A low whistle generated from the vicinity of the dangling bottle at Marc's side. But Marc's own reaction was somewhat varied.
"Good night," he said. "Did youhaveto pick that? It's darned near the nakedest thing I've ever seen. It's indecent."
"Thanks," Toffee said sweetly. "I knew you'd like it." She fell into a languorous pose beside the door. "By the way, whatisthe nakedest thing you've ever seen? It might be interesting to know."
"You and your evil mind," Marc sneered. "Anyway, we haven't time for that. We've got to get out of here." He grabbed Toffee by the arm and shoved her toward the door at the rear of the office. "We can go down the fire escape, into the parking lot. Julie probably left the car there, and we'll need it."
Toffee continued to the door, opened it and passed through, holding her lacies daintily away from the floor. "I'll bet it wasn't the naked truth," she murmured reflectively.
On the summit, under the roseate glow of a pink-and-lavender sunset, it was even conceivable that life could be beautiful. Scented breezes played wantonly among the pines. Everything dwelt under a spell of hushed loveliness there. That was before the blue convertible charged onto the scene in a heavy cloud of dust and dark words.
The car seemed almost in the throes of a spasm. Appearing to paw the pavement with its tires like a live and avenging thing, it sighted the nearest pine and charged it headlong. Then, at the last possible moment, it veered in the opposite direction and transferred its attack to the guard rail on the far side of the road. Rushing to the brink, it peered momentarily into the canyon below, hastily reconsidered, and reeled back to safety, its tires screaming with fright. Then, its passions apparently expended, it came to a sudden, jolting halt. Everything was quiet, except for a loud hissing sound.
Marc's voice was shaken, but nonetheless sincere. "You ever do anything like that again," he said heavily, "and I'll wring your ectoplasmic neck. Now we've got a flat."
On the other side of the car, George, now fully materialized, sighed resignedly and leaned his head back against the cushions. "I don't see why you're making such a stink about it," he said drowsily. "Why don't you just try looking at this thing from my side for a change? After all, you've got to pop off sometime. Now, just one good twist of that wheel and everything would be over in a second. Splat!"
Marc winced as George's hands slapped together. The word "splat" was too descriptive. "Wouldn't you know it?" he lamented. "Wouldn't you know that my own ghost would turn out to be a homicidal drunk? Why can't you be satisfied with just ruining my life? Isn't that enough?"
George shrugged, and reaching for the bottle at his side, helped himself to a long drink. Winking at Toffee, who was seated between him and Marc, he burped and vanished completely. "My head aches," his voice came back dispassionately from space. And almost at once soft snoring began to issue from his side of the car.
"I shouldn't wonder his head aches," Toffee mused. "He's the most loaded spirit I've ever seen." She giggled. "A spirit full of spirits."
"This," Marc said sourly, "is no time to crack bum jokes." He opened the car door and stepped out onto the road. "I'll have to change that tire."
A moment later, business-like scrapings and clankings in the rear of the car announced that Marc had set to work. Toffee leaned back and gazed absently out of the window. There wasn't much to see, only a lot of trees and bushes. And everything, to her way of thinking, was entirely too quiet. For a time she toyed with the idea of rousing George, but finally decided against it.
Then there was a faint rustling sound and Toffee glanced up to see a man scurrying out of the bushes at the side of the road. He was old, except for his eyes, which were remarkably blue and clear, though rather eclipsed by two enormous shaggy eyebrows. The rest of his face was nothing more than a tangle of yellowish grey hair, for there was no telling where his hair left off and his beard began. His clothes were in such a state of disintegration as to make them unattractive to street urchins in sub-zero weather.
"Howdy," the old fellow rasped. He locked a bony hand over the edge of the car door and peered at Toffee nearsightedly.
"Howdy," Toffee replied, glad even for this diversion. "What can I do for you?"
"I was wonderin'," the old fellow said with sudden shyness, "if you'd like some squeezin'?"
Toffee started visibly. "Aren't you being a little direct?" she asked coolly. "Do I look like the sort that would be interested in your squeezings?"
"They're mighty good," the old fellow went on hopefully. "I'll let you have 'em at a bargain, too."
"What!" There was real shock in Toffee's voice. "You expect me to pay you for these ... ah ... squeezings, as you so quaintly call them?"
"Naturally," the old man nodded. "Can't give 'em away, you know."
"I should think not!" Toffee cried. "Not to me, you couldn't. I wouldn't have them if you paid me."
"I could give you a sample," the old fellow offered. His smile was starkly toothless.
Toffee edged quickly away. "No, thank you," she said loftily. "In fact, I'd really rather not hear any more about it. Why don't you just take your filthy-minded squeezings and slither back into the bushes where you came from? For my part, I'll just sit here and try to forget everything you've said."
"Well, okay," the old man said sadly, "but you don't know what you're missin'."
He started to turn away, but Toffee suddenly held out a restraining hand. It was too late now. She was already intrigued. Maybe there was something here she should know about. "Wait," she said, lowering her voice. "If you can tell me in a nice way, what's so terrific about these squeezings of yours?"
"They send you clean outa this world," the old man grinned. "Just a little bit, and you won't even know what hit you."
Toffee frowned. "It seems you could be a little more modest about it," she reproved. "Aren't you married?"
"Oh, Lord, yes," the old man sighed wearily.
"Doesn't your wife mind you running around, doing all this squeezing?"
"Naw. The old lady helps me."
"What!" Toffee looked horrified. "You mean she's mixed up in this squeezing business too!"
"Sure. Her and the whole family."
"Oh, my gosh!" Toffee moaned. "This is too much. I suppose it shows a nice enterprising spirit on the part of you and your family, but isn't it all a little hard to get used to?"
The old man shook his head. "Don't know why it should be," he mused. "You city people sure do get some strange notions in your heads."
"We don't hold a candle to you country people," Toffee retorted. "But I suppose, being up here alone and all, squeezings do begin to take on a certain importance after a while."
"That's right," the old man agreed. "They're mighty comfortin' on a cold night. Mighty nice when everyone's scrouged up around the fire."
"Scrouged up?" Toffee asked timidly. "You mean you have to be scrouged up for these squeezings?"
Marc suddenly appeared at the opposite window, wiping his hands on a rag with an air of finality. He regarded the old man mildly. "What can I do for you, old timer?" he asked.
"For heaven's sake!" Toffee cried imploringly. "Don't ask him!"
"What?" Marc stared at her questioningly.
"The old boy's as daffy as a snowball in July," Toffee whispered. "He's wild on the idea of going around squeezing people. He claims it's more darned fun. Says he has some sort of new technique or something where people get all scrouged up, whatever that means. He started harping about it the minute he got his nose out of those bushes. It's the worst thing I've ever listened to."
"I saw you folks stopped down here," the old man put in, "and I thought you might like some real mountain squeezin's. How about it, mister?"
"You see!" Toffee cried. "He's off on it again. Him and his squeezings! It's likely that if I have to listen to any more about either of them I'll be a gibbering idiot."
The old man looked distressed. "I think there's somethin' serious wrong with that gal," he told Marc regretfully. "I didn't want to tell her to her face, but she's too excitable. She got all skitterish just because I tried...."
