Her hand patted his shoulder reassuringly. "Well, everything's going to
be all right," she said. "I've brought Dr. Polk to see you. He wants to
talk to you."
Marc's thoughts raced wildly as he boosted himself into a sitting
position.
He glanced nervously at the chair across the room and the door behind
which Toffee was dressing. The situation, he felt, was almost too
atomic to be endured. It might explode at any minute if he didn't get
Julie and the doctor out of there. He regarded the doctor with mistrust.
"I don't want to talk to him," he said peevishly. "I won't."
Undismayed, the doctor calmly sat down on the edge of the lounge. "You
mustn't feel that way, Mr. Pillsworth," he said soothingly. "We're
going to be great friends, you and I."
"Want to bet?" Marc scowled. He turned to Julie. "What kind of quack is
this guy, anyway?"
"Dr. Polk is a ... a...."
"I'm a psychiatrist," the doctor broke in. "You're suffering from a
nervous disorder, Mr. Pillsworth, and I'm here to help you."
Marc's eyes widened with astonishment. They thought he was nuts! What
was he...! His mind leaped to other things as the hissing noise from
George's chair suddenly increased in volume. They were bound to notice
it in a moment.
"I'm all right, doctor," Marc said, his voice unnaturally loud. "I'm
perfectly okay. So you see, I really don't need you! It was just a
little joke. Hah, hah!" His laugh was false and a little hysterical.
"So you can run along back to your nuts ... ah ... patients." He
glanced nervously at the door to the photographer's room. Everything
was ominously quiet. The hissing from George's chair had stopped.
The doctor cleared his throat, glanced significantly at Julie. "Well,
yes," he said, edging closer to Marc. "I'll run along. But I want you
to answer a few simple questions for me first. Is that all right?"
"Sure! Sure," Marc said feverishly. "I'll answer your questions. Only
make it fast, doctor. I'm a busy man, you know."
"All right," the doctor said, taking a pencil from his pocket and
carefully spreading a notebook over one knee. "I'm going to give you a
list of words and I want you to give me the first response that comes
into your mind. Understand?"
"Sure, doctor," Marc replied. "You say a word and I come back at you
with the first thing it reminds me of. Only hurry, will you?"
"Fine." The doctor poised the pencil over the notebook. "Now this is
the first word. Black."
"Future," Marc answered absently, gazing fearfully at George's chair.
"Hot," the doctor continued.
"Seat," Marc replied, still absorbed in the chair.
"Cut."
"Throat."
"Door."
Marc glanced frightenedly at the door to the photographer's room.
"Closed!" he yelled, taking advantage of the situation. "Keep the door
closed!"
The doctor turned worriedly to Julie. "These are very strange
responses, Mrs. Pillsworth," he said. "Frankly, I don't know what to
make of them. There's some sort of anxiety complex here that's not
quite clear."
"Ask half-witted questions, and you get half-witted answers."
The voice was Marc's, but still it hadn't come from Marc, though it
appeared to. Obviously George was awake and entering into the spirit of
things again. Marc's gaze went wild and finally stopped at the chair.
It was still empty.
"What did you say?" the doctor asked politely, turning back to Marc.
"I said," the voice broke out again, "that I wish you would get the
hell out of here and leave me alone. If I have to listen to you any
longer, I'll probably get sick all over myself."
* * * * *
The doctor stared at Marc, his face heavy with incredulity. "Now," he
whispered, "he's talking without even moving his lips."
"Marc Pillsworth!" Julie put in severely. "I don't care if you are
sick, you can at least be civil."
"Oh, stop your silly yapping," the voice returned. "You're no seasick
remedy, yourself."
"What!" Julie's blue eyes were suddenly as hard as ice and twice as
chilly. The very sight of them put icicles on Marc's spine.
"I didn't mean it!" he cried. "I mean, I didn't say it!"
"You've made your bed," Julie snapped. "Don't try to lie out of it."
It was at this juncture that the door to the photographer's room
suddenly started to open. But it didn't open all the way, just a crack.
"Oh, Marc!" Toffee's happy voice trilled. "Just wait till you get a
look at me in this. I'm a scandal to the jaybirds!"
Toffee, in a whimsical mood, had apparently decided to make her
entrance a memorable one. Instead of swinging the door all the way
open, and walking into the room as anyone else would have, she held
it open just enough to allow the seductive passage of one exquisite
lace-clad leg. "That," she called, "is only a promise of things to
come. There ought to be music to go with this."
