Marc and Toffee, on their feet now and making strides as rapidly
as possible, emerged from the alley behind the Wynant and hurried
along the sidewalk, bound in the direction of the green convertible.
At a distance, the Blemishes scurried along after them with grim
determination.
Turning the corner at the end of the block, they arrived at the front
of the hotel which was now the location of considerable activity.
Toffee paused to watch the dining guests being escorted by the police
from the hotel to several official conveyances which had arrived under
the canopy.
"Come on," Marc said. "Get in the car before they see you."
Toffee nodded and followed the suggestion. Marc crossed around the car
and slid quickly under the wheel.
"There still may be time to catch Julie," he said anxiously.
Toffee favored him with a sullen stare. "I almost hope there isn't,"
she said. "For her sake. If she didn't have grounds for divorce before,
she's certainly got them now--the way you were dallying around with
that French trull...."
"I wasn't dallying," Marc said. "I was only trying to get something
to eat. Lord knows you were willing to sit there and let me starve to
death."
He switched on the ignition and started the motor.
The car was just pulling out from the curb when the Blemishes arrived
in a grim dog trot and placed restraining hands on the edge of the
door. Together they regarded Toffee and Marc with baleful hurt. And
produced their revolvers. Marc braked the car to a stop.
"Golly," Toffee said, turning to Marc. "I forgot all about them."
"What do they want?" Marc asked.
"You remember," Toffee said. "They captured us up on the roof. They
think we're their prisoners." She turned back to the pouting brothers.
"Look, boys," she smiled like a patient parent with a pair of fanciful
and rather dreadful children, "we just haven't got time to be your
prisoners right now. We'd love to, really but we've got to leave. Why
don't you call Marc up on the telephone some time and...."
The brothers shook their heads in doleful coordination.
"Now, why be difficult? We'd be just crazy to have you capture us
some other time, but right now.... It's not that you're not perfectly
sinister and all that.... Now put those guns away and go spy on someone
else for a while."
"No," said Cecil. "Huh-uh."
"Huh-uh," Gerald echoed.
Marc leaned forward impatiently. "Look here," he said firmly. "I don't
have time for any more of this nonsense. I've got to get home. Now
either you get off this car or you don't, but I'm leaving."
For a moment the brothers looked at each other in sad consultation.
Then, as though having reached a decision by telepathy, they
simultaneously quitted the side of the car and stood back a pace. Marc
threw the car into gear and prepared to leave. However, just as he
was pressing down on the accelerator the whole street suddenly boomed
with the sound of gunfire. The car jarred forward, then settled into a
lop-sided stop. The Blemishes grinned happily on their handiwork; they
had air-conditioned both tires on the right side.
* * * * *
Attracted by the sound, one of the officers in front of the Wynant
started forward, but Cecil waved him back.
"Just a blowout!" he called. He pointed to the crippled car. "We'll see
that he gets fixed up."
The officer nodded and went back to his chores with the Wynant guests.
"Why, you little...!" Marc grated.
"Holy smoke!" Toffee broke in, staring steadily at the two brothers.
"Those kids are using real bullets and everything!"
"That's what we've been trying to tell you," Cecil said mildly. "We're
just as mean as we can be."
"You certainly are," Toffee agreed. "You're just about the most awful
little grubs I've ever run into."
"Sugary phrases aren't going to get you anywhere," Gerald said
virtuously. "Now get out of that car and come with us."
Marc and Toffee stared at each other with silent bewilderment; they
were completely nonplussed. Slowly they got out of the car and
presented themselves on the sidewalk.
"Now, just a minute, boys ..." Marc said.
"Shut up," Gerald snarled. "Our car is right behind you. Get in the
back seat and sit quietly."
Toffee turned and looked at the black sedan. "I wish that thing didn't
look so much like a hearse," she said unhappily.
"It's going to look more like a hearse if you don't shut up and do what
we say," Cecil said.
With that clammy piece of news, Marc and Toffee advanced to the
forbidding vehicle in question and deposited themselves stiffly in the
back seat. Cecil and his gun joined them in the back, while Gerald
climbed into the front and started the engine.
"It's so embarrassing," Toffee said disconsolately as they pulled away
from the curb. "That's what hurts; being shoved around like this by a
pair of subnormal pygmies."
