Within the old house there was little evidence of the morning outside.
Mr. Adams had boarded over the windows and now the daylight shone
through only at the openings of the turrets where the tracks of the
catapults reached for the sky. Even these openings, however, had heavy
metal shutters which could be closed against bad weather.
For the moment everything was quiet. The Blemishes were settled at a
small table, poring over several sheets of paper. George slumbered
loudly on his scaffolding, while below him Marc drooped limply in his
chair, held there only by virtue of the chains about his shoulders.
Then, as the patches of day at the turret openings grew lighter, Marc
stirred. As he sat up, the chains made a small rattling sound. The
Blemishes glanced up sharply from their studies.
Painfully, Marc lifted his head and looked out at the world around him
with dulled eyes. A blurred vision of Toffee instantly swam into view.
She seemed to be holding a newspaper in her hand.
"There, you see!" Cecil told Gerald. "I was right. She's a thought
creation."
"Never heard of it," Gerald said.
"Very rare," Cecil commented shortly. "Particularly one that positive."
Across the room Toffee ran quickly to Marc's side.
"What have they done to you?" she cried. "What happened?"
Marc shook his head, forced awareness into his brain. He concentrated
on Toffee's words.
"Happened?" he said. Then his mind cleared a bit. "I don't know. They
doped me. With a needle. They found out about you."
Toffee whirled on the Blemishes with utmost loathing. "If I had a rat
trap, I'd offer you some cheese," she said. She turned back to Marc. "I
should have stayed away, I suppose, but I had to find out what they'd
done to you."
"Did you reach the police?" Marc asked anxiously.
Toffee shook her head.
Marc sighed. "I feel awful."
"They won't get away with it," Toffee said. She picked up the paper
from where she'd dropped it on the floor. "Look. They're searching for
you." She read the article quickly:
Foul play was suspected since Marc was known to be the inventor of a
new explosive. It was believed that he had fallen into the hands of
foreign agents and might even have been removed from the country. The
search for him extended around the world.
"You see," Toffee said. "They'll find you sooner or later."
"If they don't kill us first," Marc said. "I feel dead already."
Toffee got up and went over to the Blemishes. "Just what did you little
vultures do to him?" she asked angrily.
Cecil shrugged. "A little of this and a little of that," he said. "A
lot of truth serum."
"Yeah," Gerald sniggered unalluringly. "Enough to get the formula out
of him." He looked down significantly at the papers on the table.
Toffee stiffened. "Why, you ... you ... reptiles!"
Ignoring her, Cecil turned to Gerald. "I guess we don't need Pillsworth
any more, do we?"
"Well," Gerald said, "we'd better keep him around until after the test.
Just in case, you know. We should be able to whip out the formula
before tonight if we get right to work. We can take care of Pillsworth
tomorrow."
Cecil nodded toward Toffee. "What about her?"
"Oh, she's no problem at all. She'll go automatically when he does."
"How'll we do it?" Cecil asked.
* * * * *
For a moment Gerald stared dreamily off into space. "We could starve
him for a day and just let him drift off of his own accord."
"That would be fine," Cecil said. "Sort of poetic."
"On the other hand," Gerald said, "that wouldn't leave us any corpse
to show for our trouble." He sighed. "You know very well, Cecil, that
corpses always distress me, and in any line of work but ours I'd be
definitely opposed to them. Still, for business reasons it would be a
nice thing to have one around. You know, just tossed casually over a
chair or table somewhere, where people can see it when they come to
interview us for spy work. It makes a good impression."
"That's right," Cecil said solemnly. "A dead body can be impressive as
the deuce when it's used to good advantage. Of course it should be in
good condition. But nothing ostentatious."
"Oh, my gosh!" Toffee moaned. "They talk about dead bodies as though
they were Spanish shawls!"
"Anyway," Gerald said, "let's worry about Pillsworth when we come to
him. Right now we've got to get busy with the formula."
"All right," Cecil said. "Only just remember, if we decide to keep the
corpse, there mustn't be any blood on it. I can't stand blood; it's so
common."
At that point the brothers turned to observe Toffee with expressions of
small annoyance.