Julie, who had remained transfixed up to this point, suddenly came to
life with a vengeance. "I'll give you something to go with it, you
little tramp," she raged. "How about a fracture!" She started toward
the door, but reached it too late. Already it had slammed to, and there
was the sound of a key being turned in the lock. She pounded on the
panel with both fists.
"Come out of there, you little sneak!" she yelled.
"Go away," Toffee's voice came back demurely. "I'm dressing."
Julie kicked the door in a fit of frustration. "You little ...
little ... social leper!" she fumed.
"What was that!" Toffee called back, anger rising suddenly in her
voice. "What did you call me?"
"Leper!" Julie screamed. "Leper! Social leper!"
"Oh," Toffee's voice was suddenly mollified. "I thought you said
lecher."
"Take it either way," Julie shot back. "It won't make any difference
what you are when I get hold of you!" She swung around to Marc. "Let's
hear you explain that!" she demanded menacingly, pointing to the door.
She moved toward him. "Stand up, Marc Pillsworth." Her voice was
deceptively quiet now. "Stand up so I can knock you down. I'm going to
lay you out colder than a cast iron cuspidor, you philanderer!"
"But ... but," Marc searched for something to say against desperate
odds. "What ... what about our marriage?" he asked lamely.
"Marriage!" Julie snorted. "From now on, this isn't marriage, it's
mayhem! Prop him up, doctor, and stand back!"
Marc was stunned. The transformation in Julie was almost unbelievable.
He'd seen her angry before, but never this angry. Apparently the old
jealousy that he'd thought cured had merely been lying dormant all the
while. Now it was all the worse for having been suppressed. He got
slowly to his feet, without quite realizing he was doing it. He stared
at Julie in blank amazement.
"That's the good boy," Julie approved nastily. "Now just hold it."
Moving swiftly to Marc's desk, she picked up a heavy ornate inkwell.
Raising it over her head, she sighted a target squarely between Marc's
bewildered eyes.
"Stop!" Dr. Polk was suddenly at her side, grasping her arm. "You
mustn't do that, madam," he cried. "Your husband is a sick man."
"He's going to be a lot sicker when I get through with him," Julie
grated. "The rip has probably been revelling around behind my back all
the time."
She continued to rage. But she became so absorbed in an analytical
description of Marc and all his forebears, she wasn't aware of the
doctor removing the inkwell from her hand and leading her toward the
door. It was unfortunate, though, that in passing George's chair her
foot fell against the bottle standing beside it. For a moment the
bottle teetered dangerously, then righted itself as though of its own
will.
"Pick up your clumsy wedgies, tanglefoot," came George's voice. "What
are you trying to do, trample the place down?"
* * * * *
Miraculously, the doctor managed to pull Julie out of the office. But
he didn't get the door closed in time to ward off her final shriek of
outrage. It was enough to sear the paint from the walls.
"I'll see you in court, Marc Pillsworth!" she yelled.
The minute the door closed Marc leaped for George's chair. Groping for
the spirit, he was rewarded with a foolish giggle.
"Stop it!" George tittered foolishly. "You tickle!"
Marc's hand finally came in contact with what seemed to have the
general feel of an arm. He tugged at it. "Get up," he commanded. "We're
getting out of here."
"Where we going?" George's voice asked.
"I don't know," Marc sighed wearily. "Anywhere. Come on!"
The arm rose under his hand and the bottle beside the chair suddenly
darted into the air and remained there, lazily suspended. Reassured,
Marc moved away, and the bottle followed. At the door to the
photographer's room, he knocked. "Come on out!" he called. "They're
gone. We've got to get out of here before they come back."
A key scraped in the lock, and the door inched warily open. Finally,
Toffee's head appeared in the opening. "What happened?" she asked
innocently.
"What a time you picked to play footsie!" Marc groaned reprovingly.
"Come on, let's go."
The door opened and Toffee stepped out, a wayward vision in a black
lace negligee. The garment, inspired by the peek-a-boo idea, had been
translated by Toffee's lovely figure into a wide open stare. In terms
of visibility, the ceiling was practically unlimited.
A low whistle generated from the vicinity of the dangling bottle at
Marc's side. But Marc's own reaction was somewhat varied.
"Good night," he said. "Did you _have_ to pick that? It's darned near
the nakedest thing I've ever seen. It's indecent."
"Thanks," Toffee said sweetly. "I knew you'd like it." She fell into a
languorous pose beside the door. "By the way, what _is_ the nakedest
thing you've ever seen? It might be interesting to know."