"Where are you taking us?" Marc asked. "What do you want with us?"
"None of your business," Cecil answered promptly. "And what do you
care?"
"Oh, go on, Cecil," Gerald said from the front, guiding the cumbersome
automobile through traffic. "Tell them. They're going to find out
anyway."
"We never told in the movies," Cecil said sullenly. "It spoils the
suspense. We always said none of your business and what do you care.
You're just sore because I said your line."
"Go on," Gerald said. "Tell them."
"Oh, all right," Cecil said. He directed his attention as well as his
gun toward his waiting captives. "I think you're familiar with our
profession?"
"Profession," Toffee murmured. "That's a laugh."
Cecil ignored it. "Then you should be able to guess that our real
interest is in you, Mr. Pillsworth, and your formula. That's what we
want."
"I haven't got the formula," Marc lied. "I turned all my papers over
to the government."
"That's a lie," Cecil said flatly. "We're in the complete confidence of
the government, and we know you still have the formula yourself. You
shouldn't be so dishonest, Mr. Pillsworth; it makes a bad impression."
"Please forgive me," Marc said with heavy irony. "And what if I do have
the formula? I don't have it with me."
"You can recreate it," Cecil said with confidence. "Just so long as we
get it first, before anyone else does. That's the important thing. If
you don't recreate it, we'll kill you. Quite dead, you may be sure. We
can always find your papers. Really, the only reason we've taken you
into custody, so to speak, is to keep the formula from the government.
Otherwise, you're actually not important to us at all."
"What do you want with the formula?" Marc asked. "What in the world
would you do with it?"
"Electrify the world," Cecil said with an unexpected intensity. "This
is just the sort of thing we've always been waiting for. Your formula
will give us a chance to do something really big. Everyone will be
talking about it."
"About what?" Marc asked apprehensively.
"The bomb, of course," Gerald said from the front. "We're going to make
a bomb from your formula, like those government men talked about."
"What for?" Marc said. "What good would it be to you?"
"What good?" Cecil said. "Are you serious? We're going to make our
reputation with it. Everyone will be after us to come spy for them when
we've finished with the bomb. Won't they, Gerald?"
"Everyone," Gerald agreed. "With the possible exception of the United
States. Personally, I even anticipate a few offers to make a comeback
in the movies."
* * * * *
A look of eager anticipation had washed unbecomingly over Cecil's awful
face. "We're going to make this mammoth bomb, you see," he said, "and
we're going to float away this whole entire city. Just like that!"
"What!" Marc started. "You mean you're actually going to...!"
Cecil nodded dreamily. "They won't be able to overlook us then," he
said. "People will stop being so friendly and treat us with proper
respect for a change. We'll just make the city disappear over night!"
"Oh, no!" Toffee said.
"Good grief!" Marc murmured. He gazed out the window at the passing
city, the people, the shops, cars, sky-scrapers. He tried to imagine
all these things torn loose from the earth, twisting and turning
into space. His mind revolted before the picture. The idea was too
terrifying for words. Marc trembled with horror. That he should be the
one to provide the instrument by which such a fantasy could be set into
motion was too awful to contemplate.
"You can't!" he breathed. "You can't be human and even think of such a
thing!"
"You see!" Cecil said, his eyes bright with enthusiasm. "You're already
impressed, and we haven't even started. Of course, if you want, we'll
cut you in on the deal. It would be worth it to get your cooperation."
He turned to Toffee who was staring at him with unguarded loathing.
"You, too."
"I'd rather die," Toffee said.
"Well," Cecil shrugged, "if you'd really rather, it can be arranged."
"It won't work!" Marc said desperately. "It's preposterous!"
"It worked with you, didn't it?" Cecil pointed out.
Marc thought back to his frenzied flight to the top of the Wynant. A
chill passed through him; anything was possible.
"But why the whole city?" he asked. "Why not just a building or a
retired battleship?"
"More spectacular," Cecil said. "It'll cause more comment."
"That's so understated," Toffee said, "it's below the level of reason."
She looked at Marc. "They're mad," she said, "raving."
"I know," Marc said in hushed tones. "They're just mad enough."
"Oh, you bet we are," Cecil said with a sudden mood of happiness.
