Though it couldn't possibly have been more than a couple of hours, it
seemed that they had been twisting and turning through the night for
eternities. Long ago the lights of the city had slipped away into the
darkness behind them. Marc had completely lost track of where they were.
George, the unpredictable ghost, after a brief narrative about how he
had fender-hopped his way back into Marc and Toffee's company, had
drifted off into unconcerned and discordant slumber. Between snores,
made forgetful by sleep, he had fully and completely materialized. If
the Blemishes noted the exactness of the ghost's features to Marc's
they didn't bother to comment on it; apparently the brothers, in their
feverish dementia, were perfectly willing to credit anything as natural.
Gerald sped the car through a long wooded lane, then turned sharply to
the right into a private drive. At last, for better or for worse ...
with the balance heavy on the less attractive side ... Marc and Toffee
arrived at the destination chosen for them by their crazed captors.
As the car ground to a stop Marc and Toffee peered fearfully out the
window and were greeted by the sight of an enormous, turreted old house
that loomed in the night like a preposterous, rococo mountain. It
was the sort of place that the newspapers would surely describe as a
'mystery manse.' Neither Marc nor Toffee felt called upon to make any
comment as to the majesty of the structure or the loveliness of the
gardens that surrounded it. Cecil nudged his gun in their direction.
"Get out," he said. "This is it."
"Yes," Toffee said glumly. "But _what_ is it?"
In the front seat Gerald shook George and the recital of the nasal
passages snorted to a stop. Blinking, George sat up, observed his state
of materialization, then looked around.
"Eh?" he said. "Where are we?"
Toffee turned back at the door of the car. "You know, George," she
said, "next to an open grave, I think we've found the ideal place for
you to settle down. I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't meet a lot of
your old friends here."
The party climbed out of the car and assembled before the old house.
Then, with Gerald leading and Cecil guarding the rear, they creaked up
a long set of wooden steps, crossed a littered veranda, and brought
up before a formidable oak door that was easily large enough to
accommodate the comfortable passage of a fat elephant with its ears
flapping. Gerald produced a key and unlocked the door. As he shoved it
open it swung back on a cavern of unbroken darkness.
"Look out for bats," Toffee said.
"Just step inside," Gerald said.
"Leaving all hope behind," Marc added in a whisper.
The company moved slowly forward into the darkness. Even George seemed
somewhat loathe to cross the threshold, but he managed it. When they
were all inside Cecil closed the door after them and relocked with a
gritting sound that fairly scraped the spine. There was the sound of
movement close by, then the click of a switch. Instantly there was
light.
"Oh!" Toffee cried in amazement. "_Oh!_"
* * * * *
Staring dumbfoundedly at the amazing thing that had risen before them,
the three newcomers remained where they were, incapable of movement.
It was as though the hulking house had simply been scooped hollow with
an enormous spoon. Where there had once been partitions and floors,
there was now nothing but an area of great gaping space. The house had
originally been four stories high, now it was merely one; from where
Marc and Toffee and George stood gaping, the garret ceiling was clearly
visible. Within the walls of the old house there were literally acres
of unbroken space. But that was only the least of it.
The place was simply crammed with strange, incomprehensible equipment,
mechanisms whose purposes were completely unguessable. Enormous coils
writhed sinuously, twining themselves about great metal tubes that
stretched high into the air. Wheels turned smoothly within wheels that
turned within wheels. At the far end of the room a great slide shot
gleaming metal tracks upward into one of the turrets, and then on into
the night. A panel of switches ran the full length of one wall.
"Well?" Cecil said. "How do you like it?"
"If you'll pardon the vulgarism," Toffee said, "this is the damnedest
shanty I've ever seen. What is all that stuff for anyway?"