"And who wouldn't get skitterish," Toffee snapped, "with old gophers leering out of the bushes, trying to squeeze them? It's enough to unbalance anyone."
"I didn't try to squeeze you, lady," the old man retorted with unexpected heat. "And I didn't leer neither."
Anger suddenly flared in Toffee's green eyes. "Don't you try to deny it, you old hayseed!" she yelled. "I remember every word you said."
Marc rushed into the breach. "Stop this wrangling," he commanded. "Let's get to the bottom of this thing." He turned to the old man. "Did you or did you not try to ... ah ... squeeze this young lady?"
"At my age?" the old man asked forlornly. "What do you think? I just came down here to sell you folks some corn squeezin's. I didn't know it was goin' to make all this trouble. Now I just want to forget the whole thing and go away. I think I'll go into the hog business."
"Corn squeezings?" Marc asked. "What's that?"
"It's a kind of likker," the old man said uninterestedly, as though it really didn't matter any more. "I make it myself. I got a still up yonder on the mountain. Right now I'm goin' up there and lay into the damn thing with a sledge hammer."
"Oh," Toffee breathed embarrassedly. "So that's all it was!" She reached a hand to Marc's sleeve. "Maybe we ought to buy some of his ..." she shied away from the word, "that stuff. Just to make it up to him. It seems the least we can do."
Marc nodded and turned to the old man. "Don't take it so hard, old timer," he said sympathetically. "You just made a sale the hard way."
It was some time before Marc and Toffee emerged from the woods and started down the hill toward the car. Leaving the shadows of the great pines, they stepped into a path of shimmering bright moonlight. Over one shoulder, Marc carried an old-fashioned jug, and his face had rather a wooden look about it, though it was set in a blissful smile. Toffee moved loose-jointedly along at his side, softly singing a song about a girl named Lil who had suffered a rather devastating fall from grace at a shockingly early age. They moved lightly and silently down the hillside like a pair of enchanted shadows. It was just as they were approaching the car that Marc suddenly stopped and grasped Toffee's arm.
"You hear voices?" he whispered thickly.
Toffee leaned forward in a listening attitude. "I think so," she said, "but they may be in my head." She leaned forward again, and after a moment, nodded vigorously. A voice that sounded like a bucksaw drawn across a block of cement was coming from somewhere on the other side of the car.
"I looked everywhere, Marge," it said, "but I ain't seen nothin'."
"But Ihearit," a feminine voice replied. "It sounded like it's somewhere inside the car."
The woman's voice was the perfect mate to the one that had spoken first; it was as husky as an acre of Iowa corn.
"It's the most gruesome thing I've ever heard," the first voice continued. "What'll we do?"
"Look again. Whatever it is, it must be sufferin' somethin' awful."
The golden beam of a flashlight suddenly stretched out over the hood of the car, then moved back swiftly toward the interior. Marc started forward. "Company," he murmured happily. Then he called out; "Hello, there!"
Two startled faces instantly appeared over the top of the car. They were quite distinct in the bright moonlight. One was large and hard looking, like a product of Bethlehem Steel. The other was small, but all the worse for hard wear. Surrounded by a mop of gauzy blond hair, its makeup had been ladled on by a hand that was more lavish than loving. The owner of the large, hard head was the first to speak.
"Where did you come from?" he asked.
"From heaven," Marc answered inanely. "That's what my folks said."
"Holy smoke!" the man said, turning to his companion. "Marge! Look at that dame! She aint got nothin' on but a bunch of holes and a lot of skin!"
"Watch your temperature, Pete," Marge replied menacingly. "Remember what happened when I caught you with that blonde in Des Moines?"
Pete was immediately subdued. He fastened his eyes on Marc and carefully kept them there. By this time Marc and Toffee had reached the car and were moving toward the newcomers. The pair with the flashlight seemed to regard them with suspicion.
"You hillbillies?" the man named Pete asked. It was the forlorn conversational effort of a subnormal personality.
"Hah!" It was Marge who spoke up. "Just look at that dame, Pete. Does she make you think of hillbillies?"
"She makes me think of a lot of things," Pete answered promptly.
"Look, sister," Marge said, turning to Toffee. "You better clear outa here. You and me, we're goin' to tangle if you don't."
"Just because the boy shows a little good taste?" Toffee asked archly.
"He's got taste," Marge retorted, "like a mouth full of quinine."
"That must be why he got mixed up with you," Toffee said sweetly. "I understand there are things written on washroom walls about dames like you."
Marge made a small snarling noise, then lunged toward Toffee. "Oh, what a fresh babe!" she screamed. "I oughta belt you one. We'll just see how smart you are. I'll rip that sleezy dress right offa your back!"
Toffee ducked quickly behind Marc. "You rip off this dress," she giggled, "and you'll see a whale of a lot more than how smart I am."
That one stopped Marge cold. A naked redhead was bound to create more of a disturbance in Pete's life than just a fresh one dressed in lace. She was forced to content herself with only a murderous glare, but she put her all into it.
Marc, who had been watching these developments with an air of detached amusement, stepped forward, removing Toffee's protection. "You're all upset," he said to Marge, lowering the jug from his shoulder. "Have some squeezin's."
"Say," Marge drawled in a voice that was not altogether displeased, "are you tryin' to make a pass at me?"
"It's liquor," Marc answered amiably. "It hits the spot."
"Oh." Marge accepted the jug, tilted it and took a long, accomplished swallow. "Wow!" she gasped. "That stuff not only hits the spot, mister, it completely demolishes it. I bet my breath is radioactive."
Marc took the jug from her and turned it over to Pete, who drank from it deeply, without so much as a tremor. When the jug was returned, Marc put it on the ground. "Say," he said, "you two were looking for something when we came along. Can we help? What was it?"
"The owner of this here car," Pete said. "We can hear him snorin' in there, but I'm damned if we can find him."
"I told you," Marge put in argumentatively. "That ain't nothin' human that's makin' that noise. Leastways, it ain't nothin' that would own a car."
"You're nuts," Pete retorted. "That's somebody sleepin' in there."
For a moment they paused and listened. George's snoring was swiftly building to a stirring crescendo. It sounded like a sawmill in mid-season.
"Oh, that!" Marc laughed. "That's George. He's my ... uh ... my dog. I keep him locked in the back."
"You mean this here is yore car?" Pete asked.
"Sure," Marc patted the car fondly. "All mine."
Pete glanced at Marge. "Shall we do it?"
"Yeah," Marge said, helping herself to the jug. "We ain't got all night."
Marc and Toffee watched interestedly as Pete wedged an immense hand into his coat pocket and set it into a complicated series of fumbling motions. Presently, the hand seemed to locate what it was searching for and emerged once more into the bright moon light. It was holding a gun.
"Put up your hands," Pete growled, "before I blow your heads off." Then he glanced at Marge uncertainly. "Is that right?" he asked.
The blonde nodded. "You could put more guts into it, maybe, but it'll do in this case."
Pete nodded with satisfaction and turned back to Marc. "Will you give me the keys to this here car, please?" he asked politely. "Me and Marge, here, are goin' to steal it, if it's all the same to you."