"You and your evil mind," Marc sneered. "Anyway, we haven't time for
that. We've got to get out of here." He grabbed Toffee by the arm and
shoved her toward the door at the rear of the office. "We can go down
the fire escape, into the parking lot. Julie probably left the car
there, and we'll need it."
Toffee continued to the door, opened it and passed through, holding
her lacies daintily away from the floor. "I'll bet it wasn't the naked
truth," she murmured reflectively.
* * * * *
On the summit, under the roseate glow of a pink-and-lavender sunset,
it was even conceivable that life could be beautiful. Scented breezes
played wantonly among the pines. Everything dwelt under a spell of
hushed loveliness there. That was before the blue convertible charged
onto the scene in a heavy cloud of dust and dark words.
The car seemed almost in the throes of a spasm. Appearing to paw the
pavement with its tires like a live and avenging thing, it sighted
the nearest pine and charged it headlong. Then, at the last possible
moment, it veered in the opposite direction and transferred its attack
to the guard rail on the far side of the road. Rushing to the brink,
it peered momentarily into the canyon below, hastily reconsidered,
and reeled back to safety, its tires screaming with fright. Then,
its passions apparently expended, it came to a sudden, jolting halt.
Everything was quiet, except for a loud hissing sound.
Marc's voice was shaken, but nonetheless sincere. "You ever do anything
like that again," he said heavily, "and I'll wring your ectoplasmic
neck. Now we've got a flat."
On the other side of the car, George, now fully materialized, sighed
resignedly and leaned his head back against the cushions. "I don't see
why you're making such a stink about it," he said drowsily. "Why don't
you just try looking at this thing from my side for a change? After
all, you've got to pop off sometime. Now, just one good twist of that
wheel and everything would be over in a second. Splat!"
Marc winced as George's hands slapped together. The word "splat" was
too descriptive. "Wouldn't you know it?" he lamented. "Wouldn't you
know that my own ghost would turn out to be a homicidal drunk? Why
can't you be satisfied with just ruining my life? Isn't that enough?"
George shrugged, and reaching for the bottle at his side, helped
himself to a long drink. Winking at Toffee, who was seated between him
and Marc, he burped and vanished completely. "My head aches," his voice
came back dispassionately from space. And almost at once soft snoring
began to issue from his side of the car.
"I shouldn't wonder his head aches," Toffee mused. "He's the most
loaded spirit I've ever seen." She giggled. "A spirit full of spirits."
"This," Marc said sourly, "is no time to crack bum jokes." He opened
the car door and stepped out onto the road. "I'll have to change that
tire."
A moment later, business-like scrapings and clankings in the rear of
the car announced that Marc had set to work. Toffee leaned back and
gazed absently out of the window. There wasn't much to see, only a
lot of trees and bushes. And everything, to her way of thinking, was
entirely too quiet. For a time she toyed with the idea of rousing
George, but finally decided against it.
Then there was a faint rustling sound and Toffee glanced up to see a
man scurrying out of the bushes at the side of the road. He was old,
except for his eyes, which were remarkably blue and clear, though
rather eclipsed by two enormous shaggy eyebrows. The rest of his face
was nothing more than a tangle of yellowish grey hair, for there was
no telling where his hair left off and his beard began. His clothes
were in such a state of disintegration as to make them unattractive to
street urchins in sub-zero weather.
"Howdy," the old fellow rasped. He locked a bony hand over the edge of
the car door and peered at Toffee nearsightedly.
"Howdy," Toffee replied, glad even for this diversion. "What can I do
for you?"
"I was wonderin'," the old fellow said with sudden shyness, "if you'd
like some squeezin'?"
Toffee started visibly. "Aren't you being a little direct?" she asked
coolly. "Do I look like the sort that would be interested in your
squeezings?"
"They're mighty good," the old fellow went on hopefully. "I'll let you
have 'em at a bargain, too."
"What!" There was real shock in Toffee's voice. "You expect me to pay
you for these ... ah ... squeezings, as you so quaintly call them?"
"Naturally," the old man nodded. "Can't give 'em away, you know."
"I should think not!" Toffee cried. "Not to me, you couldn't. I
wouldn't have them if you paid me."
"I could give you a sample," the old fellow offered. His smile was
starkly toothless.
* * * * *
Toffee edged quickly away. "No, thank you," she said loftily. "In
fact, I'd really rather not hear any more about it. Why don't you just
take your filthy-minded squeezings and slither back into the bushes
where you came from? For my part, I'll just sit here and try to forget
everything you've said."
"Well, okay," the old man said sadly, "but you don't know what you're
missin'."
