Marc and Toffee stood petrified as a claw-like hand and wizened head crept into view.
Marc and Toffee stood petrified as a claw-like hand and wizened head crept into view.
Marc and Toffee stood petrified as a claw-like hand and wizened head crept into view.
Transfixed, Marc watched it as it came to rest at the foot of the stone, and was suddenly followed by a wizened head. Marc tried hard to suppress a gasp of astonishment as he identified the ferret-like face as the same one that had appeared beneath the table at the club. He had only a moment in which to recognize it, for as before, it vanished as quickly as it had appeared, to be followed by the clicking sounds, that now echoed weirdly through the cemetery.
"Oh, that's not a spook," Toffee said disappointedly, and then, on second thought added, "at least I don't think it is."
"You bet it isn't," Marc cried, jumping quickly to his feet. "That's probably the guy that's got my brief case!" Swiftly, he took a step forward, caught his toe on a low marker, and sprawled, head long, into a landing that was all grin and gravel. His breath unhesitatingly rushed out to meet the night air, and apparently liked the company, for it didn't bother to come back for a while. In the ensuing stillness, hasty footsteps could be heard making their way out of the cemetery.
"Well, that's that, I guess," Marc groaned morosely, then he had regained his breath. "I scared him away, and he was my last chance. And to think that he was right next to us in the night club all the time!" He sat up and rested his chin defeatedly in his cupped hands. "With my wife gone, and my business gone, I might just as well go away and try to forget it all right now."
"Maybe you could go where those other men went," Toffee said in a baffling attempt to be helpful.
"What other men?"
"The ones that work for you. You said they'd gone cavorting, and that sounds pretty forgetful. Did they have something to forget?"
"No. They all got urgent telegrams."
"Who from?"
"How should I know?"
For a moment, neither of them spoke, and then, all of a sudden, Marc's chin lifted, and his hands fell to the ground. "I'll bet that was a frame up too," he said. "It was! I'm sure of it! Whoever has my brief case, sent those wires to get the boys out of town, so they couldn't get out another campaign. They're all out on a goose chase."
"Then all we have to do," Toffee said brightly, "is find out who sent them. Then we'll know who to see about the brief case."
"Yeah. But how?"
"Call up their homes again."
"It might be an idea," Marc said, his hope rising faintly. "Come on down from there. We'll have to find a drug store with a telephone."
With a shockingly familiar hand, Toffee grasped the cupid, and boosted herself away from her perch. "Let's go!" she cried gaily, landing lightly beside Marc. "I don't like this place much, anyhow. There isn't enough life in it."
In the drug store, Toffee had just finished her third soda, and the teen aged fountain attendant, chin on counter, to have a better view of her, had just completed his fiftieth blissful sigh. He'd never seen so dazzling a creature anywhere, before. Suddenly, they both looked up as the door to the corner telephone booth burst open, and Marc came hurrying out.
"I've got the name," he said excitedly. "It was a Mr. Polasky, whoever that is. A few of the wives I talked to, said their husbands didn't know who it was either, but left because the messages were so urgent. It's my guess that the name's a phoney."
"What are you going to do?"
"I don't know," he said, as though just realizing it for the first time. "Good night! It's just another dead end, isn't it?"
For a moment, they gazed at each other worriedly, as the boy, overcome by his consuming curiosity about Toffee, edged closer.
"I have it!" Toffee cried suddenly.
"What?" yelled Marc and the boy simultaneously. Marc turned witheringly on the youngster, and he moved away again.
"I know what you can do," Toffee continued, pausing long enough to reassure the boy with a radiant smile. "You call up the telegraph company, and tell them you're Mr. Polasky. Tell them that you were expecting answers to the wires you sent and you still haven't received any. Then ask them to check to see if the wires were really delivered and check back with you. When they say they will, ask them to check the address and telephone number they have written down for you, and insist that they read it to you, just to make sure. That way, you'll know where Polasky lives, anyway,—or whoever it is."
Marc stared at her in amazement for a moment. "I don't know if it'll work," he said, "but it's certainly worth a try, Toffee. You're wonderful!" He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.
"I'm pretty darned surprised, myself," Toffee replied happily. "I'll say it all over again, if you'll kiss me again." But Marc was already on his way to the phone booth.