"Oh, for the love of Mike!" Marge snorted disgustedly. "Now you've went and messed it all up. Don't be so polite. How many times do I have to tell you? And don't ever say please. Tell 'em to hand over the keys and no funny business. Make it sound professional. When you're snatchin' a valuable article like a car, the victim's entitled to a first class hold-up with plenty of rough talk. Please, he says! What're people gonna think?"
Pete grinned at Marc apologetically. "Marge is coachin' me," he said. "She's learnin' me the profession. Only I'm kinda dumb. I always louse up."
"Oh, I don't know," Toffee put in kindly. "I don't think you were so bad. I think a bit of politeness in a stick-up lends a refreshing new note. It's original."
"See, Marge!" Pete said triumphantly. "Did you hear? I'm original."
"You're the original dope," Marge snapped. "I don't care what she says, we're stickin' to standard methods. If they were good enough for my old lady, they're good enough for me. Now get them keys, and let's blow."
For a moment Pete looked crestfallen. "Sometimes," he murmured, "I wish I was just a juvenile delinquent again." Then, with a sigh, he jammed the gun into Marc's ribs. "Hand over them keys, buddy," he snarled. "And no funny business, see?"
Marc turned unconcernedly to Marge. "I like the other way better too," he said. "It's got more class."
"Who's runnin' this stick-up?" Marge said angrily. "Do I tell you your business? This is what I get for messin' with amateurs."
"Aw, Marge," Pete pleaded. "You ought'n to talk like that. I'm tryin' hard to do like you tell me."
"Sure," Toffee broke in. "Anyone can see he's sincere, and that's the important thing. Anyone who's sincere is bound to get ahead. You'll be proud of Pete someday. He may get to Sing Sing before you do, yourself."
"You stay out of this," Marge rasped, nearly at the end of her rope. "He's my boy friend, and I'll train him my way."
"What do you want the car for?" Marc asked, brushing Pete's gun gently away from his side. "Do you really need it, or are you just practicing?"
"We need the thing," Marge said wearily, tears of bitter humiliation beginning to well in her eyes. "We were makin' a getaway, our heap broke down about a mile back. We gotta get outa here, mister. Honest. Now, won't you please cooperate and let Pete stick you up?"
"Sure," Marc said agreeably. "Stick me up, Pete."
"What about us?" Toffee asked suddenly. "We need the car too."
"Yeah," Pete said, gesturing at Marge with his gun. "What about them?"
Marge threw her hand up in a gesture of despair. "That rips it!" she wailed. "I don't care what about anything anymore. You're all nuts ... or drunk ... or both." She sat down heavily on the running board and cupped her chin dejectedly in her hands. "Things have sure gone all to hell!"
A thoughtful silence fell over the little group for a time. Marc was the first to speak. "I tell you what," he said brightly. "We'll all go together. Toffee and I were only looking for a place to stay. You two come along with us, and when we find a place we like, you can stick us up all over again and steal the car. How's that?"
Pete smiled hopefully at Marge. "Yeah, Marge," he said. "That's fair, ain't it? And on the way you could coach me some more so's I'll do it right, the way you want it. I'll really stick 'em up this time, too. I'll scare hell outa 'em."
"Oh, all right," Marge said resignedly. "But if I wake up in a padded cell tomorrow, I ain't even goin' to ask how I got there."
Silently, the little party arranged itself in the car. Marge followed Pete into the back seat, scowling sullenly. Hugging the jug to her, Toffee slid across the front seat to make room for Marc behind the wheel. As she did so, the snoring, that had grown in intensity, was suddenly interrupted by a loud snort.
"If that was my dog," Marge said bitterly, "I'd strangle the beast."
When Marc turned off the ignition, the convertible seemed to sigh with relief ... so did the occupants of the back seat. Otherwise, everything was quiet. George's snoring had stopped completely some minutes before.
"Oh, Moses!" Marge murmured faintly. "Now, when they say death rides the highways, I'll know who they're talkin' about." She tugged at Pete's sleeve. "And did you see that jug floatin' around up there all by itself?"
"You're just excited, Marge," Pete told her soothingly. "You didn't see nothin' like that." He turned to Marc pleadingly. "She didn't see no jug floatin' around up there, did she, mister?"
But Marc didn't answer. He and Toffee were concerned with a light glowing through the pines just a few yards away from the road. Finally, Marc opened the door and got out of the car.
"I can't tell what it is," he said, "but I'll see if they can put us up for the night." He moved away in the direction of the glowing light.
It was several minutes later when Marc, followed by a balding little relic of a day gone by, retraced his steps through the open door and stepped onto the antiquated veranda of Sunnygarden Lodge, "A Haven For The Weary."
"You needn't come along," he said uneasily to the little man. "My friends are waiting in the car. I can get them myself."
"Oh, but I insist!" the little fellow piped in a managerial voice. "I always greet each and every guest of Sunnygarden Lodge personally. I just wouldn't forgive myself if they came in without a personal welcome."
Marc hurried down the steps as though trying to lose the little manager. "My friends won't mind if you don't welcome them," he said. "They won't care at all. In fact, I'm sure they'd rather you wouldn't bother."
"Tut, tut!" The manager clung doggedly to Marc's side. "I like to know my guests. I take it as a sort of responsibility. As a rule, my guests are rather elderly and come regularly for the quiet. I like to make sure that any newcomers are ... uh ... well, compatible. Courtesy of the house, you know."
Reaching the drive, Marc started energetically down its center, hoping the manager would tire of the pace and drop out. But falling into a sort of jittery dog-trot, the fellow tagged persistently along. It was just as they were rounding the first curve by the corner of the lodge that the blast of the horn suddenly shattered the stillness, and the blue convertible bounded into sight. Headlight beams searched wildly through the pines for a second, then fell to the graveled drive and stabbed forward.
Marc and the manager stood transfixed as the car bore down upon them. Then, just in time, Marc reached out, hugged the little man to him, and leaped to the safety of the lawn. The car raced past in a flash, but not so fast that it did not disclose several disconcerting facts, not the least of which was the empty space in the driver's seat. Apparently driverless, the car streaked by, the wail of its horn horribly augmented by terrified shrieks from the back seat. In startling contrast to all this, Toffee leaned gaily out of the window, opposite the wheel, and blew Marc a hurried kiss. Coming abreast of the veranda a split second later, the car came to a sudden, jarring stop, spitting gravel to the winds like rice at a wedding. A final blast from the horn announced the completion of these demented operations, and everything suddenly fell into a deep, throbbing silence.
"Oh, my heavens!" the little manager gasped. "Oh!"
"I ... I can't imagine what happened," Marc faltered lamely.
"I don't think my guests will like this," the manager said reprovingly.
Together, Marc and the manager made their way back to the veranda. The door, on Toffee's side of the car, was just starting to open, and Marc made a dash for it. Arriving just as Toffee placed the first slender foot on the drive, he reached inside the car, drew out a plaid lap robe and draped it over her like a piece of wet wash.
"Hey!" Toffee cried. "What's the big idea?"
Marc turned and smiled wanly at the manager who was now standing on the lodge steps. Looking back at Toffee, his smile faded. "I wanted to be sure you wouldn't catch cold," he hissed. "Now, keep it on."