"What about her?" Gerald said. "Hadn't we better chain her up again?"
Cecil nodded. "And we'd better make sure Pillsworth doesn't go to
sleep. You stick by him and keep him awake while I work on the
formula."
With that the brothers parted, in pursuit of their individual duties.
Cecil returned Toffee to her chair and her chains. Toffee told Marc
about the truth serum and the formula.
"Oh, Lord!" Marc said. "They'll destroy the city!"
"I know," Toffee said. "I know."
After that the hours wore on endlessly. Cecil busied himself with Mr.
Adams' machine, adjusting dials, turning knobs, throwing switches
with hateful diligence. Cecil stuck to Marc and Toffee as per plan.
Alternately he gave Marc food to keep him earthbound and powders to
keep him awake. In between times, he talked. He explained about the
bomb shell that he and Cecil had completed during the night while Marc
was unconscious.
A small chamber was to contain the final chemical. Through a device
to be set when the bomb was launched, the chemical would be released
into another small chamber which was adjacent to the main body of the
bomb and separated from it only by a very thin metal diaphragm. In
a predetermined period of time the diaphragm would be eaten away by
chemical reaction. In that way all the chemicals would be united at
precisely the right moment to produce the explosion.
The moment of detonation was to be timed so that it occurred in the air
directly above the target. The chemicals would be scattered in a fine
spray over the desired area. It was all very precise and exact.
"An old plan we stole a long time ago," Gerald explained modestly. "We
were just kids then."
Toffee glanced around to see what George was up to.
* * * * *
The ghost had been curiously quiet all day. Occasionally he had
wandered over to the catapult and observed it with quiet speculation,
then returned to watch Cecil at his chores. Through it all, though, he
had kept a careful eye on Marc and Toffee and Gerald. He seemed to have
something on his mind.
It wasn't until early evening when he came over to join the group. With
the air of a kibitzer he strolled to a position behind Gerald. He stood
there for a moment or two, teetering nonchalantly on the balls of his
feet, then reached out and touched Gerald on the shoulder.
"I think Cecil needs your help, old man," he smiled. "He's getting
ready to stuff the bomb."
"Stuff it?" Gerald asked.
"Well, whatever it is."
"I can't leave," Cecil said. "He told me to stick here."
"I'll stick in your place," George offered. "I'll be positively gluey."
Gerald hesitated, but not for long. "Well," he said finally, "all
right." He got up and disappeared through the forest of apparatus.
Toffee favored George with a scathing look. "Have a seat, Judas," she
said. "I only wish it were wired."
"You misjudge me," George said, sitting down. "I'm trying to help you."
"Pass the salt," Toffee said.
"I'm hurt that you take that attitude," George said. "You don't really
believe that I'm so depraved as to let those two destroy the whole
city?"
"I haven't heard you screaming for help," Toffee said.
"I've been waiting for the right moment," George said. "When their
attention would be on the bomb and not us. Right now they think they've
got everything they want, and...."
"They have got everything they want," Marc said futilely. "Do you know
what they're planning to use for a test target?"
"Oh, that," George said. "Just the Whittle monument."
"The Whittle monument!" Marc said. "It's a landmark!"
"I think they're doing a public service getting rid of it," George
said. "With that fat politician standing on top and all."
"But it'll cause a panic!" Marc said. "It may start all kinds of
trouble. We've got to stop them."
"I'm afraid we can't," George said. "The bomb is almost ready now and
it's dark. They're waiting to catch the after theatre crowd with this
demonstration. They figure there'll be more of the international set in
that group."
"The dirty little opportunists," Toffee said.
"Anyway," George said, "we can stop them bombing the city tomorrow
night."
"Tomorrow night!" Marc gasped.
"That's what they're planning. If this test works out."
"Dear God! We've got to stop them!"
"Exactly," George smiled. "That's why I'm here to turn you two loose."
"Beautiful George!" Toffee cried. "Hurry!"
"Let me tell you my plan first," George said. "I'll unchain you, but
you've got to promise to do as I say."
"Anything, George, darling," Toffee said.