Toffee turned to the boy and shrugged. "I don't know what he'd do without me," she said, her voice heavy with theatrical weariness. "I simply don't know!" Then she smiled as the boy leaned his chin back on the counter and sighed.
Marc paid the cab driver and turned to regard the apartment house questioningly. "I didn't expect anything quite so shabby," he said.
"Are you sure this is the number you got from the girl at the telegraph company?" Toffee asked.
"Positive," Marc replied. "Well, we can be sure of one thing, at least. Mayes wouldn't be living here. I'll bet he's never even seen this part of town." A small frown creased his forehead. "Maybe it's just another run around. Maybe Ruby sent the wires; she could have easily. I'd hate to run into her again."
"If it is Ruby," Toffee replied heavily, "I'll rip that yellow hair of hers out by its black roots. Her and her Irish blood!"
"Well, there's only one way to find out," Marc said wearily, starting forward. Then, he stopped, as Toffee tugged at his sleeve.
"What if it turns out to be Manny?" she asked apprehensively.
Marc winced. "We'll just have to face him, I guess. Anyway, it might not be. It could be the little fellow that tripped Manny."
"Yes. I guess it could be," Toffee admitted. "Well, in that case, let's go."
Inside, the old apartment house held all the stale, musty smells of old cooking and all the other activities of daily, crowded living, and the gloom in its hallways was almost tangible. Slowly, Marc and Toffee, like a couple of conspirators, crept along the downstairs passage, pausing before each door to read its carelessly stenciled number. Presently, at the rear of the hall, where the gloom was the thickest, they stopped.
"Well," Marc whispered uneasily, "this is number seven. This must be it."
"Yep," Toffee echoed. "This must be it, all right."
For a long moment, they just stood and stared at each other with apprehension.
"Well," Toffee said finally, "don't just stand there,—knock, ring a bell,—do something!"
"Don't rush me," Marc hissed irritably. "I'm looking for a name plate."
"Well, don't look at me. I'm not wearing one. Try looking on the door."
Marc, realizing the wisdom of her advice, turned his attention to the forbidding panel, and subjected it to a more thorough scrutiny than was absolutely necessary. All he needed was a magnifying glass to complete his impersonation of Sherlock Holmes on one of his more important cases. He was so close to the door, that when it suddenly opened, he nearly pitched into apartment number seven head first.
"I heard you snooping around out here!" a metallic voice shrilled above him. Marc could hardly believe his ears.
He had always known that, as long as he lived, he would never see a more horrible looking woman than Miss Quirtt, but now, as he looked up, he was dismayed to find that even she, this time a prickly nightmare in pin curlers, had surpassed herself for sheer frightfulness. And just to complete the picture, there was a strange light in her pallid eyes, that he had never seen there before. The movie monsters would have to go a long way to match this, he thought.
"Nice of you to drop in," Miss Quirtt said, and her usual twangey voice had something else in it that was almost undefinable. "Might as well ask your girl friend in too."
From outside, Toffee was spared the alarming sight of Miss Quirtt, but the voice had already suggested to her what she might see, if the door were fully open. "I think I have to be running along," she said uncertainly. "Thanks."
"I think you'd better come in," Marc warned shakily. "She's got a gun."
Toffee peered around the edge of the door and her face went starkly white. Her nose had almost brushed against the business end of a pistol that was almost as formidable as Miss Quirtt, herself. Then, unaccountably, as though remembering a joke, Toffee suddenly smiled and stepped into the room. "Well, if you really insist ..." she said breezily.
Toffee's manner had an instant calming effect on Marc, and in the moment in which Miss Quirtt closed the door behind Toffee, he felt his sense of reality slowly returning. "Is this a joke, Miss Quirtt?" he demanded.
Miss Quirtt regarded him with a sidelong, hostile glance. "I'm not laughing, am I?" she shrilled.
"Then, what...."
"You'd sure like to have your hands on that again, wouldn't you?" she gloated, gesturing toward a shabby table in the corner. On it, looking like a diamond in the mud, rested Marc's brief case. He started automatically toward it, but stopped short as, from the corner of his eye, he saw the gun swerve quickly from Toffee to him.
"Don't be greedy," Miss Quirtt said amusedly.
"I can't get a million dollars together right away," Marc began feverishly, "but I'll...."
"Don't be silly," Miss Quirtt broke in, with a weird laugh. "I wouldn't give it to you for two million. And if you went to the cemetery, I hope you had a lovely time. I'm sorry that I couldn't make it."