Marge's voice sounded weakly behind them. "Outa my way," she whimpered, fairly crawling from the car. Like the survivor of the wreck, she stumbled forward a few steps and turned baleful eyes toward the manager. "Shove a stretcher under me, pops," she gasped. "I think I'm going to pass out."
The words of welcome that had been determinedly forming on the manager's lips froze there like an epitaph in granite. Then they vanished altogether at the sudden appearance of Pete. The big man lumbered blindly out of the car, his momentum carrying him half up to the steps of the lodge. Then he whirled abruptly, sat down, and put his head in his hands.
"It ain't worth it," he mourned. "I'm going straight."
"Aren't you going to steal the car?" Toffee asked disappointedly.
Marge looked up ruefully. "Wild horses couldn't drag me back into that car," she said.
Meanwhile, Marc, staring inside the car, had stiffened in an attitude of panic-stricken fascination. The jug, that had been resting on the seat, had suddenly jumped into the air and was floating lightly out, through the opposite door. It wasn't until it had jauntily traversed the entire front half of the car and started to emerge around the edge of the right fender that the horrible possibilities of the situation suddenly bore down on Marc and pressed him into action. Leaping forward, he grasped the jug around the base and tugged at it. Hearing a gasp behind him, he glanced back over his shoulder and discovered that everyone, and especially the manager, was watching him with consuming interest. He grinned sheepishly and turned back to the matter of the jug.
With a defiant gurgle the jug immediately started to put up a fight. Shooting out of his hands like a live thing, it darted coyly behind him. He whirled and caught hold of it, just as it started to slip out of reach.
"Give me that thing," he rasped.
"You're always so greedy," George's voice came back. "If you want a drink so bad, why don't you just ask for it like a gentleman?"
"Good heavens!" the manager exclaimed from the steps. "Is he actually arguing with that thing?"
Marc wrenched the jug free and clutched it firmly to his side. "I lost my balance," he said self-consciously. "Gravel's slippery."
"Is it?" the manager asked coolly. He cleared his throat with an effort. "Well, if we're all ready, we'll go inside, shall we?" He glanced back at Marc disapprovingly. "Our guests," he added warningly, "do very little drinking here."
Marc awoke and instantly regretted it. Horrible memories of the previous day's events trampled each other in a rush for his attention. His head ached and his feet felt oddly heavy and immovable. He groaned and propped himself forward with his hands, then he groaned again. No wonder his feet felt heavy. Toffee was sitting on his ankles.
"I don't know how just one man can look so awful," she said lightly. "I should think it would take at least two ... maybe three."
"What're you doing here?" Marc asked thickly. "Go 'way."
"And a happy good morning to you, too." Toffee slid quickly toward him and brushed cool lips across his forehead. "You scare me," she laughed. Then, suddenly quitting him, she moved across the room to consider herself critically in the bureau mirror. "I don't know why you went to the trouble of getting me a room of my own," she murmured, running her fingers lightly through her hair. "You know very well I wouldn't get any use of it. I can stay materialized only when I'm projected through your consciousness. When you go to sleep, I have to return to your subconscious until you wake up."
"Haven't you ever heard of decency?" Marc asked.
Toffee nodded. "I've heard talk of it. But nothing interesting."
Marc shook his head sadly. "Where are George and those two criminal types we picked up last night?"
"How should I know?" Toffee shrugged. "Probably downstairs, stuffing themselves at your expense. That's what I'd be doing. It's nearly ten o'clock."
"Holy smoke!" Marc cried. "Is it that late? You mean those maniacs are probably running around loose down there?" He swung his long legs out over the edge of the bed. "Get out of here so I can dress."
Toffee started slowly toward the door. "Puritan," she said chidingly.
Marc looked up, startled. In day-light, in the lace dress, Toffee's exquisite body seemed merely to be passing through a lightly shaded bower, completely unclothed. Clutching a sheet to him, he jumped up, pulled a scarf from a nearby table and threw it to her. "Here!" he called. "Put that on!"
Catching the scarf, Toffee held it out full length. "It's not big enough to do much good, is it?" she asked innocently.
"Use it strategically!" Marc sighed, "where it will do the most good."
Draping the scarf lightly over her shoulders, Toffee left the room.
Only minutes later, still needing a shave, Marc joined Toffee in the hallway. Together, they hurried downstairs and made their way directly to the dining room. Toffee had guessed right. Across the room, at a corner table, were George, Marge and Pete. Of the three, George was the only one facing in their direction and he was so busy talking he didn't notice them.
George had done a good job of materializing ... except for one little detail. His trouser legs terminated in two gaping holes. One leg crossed jauntily over the other, he was nonexistent from the ankles down. The explanation for this oversight probably lay in the jug nestled next to the leg of his chair.
In a chair that was almost back-to-back with George's, a little white-haired lady was nearly twisting her frail neck double in an effort to have a better view of George's footless legs. Passing a trembling hand over her eyes, she shuddered with horror and finally turned away. Across the table from her, her elderly male companion cast her a questioning glance, but she ignored it and stared determinedly out the window. Her thin, colorless lips were silently forming the words: "I won't. I won't. Iwon'tlook again!"
It was apparent at a glance that the entire clientele of Sunnygarden Lodge hovered dangerously close to the grave. Wheel chairs, crutches, and ear aids were much in evidence in the hushed funereal atmosphere of the dining room that was only occasionally interrupted by the inadvertent clatter of a slipping denture. In contrast, however, a lively, greying woman in a comic-opera gypsy costume moved from table to table, at the far end of the room, with hateful persistence, like a bee searching for honey in a cluster of toadstools.
Toffee nudged Marc and pointed to the woman. "What's that?" she asked.
"A fortune teller," Marc said absently. "They always have them in dumps like this. They're considered quaint by the older set. She generalizes about your future at a buck a throw."
He started across the room, and Toffee followed. As they drew near the table in the corner, George suddenly glanced up for the first time and saw them. Blanching, he hurriedly handed Pete a piece of paper, then got quickly up from his chair and started away. By the time Marc and Toffee reached the table, he had passed behind a dusty potted palm and melted away like a cloud of smoke in a heavy gale.
Marge started as she looked up and saw Marc standing beside her. "How did you getthere?" she asked. Her hand, that had been stretched out toward a dark object lying opposite her, on the table, darted back guiltily. Marc glanced down and recognized his own wallet.
"How did that get here?" he asked.
"You left it just now," Marge said confusedly. "I thought I'd better look after it while you were away."
Marc picked up the wallet and opened it. Two hundred dollars in bills were missing, but three hundred dollars and several checks remained. Obviously, George had lifted the wallet sometime during the night. But what could he possibly find to do with two hundred dollars in a place like Sunnygarden Lodge? Marc couldn't imagine. The matter would have to wait until George decided to reappear again. Helping Toffee into a chair, Marc seated himself in the place that had been George's.
Resting her elbows on the table, Toffee cupped her chin demurely in her hand and leveled an accusing gaze on Marge. "Having a little larceny for breakfast, dear?" she asked.
"Don't get smart," Marge mumbled. "I'm goin' straight."
"To where?"
