned to the wings where Marc still slumbered. Just why the ghost had chosen this particular moment to expend a portion of his limited ectoplasm on materialization was never quite clear; perhaps it had somehow aided him in his labors with the prostrated minion of the law. At any rate he strode, a full figure of a man, as it were, from the shadows, just as Julie emerged from the stage, the picture of pent-up rage. It was unfortunate that the paths of these two beings were fated to cross at this particular moment. Julie regarded the replica of her husband as a frost might look on a blossoming violet just prior to administering the chilly sting of death.
"You!" she seethed, unreason glowing in her eyes. "You were behind all that, Marc Pillsworth!" She gestured angrily toward the stage. "I feel it in my bones."
"I don't doubt it," George said amiably, a bit bewildered. "That dress you have on is terribly thin, isn't it?"
The barometer of Julie's control registered DANGER just before she struck George squarely on the chin. It was a blow that any professional might have been proud of. And it caused a curious sort of short-circuiting reaction in George. At the precise moment of contact, he vanished completely.
Julie stepped back, aghast. According to her tastes, this sort of thing was happening all too consistently. Then her eyes darted to Marc's hitherto unnoticed form, still crumbled some yards distant.
"Oh, my heavens!" she gasped. "I knocked him clear across the stage!"
At first she started contritely forward, then suddenly she stopped. "Serves him right," she said self-righteously.
"On stage!" a voice yelled, and Julie whirled about. A call boy was hurrying toward her. "Curtain going up on the second scene, Mrs. Pillsworth," he said. "You're supposed to be on."
Julie squared her lovely shoulders, took a deep breath, and started regally stageward. A moment later her voice rang out with a certain deadly sincerity in a song called, "I Wouldn't Give a Dime For the Ten Best Men in Town."
Meanwhile, Toffee, finding herself suddenly rematerialized, gathered up the money bags and the fur coat from a piece of scenery which was now thankfully hidden from the eyes of the audience and started in search of Marc. The redhead was now entirely clothed in the filmy grey dress that had proved the making of her theatrical success. When she found Marc he was sitting up, shaking his head. He looked at her blankly for a moment, then leaped to his feet.
"We've got to get out of here," he said. "George slugged the cop. Incidentally, where is that fiend?"
The fiend obligingly appeared, lengthwise on the floor, looking singularly unfiendish. He was a trifle fuzzy about the extremities, perhaps, but he was all there. He sat up and stroked his chin gingerly.
"Boy, that dame packs a wallop," he said unhappily.
"So justice has finally prevailed," Toffee said with satisfaction. "One of them finally nailed the right guy. And high time, too, if you ask me."
"And speaking of justice," Marc said evenly. "You have a little duty to perform, George." He removed the money bags from Toffee's arms and thrust them ungently into George's lap. "You're going to return those hellish things," he continued. "Slugging that cop was the last straw. I've had enough!"
"But I was only trying to help," George said.
Something snapped somewhere in the depths of Marc's forgiving soul. "You say that once more," he yelled, "and I'll belt you one myself!"
Hugging the bags to him, George stood up. "But the bank's closed," he said hopefully. "I can't take them back tonight."
"You'll take them back tonight, all right," Marc said with quiet intensity, "before the police find us with them. You were so smart about getting them out, now you can just dream up a way to get them back in."
The bank building loomed darkly as the taxi eased up to the curb and discharged three silent figures onto the sidewalk. Silhouetted against the glow of a distant street lamp, the figures moved forward with obvious conspiratorial intent. The first, burdened with two ominous-looking lumps of darkness, tried to hang back, and was rudely shoved forward by the other two for his efforts.
"Get those things back inside," Marc hissed, "and be snappy about it. There might be a night watchman around."
George remained unenthusiastic. "Even if I manage to fade myself through the wall," he protested, "I'll never be able to take these sacks with me. You're asking for miracles." But as Marc advanced threateningly, he started forward. "All right," he mumbled, "I'll think of something."
Marc and Toffee peered into the darkness after George as he proceeded toward the bank and finally reappeared, in silhouette again, against one of the bank's huge plate glass windows, which was dimly illuminated by a night light somewhere inside.