"We saw your friend there," Marc said sourly, "but he got away."
"My friend?" Miss Quirtt's eyes rolled, and came dangerously close to crossing, in a futile attempt to express perplexity.
"Yes. The little fellow you sent; the one with the ferret face."
"That clicks," Toffee added helpfully.
Miss Quirtt looked at them unbelievingly. "I didn't send anyone out there," she said, her voice racing uphill, out of control. "I had no intention of going myself, either. That was just a touch of mystery to throw you off the track. I don't intend to give you that brief case at any price. Besides," she added thoughtfully, "I don't know any little ferrets that ... that click."
"I wonder who it was?" Toffee said, deeply absorbed in the question.
The strange, fanatic gleam suddenly burned more brightly in the horrible woman's eyes. "I'm going to ruin you, Marc Pillsworth!" she announced dramatically, her stringy voice rising to such a pitch that it caused one to wonder if she hadn't studied bird calls at one time or another. Then she added as an afterthought, "And I think I'll kill you, too."
"But why?" Marc and Toffee chorused.
Miss Quirtt's eyes rolled again, this time in a painful attempt at coyness. "You promise you won't tell?" she asked foolishly.
Marc and Toffee exchanged a glance that held a full hour's discussion on the woman's mental status.
"Of course not," Toffee said persuasively. "Your secret couldn't be in safer hands."
"Well," Miss Quirtt said, becoming incongruously chatty, considering the formidable weapon in her hand, "I'll tell you all about it. It's all part of a plan, and it's terribly clever. I'm sure you'll think so." She paused to smile at them like a five-year-old about to recite a poem before company. "I've been working for big firms for twenty years now ... and just working that's all. I've been watching my smug employers and their smug wives, going about their smug lives, never giving me a thought, for twenty years. Can you imagine what that can do to a sensitive woman, like me?" She turned pleading eyes on Toffee. "Has a boss ever made a pass at me?"
"No!" Toffee cried, catching the confessional spirit of the thing.
Miss Quirtt nodded approvingly. She seemed to like dramatic effect. "Has a boss' wife ever been jealous of me?" she screeched.
"No!" Toffee cried again, recognizing her cue.
"That's right," Miss Quirtt continued sadly, brushing a tear away from the end of her nose with the muzzle of the gun, then promptly leveling the weapon directly to Marc's heart. "They never have. So I decided to ruin the lot of them." She turned back to Marc. "You're not the first one," she said, beginning to brighten. "There have been many others. I used to work for Mr. Burke."
"The ... the Mr. Burke that committed suicide?" Marc faltered.
"That's right," Miss Quirtt answered proudly. "That was one of my most poetic projects. Mr. Burke found himself with a lot of worthless stock on his hands one morning, and simply jumped out the window. He died without ever knowing who had bought the stuff for him. We parted the best of friends. He left me one of my very finest references ... along with the suicide note."
"It did end well, didn't it?" Toffee put in blandly.
"Yes. It was just lovely," Miss Quirtt agreed. "Much better than the job I did on old Mr. Grant. He didn't leave me any reference at all, and I had to write it myself. How I hate forgery! Of course, it may not have been entirely his fault. After all, they did rush him something awful when they came to take him away to the asylum." A dreamy reminiscent look came into her eyes. "The job with Mr. Forbes was much better. He said some very nice things about me before he left for prison. I was the last one he said goodbye to."
Marc shuddered. "A very impressive career," he said, "but you can't get away with it this time. I know that it was you that stole my brief case."
"Yes," Miss Quirtt answered promptly. "And that's why I'm going to have to make corpses of you ... so you can't talk, you know. It's really not my way of doing things, but I suppose that everyone has to make exceptions occasionally." She turned to Toffee and smiled. "I'm sorry to have to put you out of the way, dear, but you understand, I'm sure."
"Oh, perfectly," Toffee said helpfully, returning the smile.
Marc was beginning to wonder just how many of them were crazy, and in what combination. Even Toffee was making less sense than usual.
"And if I do say so, myself," Toffee continued. "Marc and I will make lovely corpses."
"Oh, indeed you will!" Miss Quirtt agreed enthusiastically. "Some of the nicest I've ever seen. And you'll be the very first ones that I've made all by myself. I'll be very proud of you."