"Say! I oughta chop you off at the pockets for a crack like that. You ain't no angel yourself. Why, if you ever showed up around headquarters in that dress you're wearin', they'd throw the book at you."
"Which book is that?" Toffee asked with genuine interest.
"Huh?" Marge said.
"The book they're going to throw at me. Which one is it?"
"Yeah, Marge," Pete put in from across the table. "Which book is that?"
"How should I know which book!" Marge cried with sudden confusion. "Any one that's handy, I suppose. I don't care if they throw the whole library at her. I wish they would."
"Now," Toffee said thoughtfully, "if this book was 'Forever Amber'...."
"Skip it!" Marge cried distractedly. "For the love of heaven, skip it, can't you? I'm sorry I brought it up."
"You should be," Toffee said sternly. "Besides, flinging books about seems a very loose way of upholding the law. I don't think you know what you're talking about."
Marge winced, completely demoralized. Across the table, Pete dug an affable elbow into Marc's ribs.
"You're plenty smart, Mr. Pillsworth," he said. "That business about the note is the nuts." He tapped his coat pocket. "It leaves Marge and me in the clear. Of course, I think the whole deal is kinda loopy, but if that's the way you want it...." He shrugged his beefy shoulders significantly.
For a moment Marc was completely mystified ... but only for a moment. Plainly, Pete was confusing him with George. The best thing, in that case, was probably just to string along with the gag and find out what was going on ... what kind of a "deal" George had made.
"Let's see the note," he said, holding out his hand.
"What for?" Pete wanted to know. "You give it to me to keep."
"I want to make a correction," Marc said quickly.
A crafty look came into Pete's eyes. "Say, you ain't tryin' to back out, are you? You said I wasn't to let you, if you did. Remember?"
Things, Marc could see, were going to take a bit of doing. Perhaps a little firmness.... "Give me that note," he ordered.
"In front of her?" Pete nodded toward Toffee. "You wouldn't want her to know about it. It'd shock her somethin' awful. You wanted this all secret."
Marc decided to drop the matter. Anything that would shock Toffee's rawhide sensitivities was better left in the dim regions of Pete's pocket ... for the time being, anyway. Uneasy thoughts of blackmail coursed quietly through his mind.
Pushing her chair back, Marge got to her feet. "Come on, Pete," she said. "Let's get outa here and get some fresh air."
"You ain't finished breakfast yet," Pete reminded her.
"All of a sudden I got sour stomach." She glanced meaningfully at Toffee.
Together, the two of them left the table and moved across the dining room, to the door leading onto the veranda. Marc stared worriedly after them.
"Don't look so glum," Toffee said gently, reaching out to pat his hand. "You still love me, you know, no matter what happens."
"I don't deserve you," Marc said sadly. "I've never been that mean."
It was then that he caught sight of the jug. It had begun to behave very strangely in the last few seconds. Surreptitiously, it was inching away from his chair like a footless penguin.
"So you're back, are you?" Marc said addressing the ambling jug.
The jug came to a guilty halt. "Uh-huh," George's voice said quietly.
"What have you been up to behind my back? What's this deal with Pete?"
"Nothing ... much."
"You sit down," Marc commanded irritably, "and materialize. I want to tell you what I think of you right to your treacherous face."
The jug swooped over to the chair that Pete had just left and settled on the floor. The chair moved briefly out from the table, then back again. Slowly, George came into view, looking very sheepish. That no one besides Marc and Toffee seemed to notice this singular occurrence was probably due to the failing eyesight of the other guests of Sunnygarden Lodge.
Marc leveled a tense finger at George's nose. His lips parted angrily, but he didn't speak. An alien hand had suddenly closed over his own. He looked up to find the decrepit gypsy standing beside him. She was bent over his hand, staring at it myopically.
"You," she said in heavy, theatrical tones, "are destined to live a long and happy life. It is written in your hand."
Toffee looked on these proceedings with high disapproval. "You quit holding his hand, you old moll," she put in heatedly, "or your life won't be worth living."
The woman looked up in alarm. "Alright, dearie," she said, dropping Marc's hand. "No harm done." She tottered briskly away from the table.
Not to be deterred by this interruption, Marc leveled his finger back at George's nose. "Now, listen, you ..." he began. But there he stopped.
A strange expression had come into George's face and he was beginning to look a little ill. He glanced uneasily around the room, then swallowed ... hard. For a moment he looked like he was going to speak, but all of a sudden there was a sharp popping sound, like a blown fuse, and he instantly vanished. In the same moment, the jug beside his chair began to tremble violently, then, astonishingly, leaped about a foot into the air, as though seized with a fit of anger. It lingered there, undecidedly suspended for a moment, then suddenly crashed to the floor, sending shattered crockery and liquid fanning out in a messy arc. Marc and Toffee stared at the wreckage as the little white-haired lady, who had found George's feet so fascinating, suddenly started from her chair.
"I can't stand it another minute!" she whimpered. "I must see! Imust!" And whirling around to face Marc she stared at him wretchedly for an intensely silent moment. Then, with a quick movement, she reached quickly down beneath the table and started tugging at the legs of his trousers.
Marc was instantly on his feet. "Lady!" he yelped in surprise. "What a thing to do! Let go of my pants!"
"Yes," Toffee put in excitedly, rising from her chair. "You should have given up ideas like that long ago!"
The little woman hesitated in her activities, seeming to realize for the first time what she was doing. And, clearly, it shocked her even more than Marc or Toffee. With an agonized upward glance at Marc, she made an unintelligible sound, turned chalk white and slumped to the floor in a dead faint.
At this point the situation might have straightened itself out. It might have, that is, if the woman had only thought to release her hold on Marc's trouser legs. But she hadn't. Falling back, she dragged Marc's balance after her. Clawing the air in a sort of breast stroke, Marc crashed to the floor, and sprawled out full length.
At this, the woman's male companion, who had been watching these proceedings through a nearsighted haze, shot from his chair like an avenging angel. "He attacked my wife!" the little man screamed. "The fiend! I seen him! He attacked my old lady!"
The quiet atmosphere in the dining room suddenly gave way to riot. The patrons of the lodge were magically transformed into a league of formidable warriors ... no longer the slowly disintegrating remnants that they had first appeared to be. Summoning hidden vigor, from heaven only knew what source, they rose as a body and swarmed toward the scene of outrage. One of their number had been attacked and they were plainly not to be found wanting. Crutches, ear trumpets and miscellaneous silverware were instantly pressed into service in lieu of weapons. One old gentleman, racing his wheel-chair at break-neck speed, hurled himself into the fray with all the proud spirit of a knight astride a charger. Other ancient enlistees, in their near-sightedness, promptly engaged each other in ferocious battle, no questions asked. Crockery flew in all directions and crashed unheeded against the walls. The orderly dining room was reduced to a raging ruin in only a matter of seconds.
At the first signs of hostilities, Toffee had jumped to Marc's defense. It was her thought that the whole thing could be prevented with a few pertinent words of explanation. But no sooner had she opened her mouth than the arm rest of a crutch caught her rudely under the chin and pinned her against the wall, silent and helpless. Her captor was a wild-eyed little lady in subdued lavender.
"Hussy!" the little woman screamed. "Runnin' around with fiends! You're just as bad as the company you keep. Don't you dast open your painted mouth to me!"