He started to turn away, but Toffee suddenly held out a restraining
hand. It was too late now. She was already intrigued. Maybe there was
something here she should know about. "Wait," she said, lowering her
voice. "If you can tell me in a nice way, what's so terrific about
these squeezings of yours?"
"They send you clean outa this world," the old man grinned. "Just a
little bit, and you won't even know what hit you."
Toffee frowned. "It seems you could be a little more modest about it,"
she reproved. "Aren't you married?"
"Oh, Lord, yes," the old man sighed wearily.
"Doesn't your wife mind you running around, doing all this squeezing?"
"Naw. The old lady helps me."
"What!" Toffee looked horrified. "You mean she's mixed up in this
squeezing business too!"
"Sure. Her and the whole family."
"Oh, my gosh!" Toffee moaned. "This is too much. I suppose it shows a
nice enterprising spirit on the part of you and your family, but isn't
it all a little hard to get used to?"
The old man shook his head. "Don't know why it should be," he mused.
"You city people sure do get some strange notions in your heads."
"We don't hold a candle to you country people," Toffee retorted. "But I
suppose, being up here alone and all, squeezings do begin to take on a
certain importance after a while."
"That's right," the old man agreed. "They're mighty comfortin' on a
cold night. Mighty nice when everyone's scrouged up around the fire."
"Scrouged up?" Toffee asked timidly. "You mean you have to be scrouged
up for these squeezings?"
Marc suddenly appeared at the opposite window, wiping his hands on a
rag with an air of finality. He regarded the old man mildly. "What can
I do for you, old timer?" he asked.
"For heaven's sake!" Toffee cried imploringly. "Don't ask him!"
"What?" Marc stared at her questioningly.
"The old boy's as daffy as a snowball in July," Toffee whispered. "He's
wild on the idea of going around squeezing people. He claims it's more
darned fun. Says he has some sort of new technique or something where
people get all scrouged up, whatever that means. He started harping
about it the minute he got his nose out of those bushes. It's the worst
thing I've ever listened to."
"I saw you folks stopped down here," the old man put in, "and I thought
you might like some real mountain squeezin's. How about it, mister?"
"You see!" Toffee cried. "He's off on it again. Him and his squeezings!
It's likely that if I have to listen to any more about either of them
I'll be a gibbering idiot."
The old man looked distressed. "I think there's somethin' serious wrong
with that gal," he told Marc regretfully. "I didn't want to tell her to
her face, but she's too excitable. She got all skitterish just because
I tried...."
"And who wouldn't get skitterish," Toffee snapped, "with old gophers
leering out of the bushes, trying to squeeze them? It's enough to
unbalance anyone."
"I didn't try to squeeze you, lady," the old man retorted with
unexpected heat. "And I didn't leer neither."
Anger suddenly flared in Toffee's green eyes. "Don't you try to deny
it, you old hayseed!" she yelled. "I remember every word you said."
* * * * *
Marc rushed into the breach. "Stop this wrangling," he commanded.
"Let's get to the bottom of this thing." He turned to the old man. "Did
you or did you not try to ... ah ... squeeze this young lady?"
"At my age?" the old man asked forlornly. "What do you think? I just
came down here to sell you folks some corn squeezin's. I didn't know it
was goin' to make all this trouble. Now I just want to forget the whole
thing and go away. I think I'll go into the hog business."
"Corn squeezings?" Marc asked. "What's that?"
"It's a kind of likker," the old man said uninterestedly, as though
it really didn't matter any more. "I make it myself. I got a still up
yonder on the mountain. Right now I'm goin' up there and lay into the
damn thing with a sledge hammer."
"Oh," Toffee breathed embarrassedly. "So that's all it was!" She
reached a hand to Marc's sleeve. "Maybe we ought to buy some of
his ..." she shied away from the word, "that stuff. Just to make it up
to him. It seems the least we can do."
Marc nodded and turned to the old man. "Don't take it so hard, old
timer," he said sympathetically. "You just made a sale the hard way."
It was some time before Marc and Toffee emerged from the woods and
started down the hill toward the car. Leaving the shadows of the great
pines, they stepped into a path of shimmering bright moonlight. Over
one shoulder, Marc carried an old-fashioned jug, and his face had
rather a wooden look about it, though it was set in a blissful smile.
Toffee moved loose-jointedly along at his side, softly singing a song
about a girl named Lil who had suffered a rather devastating fall from
grace at a shockingly early age. They moved lightly and silently down
the hillside like a pair of enchanted shadows. It was just as they were
approaching the car that Marc suddenly stopped and grasped Toffee's arm.