"That's nice to know," Toffee said, "but you're not going to use that gun are you?"
"Why not?"
"It won't work," Toffee said simply. "You'd better think of something else."
Miss Quirtt looked at her suspiciously. "What do you mean, it won't work?"
"We hate to admit it, and we wouldn't to anyone else," Toffee said, "but Marc and I are a little odd in some ways. Guns don't faze us. In fact, there's very little that does. If you doubt me, shoot me, and see for yourself."
Marc's mouth started open in alarm, but closed again as Toffee winked at him.
Apparently Miss Quirtt was as open to suggestions as was Miss Ruby Marlow. "All right," she said agreeably, a shrewd look coming into her eyes. "Just stand over there."
Toffee followed her directions, and took her place before the wall, and near Marc, where Miss Quirtt could keep them both covered during the experiment. "Be sure you fire close up," she said. "I wouldn't want you to miss."
"Don't worry," Miss Quirtt said menacingly, leveling the gun at Toffee. "I won't." She squinted down the barrel, her eyes really crossing this time, and pressed the trigger.
There was a sudden flash of white light, and an explosion. A crack etched it's way crazily through the plaster just behind Toffee, but Toffee, herself, remained just as she had been, a composed, smiling figure in a scandalous black evening gown.
"You see?" she said. "You'll just have to think of something else."
Miss Quirtt stared at her, not seeming to be so much amazed as thoughtful. "I'll have to think this over," she said pensively. "I had my heart set on making corpses of you, ... being my first, and all, you know." She crossed to the door and locked it, keeping the key, then turned back to them apologetically. "I'm afraid I'll have to leave you for a while," she said. "I'll have to dream about this. I get all my best ideas in my dreams."
"I'll bet you do," Marc said flatly.
She regarded the crack in the wall for a moment. "The landlord's going to make an awful fuss about that. He's so narrow minded. What's a home, if you can't shoot it up a bit once in a while?" She turned to Toffee. "It's rude of me, I know, to leave you alone like this, but I simply have to get to sleep right away, to think of some way to rub you out, as they say. You won't mind?"
"Certainly not!" Toffee replied grandly. "Go right ahead!"
As the strange woman started in the direction of the bedroom, Marc turned amazedly to Toffee. "She's crazy as a loon," he whispered.
"Balmy as a night in June," Toffee hissed back.
Suddenly Miss Quirtt whirled about. "I heard that!" she shrieked. "I heard what you said!" She regarded Toffee regretfully. "And I thought you were such a nice, helpful girl, too. It makes me sad to know that you can't be trusted. Now I won't be able to enjoy having your corpse around, like I would have." She moved quickly to a closet, dragged out two straight jackets, and handed them to Marc and Toffee. "Put them on!" she commanded, brandishing her gun.
"They're perfectly lovely," Toffee said sarcastically, struggling into hers. "They remind me of nurse's uniforms. Where did you ever get them?"
"Oh, I have dozens of them," Miss Quirtt said proudly. "And they were all given to me. Every time I go for a vacation, when I leave, they give me one of those. I remember a lovely summer at Bellview. The one you have on reminds me of it."
A few minutes later, Miss Quirtt surveyed her trussed up guests from her bedroom door, and smiled with satisfaction. "I think the gags were a nice idea, too," she said. "You'll have to be quiet, anyway, if I'm to get any sleep." Then, closing the door, she sighed, "Oh, but you'll make such lovely corpses. And I can hardly wait to have some of my own."
Silently, Marc and Toffee, their mouths uncomfortably full of Miss Quirtt's more intimate garments, gazed at each other mournfully.
It would be supposed that the last minutes of one's life would seem to pass with a terrible swiftness, but to Marc, it seemed that the minutes of the last two hours had dragged like the third act of a bad play, and he was certainly convinced that the morning would see him a corpse. And the fact that his lifeless body would receive all the personal care and attention due it, as the victim of Miss Quirtt's first murder, didn't help his state of mind as one might have supposed. He was not surprised that Toffee, during the last five minutes or so, had begun to behave peculiarly.
She seemed to be acting on a definite pattern, for she had repeated her little routine three times now, and it had always been precisely the same. She would leave her chair, walk directly to the wall, stand facing it for a moment, and then bend over at the hips, as though looking at something on the floor. This done, she would look up at Marc and nod her head toward the spot which she had been watching.