Somehow, Marc, by this time, had managed to stagger to his feet. Seeing Toffee's predicament, he started toward her, but was cut off by his howling tormentors. Wildly, he swung about in the opposite direction. Then he stopped short. For an instant his gaze had swept over the open door leading onto the veranda. Coming up the steps, and losing no time about it, were Julie and Dr. Polk.
Marc whirled back toward the door. "Julie," he screamed.
Julie glanced frightenedly toward the scene of chaos. But Marc never saw her face, for at that same moment a warming dish, complete with heavy metal cover, came down thunderously over his head. Poached eggs were streaming into his eyes as he pitched toward the floor, but he wasn't aware of them. Everything had already gone pitch black.
The little lady in lavender started forward a bit as the crutch gave under her hand and jolted against the wall. She stared quizzically at the wall. Then, dropping the crutch, she removed her glasses and wiped them vigorously with a delicate lace handkerchief. Replacing the glasses carefully, she stared at the wall again.
"Well, I'll be blessed," she murmured. "I could have sworn I had that little harpy all the time."
Toffee had vanished into thin air.
A tiny bubble of awareness rose through the blackness of Marc's mind, reached the surface and exploded with a flash of light. It was immediately followed by another ... then two ... and three ... and a score. Marc stirred and opened his eyes. His vision was pulsing and dim. Objects leaped into view, then disappeared. A chair, a table, a door, a window with the blind mostly drawn. His hands fell against softness and he knew he was lying on a bed. He rolled over. The motion must have had a clearing effect on his head, for the objects were suddenly more distinct and remained in focus longer. A seated figure swam into view very close by. For a moment it hovered over him, then faded, vanished, reappeared and remained. It was Dr. Polk.
The doctor's precise features arranged themselves into a sparse smile. "Well, my boy," he said. "How are you feeling?"
"I ... I don't know," Marc faltered. "How did you find me here?"
"We gave the police the license number on your car as soon as you ran off yesterday," the doctor answered. "They didn't have much trouble locating you." He smiled sadly. "You've been a rather naughty boy. They tell me you've taken to beating old ladies."
"No," Marc murmured. "A mistake ... it was a mistake."
"Yes, yes," the doctor patronized. "But we must face things as they really are, my boy. It's the only way out, you know. Something has upset you badly, but everything can be set right again if we can get to the root of the trouble. You must be pronounced well again, you know, if you're to go to court against Mrs. Pillsworth. We'll have to re-establish your legal status."
"What!" Marc didn't know where the strength came from but he was suddenly sitting up. "Get out of here! I'll stay nutty the rest of my life if that's the way the wind is blowing." He fell back, exhausted, but he was beginning to feel better. Stronger, anyway.
"Now, you must be reasonable," the doctor went on, undisturbed. "You wouldn't want to be put away in an institution, would you?"
Marc shook his head. It was the truth; he wouldn't.
"Then you must help me to help you. First of all, I want you to go back in memory to your childhood, and tell me anything, everything that comes to mind. Just close your eyes and think back. Start with your earliest memory."
Marc glared at the doctor for a moment, then resignedly closed his eyes. There was a long period of silence. Finally, he said, "The first I remember is the night I was born."
"What!" the doctor's voice was excited.
"Yes. I recall that someone gave me a pair of soft blue booties."
"Yes, go on!"
"I used them," Marc said flatly, "to beat the doctor's brains out." He opened his eyes and boosted himself forward. "How's that for a memory?"
But the doctor wasn't listening. In fact, he wasn't even looking at Marc. Instead, his gaze was fastened in horrified wonder on the bureau across the room. A shudder crept through his thin body, and he turned away, one slender hand pressed firmly to his eyes.
The reason for the doctor's distress was instantly apparent; Toffee had materialized. Seated pertly atop the bureau, one perfect leg crossed seductively over the other, she was truly a vision from another world. There was something statuesque and unnatural in her pose. But when Marc looked at her, she came momentarily to life. Quickly, she raised one tapering finger to her lips, then shook her head. That was all. Immediately, she resumed the mannikin pose and held it rigidly. Marc nodded and slumped back on the bed.
"Well, doc," he said brightly, "what do you think of my childhood?"
The doctor drew his hand away from his eyes and stared at Marc stupidly: "Your childhood?" he asked bemusedly. "I ... I ... think ..." He glanced quickly over his shoulder at the bureau and shuddered again. "Tell ... tell me," he faltered. "What do you see on that bureau over there?"
With elaborate deliberation, Marc raised himself and squinted at the bureau. "A Gideon bible," he said pleasantly. "That's all I see."
The doctor's face turned ash grey. "Been working too hard," he muttered. "Got to ... to ... to take a rest." He turned misery-ridden eyes on Marc. "You'll have to excuse me. We will continue ... later ... maybe."
He got unsteadily to his feet and moved slowly toward the door. Reaching it, he stretched his hand toward the knob, then withdrew it. Clearly, the good doctor was struggling against some inner conflict. Suddenly, with a determined lift of his chin, he turned and gazed squarely at the bureau. It was a grave mistake.
It wasn't so much that Toffee met the doctor's gaze unblinkingly. The real damage was done when she smiled and winked at him. That was too much. With a cry of purest despair, the doctor pivoted, threw open the door and bolted into the hall. A second later his footsteps echoed on the stairs with machinegun rapidity.
Marc swung himself off the bed and impulsively crossed to Toffee and kissed her on the cheek. "You were wonderful," he said. "You certainly stewed his prunes."
Toffee leaned back and giggled. "You only say that," she murmured, "just because I'm gorgeous. I wonder if Julie ever found...."
"Julie!" Marc's eyes were panic-stricken.
Perhaps Julie was a bit high tempered at times, but she was still his wife. It seemed, now, that he had been caught in a raging flood of madness and Julie was the rock of reality to which he must cling at all costs. Whirling away from Toffee, he raced toward the door.
When Marc reached the foyer of the lodge, he was surprised to find it completely deserted, except for the little manager. Astonishingly, at the sight of Marc, the fellow clasped his hands ecstatically before him and ran to meet him. "Oh, Mr. Pillsworth!" he cried. "You don't know what you've done! You just simply don'tknow! You've absolutely rejuvenated my guests with that little riot of yours. They all said they didn't know when they felt so young. They've all gone out in the woods for a picnic ... with beer! They took up a collection for the damage in the dining room, and...."
Marc wasn't listening. "Where's my wife?" he asked. "Where's Julie?"
"The pretty blonde young lady?" the manager asked.
"Yes, yes. Where is she?"
"Out on the veranda, I believe. Down at the far end, around the corner. Poor dear, she was crying terribly when she went out."
Marc turned and darted for the door. Then he stopped abruptly. A large hand had fallen over his arm and was holding him back. He looked up to see Pete standing beside him.
"Let go," he said impatiently, "I've got to find my...."
"Never mind," Pete said. "You just come along with me. Let's get it over with, huh? Marge and me, we want to get outa here."
"Get what over with? What are you talking about?"
"You know. Our deal."
"What deal? Say, what is this all about, anyway?"
"You know. The deal you said I wasn't to let you back out on. Remember?"