"You hear voices?" he whispered thickly.
Toffee leaned forward in a listening attitude. "I think so," she said,
"but they may be in my head." She leaned forward again, and after a
moment, nodded vigorously. A voice that sounded like a bucksaw drawn
across a block of cement was coming from somewhere on the other side
of the car.
"I looked everywhere, Marge," it said, "but I ain't seen nothin'."
"But I _hear_ it," a feminine voice replied. "It sounded like it's
somewhere inside the car."
The woman's voice was the perfect mate to the one that had spoken
first; it was as husky as an acre of Iowa corn.
"It's the most gruesome thing I've ever heard," the first voice
continued. "What'll we do?"
"Look again. Whatever it is, it must be sufferin' somethin' awful."
The golden beam of a flashlight suddenly stretched out over the hood
of the car, then moved back swiftly toward the interior. Marc started
forward. "Company," he murmured happily. Then he called out; "Hello,
there!"
Two startled faces instantly appeared over the top of the car. They
were quite distinct in the bright moonlight. One was large and hard
looking, like a product of Bethlehem Steel. The other was small, but
all the worse for hard wear. Surrounded by a mop of gauzy blond hair,
its makeup had been ladled on by a hand that was more lavish than
loving. The owner of the large, hard head was the first to speak.
"Where did you come from?" he asked.
"From heaven," Marc answered inanely. "That's what my folks said."
"Holy smoke!" the man said, turning to his companion. "Marge! Look at
that dame! She aint got nothin' on but a bunch of holes and a lot of
skin!"
"Watch your temperature, Pete," Marge replied menacingly. "Remember
what happened when I caught you with that blonde in Des Moines?"
* * * * *
Pete was immediately subdued. He fastened his eyes on Marc and
carefully kept them there. By this time Marc and Toffee had reached
the car and were moving toward the newcomers. The pair with the
flashlight seemed to regard them with suspicion.
"You hillbillies?" the man named Pete asked. It was the forlorn
conversational effort of a subnormal personality.
"Hah!" It was Marge who spoke up. "Just look at that dame, Pete. Does
she make you think of hillbillies?"
"She makes me think of a lot of things," Pete answered promptly.
"Look, sister," Marge said, turning to Toffee. "You better clear outa
here. You and me, we're goin' to tangle if you don't."
"Just because the boy shows a little good taste?" Toffee asked archly.
"He's got taste," Marge retorted, "like a mouth full of quinine."
"That must be why he got mixed up with you," Toffee said sweetly. "I
understand there are things written on washroom walls about dames like
you."
Marge made a small snarling noise, then lunged toward Toffee. "Oh, what
a fresh babe!" she screamed. "I oughta belt you one. We'll just see how
smart you are. I'll rip that sleezy dress right offa your back!"
Toffee ducked quickly behind Marc. "You rip off this dress," she
giggled, "and you'll see a whale of a lot more than how smart I am."
That one stopped Marge cold. A naked redhead was bound to create more
of a disturbance in Pete's life than just a fresh one dressed in lace.
She was forced to content herself with only a murderous glare, but she
put her all into it.
Marc, who had been watching these developments with an air of detached
amusement, stepped forward, removing Toffee's protection. "You're all
upset," he said to Marge, lowering the jug from his shoulder. "Have
some squeezin's."
"Say," Marge drawled in a voice that was not altogether displeased,
"are you tryin' to make a pass at me?"
"It's liquor," Marc answered amiably. "It hits the spot."
"Oh." Marge accepted the jug, tilted it and took a long, accomplished
swallow. "Wow!" she gasped. "That stuff not only hits the spot, mister,
it completely demolishes it. I bet my breath is radioactive."
Marc took the jug from her and turned it over to Pete, who drank from
it deeply, without so much as a tremor. When the jug was returned,
Marc put it on the ground. "Say," he said, "you two were looking for
something when we came along. Can we help? What was it?"
"The owner of this here car," Pete said. "We can hear him snorin' in
there, but I'm damned if we can find him."
"I told you," Marge put in argumentatively. "That ain't nothin' human
that's makin' that noise. Leastways, it ain't nothin' that would own a
car."
"You're nuts," Pete retorted. "That's somebody sleepin' in there."
For a moment they paused and listened. George's snoring was swiftly
building to a stirring crescendo. It sounded like a sawmill in
mid-season.
"Oh, that!" Marc laughed. "That's George. He's my ... uh ... my dog. I
keep him locked in the back."
"You mean this here is yore car?" Pete asked.
"Sure," Marc patted the car fondly. "All mine."