At first, Marc merely thought that it was nice that Miss Quirtt had left their legs free, if exercise meant so much to Toffee, but then, slowly, he began to realize that perhaps the nodding meant that Toffee had discovered something and wished him to follow her.
Walking to the wall, he waited until Toffee began to bend forward, and followed her example. Once down, he gazed at the floor intently, but there didn't seem to be anything to see, except a dismal section of very ordinary flooring. He looked up questioningly, but Toffee motioned him back again. This time, he gave the floor his undivided attention. He was determined to discover what it was that she had been looking at, and wanted him to see. At least it would give him something to think about, besides becoming a dead body.
If Marc had seen Toffee remove herself from his side, to a position just behind him, he would probably have moved away from the wall like a flash, but since he did not, he remained just as he was, bent over, head to the wall, and perfectly motionless. Toffee couldn't have asked a more willing victim, or a more perfect target.
Slowly, as she brought her foot to Marc's unsuspecting posterior, a pained expression crept into her green eyes. She hesitated a moment, made a few practice kicks for aim, then swung her foot quickly behind her. Sure of her aim now, she closed her eyes tightly, and brought her foot forward with all the force of a sledge hammer.
There was a dreadful splitting sound as Marc's head struck the wall. As he dropped to the floor and rolled over, the blissful, foolish grin of unconsciousness was discernible even behind the gag. In the next second, the room had become deathly still.
As Marc closed the door to Gregory Reece's office, he saw Toffee waiting for him near the elevator, and scowled. Somehow, in the morning light, the black dress seemed to leave even more of her exposed than it had in the evening. Undaunted, Toffee smiled brightly at the sight of him.
"Did he like the advertising campaign?" she asked. "Are you going to get the account?"
Marc nodded wearily. "Yes," he said in a dead voice. "He was very enthusiastic."
"What did he say?"
"I don't know," Marc replied sourly. "I could barely hear him. My head was roaring like a lion cage at feeding time." He turned to her fretfully. "Was it absolutely necessary for you to drive my head half way through that wall? If that landlord's to be sore about that bullet hole, he'll fairly scream his head off at the chunk of plaster I knocked out."
"I had to be sure," Toffee explained logically. "I had to be sure you'd lose consciousness, so I could return to your subconscious until you woke up. It was the only way I could get out of that straight jacket. You know that."
"Well, you could have told me, so I could have braced myself," Marc argued unreasonably. "You nearly broke my neck."
"With a gag in my mouth?"
"No, I guess not," Marc admitted reluctantly. "But it seems that you could have tempered your blow a little, at least." He frowned as Toffee suddenly began to giggle. "What's so funny?"
"I was thinking of the desk sergeant, down at headquarters. When I materialized, I miscalculated a bit, and faded in right on top of his desk. He nearly had me locked up without even listening to what I had to say. I don't know when he looked more mixed up, then or later, when he got a load of Miss Quirtt in those curlers."
"Now that I've got the account," Marc sighed, "I wonder if it was all worth it."
"Of course it was," Toffee said. "I thought it was loads of fun!"
If Marc's eyes had really held the power that their expression suggested, the ceiling would certainly have been down around Toffee's flaming head without further delay. "Let's get a cup of coffee," he suggested helplessly. "My head's chiming like Big Ben at midnight."
"All right," Toffee agreed, reaching for the elevator button.
"No! Not that!" Marc yelled. "The way that young fiend in there operates that thing, I'd be lucky to get downstairs with the top of my head still on. Let's take the stairs."
As together, they started down the carpeted stairway, Marc became pensive. Even if the matter of the brief case had been settled, his trouble with Julie was still as bad as it had been the day before ... probably worse, for all he knew. Then too, there was the problem of Toffee. Matters certainly wouldn't improve with her around. His troubled conjecture came to an abrupt end at the sound of Toffee's anxious voice.
"Look out!" she cried. "Look out for that tear in the carpet!"
"What did you...." Whatever Marc was going to say, was lost for good, as the toe of his shoe slipped under the torn carpet, for in the next instant he was flying, head first, down the length of the stairs, steps flashing past his face like box cars on a fast freight. Down and down he fell, on and on, and then, looking away from the stairs for a brief moment, he could see that he was heading into a dense, black fog, that obscured the bottom of the stairway.