George seemed to hover uncertainly before the window for a time, then he bent down and seemed to take an intense interest in a trash container standing nearby. Finally he straightened up, fumbling with the bags.
"What's he doing?" Toffee asked. "He wouldn't have the nerve to pocket that money, would he?"
"I don't know," Marc replied. "He seems more to be putting something into the sacks. Rocks or something." Then he stiffened as George's motives suddenly became hideously clear. "No!" he yelled. "Don't, you fool!"
But it was too late. Already, George had swung the sacks over his head and hurled them at the window. Marc's cry rang out just as they completed their grisly mission. A horrible crashing sound was instantly followed by a loud clamor of bells, the bank's burglar alarm was heralding the awful news with a din that froze Marc and Toffee in their tracks. For one panicky moment their blood seemed to stand still in their veins.
As though by magic, the scene was suddenly filled with bounding, milling figures, most of which had a nasty, official-looking cut to them. They swarmed down on Marc and Toffee, forcing them back toward the taxi, which promptly streaked away from the curb, withdrawing its sanctuary. Apparently, the little driver had at last begun to see his new-found friends in a different light ... a prison grey, for instance. Marc and Toffee were promptly surrounded.
"We got two of 'em!" a voice yelled. "You get the other one?"
"No!" another voice answered bewilderedly. "We thought we had him but he got away somehow. Darned if I can figure out how he did it. One minute he was right here in our hands, next minute he was gone. He's a slippery rat, that one." A dull whack interrupted the voice briefly. "Ouch!" it continued. "Which one of you wise guys slugged me in the nose?"
There ensued a whole series of whacking sounds, followed by accusations, counter-accusations and athletic retaliations. Departmental jealousies and prejudices suddenly flared into the open, and the result was a sort of policemen's brawl. Later, one of the participants was heard to proclaim, whilst nursing a black eye, that he had seen a disembodied fist flying about delivering blows willy-nilly in all directions, without any noticeable favoritism to any of the various contestants. For his very accurate reportorial work, the fellow was quickly hustled off to the police psychiatrist.
George's little ruse, however, did not have the desired effect. Before the fight had effectively gotten under way, Marc and Toffee were rushed off to a police car that had screamed onto the scene with depressing promptness.
Stepping into the car, Toffee nodded toward the field of battle. "George is still helping," she observed bitterly.
"I'd like to helphim," Marc replied dully. "I'd like to help him right through the gates of Hell."
Justice Harvey was a bear with a gavel, and he was proud because of it. With only the most delicate twist of the wrist, he could produce a resounding smack that rivaled even the awesome clatter of heavenly thunder. When the good Justice laid gavel to stand, men, women, children and morons sat up and silently searched their souls. Promptly at eleven o'clock, A.M., the Justice displayed his talent with an even greater finesse than was common. The crowded courtroom became silent, and all eyes turned hopefully to the bench.
Most of those in attendance, being either complainants or voluntary witnesses, were present in the interests in seeing a terrible justice done as speedily as possible. Many a face was alight with the fanatical gleam of vengeance.
The Justice cast a hawk-like eye toward a nearby official. "Let the crim ... the prisoner ... be brought before the bar," he proclaimed.
The official hurried importantly to a distant door and made quite a show of throwing it open. Marc, in the company of an iron-faced guard, was rudely revealed to the court, looking rather like a modest maiden lady who had been surprised in her bath. He gazed on the courtroom with an expression of embarrassment and fearful expectancy. Then he shuddered as his gaze was returned coldly by an assemblage that included the faces of such hostile personages as the bank president, the owner of the ravaged diner, the counter boy and the three waitresses. Also, among many others, there was a sprinkling of bank clerks and policemen whose features seemed not altogether unfamiliar. Marc glanced studiously at the floor as, with lagging step, he followed the official to a position of frightening prominence before the bench. A moment later, he was joined by Toffee, in the custody of a grim-looking matron.
Toffee nudged Marc. "I'm your accomplice," she said pridefully. "They say you used me for a lure."
But Marc didn't respond; he was far too fascinated by the disgusting sight of the Justice, rattling through a noisy throat-clearing operation. When it was over, the formidable servant of the public peered down at him maliciously.