Subsequent development had completely banished the scene at the breakfast table from Marc's mind. "No. I don't remember any deal." He tried to pull away, but the big man held him firmly.
"Oh, come now, Mr. Pillsworth. Remember at breakfast when you told me how you come up here to commit suicide 'cause your wife is leavin' you? Only you didn't have the nerve? Remember how you give me two C's to bump you off? And I wasn't to let you back out no matter what you said? And the note you give me, sayin' how you was knockin' yourself off over a busted heart, so's Marge and me, we'd be in the clear on doin' the job? Remember?"
"I've been framed," Marc said desperately, recalling the note he'd seen George give to Pete. "That was George you made the deal with. He wants me out of the way. You weren't talking to me. You were talking to George!"
Pete started to laugh. "That's pretty funny, Mr. Pillsworth!" he roared. "George, the talkin' dog, done it, eh? That's real good. I'll have to tell Marge." His hand moved close to Marc's side. It was holding a gun. "You paid me for a job, Mr. Pillsworth, and you got a job comin'. It wouldn't be honest otherwise. And I ain't goin' to let you talk me outa it, neither. Aren't you glad?" He gave the gun an extra shove. "I'd rather not do it right here. Let's go outside. Whaddaya say?"
As Pete shoved him gently but firmly toward the door, Marc peered frantically around the room. "George!" he called. "George! Oh, George, for the love of Mike!"
Behind him, Pete's laugh boomed out in a salvo of noisy mirth. "You're a card, Mr. Pillsworth!" he howled. "You sure are a card. When it comes time for me to cash in my chips, I hope I'll have the nerve to crack jokes like that."
All the way up the trail to the brink of the cliff, Marc had continued to call vainly for George, and the joke, as far as Pete was concerned, was beginning to wear thin.
"Can't you stop that?" Pete asked. "It kinda gets on a guy's nerves after a while. If it means so much to you to have that dog around, why don't you just whistle?"
"I don't feel like whistling," Marc said irritably. "I mean George isn't a dog. He's ... a ..." He glanced over the edge of the cliff, and his legs suddenly turned to sawdust. Yards and yards of nothing at all stretched out endlessly downward. He turned pleadingly to Pete. "Now, listen to reason, Pete. I don't want to commit suicide. That was all a mistake...."
"You told me not to listen when you started talkin' like that," Pete said doggedly. "I gotta do the honest thing, Mr. Pillsworth. I gotta bump you off."
"Do youhaveto be so honest?" Marc asked desperately. "Don't you want to get ahead in your chosen profession? Haven't you any ambition at all? A good crook would automatically go back on his word, just as a matter of principle. Think of your future, Pete. Where's Marge? She'll tell you."
Pete shook his head. "Marge is takin' it easy back at the lodge. She says we're goin' straight, and I'm to do exactly like you said." He stepped back and motioned toward the edge of the cliff with his gun. "Now, why don't you save us both a lot of trouble and just step off that there cliff? That way, I won't have to shoot you off. I'm goin' to count three, and if you ain't jumped yet, I'll shoot."
"No, Pete!" Marc cried. "No! You don't understan...."
"One."
Pete took a step forward and Marc edged back a little. He didn't dare look behind him. The edge of the cliff was only inches away.
"Two."
Pete advanced again, and Marc nervously sidled to the left. Then a look of hopelessness swept over his face. Closing his eyes, he turned and faced the cliff. Waiting for the final, fatal number, his body was tense as a steel spring.
Pete raised his gun level with Marc's back and opened his mouth, but neither the gun nor the mouth spoke. Julie, a piece of paper clutched tightly in her hand, had suddenly appeared on the clearing at the top of the cliff. At the first glimpse of Marc, poised on the edge of the cliff, she stopped short, her lovely tear-stained face suddenly twisting with horror. Then she closed her eyes and screamed with all her might.
As the noise stabbed through the mountain air, Marc started as though he'd been kicked. Then, clutching his middle in a gesture of mortal pain, he teetered drunkenly on the brink a moment and ... plunged downward.
Footsteps sounded on the trail, and Dr. Polk, breaking through the clearing, ran breathlessly toward Julie. Reaching her, he placed an enquiring hand on her arm. Julie instantly opened her eyes, stared at the empty space where Marc had been and screamed again. She started to run forward, but the doctor caught her and held her back. She whirled angrily toward Pete.
"Why did you let him do it?" she screamed. "You just stood there!"
Slipping his gun into his pocket, Pete stared at her stupidly. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "Seems like he just wanted to do it."
With a gesture of hopelessness, Julie turned back to the doctor and buried her face in his shoulder. "It was all my fault," she sobbed. "I drove him to it. And he was sick, too!"
"Julie!"
The voice was from beyond the cliff. Also, it seemed to come from beyond the grave. There was a distant other-world quality about it.
"Marc!" Julie broke away from the doctor and ran swiftly to the edge of the cliff. Kneeling, she peered anxiously over the side. Not more than three yards below, spread eagle over the face of a sloping rock ledge, was Marc. He was clinging tenaciously to a small bush that had grown into the side of the cliff, and his feet were braced securely against the jagged protruding edge of the ledge. Though he could probably have remained there for days without any real danger, his upturned face was filled with undiluted terror.
"Julie," he cried weakly. "For the love of heaven, get me out of here. I've been shot."
After Dr. Polk and Pete, with the babbling moral support of Julie, had managed to haul Marc back over the edge of the cliff and convince him that he was not riddled with bullets, they left him lying on the ground. Julie knelt beside him and took him in her arms. Pete, after a hasty glance at his resurrected victim, hastily disappeared in the direction of the trail. Probably the apprentice gunman was worried lest Marc demand a refund of the two hundred dollars on the grounds that his services had been incompletely rendered. Dr. Polk, apparently somewhat recovered from his disquieting encounter with Toffee, stood by, observing Marc with unashamed directness.
"It's all right," Julie cooed comfortingly. "Everything is going to be all right ... even if you are crazy. I'll stick by you, darling. You'll have the loveliest padded cell that money can buy. I'll take care of you." She held him a little way out from her. "You mustn't ever do anything like this again. When I found that note in your room, I nearly went mad myself."
"Could ... could I see the note?" Marc asked weakly.
Julie reached into her pocket and held up a crumpled piece of paper. Her hand had perspired and smeared the writing until it was completely illegible, but there was no doubt that the handwriting was Marc's ... or an exact duplicate.
"But we don't want to see any more of that hateful thing," Julie said. She crushed the paper into a ball and hurled it over the edge of the cliff. "There, now, that's all over, that silly business about you killing yourself." She drew Marc closer to her.
Over Julie's shoulder, Marc glanced uneasily at the doctor. It seemed this was not quite the time for an observer. But the doctor was no longer interested in the reconciliation. Instead, his gaze was riveted on the trail. Marc's eyes automatically followed the doctor's, and the hair at the back of his neck began to bristle. Toffee, her filmy skirts held well above her knees, was running toward the clearing as fast as her decorative legs could carry her. Marc stiffened in Julie's arms.
"What is it, dear?" Julie asked.