"Very well. The door is locked, as you know, and Gerald has the key
with him, so you can't get out that way. The only other way out is
through the catapult openings. Gerald and Cecil will be working by the
small one, so you'll have to climb up the large one and get out on the
roof. I'll go over and get everything ready...." He paused to eye Marc
excitedly.
"Now, wait a min...!" Marc began.
* * * * *
But Toffee caught his eye with a glance. "Why that's wonderful,
George," she said. "Hadn't we better get started?"
"Okay," George said eagerly. He got up and began working at Toffee's
chains. "I knew you'd like the idea."
"But are you sure...?" Marc said.
"We love it," Toffee put in quickly. "I'm sorry I've misjudged you."
"That's all right," George said, releasing Marc's chains. "Now, you
stay here, and I'll be right back." He disappeared in the direction of
the catapult.
"What's the matter with you?" Marc asked. "Don't you realize that fiend
is getting ready to shoot us off into eternity?"
"Yes, I know," Toffee said. "But we don't have to wait for him to do
it, do we? We're free now. Let's get moving."
"But we haven't the key to the door. And that's the only way out."
"I know," Toffee said. "We've got to work fast. Come on."
Already she was moving toward the scaffolding, looking for something.
Presently her eyes fell on a small length of pipe. She picked it up and
brought it to Marc.
"I can't unlock the door with that," Marc said.
"Yes, you can," Toffee said. "Hang onto it."
"What am I supposed to do with it?"
"You'll know when the time comes," Toffee said. "Quickly! Get back in
the shadows." Then suddenly she began to scream at the top of her lungs.
"Marc!" she wailed. "You're floating again! Catch my hand!"
Marc jumped back into the shadows completely by surprise. And not a
moment too soon.
Instantly there was the sound of running footsteps and Gerald appeared
around the edge of the scaffolding. He stopped, looked at Toffee, then
glanced apprehensively upward. It was then, true to Toffee's promise,
that Marc knew what to do with the pipe. Stepping forward, he placed it
firmly on the back of Gerald's skull. With a small cry of surprise, the
little man dropped to the floor. Quickly Toffee bent over him, put her
hand in his pocket and brought out a key.
"Thank heavens we got the right one," she breathed. "Hurry!"
She and Marc sped for the door, dodging swiftly through the tangle of
apparatus as they ran. Behind them there was the sound of running,
exclamations.
Toffee reached the door first and quickly thrust the key into the lock.
Marc joined her and helped her unlock the door and shove it open. They
darted across the veranda, down the creaking steps, and out into the
night.
"Stop!" they heard Cecil yell behind them, "Come back!"
They didn't stop running until they had come to the end of the drive
and onto the tree-lined lane. And then they paused only momentarily,
to get their breath. Then they started forward again as they saw an
ancient car, some distance away, pull up at the side of the road and
park.
* * * * *
Dalmer Boyde, a pimpled youth of negligible sophistication, switched
off the ignition, leaned back, and glanced covetously at the voluminous
charms of Floramae Davis. Inwardly he experienced a certain jolting
sensation. Haltingly he reached out and placed an arm against the back
of Floramae's neck in a sort of amorous strangle hold.
"Floramae," Dalmer said with passionate overtones, "I think you're
just every bit as pretty as a striped snake."
Floramae started in her seat with a jump that rocked the ancient auto
to its very tires. Stout of heart in the face of bulls, bison or
buffoons, the poor girl had one fatal fear which she could not control;
she had such an abhorrence of snakes that even the mention of the word
set her great frame atremble with panic.
"Snake!" she screamed. "Where?"
"There ain't no snake," Dalmer said. "I only said you was pretty."
"What a lousy time for compliments!" Floramae shrieked. "Here's this
damned snake snapping at us, and you make sweet talk! You got no
brains? Kill that snake and be snappy!"
Dalmer struggled to renew his grasp on the quivering girl. "I only try
to say something nice and all of a sudden the place is full of snakes.
Fer gosh sakes, Floramae!"