"Prisoner," he thundered, "you are to be congratulated!"
"Thank you, your Honor," Marc said confusedly.
The gavel barked against the stand. "The prisoner will be silent until requested to speak," the Justice reproved. "As I was saying, you are to be congratulated. In a single day you seem to have established a criminal record that would ordinarily take a hardened thug a full year to achieve. The list of your wrongdoings is so extensive that frankly I can hardly bring myself to believe it. Virtually single-handed you have perpetrated a crime wave the like of which has not been seen in this city for the past thirty years."
"Single-handed!" Toffee snorted, injured at being relegated to a role of insulting minority. "I like that!"
The Justice fixed Toffee with a steady eye. "The court is all too well aware of your part in all this, young lady," he said. "I can only say that a girl who would allow herself to be used as a foil for innocent citizens ... who would lend her charms to the perpetra...."
"Oh, go on," Toffee broke in, pleased at having gained so much attention. "Flattery will get you almost any place with me."
The gavel performed new wonders. For a time the Justice seemed to fall into a painful lethargy. When he finally roused himself, he directed his gaze carefully at Marc.
"To continue," he said in a controlled voice, "the list of your crimes has seldom been equalled. Just for a sample, I will read off a few of the more outstanding ones. At the top of the list is a bank robbery. There is some confusion surrounding the methods used in the performance of this deed, but we are sure you will choose to explain everything at the proper time. After that, in rapid succession, there are a dozen charges of assault and battery, one of inciting to riot, two of resisting arrest, two of destruction of private property, seven of traffic violation, and one of attempted breaking and entering. The other, miscellaneous charges of improper conduct and ordinary misdemeanor seem hardly worth mentioning after all that."
This last comment provoked a brief bristling disturbance in the ranks of the complainants, most noticeable in the vicinity of the waitresses. Marc glanced toward them and quickly averted his eyes.
"Do you have a statement to make?" the Justice boomed. "Can you deny these charges?"
"Of course he can," Toffee said blandly. "He's as innocent as a newborn emu."
Toffee's careless choice of similes shocked the Justice to the extent that he forgot his resolve to ignore her. "Emu?" he asked disapprovingly. "Don't you mean a newborn babe?"
"If I'd meant babe, I'd have said babe," Toffee replied tartly. "Why should a babe be any more innocent than an emu?"
"I don't know," the Justice replied, thoroughly mixed up. "I don't even know what an emu is. A babe just seemed more appropriate, that's all."
"Just as I thought!" Toffee snapped triumphantly. "You're not fit to sit on the bench. You're prejudiced. Practically babe-crazed, too."
For one fearful second the gavel poised itself in mid-air, then it descended slowly, tremblingly to its stand, making only a faint clattering sound. The Justice's eyes roved aimlessly around the courtroom for a moment, then darted to Marc.
"Why do you let her go on like that?" he asked. "She's not making things any better for you, you know. Why don't you stop her?"
"Could you?" Marc asked hopefully.
The Justice cleared his throat and scowled. "That's neither here nor there," he said gruffly. "You were about to answer to the charges. The court wishes to know if you consider yourself guilty or not guilty."
"Will it make any difference?" Marc asked recklessly.
"Primarily," the Justice went on, "The court wishes an answer to the charge of robbery. The court knows that the money was returned in a highly informal manner, but finds no reason for leniency in this circumstance. I advise you to consider your answer carefully. The consequences will be very serious when ... if ... you are proven guilty, let me assure you. Now, answer the court with a simple statement of guilty or not guilty. It will not be necessary to elaborate."
"Not guilty," Marc said desperately. "I didn't do any of those things. It ... it was someone else."
"Someone else?" the Justice laughed nastily. "Let me tell you, Mr. Pillsworth, these infantile attempts at evasion will not avail you...."
"He is too guilty!" a voice suddenly rang out from the direction of the complainants. "He's as guilty as original sin!"
"He is not!" Toffee yelled back. She jerked back as the matron held out a restraining hand. "Get your claws off me, you lumpy old trull!"
