"Yeah," Marge said, helping herself to the jug. "We ain't got all
night."
* * * * *
Marc and Toffee watched interestedly as Pete wedged an immense hand
into his coat pocket and set it into a complicated series of fumbling
motions. Presently, the hand seemed to locate what it was searching for
and emerged once more into the bright moon light. It was holding a gun.
"Put up your hands," Pete growled, "before I blow your heads off." Then
he glanced at Marge uncertainly. "Is that right?" he asked.
The blonde nodded. "You could put more guts into it, maybe, but it'll
do in this case."
Pete nodded with satisfaction and turned back to Marc. "Will you give
me the keys to this here car, please?" he asked politely. "Me and
Marge, here, are goin' to steal it, if it's all the same to you."
"Oh, for the love of Mike!" Marge snorted disgustedly. "Now you've went
and messed it all up. Don't be so polite. How many times do I have to
tell you? And don't ever say please. Tell 'em to hand over the keys and
no funny business. Make it sound professional. When you're snatchin'
a valuable article like a car, the victim's entitled to a first class
hold-up with plenty of rough talk. Please, he says! What're people
gonna think?"
Pete grinned at Marc apologetically. "Marge is coachin' me," he said.
"She's learnin' me the profession. Only I'm kinda dumb. I always louse
up."
"Oh, I don't know," Toffee put in kindly. "I don't think you were so
bad. I think a bit of politeness in a stick-up lends a refreshing new
note. It's original."
"See, Marge!" Pete said triumphantly. "Did you hear? I'm original."
"You're the original dope," Marge snapped. "I don't care what she says,
we're stickin' to standard methods. If they were good enough for my old
lady, they're good enough for me. Now get them keys, and let's blow."
For a moment Pete looked crestfallen. "Sometimes," he murmured, "I wish
I was just a juvenile delinquent again." Then, with a sigh, he jammed
the gun into Marc's ribs. "Hand over them keys, buddy," he snarled.
"And no funny business, see?"
Marc turned unconcernedly to Marge. "I like the other way better too,"
he said. "It's got more class."
"Who's runnin' this stick-up?" Marge said angrily. "Do I tell you your
business? This is what I get for messin' with amateurs."
"Aw, Marge," Pete pleaded. "You ought'n to talk like that. I'm tryin'
hard to do like you tell me."
"Sure," Toffee broke in. "Anyone can see he's sincere, and that's the
important thing. Anyone who's sincere is bound to get ahead. You'll be
proud of Pete someday. He may get to Sing Sing before you do, yourself."
"You stay out of this," Marge rasped, nearly at the end of her rope.
"He's my boy friend, and I'll train him my way."
"What do you want the car for?" Marc asked, brushing Pete's gun gently
away from his side. "Do you really need it, or are you just practicing?"
"We need the thing," Marge said wearily, tears of bitter humiliation
beginning to well in her eyes. "We were makin' a getaway, our heap
broke down about a mile back. We gotta get outa here, mister. Honest.
Now, won't you please cooperate and let Pete stick you up?"
"Sure," Marc said agreeably. "Stick me up, Pete."
"What about us?" Toffee asked suddenly. "We need the car too."
"Yeah," Pete said, gesturing at Marge with his gun. "What about them?"
Marge threw her hand up in a gesture of despair. "That rips it!" she
wailed. "I don't care what about anything anymore. You're all nuts ...
or drunk ... or both." She sat down heavily on the running board and
cupped her chin dejectedly in her hands. "Things have sure gone all to
hell!"
A thoughtful silence fell over the little group for a time. Marc was
the first to speak. "I tell you what," he said brightly. "We'll all go
together. Toffee and I were only looking for a place to stay. You two
come along with us, and when we find a place we like, you can stick us
up all over again and steal the car. How's that?"
Pete smiled hopefully at Marge. "Yeah, Marge," he said. "That's fair,
ain't it? And on the way you could coach me some more so's I'll do it
right, the way you want it. I'll really stick 'em up this time, too.
I'll scare hell outa 'em."
"Oh, all right," Marge said resignedly. "But if I wake up in a padded
cell tomorrow, I ain't even goin' to ask how I got there."
Silently, the little party arranged itself in the car. Marge followed
Pete into the back seat, scowling sullenly. Hugging the jug to her,
Toffee slid across the front seat to make room for Marc behind the
wheel. As she did so, the snoring, that had grown in intensity, was
suddenly interrupted by a loud snort.
"If that was my dog," Marge said bitterly, "I'd strangle the beast."
* * * * *
When Marc turned off the ignition, the convertible seemed to sigh with
relief ... so did the occupants of the back seat. Otherwise, everything
was quiet. George's snoring had stopped completely some minutes before.
"Oh, Moses!" Marge murmured faintly. "Now, when they say death rides
the highways, I'll know who they're talkin' about." She tugged at
Pete's sleeve. "And did you see that jug floatin' around up there all
by itself?"
"You're just excited, Marge," Pete told her soothingly. "You didn't see
nothin' like that." He turned to Marc pleadingly. "She didn't see no
jug floatin' around up there, did she, mister?"
But Marc didn't answer. He and Toffee were concerned with a light
glowing through the pines just a few yards away from the road. Finally,
Marc opened the door and got out of the car.
"I can't tell what it is," he said, "but I'll see if they can put us up
for the night." He moved away in the direction of the glowing light.
It was several minutes later when Marc, followed by a balding little
relic of a day gone by, retraced his steps through the open door and
stepped onto the antiquated veranda of Sunnygarden Lodge, "A Haven For
The Weary."
"You needn't come along," he said uneasily to the little man. "My
friends are waiting in the car. I can get them myself."
"Oh, but I insist!" the little fellow piped in a managerial voice. "I
always greet each and every guest of Sunnygarden Lodge personally.