"Well," Gerald said slowly, "we're not exactly sure about all of it
ourselves. Of course our main interest is in that big machine in
the center." He pointed to a mammoth arrangement of wheels, tubes,
dynamos and levers. "We call that the production unit. With the proper
adjustments you can produce almost any mechanical or chemical device
known to man. With that machine alone, and enough raw materials, of
course, a single man could match the output of any of the nation's
largest factories. The inventor only made it just to have something to
do. Actually, he was going to destroy it. Said it would make mankind
useless." He turned to Marc. "There won't be any trouble making the
bomb ... or even a thousand bombs ... with that."
"What happened to the inventor?" Marc asked uneasily.
"Oh, him," Gerald said with a note of sadness. "Unfortunately he met
with an untimely end just after we met him." He nodded to the gleaming
track. "He was explaining that space catapult to us, telling us how a
man wearing the proper equipment could be thrown out into space, even
into regions unknown to man, and live to tell the tale. He was just
telling us how to work the lever when suddenly the thing went off with
him in it." He lowered his eyes delicately. "If ever a man went to
heaven, it must have been poor Mr. Adams. At least he was certainly
headed in that direction the last time we saw him. Anyway, Cecil and I
like to think he's just away on a little trip."
"How terribly sweet and sentimental," Toffee said acidly. "I suppose he
wasn't wearing the right equipment at the time?"
"Alas, no," Gerald said. "Anyway, Mr. Adams was a very strange man. He
had no practical sense at all. He just stayed here all alone and built
all these things just to see if they really _could_ be built. He
had no idea of ever putting them to any commercial use. He never saw
anyone or had any friends apparently. It seemed a little sad at the
time that Cecil and I, both virtual strangers, were the only ones here
to see him off."
"Still, he seemed lonesome for company," Cecil put in. "He was very
nice to us when we came here. It was only by chance that we found him,
you know. We were out this way looking for a hideout ... we thought we
ought to have one since all the other spies did ... anyway, we got lost
and stopped here. Mr. Adams took us in just like we were old friends.
I guess he wanted someone to show his inventions to. Maybe we really
shouldn't have pulled the switch on the old man that way, but he kept
saying he needed to get away somewhere...."
"The only decent thing to do, really," Toffee murmured.
"Exactly," Cecil said. "At first ... after Mr. Adams left ... Gerald
and I toyed around with the idea of making mankind useless, but we
decided that mankind would probably enjoy it too much, and things are
moving in that direction fast enough anyway. But we always knew this
stuff would come in handy someday if we just waited." He turned to
Marc. "And now you've come along with your bomb."
"May God forgive me," Marc said bitterly.
* * * * *
Cecil pointed to another catapult arrangement, smaller than the one
which had launched Mr. Adams into regions unknown to men, and aimed
considerably lower.
"We'll send the bomb out with that," he said. "That was Mr. Adams'
first experiment with the catapult. It will direct a missile accurately
anywhere in the world. In fact, at full strength, it can throw a
two-ton weight around the world three times. Non-stop."
"A two-ton weight of what?" Toffee asked.
"How should I know?" Cecil asked. "What difference does it make?"
"All the difference," Toffee said emphatically. "It would be perfectly
preposterous for anyone to want to go flinging a two-ton weight around
the world three times." She paused. "Unless, of course, it was a
two-ton weight of something you hated so much you wanted to see it
going away from you three times."
"That's neither here nor there," Cecil said shortly. "The main thing
is to get the bomb made as quickly as possible." He turned to Marc. "I
hope you're ready to go to work?"
"Right now?"
Cecil nodded. "We plan to start tonight. Fortunately, every known
chemical is on hand here. Mr. Adams was amazingly thorough. Would you
rather write the formula down for us, or call out elements as we go
along?"
"And let me warn you," Gerald put in, "you'd better be accurate. We're
planning a test bombing, just to make sure. If it doesn't work you may
have an opportunity to meet Mr. Adams in person."
Marc was hesitant. "It'll take time to scale the formula to your
needs," he said. "I don't know that I'll be able to do it tonight."