"There's more than one?" Floramae screamed. "Let go of me! Let me outa
here!" She threw the door open and prepared to heave herself to the
road. "What a fierce thing to do to a girl, Dalmer Boyde! Bringin'
snakes on a date. It'll serve you good and right if I faint right here
in the road and get squashed by a truck!"
"Aw, Floramae!" Dalmer pleaded. "Don't act so crazy about nothin'."
"You call it nothin'?" Floramae demanded to know. "I call it a dirty
trick! If you ever dast to speak to me again I'll bite you!"
"Floramae!" Dalmer said.
But Floramae was on her way. Jumping from the car, she landed solidly
in the center of the road. She started forward, then stopped as two
figures, a man and a woman, loomed vaguely before her in the night. It
was Marc and Toffee.
"Help!" Toffee cried, running forward. "Give us a lift!" She started
toward the car, but was suddenly stopped by Floramae.
"Don't get in that car, honey!" she cried. "It's spillin' over with
snakes!"
But just at this moment Dalmer came bounding out of the car.
"Now, Floramae...!"
"Git away from me, Dalmer," Floramae growled, "or I'll kick you in the
stomach!"
She started off rapidly down the road with Dalmer following plaintively
in her wake. In the next moment the pair had disappeared into the
night, and Marc and Toffee were alone with the car.
"Come on," Toffee said. "You drive." Then she glanced back toward the
lane from which they had just come. Headlights stabbed around the bend
and started toward them. "Hurry!" She got in the car. Marc followed
after, started the car, and maneouvered it onto the road.
"Can't you make it go any faster?" Toffee asked. She looked around.
"They'll be here in a minute!"
Marc pressed the gas pedal to the floor. The car coughed daintily and
continued at a steady speed of twenty five.
"For the love of heaven!" he cried. "That's its limit!"
It was then that a shot suddenly echoed through the night, and the old
car skidded across the road to a forced stop against an embankment.
Toffee looked back at the approaching lights.
"Come on!" she cried. "Run!"
They scrambled out of the car and started up the embankment. They were
just about to the top when they were suddenly caught in the blinding
glare of a spotlight. They stopped where they were. On the road there
was a squeal of brakes and the slam of a door. Cecil Blemish, his gun
in his hand, stepped into the light.
"Fun's over," he said. "Let's go home."
* * * * *
Toffee and Marc reentered the house with an air of morose finality.
As they automatically took their places in the chairs and allowed
themselves to be imprisoned again, Gerald appeared smirkingly from the
tangled underpinnings of the small catapult. He regarded them with an
air of almost personal triumph.
"Glad you got back for the launching," he said. "You're just in time."
Marc glanced fearfully toward the catapult.
"Listen," he said earnestly. "You don't realize what you're doing. The
disappearance of that monument could easily start another war. Such
small things can sometimes."
The brothers stared at him with rapt attention. For a moment Marc
thought he had actually begun to impress them. Then Gerald turned to
Cecil.
"Just think, Cecil!" he simpered. "Another war! We'd be in great demand
as spies! Do you think it's too much to hope for?"
Cecil shook his head. "Certainly not. Now that I stop to think about
it, if this bomb doesn't do it, the one tomorrow night is sure to."
"Let's fire the bomb!" Gerald cried. "Right now!"
But Cecil hung back for a moment. "What's happened to that traitorous
spook?" he asked.
Gerald shrugged. "Dematerialized so we couldn't tell him to his face
what we think of him. He's drifting about somewhere. Anyway, forget
about him. Let's launch the bomb."
The two hurried off to the catapult. There, they argued briefly about
which of them would officiate at the switch, but finally Cecil won the
honor by drawing his gun on his brother. He stepped up to the switch
and took hold of it. A thick silence of mixed expectancy took the old
house.
"No ... no ..." Marc whispered, then watched with haunted eyes as
Cecil's hand brought the switch suddenly downward.
There was a loud hissing sound and then an indistinguishable flash
as the bomb shot up the track and out into the night. After that the
silence returned, but with a new quality now. After a long interval,
Marc and Toffee started in their chairs as a distant rumble echoed back
from the night.
Marc closed his eyes and waited for the old house to stop trembling....