"We're regular ogres, aren't we, Gerald?"
"Well, I wouldn't say _regular_ ogres," Gerald answered.
"Would you say _irregular_ ogres?"
"No," Gerald said with due consideration. "Irregular sort of suggests
those advertisements. You know the ones about people who are
uncomfortable because...."
"Just listen to them!" Toffee moaned. "They're planning on blowing up
the city and they go on about it as giddy as a couple of spinsters in
spring! What difference does it make what kind of ogres you are? You're
perfectly abhorrent, both of you."
Cecil smiled his crooked smile at Toffee. "Thanks," he said modestly.
"Don't mention it," Toffee said. She turned away with a little shiver.
Then suddenly she brightened. Gerald had just brought the car to a
stop at an intersection. At the center of the street a truly enormous
cop was presiding over traffic. Toffee looked back at the revolver in
Cecil's hand, then at the cop. She decided to risk it. She threw back
her head and screamed with all the sureness and tonal brilliance of an
operatic heroine saying farewell to her lover.
"Murder!" she screamed. "Arson! Blackmail! Fire! Flood! Famine."
Then, satisfied that she had covered the field of catastrophe
sufficiently to capture the attention of even the most unimaginative
cop, she stopped and settled comfortably back in her seat. Noting that
the cop was already on his way toward the car, she folded her arms
complacently and smiled at Cecil.
"Now we'll see who gets taken into custody," she said smugly.
The cop stuck his head in the window, looked bewilderedly at Marc and
Toffee, then took in the Blemishes. His face widened with a grin.
"Hello, boys," he said amiably. "What's the trouble? Read any good
plans lately?"
"No, they haven't," Toffee put in quickly. "But they're trying to.
Officer, arrest these two."
* * * * *
The cop's smile faded into an expression of purest astonishment.
"Arrest _them_?" he asked incredulously. "What on earth for?"
"They're abducting us," Toffee said. "That's what for."
For a moment the cop just stared at her, then he threw back his head in
a roar of laughter.
"Those two?" he gasped. "Abducting you?"
"That's what I said," Toffee snapped. "What's so funny?"
"That's right, officer," Marc said. "They're trying to steal a valuable
formula from me."
"Of course they are," the cop said with amusement. "They're always
trying to steal a valuable formula from someone. And every once in a
while they actually get one. But what difference does it make? They
couldn't do anything with it if they wanted to. Now why don't you just
make them out a copy like a good fellow and hand it over? It'll make
them happy as hell, and it won't do you any harm."
"No harm, you dumb flatfoot!" Toffee said, losing control. "Just step
inside here for a minute and I'll hammer that thick skull of yours till
you can use it for a serving platter."
"There's no call to get nasty," the cop said.
"But you don't understand," Marc said earnestly. "These men mean to
use my formula to destroy the city. They're going to float it off into
space."
The cop turned and observed Marc closely. He nodded to Gerald. "Better
keep a close watch on this one," he said. "He's got some funny notions
in his head. He might do you harm."
"My God!" Toffee cried. "Now _we're_ crazy!"
"That's a good sign, lady," the cop said soothingly. "They say if you
realize your condition and are willing to fight it there's hope of a
cure."
"I'll kill him!" Toffee cried. "I'll kill him with my own two hands!
Look here, you jelly-headed gendarme, these two are dangerous
criminals!"
"Criminals?" the cop said. "Them? Why they wouldn't hurt a fly. Just
look at their faces."
Toffee looked at the Blemishes, then came close to choking. The twins
had assumed expressions of angelic innocence such as might have been
equalled only by Little Eva in the moment of her ascension.
"Why, you dirty little frauds!" she hissed.
"All right," the cop said, "you'll have to get along now; you're
blocking traffic."
As Gerald set the gear and put the car in motion once more, Toffee fell
back in her seat, weak with emotion.
"There's one guy I'll enjoy seeing blown into space," she said. "I
hope he gets air sick."
The mood in the car deepened after that, and there was silence. Gerald
made a left turn and headed the car away from the center of the city.
Marc and Toffee stared pensively at the passing scene while Cecil
hummed a soundless tune and smiled annoyingly over private thoughts;
presumably of the devastating thing he and his brother were planning
to do. Evening deepened into final night and lights began to glitter
everywhere. And then the incident of the door occurred.