The gavel danced a thunderous jig against its stand. "That's enough of these emotional outbursts!" the Justice hollered distractedly. "Any further demonstration, and the courtroom will be cleared." He turned a reproving eye on the matron. "Please keep the prisoner quiet," he said. "If need be, stuff a fist down her garrulous throat."
The matron nodded with a splendid show of willingness to duty. Clearly, from now on, she was only waiting her chance.
Once again the Justice turned doggedly toward Marc. "I advise you not to persist in this foolish assertion that someone other than yourself performed this list of crimes. The court is fairly jammed to the rafters with witnesses who will testify to the contrary. Can you still make such a claim in the face of all that?"
"I can," Marc said gravely. "And I do. It was someone else."
The Justice frowned impatiently. "I suppose," he said, "you are prepared to give the court a full description, if not the actual name, of this mysterious villain?"
"It was George," Toffee put in quickly.
"You shut up," the Justice said rudely, forgetting his poise.
Toffee cast the matron a murderous glance that quickly forestalled any action from that quarter. Then she turned back to the Justice. "I'm here to see that Marc gets a fair trial," she said primly.
The Justice chose to deal with Marc. "Perhaps you could tell the court what the young lady is talking about? Perhaps you can identify this George person that she alludes to?"
"Why, yes," Marc said quietly. "The young lady is right. It was George who did it all. He's a ... a...." He couldn't bring himself to say the word.
"He's lying!" The bank president was suddenly on his feet. "I saw him with my own two eyes. I don't know how he did it, but that money followed him right out the door of my bank. I'll never forget it."
The banker's cry was the spark that touched off the bonfire. Suddenly, the witnesses and complainants were on their feet in a body, crying out against Marc. Some screamed their willingness to swear in any court in the land, and promptly proved their overwhelming ability to do so in phraseology that was strikingly unlegal. Through the hub-bub, the Justice's gavel made riveting gun noises to no avail. The court had suddenly become an echoing cavern filled with a multitude of voices, all crying out for retribution. The scene was one of such hysteria that no one noticed the courtroom door sliding stealthily open and closed again, apparently of its own free will.
Before the enraged Justice, Marc began to sway slightly, all but leaning against the bench for support. He passed an unsteady hand over a forehead that was throbbing dreadfully. This was unquestionably the end. His doom was being swiftly sealed by a master craftsman called Fate, and there was nothing he could do to save himself. Worst of all, he was being taken away from Julie just at the time when she needed him most. He wondered feverishly why they didn't just lynch him and get it over with.
Even through the calamitous events of the previous day he had managed to bolster his spirits with the notion that everything would somehow clear itself up when the time came, but now he realized that he had only indulged in wishful thinking. Now, he just wanted to have done with it all. Compared to this yowling courtroom, a nice quiet cell seemed a haven of unblemished loveliness. He glanced behind him and shuddered. He seemed to be surrounded by a wall of accusing, pointing fingers.
Then he blinked and turned about. There appeared to be a curious divergence in the direction of the pointing fingers. Most of them, it was perfectly true, were pointing at him, but a few indicated a region far to the right. And even as he watched, others began to waver from him and move uncertainly away. Then, a great collective gasp scraped through the room, and was followed by a charged silence. Marc stepped forward and immediately echoed the gasp. George, fully materialized and smiling, was leaning nonchalantly against the right hand wall.
Casually smoking a cigarette, at the sight of Marc, the spirit plucked the smouldering cylinder from his lips and tossed it to the courtroom floor.
Marc's eyes promptly sought the face of the Justice. It was a grave mistake. The Justice's face, never a thing of beauty, was now an item of extreme repugnance. More than a human face, it looked like an ugly, mottled sponge that had been squeezed dry. The Justice's lips, a fierce blue color, were working at odds with each other in an attempt to say something that was probably better left unsaid.
One of the waitresses broke the spell with a shrill, hysterical giggle.
"Oh, my God!" she jabbered. "Now there's two of them!"
Justice Harvey pounded his gavel noisily as he pointed an accusing finger at George and bellowed: "How did he get into this court?"
Justice Harvey pounded his gavel noisily as he pointed an accusing finger at George and bellowed: "How did he get into this court?"