I just wouldn't forgive myself if they came in without a personal
welcome."
Marc hurried down the steps as though trying to lose the little
manager. "My friends won't mind if you don't welcome them," he said.
"They won't care at all. In fact, I'm sure they'd rather you wouldn't
bother."
"Tut, tut!" The manager clung doggedly to Marc's side. "I like to know
my guests. I take it as a sort of responsibility. As a rule, my guests
are rather elderly and come regularly for the quiet. I like to make
sure that any newcomers are ... uh ... well, compatible. Courtesy of
the house, you know."
Reaching the drive, Marc started energetically down its center, hoping
the manager would tire of the pace and drop out. But falling into a
sort of jittery dog-trot, the fellow tagged persistently along. It was
just as they were rounding the first curve by the corner of the lodge
that the blast of the horn suddenly shattered the stillness, and the
blue convertible bounded into sight. Headlight beams searched wildly
through the pines for a second, then fell to the graveled drive and
stabbed forward.
Marc and the manager stood transfixed as the car bore down upon them.
Then, just in time, Marc reached out, hugged the little man to him, and
leaped to the safety of the lawn. The car raced past in a flash, but
not so fast that it did not disclose several disconcerting facts, not
the least of which was the empty space in the driver's seat. Apparently
driverless, the car streaked by, the wail of its horn horribly
augmented by terrified shrieks from the back seat. In startling
contrast to all this, Toffee leaned gaily out of the window, opposite
the wheel, and blew Marc a hurried kiss. Coming abreast of the veranda
a split second later, the car came to a sudden, jarring stop, spitting
gravel to the winds like rice at a wedding. A final blast from the horn
announced the completion of these demented operations, and everything
suddenly fell into a deep, throbbing silence.
"Oh, my heavens!" the little manager gasped. "Oh!"
"I ... I can't imagine what happened," Marc faltered lamely.
"I don't think my guests will like this," the manager said reprovingly.
Together, Marc and the manager made their way back to the veranda. The
door, on Toffee's side of the car, was just starting to open, and Marc
made a dash for it. Arriving just as Toffee placed the first slender
foot on the drive, he reached inside the car, drew out a plaid lap robe
and draped it over her like a piece of wet wash.
"Hey!" Toffee cried. "What's the big idea?"
* * * * *
Marc turned and smiled wanly at the manager who was now standing on the
lodge steps. Looking back at Toffee, his smile faded. "I wanted to be
sure you wouldn't catch cold," he hissed. "Now, keep it on."
Marge's voice sounded weakly behind them. "Outa my way," she whimpered,
fairly crawling from the car. Like the survivor of the wreck, she
stumbled forward a few steps and turned baleful eyes toward the
manager. "Shove a stretcher under me, pops," she gasped. "I think I'm
going to pass out."
The words of welcome that had been determinedly forming on the
manager's lips froze there like an epitaph in granite. Then they
vanished altogether at the sudden appearance of Pete. The big man
lumbered blindly out of the car, his momentum carrying him half up to
the steps of the lodge. Then he whirled abruptly, sat down, and put his
head in his hands.
"It ain't worth it," he mourned. "I'm going straight."
"Aren't you going to steal the car?" Toffee asked disappointedly.
Marge looked up ruefully. "Wild horses couldn't drag me back into that
car," she said.
Meanwhile, Marc, staring inside the car, had stiffened in an attitude
of panic-stricken fascination. The jug, that had been resting on the
seat, had suddenly jumped into the air and was floating lightly out,
through the opposite door. It wasn't until it had jauntily traversed
the entire front half of the car and started to emerge around the edge
of the right fender that the horrible possibilities of the situation
suddenly bore down on Marc and pressed him into action. Leaping
forward, he grasped the jug around the base and tugged at it. Hearing a
gasp behind him, he glanced back over his shoulder and discovered that
everyone, and especially the manager, was watching him with consuming
interest. He grinned sheepishly and turned back to the matter of the
jug.
With a defiant gurgle the jug immediately started to put up a fight.
Shooting out of his hands like a live thing, it darted coyly behind
him. He whirled and caught hold of it, just as it started to slip out
of reach.
"Give me that thing," he rasped.
"You're always so greedy," George's voice came back. "If you want a
drink so bad, why don't you just ask for it like a gentleman?"
"Good heavens!" the manager exclaimed from the steps. "Is he actually
arguing with that thing?"
Marc wrenched the jug free and clutched it firmly to his side. "I lost
my balance," he said self-consciously. "Gravel's slippery."
"Is it?" the manager asked coolly. He cleared his throat with an
effort. "Well, if we're all ready, we'll go inside, shall we?" He
glanced back at Marc disapprovingly. "Our guests," he added warningly,
"do very little drinking here."
* * * * *
Marc awoke and instantly regretted it. Horrible memories of the
previous day's events trampled each other in a rush for his attention.
His head ached and his feet felt oddly heavy and immovable. He groaned
and propped himself forward with his hands, then he groaned again. No
wonder his feet felt heavy. Toffee was sitting on his ankles.
"I don't know how just one man can look so awful," she said lightly. "I
should think it would take at least two ... maybe three."
"What're you doing here?" Marc asked thickly. "Go 'way."
"And a happy good morning to you, too." Toffee slid quickly toward him
and brushed cool lips across his forehead. "You scare me," she laughed.
Then, suddenly quitting him, she moved across the room to consider
herself critically in the bureau mirror. "I don't know why you went to
the trouble of getting me a room of my own," she murmured, running her
fingers lightly through her hair. "You know very well I wouldn't get
any use of it. I can stay materialized only when I'm projected through
your consciousness. When you go to sleep, I have to return to your
subconscious until you wake up."
"Haven't you ever heard of decency?" Marc asked.