* * * * *
It was just as Gerald brought the car to a stop at an intersection that
the door promptly opened itself, wavered for a moment, then closed.
Unmistakably it marked George's arrival. Toffee looked up sharply.
"George?" she said, and her voice was almost hopeful.
There was silence. Gerald glanced around with a smile.
"Did you see the door open and close just now?" he asked without alarm.
"Uh-huh," Cecil said casually.
"A ghost, I guess," Gerald said.
"You two may think you're joking," Toffee said. "It really was a ghost."
"We know," Cecil said. "Gerald and I believe in ghosts. Always have.
We've had quite a few of them around from time to time. At least we
think we have; ghosts are hard to tell about sometimes."
Gerald turned to the empty space beside him. "Make yourself
comfortable, ghost," he said graciously. "Just knock twice when you
want to get out."
"You see," Toffee said to Marc. "They're getting crazier by the
minute." Then she paused thoughtfully. "Or are we?"
"Pretty tough getting a ride at this time of night, I imagine," Gerald
was saying chattily to thin air. "Particularly being a ghost and all."
He waited but there was no answer. He turned back to Cecil. "Doesn't
want to talk, I guess." Then, as the traffic ahead began to move, he
shifted gears and started forward. Thus occupied, he didn't notice that
his revolver had suddenly become possessed of a life of its own; he
didn't see it nose out of his pocket and take flight into the air.
Toffee nudged Marc excitedly. "Look," she whispered. "He's going to
help us."
Together they watched breathlessly as the gun moved furtively upward.
Then they started with surprise and horror as it righted itself and
pointed its muzzle purposefully in Marc's direction.
"No, George!" Toffee cried. "Don't shoot! It's those two you want!
They're planning to blow up the city and float it away. Liquor and all,
George!"
The gun faltered, then started to turn uncertainly toward Cecil. But
not fast enough. Cecil suddenly reached out and slapped it free of
George's invisible grasp. The gun described a small arc into the back
seat and landed in Toffee's lap. Marc, Toffee, Cecil and presumably,
though there was no way of proving it, also George, all reached for
the gun at once. The result was a writhing snarl of reaching arms and
clutching hands. Toffee giggled dementedly.
"Stop that!" she screamed. "I'm ticklish!"
"This is no time to indulge in mad laughter," Marc grunted sharply.
"Our lives are at stake."
"I know!" Toffee trilled light-heartedly. "I'm frightened sick! Only
get your hands out of my ribs!"
As three sets of madly working hands rose, twined together, the gun
danced wildly from the fleeting grasp of one to that of the other.
"Good grief!" Toffee said. "Even if I got hold of the thing I'd never
know it; I can't tell which hands are mine!"
The hands and the gun traveled higher in the air, then suddenly one of
the hands rose above the others and reached viciously for the errant
fire-arm. It struck it, without catching hold of it, and sent it
crashing to the back of Gerald's unsuspecting head. Gerald instantly
let go of the wheel and slumped down in his seat. The car swerved
dangerously to the wrong side of the street. Momentarily the warring
factions in the back seat, now concerned with more immediate matter of
navigation, disengaged their hands and forgot the gun as it fell to the
floor at Toffee's feet.
"George!" Toffee screamed. "Grab the wheel!"
Apparently the ghost followed the suggestion for the car suddenly
veered sharply to the left and, with a screech of the tires, darted
into a gas station. George's voice echoed worriedly out of thin air.
"How do you stop this thing?"
But there was no answer. Toffee, now certain that the car was at least
temporarily under control, reached down for the gun. So did Cecil. So
did Marc. The struggle in the back seat started afresh just as it had
left off.
* * * * *
When the black sedan entered the station, Pat O'Brien, a young and
stalwart Irishman with red hair, viewed its arrival from within the
station house and strode forward with the simple thought of serving his
public. As the car sped past the pumps and circled back, Pat assumed
that the driver was merely bringing the vehicle in line with the pump
of his choice. However, Pat thought it somewhat queer when it continued
past the pumps the second time. As it turned back for the third time,
and he noticed that there was no driver and that the back seat was the
scene of a life and death struggle between two men and a girl, he began
to have quite a definite feeling that things were not exactly as they
ought to be.