As he drew close to this fog, it seemed to reach toward him and swallow him up, and then he found that he was falling through a great, unknown region, that was devoid of all light. He wondered where the floor had gone.
When finally he came to rest, Marc couldn't calculate how long he had been falling; it seemed an endless period. Wonderingly, he sat up, and looked around him for some bit of light, some reassuring bit of brightness that would tell him he hadn't lost his sight. Even as he searched, however, the fog began to lift, becoming lighter and lighter, until there was nothing left of it except a soft blue mist. Immediately, his surroundings were familiar this time. The valley was just as comforting and lovely as he had remembered it.
"It hardly seems fair!" came Toffee's petulant voice, and turning, Marc discovered her standing just behind him.
"What hardly seems fair?" he asked, rising to his feet.
"That I only got to materialize for a single night this time. The way you bounce me in and out of your subconscious is a screaming crime. I suppose I'll have to sit around here for another eternity, just waiting for you to get into another scrape that you can't get yourself out of."
"That's right," Marc said, grinning at her affectionately. "Every time I find myself in a tight spot, I just say to myself, 'Well, Marc, old boy, it's time to drop in and pick up Toffee. Now, there's a girl that can really fix things up!'" He stopped speaking and smiled down at her wryly.
"I'll bet you do," she pouted. "You just use me. Men are all selfish dogs."
"And don't you love them!" said Marc.
Suddenly Toffee grinned. "I guess I do," she laughed. "I suppose I'm just sore because it always comes to an end so soon. It'll all be over in a minute now. Kiss me goodbye?"
"Naturally," said Marc, and took her tenderly into his arms.
After a long moment, he released her, and looked down to find that she was smiling up at him.
"And remember," she said. "Think of something off-color once in a while, so I'll have something to work on. Besides, it'll be good for you."
"I will," Marc laughed. "I'll think of you. That is, I'll think of you when Julie...." Suddenly his smile faded into an expression of deep concern. "Julie! She's still going to divorce me! You're walking out on me, this time, before everything's settled."
"No, I'm not," Toffee said. "Everything will be all right."
"I believe you want me to be divorced!"
"Nonsense!" Toffee replied seriously. "You two love each other, and I wouldn't have anything happen to that for the world. Julie just needed something to jar her out of her jealousy, and I think she's had it. When you get...."
Toffee's voice trailed off into the distance, and Marc looked down to find that his arms were empty. She had vanished into the mist, it seemed.
"Toffee! Toffee!" he called, but there was no answer, and, all of a sudden, he felt dreadfully alone. His sense of loss was deep and painful. Then the voice broke through the stillness.
"Run! Run!" it boomed, just as before, and also as before, it seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. "Run! Run!" it repeated, more urgently this time.
Without questioning the reason, Marc began to run frantically, dodging this way and that, to avoid ... he didn't know what. Then, with horror, he realized that, in his confusion, he had run in the wrong direction, for the black fog was directly in front of him, reaching toward him. Marc turned, but too late. Already, it was shutting out the soft light of the valley.
"Run! Run!" the voice continued weirdly.
"In therunner, there was a tear, lady," a strange voice was saying, "and he musta caught his toe in it. Anyway, we found him at the foot of the stairs. That's all I know about it."
"Well, thank you very much for bringing him," Julie's voice answered. "I'm sure he'll be very grateful to you when he wakes up."
There followed the sound of retreating footsteps and a door closing. Marc kept his eyes closed, and listened, until he heard Julie returning. Slowly, he opened his eyes and was glad to find that he was propped up in a chair in his own living room.
"Well!" Julie exclaimed annoyedly, seeing that his eyes were open. "So you decided to wake up after all, did you? The men that just dragged you in here said that you'd fallen down a flight of stairs. What a laugh that is! Dead drunk, and out cold would be more like it!"
"But Ididfall down," Marc protested feebly.
"It's a wonder they didn't come hauling that vile little redhead in with you!" Julie said icily. "Where did she collapse?"
"But you don't understand about her," Marc said desperately.
"Hah!" snorted Julie, and the laugh that followed the inelegant exclamation was frozen solid around the edges.
"But Julie," Marc pleaded wretchedly. "I...."
"There's a gentleman waiting to see you, ma'am," Marie, the maid, interrupted. "His name is Mr. Dembert."
"Send him in here," Julie said, a grim smile forming on her lips.