"No ... nothing," Marc said faintly. Toffee, by appearing just at this moment, could easily set matters back to where they were in the beginning. Something had to be done ... quick! Marc's hand started forward in a gesture of warning, but in moving upward from the ground, it brushed lightly against a rock. And there it stopped.
As Marc's hand closed over the rock, his eyes clouded with pain. It was the only effective way to get rid of Toffee quickly. It had to be done. His hand moved upward, poised the rock squarely over his head, then quickly released it. Whack! It was a case of pinpoint bombing. Marc slumped in Julie's arms.
"Oh, dear," Julie murmured concernedly. "He's passed out again." She started to massage Marc's wrists. Then, noticing the trickle of blood over his left eyebrow, she added another; "Oh, dear!"
"Oh, Lord!" Dr. Polk breathed, and his voice was far more earnest than Julie's. Staring at the place where Toffee had been, he seemed almost in danger of bolting over the face of the cliff in a fit of terror. "She's gone!" he cried. "She just melted into nothing!" Avoiding the spot where Toffee had last stood, he edged cautiously toward the trail, and reaching it, broke into a dead run toward the lodge. He ran like a man possessed.
Not conscious of the doctor's odd behavior, Julie gazed softly into Marc's unconscious face. "I'll take care of you," she whispered. And slowly she lowered her lips to his.
But in the tranquil valley of his own mind, Marc was concerned with other lips ... the very singular lips of Toffee. One arm still around his neck, Toffee leaned back and smiled.
"Another day," she sighed happily, "another dilemma. You do live such a rapturous life. Never a sane moment."
"It has never occurred to you," Marc said dryly, "that you contribute somewhat to that insanity yourself?"
"Me?" Toffee asked, wide-eyed. "How can you say a thing like that? I'm always the one that has to straighten everything out."
"I suppose you were on your way to straighten things out when you ran out on the cliff. If Julie had seen you she'd have tossed me over the brink again."
"I was on my way to save your wretched life," Toffee replied haughtily. "I cornered Marge back at the lodge and made her tell me the whole story. She thought you were already dead, but I knew you weren't. If I still existed, you did too. So I ran up there to stop Pete from killing you. Now I get blamed."
Marc took her hand in his. "You were wonderful," he said sincerely.
"You bet I was," Toffee said self-righteously. "It was that fiend, George, that caused all the trouble."
Marc had almost forgotten the ghost in the excitement of the last half hour. "That demon! First I couldn't get rid of him, then when I wanted him, he wasn't anywhere."
"Of course not. George went back to ... well, wherever he came from. Remember how he disappeared at the table?" Marc nodded. "Well, George did his swan song right there."
"What!"
"Sure. Because of that fortuneteller," Toffee explained. "It was the simplest thing in the world. She said it was written in your hand that you would live a long time. Well, George believed her. And if you were going to live, he had to get going. That's the rules, and he's a stickler for the rules. And it's only natural that George believes in fortunetellers. He's very superstitious, you know. After all, he's a ghost, himself, isn't he?"
"I see," Marc murmured wonderingly. "Then George is gone for good."
Toffee nodded and began to laugh. "You remember how that jug lurched about when George disappeared?"
"Uh-huh. What's so funny about that?"
"George," Toffee giggled in a fit of hilarity, "tried to take it with him."
Marc started to laugh too, then stopped. The earth was moving away from under him. Either that, or he was rising lightly in the air. Whichever it was, only he, himself, was affected by the phenomenon, for Toffee remained on the grassy knoll. He reached down toward her, but she only smiled up at him.
"It's all over," she called. "Goodbye. It's been lovely being with you again. Don't forget me."
Marc tried to force himself downward, but he couldn't. His will was too weak against the force that was lifting him. When he stopped trying, he shot upward all the faster. Moving away into the distance, he looked regretfully back at Toffee, a tiny waving figure, now, in the soft, loveliness of the valley.
"Goodbye!" he called. "Goodbye!"
Then, looking up, he saw the darkness racing down to meet him. He felt a little sad at leaving Toffee and the valley, and yet it was comforting to know that in a few moments he would be back in Julie's arms.
The next morning the sun glinted brightly over the hood of the blue convertible, then flashed against its rear bumper as it left the graveled drive of Sunnygarden Lodge and turned onto the pavement of the highway.
Behind the wheel, Marc, with an impressive-looking bandage over his left eye, glanced uneasily at Julie, who sat rigidly upright in the opposite corner of the seat. Marc wondered how he could reassure her. Probably the truth about Toffee and George would be worse than nothing at all when it came to restoring her confidence. Maybe just some nice, intelligent conversation.
"What ... what happened to that nice fellow, Dr. Polk?" he asked rather stiffly.
"I really don't know," Julie said, careful that her gaze remained on the scenery along the road. "He left without a word early yesterday afternoon."
That took care of that. A heavy tide of silence washed between them and bore the conversational topic of Dr. Polk away, beyond recovery. Marc hummed self-consciously to himself for a moment, then, in desperation, reached toward the car radio and switched it on. Presently, a sonorous voice broke dispiritedly through the silence.
"... in Europe," it said. "And now for the news, here at home. Probably the most provocative story of the day concerns the psychiatrist, Horace D. Polk. It seems that Dr. Polk, in a state of acute agitation, turned himself in for psychiatric treatment at his own clinic late last night. The doctor claims that overwork had caused him to be the victim of hallucinations that take the form of scantily clad women who suddenly appear, wink at him, and vanish into thin air. Before being taken into the care of one of his associates, the doctor told newsmen that his patients would be notified that any diagnosis pronounced by him within the last two months should probably be disregarded. He said that such people would be advised to place themselves in the hands of other, reliable doctors until his recovery. Dr. Grimes, a long-time friend and associate of Dr. Polk, stated that the clinic...."
Marc quickly turned off the radio, pressing his lips tightly together to hold back the mirth that was bubbling inside. He turned cautiously to Julie. She was looking at him now, and the twinkle that always foreshadowed laughter was in her eyes. Then, she edged closer to him, and suddenly they both began to laugh in the same instant.
Marc's laughter rang out, clear and unrestrained. Everything was all right again. He reached an arm around Julie and drew her closer. Yes, sir, everything was perfectly all right.
In a faraway time and space, on a drifting world of vagrant mists and shrouds, five strange figures had drawn together on what appeared to be a shapeless chunk of steam. Reclining in various attitudes of majestic ease, they seemed happily unaware that, by human standards, their physical contours left something to be desired. For reasons known only to themselves two of the party had seen fit to dispense entirely with the customary appendages, and were lounging in armless and legless splendor on their paunchy stomachs. Two others, even less ambitious, manifested only bulbous heads that terminated in trailing vapors. The fifth was merely a torso, or at least, a simulation of what the torso thought a torso should be.
In the foreground, fidgeting guiltily, George stood before them, his head bowed in an attitude of abject contrition.
From one of the five ... it would be difficult to say which under the circumstances ... a low rumbling voice issued forth. Really more of a sound than a voice, it seemed to produce only guttural snorts rather than words. It appeared to be saying:
"Spectre, George Pillsworth, the Council finds much cause for displeasure in your report. It is in fact, severely distressed over the whole matter. It would seem that you have gone to extravagant lengths to make us the laughing stock of all limbo."