"Well, we can get started at least," Cecil said. He turned to Gerald.
"Don't you think we should tie them? Wouldn't it be more professional?"
"Oh, sure," Gerald said. "Only I think chains would be better than
ropes. More effective. You know, like the ones we used in our last
picture, _Mr. X and Madam Q_? We can chain them up and threaten
them for a while."
"We haven't got time to threaten them," Cecil said. "Do we have any
chains?"
"Oh, lots," Cecil said. "I'll go get them."
In the meantime, everyone had forgotten about George. Unobserved,
the materialized ghost had wandered interestedly in the direction of
the giant catapult. Noting the compartment provided for the human
missile, he turned back and studied Marc's lean figure with thoughtful
calculation. He stroked his chin for a moment, then nodded with
satisfaction.
In a moment Cecil returned, dragging several lengths of chain after
him. At gun point, Marc and Toffee seated themselves in chairs at
the far side of the room and submitted unhappily to an iron-clad
captivity. George, however, was permitted to move about freely; the
brothers had quite rightly reasoned that since ghosts were notorious
for romping about in chains, George would probably be quite unhampered
by them. After that, cautioning Marc to get to work immediately
thinking about the formula, they dispatched themselves to the huge
contrivance in the center of the room and began busily setting dials
and levers.
Marc and Toffee considered the current state of affairs without heart.
Toffee turned to George, who had left the catapult and had now arranged
himself lazily on a nearby scaffolding. She smiled demurely.
"Nice George," she cooed. "You're going to help us, aren't you George?
You're not going to leave us sitting here in these awful cold chains.
We might catch cold."
George crossed his arms complacently over his chest and shook his head.
"You should have been nicer to me," he said pettishly.
"If there's anything I hate," Toffee said, "it's a spoiled spook." She
turned to Marc. "What are we going to do?"
* * * * *
Marc shrugged hopelessly. "Just stall, I guess," he said, "as long as
we can, anyway."
"And then what?" Toffee asked. "Are you going to give them the formula?"
Marc shook his head. "No."
"They'll kill you."
Marc sighed. "I suppose they will. I only wish I could see Julie again,
and explain everything to her."
Toffee smiled with unexpected softness. "You really do love her, don't
you?" she asked.
"I guess I must," Marc said, "or I wouldn't feel this way."
For a moment they were silent. Then Toffee suddenly brightened.
"I know what!" she cried. Marc looked up hopefully. "It's so simple I
don't know why we didn't think of it right away. All you have to do is
go to sleep!"
"Go to sleep?"
"Sure. Don't you remember? I told you. When you go to sleep, I
dematerialize. But when you wake up I'm automatically recreated through
your awareness. But I can place my shots, so to speak. You see? All you
have to do is go to sleep. I'll disappear and then, when you wake up
again, I'll materialize somewhere else and go to the police for help."
Marc thought it over. "It's worth trying," he said. "Do you know how to
get back to town?"
"No," Toffee admitted, "I don't. But the main thing is just to get out
of here, isn't it?"
"I don't see how I'll ever get to sleep, though," Marc said. "With so
much on my mind it doesn't seem possible."
Toffee nodded thoughtfully. She glanced around, looked at George.
"Hey, George!" she called. "Do you know what Marc was just telling me
about you?" The ghost looked up. "He said you were the lousiest ghost
in the racket. He said he wouldn't hire you to haunt a rabbit hutch."
An expression of dismayed hurt came over George's face.
"Well?" Toffee said. "Are you just going to sit there and take it? He
also said you wear second hand ectoplasm. If I were you I'd belt him
over the head with something."
George slowly roused himself from the scaffolding and drifted down to
earth. He confronted Marc.
"Did you say all that?" he asked woundedly.
Marc exchanged a quick glance with Toffee. "Well, not exactly," he
said. "All I said, really, was that you can't haunt worth sour apples."
"Oh, yeah?" George said. A menacing scowl came into his face.