"If it's someone to see you," Marc said apologetically, starting to rise, "I'll just go to my room."
"Oh, no!" Julie cried. "This ought to be of great interest to you. I really wouldn't want you to miss it."
"Very well," he said apprehensively, sinking back into the chair.
In a moment, Marie appeared again in the doorway. "Mr. Dembert, ma'am," she announced, and swiftly disappeared.
Marc's eyes moved listlessly to the doorway, and then, suddenly froze on the man that stood there. It was the ferret-faced little fellow from the Loma Club and the cemetery. Marc flinched at the memory of the clicking sounds, and the man's mysterious behavior. Then, he was aware that Julie was watching him.
"I want you to know Mr. Dembert, Marc," she said smoothly. "He's from the Regal Detective Agency, and he had the pleasure of following you all last evening ... if you can call it a pleasure. From what he told me over the telephone this morning, it must have been some night. He tells me that he even had to save you from a thug once—for the divorce courts, of course."
"A private detective?" Marc asked bewilderedly.
"I knew you'd be interested," Julie said with amusement, and then turned to the odd little man who had remained in the doorway. "Come in, come in," she called graciously. "I hope you brought the pictures?"
"Yes, I did," the fellow squeaked. "I picked them up only a moment ago and rushed them right over, without taking time to look at them myself." He moved with a mouse-like quickness across the room, and deposited an envelope in Julie's eager hand. "They're all there ... the night club, the cemetery, the drug store, and the apartment house. You can see the address plainly on that last one, I think. I was right in front when I took it."
"Thank you," Julie said, turning to smile viciously at Marc. "Mr. Dembert photographed you and that redheaded trollop, dear, everywhere you went last night. The results ought to be mighty interesting to the judge."
Marc winced, as he saw Julie open the envelope and draw out the pictures. He closed his eyes tight. He couldn't bear to see what was going to happen when Julie saw them. There would never, on earth, be a way to explain them. It seemed that the room remained quiet for an eternity until Julie's voice unexpectedly cut through the stillness like a knife.
"Get out!" she screamed. "Get out of this house, and don't you ever try to set foot in it again! If you do, I'll have you thrown out! You ... you ... you dirty, lying, double-dealing cheat!"
Marc, sincerely wishing that he had done so earlier, rose slowly to his feet and moved in the direction of the door, without even bothering to open his eyes. Then, thinking that Julie must be behind him by now, he opened them and suddenly stopped short. Mr. Dembert, more mouse-like than ever, was scurrying toward the door in a fit of terror. Quickly, he skidded around the corner, and was out of sight. A split second later, the slam of the front door announced his final departure.
"But, what ..." Marc stammered, turning to Julie.
As if he hadn't had enough surprises, he was suddenly presented with one more, that was even more confounding than any of the others. Julie's expression, as she came toward him, was one of absolute contriteness.
"Oh, Marc!" she cried. "Can you ever forgive me? I might have known you weren't out with that woman. The minute I got outside your office, last night, I knew I'd made a fool of myself, but I had to be sure. That's why I hired the detective. And when I thought you'd gone out with that redhead...." A flame of anger flickered briefly in her eyes. "And to think I let that little rat take me in with his phoney reports!" Again, she turned pleadingly to Marc. "Please say you'll forgive me?"
Marc stared at her, aghast, for a moment, wondering if he'd finally lost his mind, then his gaze darted to the scattered pile of photographs. Quickly he crossed over and picked them up, looked at them, and then, dropped them disdainfully to the floor.
"I'll think it over," he said severely, turning to Julie. "I don't know if I'll forgive you or not. You behaved very badly, I think. I'm going to my room to think about it, and I'll let you know my decision in exactly half an hour."
With that, he turned and strode majestically out of the room. Reaching the hallway, out of Julie's sight, he suddenly stopped and the grin that broke across his face, teetered dangerously on the edge of hearty laughter.
"I might have known, all along, that Toffee wouldn't photograph," he murmured. Then, he shook his head wonderingly and continued to his room.
It would be nice, he thought, just having lunch ... in his own home ... with his own wife.
[1]Reference is made to a previous adventure of Toffee and Marc Pillsworth, which appeared in the January issue under the title: "I'll Dream of You."—Ed.
[1]Reference is made to a previous adventure of Toffee and Marc Pillsworth, which appeared in the January issue under the title: "I'll Dream of You."—Ed.