Justice Harvey pounded his gavel noisily as he pointed an accusing finger at George and bellowed: "How did he get into this court?"
This accurate statement of matters seemed to steady the Justice's nerves somewhat. "How ... how did you get in here, may I ask?" he demanded.
George boosted himself away from the wall and sauntered indolently toward the bar. "None of your fat-necked henchmen dragged me in," he said.
The Justice's gavel wavered uncertainly a moment, then remained at rest. The Justice regarded it dolefully. Somehow, in the last few minutes it had lost some of its appeal.
"As someone seems to have remarked," the Justice observed sadly, "we now have two of them." He sighed deeply. "Will someone volunteer to tell the court which is which?"
"It's a trick!" the bank president yelled. "We have the one that was arrested in front of my bank." He pointed to Marc. "That's the one we want!"
The crowd seemed inclined to agree. Marc, so far, had provided them with a splendid target for their injured feelings, and they were loath to give him up ... even for a replacement that was like him in every detail. Besides, this newcomer seemed the type that would fight back.
"But," the Justice put in wearily, "there appears to be a margin of doubt in this whole business ... a mighty wide margin, too. The court must be fair. A positive identification must be established." He pinched the ridge of his nose for a moment, then glanced up hopefully. "Can anyone here point to either of these men and state positively that he is the miscreant?"
"I can!"
All eyes turned to one of the waitresses as she started forward. It was the young lady who had suffered the water cure at the hands of Toffee. She placed herself stolidly before the bar, sneered briefly at Toffee, then pointed to Marc.
"That's the one," she said positively. "That silly map of his is stenciled on my memory for the rest of my life. I saw it in a nightmare last night. There's something funny about his eyes, too. No mistake, your Honor. That's the bird that did the mischief."
"You lie in your nasty bucked teeth!" Toffee rasped.
The girl whirled on Toffee, her body tense with anger. "You keep your phony two-bits worth outa this, or I'll tell his Honor what you did. I'll never be right again because of you!"
At this his Honor seemed to pick up his ears. Here was a note of intrigue worthy of his personal attention.
"What did she do?" he asked in a hushed voice.
The girl beckoned with a stained finger and the Justice obligingly leaned down over the bench. Lip-to-ear, the waitress whispered at length, and as the narrative progressed the Justice's mouth formed a scandalized O.
"All the way down?" he asked when she had finished.
The girl nodded vigorously. "And it made me feel all...."
The Justice suddenly seemed to remember that he was presiding over a court rather than a ladies' tea. His features fixed themselves into an expression of severity. "I'm not sure you should divulge confidences of such a personal nature, young lady," he said, straightening up. "However, I can see your complaint."
"Anyone can see her complaint," Toffee commented dryly. "I guess she was just born that way."
"Silence!" the Justice snapped. "And besides, this sort of thing doesn't really get us anywhere." He turned to the waitress. "You're certain this is the man, are you? No doubt in your mind whatsoever?"
"None."
"She's lying!" Toffee cried. "Howcanshe be sure? They're just alike."
"Sure," George put in. "How can she be whenI'mnot so sure which of us is which. Maybe I am really he, for all I know."
"Eh?" The Justice's eyebrows seemed about to leave his face. "How's that?"
"I propose a test for the witness," George continued. "If you want a positive identification from her, why don't you let the two of us go out of the room for a moment, then return. If she can successfully pick out this gentleman over here, then we'll have to accept her testimony."
A look of deep confusion passed over the Justice's face. He turned to the waitress. "Is that a good idea?" he asked. "I'm so mixed up, I can't tell."
"Sure," the girl said. "Let 'em go. I'll pick out the right mug the minute they step through the door."
Nevertheless, something about the arrangement seemed to bother the Justice as Marc and George quickly removed themselves from the room. The minute the door closed after them, it struck him.
"Oh, my Lord!" he murmured. "Now we may never know which is which if that new one decides to double cross me. We may not even be able to tell which one was arrested outside the bank last night." He looked worriedly at the waitress. "The court's integrity is resting on you, my dear," he said.
"The court's integrity," Toffee put in, "is in one hell of a spot, in that case."