"Yeah," Marc said. "You couldn't scare a nervous kitten."
George's face flushed with anger. "I could too," he said.
"You and how many Frankensteins?" Marc asked.
"Why, you...!" George exploded.
"Go tell your mother she wants you." Marc said. "Stop wasting my time."
George whirled about, reached down and picked up a large chunk of wood.
He waved it under Marc's nose. "Don't you talk to me like that!" he
said.
"Beat it, you phony, before you get your sheet dirty," Marc sneered.
"You're not scaring anyone."
That did it. With an unintelligible burst of wrath and hurt pride,
George lifted the block of wood and brought it down on the top of
Marc's head. Then suddenly he started back, his mouth agape. It wasn't
that Marc had slumped, unconscious, in his chair ... that was only to
be desired and expected ... but Toffee, with a slight rattle of her
chains, had mysteriously disappeared before his very eyes.
"Oh, my gosh!" George quavered. "How spooky!"
At the same moment, attracted by the noise of the chains, the Blemishes
abandoned their work and advanced rapidly onto the scene. They surveyed
the empty chair with wonder, then turned to George.
"What happened?" they chorused. "What did you do?"
George looked at them helplessly. "I don't know," he said. "I hit him
and she vanished. That's all."
"Good grief!" Cecil said. He thought quickly. "She must be somewhere
inside the building. She couldn't get out." He turned to Gerald. "Let's
hunt her out."
Just as they were turning away, Marc stirred and lifted his head from
his chest. With great effort, he opened his eyes and glanced at the
empty chair beside him. He smiled.
"What happened?" he asked with great innocence.
* * * * *
Benny Buckingham and his partner Dippy Donahoe crept through the night
in stealthy pursuit of their careers. If the two seemed to keep late
business hours it was only because of the nocturnal nature of their
chosen profession. Plainly, Benny and Dippy were house breakers, and if
they took pride in their work and labored long to get ahead it was only
a tribute to their mothers' faith in them.
Benny and Dippy were perfect partners in that they were perfect
opposites. If Benny was large, Dippy was no bigger than a minute, or
perhaps even fifty nine seconds. Where Benny was an extremely homely
man, Dippy was terribly dapper. There was one thing, however, that this
pair held in common; neither of them was noticeably bright in the head.
Now they crept toward the Maynard mansion, burglary in their hearts,
black jacks in their hands and nothing at all in their heads. When,
upon arriving at the veranda, they were greeted by the sight of a
shapely young redhead decked out in a set of glittering butterflies,
it never occurred to them for a moment that the girl could be any
other than the mistress of the house, out for a moonlight stroll in
her negligee. Summing the situation up thusly, they promptly ducked
down behind the balustrade. But they had paused too long; the girl had
already seen them.
"Hello!" Toffee called, leaping to the conclusion that she had
discovered the occupants of the house. "Hello, there!"
Benny and Dippy peered up sheepishly over the edge of the balustrade.
"My heavens," Toffee said. "I'm glad you came along."
Benny and Dippy exchanged a puzzled glance; they weren't used to being
welcomed on occasions like this.
"You are?" Benny asked suspiciously. "How come?"
"I need someone to help me. I can't get in the house, and I've got to
use the telephone."
"Locked out?" Dippy asked politely. He proceeded warily to the veranda,
waving Benny along behind him.
Toffee nodded. "Would you let me in, please?"
Dippy glanced uncertainly at Benny, and Benny nodded. He turned back to
Toffee. "Delighted," he said. "Which door would you like opened?"
Toffee waved her hand at a long line of French windows. "Oh, any one of
them," she said. "I don't care."
With a flourish, Dippy produced a small tool kit from the inner reaches
of his jacket and went to work. In a moment the door was open.
"There you are," he said. "Bet you couldn't do it faster with a regular
key."
"Thank you," Toffee said. "Were you just coming in?" she asked.