"Faith," Pat said to himself. "There's an uncommon thing goin' on here."
Then he jumped back into his enclosure as the car turned for still
another swooping run at the pumps. Pat sat down on a stool to collect
his thoughts in his own sluggish way. The company policy dictated
clearly that the customer was always right, but Pat wasn't certain but
that this mightn't be the exception that proved the rule. Then he grew
more positive of it as he watched the black sedan plunge to a crashing
stop against one of the gas pumps and send it tilting a bit to the
leeward. Pat reached for the telephone and asked for the police.
As he waited he noted that a revolver had leaped from the back window
of the car and skidded across the pavement, that the rear door of the
car had flown open and three struggling figures had tumbled out. Then a
gruff voice, equally as Irish as his own, took his attention.
"Faith," Pat said.
"Faith, yerself," the voice said. "And who's callin'?"
"It's me," Pat said. "Pat O'Brien."
"Is it now? That movie actin' fella?"
Pat flushed modestly. "Oh, no, sir," he said. "Just plain Pat O'Brien,
down at the gas station."
"Oh," the voice said with a new note of chattiness. "There's a good
lad. And how's yer dear ma, Pat?"
"The picture of health," Pat said, "even if she is down with the gout,
poor soul." Then suddenly he turned away from the telephone, his eyes
drawn to the struggle by the pumps. Things seemed to have gotten quite
far out of hand. The girl had taken the hose loose from one of the
pumps and was swinging it determinedly at the head of the small man in
the derby. It did not help matters that she had managed to trip the
mechanism and was hurling gasoline in all direction. Worse than that,
however, was the behavior of the water hose; all by itself it had risen
in the air, like a huge, spiteful snake, and had begun adding water to
the deluge.
"Faith," Pat commented darkly. "It's a terrible thing."
"Do stop repeatin' yerself like that," the voice on the telephone
answered. "It makes you sound like a proper ninny, it does. What is it
that's a terrible thing? Is it in a professional capacity that you're
callin' me?"
"And so it is," Pat affirmed. "It's a bit of advice I crave. The
company that owns this station says that the customer is always right,
but I'm wonderin' if it's still true when the world's gone mad?"
"And in what way has the world gone mad, Pat?"
"Well," Pat said, "there's a girl here in the dooryard who's spittin'
out gasoline all over everything."
"How's that!" the voice said. "This girl, you say, she's spittin' out
gas? Do you mean to say...."
"With the aid of the pumps, to be sure," Pat explained fairly. "And, if
you'd believe it, it's butterflies she's wearin' in the place of her
clothes. They're all hollerin' and yellin' and carryin' on something
frightful. It's probably the end of the world all right."
"Patrick O'Brien!" the voice said with sudden sternness. "Shame on you!
It's a fanciful lad you've always been, and I've been of a mind to
forgive you it for bein' a comfort to yer gouty ma, but when you start
callin' up a poor tired cop like me and runnin' off at the mouth about
gassy girls and yellin' butterflies.... Shame is all I've got to say to
you."
"I didn't even mention the water hose," Pat said stubbornly. "It's the
end of the world, I'm confident."
"It's the bottom of the bottle!" the voice snapped. "My advice to you
is to soak yer head in cold water and say a prayer that the devil
doesn't take yer soul. Goodbye to you."
The telephone clicked loudly in Pat O'Brien's ear.
"Faith," Pat said sadly. "And that's the last time I'll hold
conversation with the law." He slumped back on his stool and turned his
eyes to the company rules which were pasted on the wall; there was no
mention anywhere as to proper procedures in the event of the world's
end.
* * * * *
Outside, however, the struggle at the pumps came to an abrupt end as
Cecil won possession of the revolver. He turned and aimed it at Marc.
Promptly the splatter of gasoline stopped, as did that of the water.
"All right," Cecil said, "get back in the car and wake up Gerald."
For a moment Marc and Toffee stood motionless, gazing at the fanatic
gleam in Cecil's eyes. Then slowly they turned and started toward the
car. Both of them knew very surely that the little man would hesitate
considerably less than a second at the act of murdering a man ... or a
city....