The corridor door swung open and Marc and George smilingly reappeared. Side by side, they presented themselves before the girl.
"Go ahead," the Justice urged. "Pick out the right man. Don't be nervous."
"Sure, your Honor." The girl winked broadly at her sisters-in-arms on the sidelines. "It's a cinch." She turned to the two men standing before her. Her hand went promptly toward the one on the right, and she looked back at the Justice. "That's the one, your...." Suddenly her voice faltered and trailed away into silence. She turned back to the men and her eyes darted crazily back and forth, from face to face.
"Oh, murder!" she murmured miserably. "Theyareboth alike! They both even have that dirty-minded look in their eyes." For a moment she gazed up at the Justice entreatingly, and slowly began to tremble under his venomous glare. Then, all in a rush, she turned and fled to her companions from the diner. Collapsing into their out-stretched arms, she began to sob loudly.
Once more a bleak stillness gripped the courtroom. Everyone seemed to hold his breath, as though afraid not to. The only moving things in the room were the Justice's eyes, which appeared to have gone dangerously out of control. Then, after a long moment, black robed shoulders were lifted to accommodate a tremendous sigh. The gavel darted into the air and came down against the stand with a blow that split it neatly in two.
"The case is dismissed!" the justice roared. "And this damned court is adjourned!" And hurling the gavel to the floor, he lifted his robes about his ample waist and stalked ceremoniously out of the room.
Through a stunned silence, Toffee rushed gleefully to Marc and George. Reaching them, she stopped and gazed bewilderedly from one to the other, rather duplicating the performance of the remorseful waitress. Then she threw her arms around the one on the left.
"You can't fool me, Marc," she sighed happily.
Immediately, arms closed around Toffee's waist and drew her closer. She drew back.
"Let me go, George!" she cried. "You're taking advantage of my mistake."
George released her. "How did you know?" he asked disappointedly.
"Don't be silly," Toffee laughed. "If Marc ever showed that much cooperation, I'd drop dead ... of sheer joy. I'd...."
"Holy smoke!" George broke in unexpectedly. He was looking fixedly at the clock on the opposite wall.
"What's wrong?" Marc asked.
"It's only five minutes to twelve," George replied uneasily. "My thirty-six hours are all but over. The High Council will be recalling me any minute now."
Meanwhile, the spectators had joined together in a general exodus. With a definite feeling of having been cheated, they were moving toward the doorway in a sullen, grumbling tangle. Some, however, were struggling toward Marc and his companions. These were reporters.
"Oh, Judas!" Marc cried. "If you fade out right here, where they can see you, we're cooked. Let's make a run for it!"
Together, the threesome made for the only available avenue of escape ... the door to the Justice's chambers. Reaching it, they slammed it after them and turned the lock. A second later the reporters also reached it and began to pound against it. The fugitives turned to inspect their surroundings. Apparently, the Justice had already gone in search of greener, more soothing pastures, for the walnut-paneled room was deserted. They exchanged congratulatory glances and joined together in a sigh of relief.
Toffee turned to the throbbing door. "Go way!" she yelled. "We're closed for alterations!"
George's eyes, though, were on the desk clock. Now, it was only three minutes to twelve. "Tell me," the spirit said hopefully, turning to Marc, "did I really help you out there in the courtroom?"
"You were sensational, old man," Marc said, feeling a sudden warmth for the ghost. "Couldn't possibly have seen it through without you."
"You aren't just saying that to be nice, are you? The Council will have ways of knowing your true feelings."
"I wouldn't lie to you, George."
George extended his hand, and grinned as Marc accepted it. "It's been fine knowing you," he said. Then he turned away. "You know," he continued foolishly, "I feel real sentimental."
Toffee crossed to the ghost and silently took his head in her hands. "This time it's no mistake, George," she said softly. And pulling his face level with her own, she kissed him well and soundly, full on the mouth.
"What a time to be leaving," George said regretfully when it was over.
And even as he said it, he began to fade.
"Goodbye, George, old boy," Marc said. "We won't soon forget you."
"No," Toffee seconded. "Not in a million years."