Benny and Dippy, mistaking this for an invitation, stood back for a
moment, astonished. Then, loathe to look a gift horse in the mouth too
long, they followed after her.
"Gosh, what a dame!" Dippy whispered to Benny. "She's got more guts
than a fish cleaner. Or do you suppose we're losin' our menace?"
Toffee crossed the room, found a light switch, and turned it on. The
most beautiful dining room she had ever seen rose up out of the shadows
around her.
"Isn't it nice?" she said. "You must be very happy to have found this
place. Everything's so expensive."
"Oh, we are, lady," Benny said weakly. "We're very happy." Just then
the large suit case which he had been carrying under his coat slipped
and thudded to the floor.
"Oh," Toffee said. "Were you thinking of packing up a few things?"
"Well," Dippy said unhappily, "yes, to tell you the absolute truth,
lady, that's exactly what we had in mind."
"Well, don't let me stop you," Toffee said airily. "Go right ahead
while I use the telephone." She left in the direction of the hall.
"Holy gee, Dippy!" Benny exclaimed. "Is that broad right in the head?
She acts like she wants to be robbed."
* * * * *
Dippy glanced around the room.
"Maybe she don't like this stuff and wants to get rid of it. Or maybe
it's some sort of insurance pitch. Maybe she's been out there choppin'
up and down the front porch for nights, just waitin' for a couple of
guys like us to come along. It's screwy."
Benny shrugged. "Well, maybe we should cooperate with her. What have we
got to lose?"
Together they went to the side board to investigate. They pulled open a
drawer that fairly gleamed with expensive silver.
"Oh, boy!" Benny said. "Just look at that stuff."
"Yeah," Dippy said, and picked up a handful. But his manner was
hesitant. "You know," he said, "it don't seem fair to the profession."
"Uh-huh," Benny said. "I know. Funny, ain't it? We always been
complainin' about how people take such an uncooperative outlook on our
trade and all, but ... oh, gosh...."
"Yeah," Dippy said gloomily. "Why didn't she just go on about her own
business and leave us alone? She could have at least screamed and
carried on or somethin'. That ain't too much to ask from somebody
you're robbin'. She's just takin' an unfair advantage of us, that's
all."
"Maybe she just don't know any better," Benny suggested charitably.
"Anyway, let's take some of the silver, just a little. She might get
her feelings hurt and get sore as hell if we don't."
Just then Toffee came into the room and observed the scene at the side
board without concern.
"Oh," she said brightly, "taking the silver, I see."
With a sigh, Dippy gently replaced the silver he'd taken from the
drawer. "You see, Benny?" he said. "See what I mean? She just ruins
everything. She don't give us a chance."
Benny turned to Toffee. "We were only takin' a few pieces," he said
half-heartedly.
"That isn't going to do you any good," Toffee said. "If you're going to
take any of the silver you'd better take it all. But, of course, that's
your business, not mine."
Dippy's shoulders sagged dejectedly. "She makes me feel like bawlin',"
he said.
"Yeah," Benny said. "She went and took all the heart out of it."
"I wonder if you two would mind doing something else for me?" Toffee
asked. "The phone's dead...."
"Yeah," Benny said. "We cut the wires. I'm sorry. I wish it had been my
throat."
Toffee looked at them curiously; she couldn't imagine why anyone should
want to cut the wires to their own telephone. Then it occurred to her
that perhaps it was their way of shutting off the service. Obviously
they were packing up to leave on a trip.
"Well," Toffee said. "I wonder if you'd mind running me into town? I
have to see the police."
The shattered burglars started violently.
"You see!" Benny cried. "You see! It's a trap! She's gonna turn us
over to the police."
"Turn you over to the police?" Toffee said, thoroughly confused. "What
on earth for? You've been very nice to me. Your private lives are your
own business as far as I'm concerned. It's very urgent that I get to
the police immediately. Won't you help me?"
For a moment the two thugs just stood and stared at each other. Then
Benny heaved a great sigh.
"Come on," he said. "Let's take her in, Dippy. Let's give ourselves up.
After tonight I ain't never goin' to feel the same about the racket no
more."
"Yeah," Dippy said. "Me neither. Come on, lady. We got a car down the
road."
As they turned to leave, Toffee crossed the room to join them.
"Aren't you taking anything with you?" she asked.
The two erstwhile thieves stopped and turned to her with expressions of
overwhelming grief.
"Lay off, lady," Benny said with sad solemnity. "You just ruined our
whole careers. Ain't you never satisfied?"
* * * * *
Meanwhile, back at the old house, the Blemishes and George, after
a fruitless search for Toffee, had returned to Marc's chair. The
Blemishes had fallen into a mood of dark contemplation, while George
had returned to his scaffolding and his day dreams. Then suddenly Cecil
broke the stillness with a snap of his fingers.
"I'll bet I know!" the little man said. "Hey, George!"
George roused himself. "Yeah?" he said.
"You say you hit Mr. Pillsworth and the girl disappeared? Just
vanished?"
"Uh-huh," George nodded. "So help me, that's what happened."
"Then that's it!" Cecil cried. "I've read about it, but this is the
first time I've seen it!"
"What's that?" Gerald asked.
"The girl is a thought creation! She isn't real!" He turned to Marc.
"That's true, isn't it, Pillsworth?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Marc said.
Cecil turned to Gerald. "With him awake, she's probably running around
somewhere, looking for the police. We've got to do something to bring
her back." He thought for a moment. "Do you remember where we put those
hypodermics?"
"I'm not certain," Gerald said vaguely.
"Then run along and look for them. Hurry before she goes too far."
As Gerald hurried away, Cecil turned back to Marc with a slow smile.
"This is going to work out just fine," he said. "We'll give both you
and the girl a nice long sleep. I doubt she's had time to do any harm
yet."
* * * * *
It was only a few minutes later that Benny pulled the car to a stop in
front of the police station.
"Well," Dippy said with muted gloom, "here it is, lady."
Toffee opened the door and started to get out. "You coming along?" she
asked.
Benny shook his head. "They'd never believe it if we told 'em even.
We're goin' to open up a religious liberry instead."
"Well," Toffee said affectionately. "I certainly want to thank you two
for being so kind. I just hope I didn't interrupt anything for you."
Frantically, Benny threw the car into gear and it fairly leaped away
from the curb. Toffee stood for a moment staring after them; she could
have sworn she'd heard a strangled sobbing sound echo back from the
car as it sped away. She turned and started up the steps to the station.
She walked to the door and was just about to shove it open when her
gaze went to the stack of newspapers lying to one side of the entrance.
She looked at the headline: PILLSWORTH DISAPPEARANCE SHROUDED IN
MYSTERY! She picked up one of the papers, folded it quickly under her
arm, and continued inside.
Finding herself in a hallway, she paused uncertainly. Then a door at
the end of the hall opened and a large man in a blue uniform moved into
view. She ran forward.
"Look!" she cried. "Maybe you can help me. I want to speak to someone
about Marc Pillsworth. I know where he is."
The officer swung about abruptly. "Marc Pillsworth?" Toffee nodded.
"Come with me."
"We'd better hurry, though," Toffee said. "I may not have much time."
The officer led her rapidly down the corridor, up a flight of steps,
along another hallway, and finally stopped before an unmarked door.
"Come on in here," he said. He opened the door and held it back for her.
But suddenly Toffee had stopped and a curious look of panic came into
her eyes.
"Oh, no!" she gasped. "Oh, Marc! Not just yet!"
And then, as the officer's eyes grew wider and more frightened, she
slowly faded away....
Back at the old house, Cecil watched with satisfaction as Marc sagged
limply in his chair. He withdrew the hypodermic from Marc's arm and
turned to Gerald.
"Okay," he said, "let's go to work on him."