George was grinning as his face dissolved into thin air. The word "good-bye" whispered through the room, and for a moment seemed to coil warmly around Marc and Toffee, engulfing them in a tide of friendliness. Then it was gone.
"You know," Toffee said thoughtfully, "he really wasn't such a bad sort. I hope he makes out well with that High Council of his. They sounded awfully heavy-handed."
"If my feelings in the matter count for anything," Marc said, "he's a cinch."
During this tender passage the drumming had continued, unnoticed, on the door. But now that George had been seen off in proper style, the insistent reporters resumed their former place of pressing immediacy on the agenda.
"We've got to get out of here before they break that door in," Marc said.
"There's a side door," Toffee observed. "The Justice must have gone out that way."
"Good night!" Marc cried. "And the darned thing has been unlocked all this time. The reporters might have walked in on us at any minute. Well, let's get out before they do."
He walked to the door and reached for the knob, but he never quite completed the motion. Suddenly, the door burst open in his face, and its edge caught him squarely between the eyes. For a moment he rocked crazily back and forth, then he closed his eyes and crumpled to the floor.
The young reporter bounded into the room and stopped short. He could have sworn he'd seen the redhead when he'd first thrown the door open, but now she didn't seem to be there at all. He searched the room systematically and finally decided the girl had only been a trick of the imagination. Settling for second best, he turned his attention to Marc.
He looked at the unconscious man and frowned. There was something odd in the way the fellow's lips kept moving. Also, something odd in his expression. He seemed to be holding a whispered conversation with someone. The reporter dropped to his knees and lowered his ear to Marc's murmuring lips.
"No, no," Marc was saying. "No, Toffee! Stop wrapping your arms around my neck like that. What are you trying to do, throttle me? Can't we say good-bye without all that?" Then he made a strange whooshing noise as though a fist had been jabbed into the pit of his stomach. For a moment his expression was angered, then it slowly relaxed. "Goodbye," he whispered. "Goodbye."
The reporter sat up, deeply perplexed. If he had been expecting to overhear an inadvertent confession, he was sadly mistaken. He wasn't quite sure just what he had heard. It didn't seem to make sense.
It might have made a great deal of sense, however, if the reporter had only known of the valley of Marc's mind and the blue mists from which Toffee had come, and to which she was returning. If the young man had only known of these things, he might easily have written the most startling story of the year. As it was, though, he only shook his head, got to his feet, and went in search of water with which to revive Marc.
It was an apprehensive Marc that left the elevator and made his way slowly toward apartment 17-B. Since the sudden departures of George and Toffee a sobering reaction had set in and certain salient facts, relative to his financial and domestic status, had made themselves hatefully apparent. That George had managed to guide the courtroom fiasco to a satisfactory conclusion hadn't really resolved any problems other than those that he, George, had created himself. Otherwise, everything was just as unsettled as before. Probably more, by now. Marc sighed heavily and proceeded to the apartment door, where his ring was quickly answered by the diminutive maid, Marie.
Marie's distress was ill concealed. "Madam is most wretched," she said. "She awakened only a bit ago, and the papers seem to have upset her terribly. I took some breakfast to her, but.... Perhaps if you went to her now...."
Marc left Marie wringing her hands in the hallway. He knocked lightly on Julie's door and when he received no answer, went on in.
Julie, looking very small and miserable against a cloud of pillows, was lavishly salting a plate of scrambled eggs with a flood of tears. She was so absorbed in this undertaking that she didn't notice Marc until he sat down beside her on the edge of the bed. Immediately, she threw her arms around his neck, buried her face against his lapel and proceeded to soak it through.
"Oh, Marc!" she sobbed. "I feel like such a horrible mess. I could die! I didn't know until I read the papers. Why didn't you tell me? I thought we were rich!"
With his free hand, Marc reached out and plucked the paper from between the pillows. The article was easy to find since it was still damp around the edges. It was the review of "Love's Gone Winging."
"Marc Pillsworth," it said, "the big advertising man from whom the Broadway wiseacres were unanimously predicting a swift and unconditional trip into the unholy state of bankruptcy, last night proved himself to be the same shrewd businessman who raised the Pillsworth Advertising Agency from a pup several years ago. With last night's opening of "Love's Gone Winging," a musical, starring none other than Mrs. Pillsworth, herself, our hero has turned out to be the sole owner of the season's most lush theatrical gold mine. He laughs best, it appears, who has the inside info on Julie Pillsworth's extraordinary talents.
"Mrs. Pillsworth, appearing courageously under her own name, has proved herself a musical comedienne of no mean standing. It is true, of course, that during her first scene she appeared nervous and restrained, but that can be attributed to first night jitters, an occupational malady that is easily forgivable on the occasion of an opening night. The real story, however, was told after the first scene. Mrs. Pillsworth, having apparently found her footing with the audience, hit the footlights with a surging vengeance that reacted on the paying customers like an electric shock. After that, she carried the show, almost single-handed, to a raging finish that had the boys and girls out front cheering the house down.
"A new dancer, a redhead unfortunately not listed on the program, appeared briefly to set the stage afire with a routine that did not dwell on inhibitions. The young lady's unusual exit was an effect that...."
The paper fell from Marc's hand and sprawled out on the floor. He could hardly believe his eyes. He gently lifted Julie's face away from his sodden lapel.
"But that's wonderful!" he said excitedly. "You were a sensation!"
"I know," Julie said dejectedly, blinking back the tears. "That's just the trouble."
"What!"
Julie nodded. "The only reason I was any good, though, was just because I was so mad I didn't know what I was doing. I haven't an ounce of talent, really. I couldn't possibly give another performance like that, even if I had to."
"Oh," Marc murmured unhappily. "Then we're washed up after all."
"Oh, no!" Julie cried. "Linda Godfrey came backstage after the show and I talked her into taking over. She knows the songs already and she's stepping into my place tonight. The show will run forever with her in it."
Wonderful relief surged through Marc. "Then why all the weeping?"
The tears welled in Julie's eyes again. "I nearly ruined you. I badgered you into it, and you let me do it, you dope. I feel awful. I feel like a fraud, too. I'm not a star. I'm just an ex-chorus girl with delusions of grandeur."
"Nonsense," Marc said. "Youarea star. The paper says so. It's nothing to cry over, darling. Retiring like this, after a one night triumph, you'll be a Broadway legend. And on top of all that, you've steered me into one of the best investments I've ever made."
Julie blinked. Apparently she hadn't thought of it quite that way. A thoughtful smile played over her lips. "It does kind of add up that way, doesn't it?" she murmured. "Everything did turn out pretty well, didn't it?"
"Sure it did. So let's have no more of this crying. Why don't you put on your best clothes and go out and bask in your own glory, just for the thrill?"
Julie gazed up at him, and there were stars in her eyes. "You're so wonderful," she sighed. "You make everything seem so right. I wish I'd wakened you when I came in last night so we could have talked it over then. It would have saved me so much misery. But it was so late, and I felt so awful, I just didn't have the courage."
"Oh, that's all right," Marc said quickly. "Probably it was all for the...."
Suddenly he stiffened.
His gaze had wandered absently to the outspread newspaper on the floor, and a caption was shrieking up at him; "Marc Pillsworth and Unidentified Woman Jailed on Suspicion of Robbery!"
Marc's hand reached down and caught the paper in a strangle hold. Obviously, Julie hadn't bothered to look any further than the theatrical section, so, for the time being, he was still safe. He stuffed the paper under his coat and turned back to her. His throat was dry.
"Maybe you hadn't better go out after all," he said in a rush. "Maybe you'd better just stay right here, where you are. Don't get out of bed."
"What?"
"I was ... was thinking," Marc gasped. "You ... you must be awfully worn out after all those rehearsals and last night's per ... and everything. Maybe you should just stay here and rest for a few days. You know, complete rest ... no telephone calls and ... uh ... newspapers. Nothing to upset you."
Julie gazed at him questioningly for a moment, then she smiled. "Maybe you're right, dear," she said. "I do feel pretty tired at that." She reached out and patted his hand fondly. "You're so thoughtful. You do worry about me, don't you?"
Marc nodded uneasily, and gazed quickly out the window. He was feeling a little guilty.
But not very.
THE END