Marc shook his head sadly. "Where are George and those two criminal
types we picked up last night?"
"How should I know?" Toffee shrugged. "Probably downstairs, stuffing
themselves at your expense. That's what I'd be doing. It's nearly ten
o'clock."
"Holy smoke!" Marc cried. "Is it that late? You mean those maniacs are
probably running around loose down there?" He swung his long legs out
over the edge of the bed. "Get out of here so I can dress."
Toffee started slowly toward the door. "Puritan," she said chidingly.
Marc looked up, startled. In day-light, in the lace dress, Toffee's
exquisite body seemed merely to be passing through a lightly shaded
bower, completely unclothed. Clutching a sheet to him, he jumped up,
pulled a scarf from a nearby table and threw it to her. "Here!" he
called. "Put that on!"
Catching the scarf, Toffee held it out full length. "It's not big
enough to do much good, is it?" she asked innocently.
"Use it strategically!" Marc sighed, "where it will do the most good."
Draping the scarf lightly over her shoulders, Toffee left the room.
* * * * *
Only minutes later, still needing a shave, Marc joined Toffee in the
hallway. Together, they hurried downstairs and made their way directly
to the dining room. Toffee had guessed right. Across the room, at a
corner table, were George, Marge and Pete. Of the three, George was the
only one facing in their direction and he was so busy talking he didn't
notice them.
George had done a good job of materializing ... except for one little
detail. His trouser legs terminated in two gaping holes. One leg
crossed jauntily over the other, he was nonexistent from the ankles
down. The explanation for this oversight probably lay in the jug
nestled next to the leg of his chair.
In a chair that was almost back-to-back with George's, a little
white-haired lady was nearly twisting her frail neck double in an
effort to have a better view of George's footless legs. Passing a
trembling hand over her eyes, she shuddered with horror and finally
turned away. Across the table from her, her elderly male companion cast
her a questioning glance, but she ignored it and stared determinedly
out the window. Her thin, colorless lips were silently forming the
words: "I won't. I won't. I _won't_ look again!"
It was apparent at a glance that the entire clientele of Sunnygarden
Lodge hovered dangerously close to the grave. Wheel chairs, crutches,
and ear aids were much in evidence in the hushed funereal atmosphere
of the dining room that was only occasionally interrupted by the
inadvertent clatter of a slipping denture. In contrast, however, a
lively, greying woman in a comic-opera gypsy costume moved from table
to table, at the far end of the room, with hateful persistence, like a
bee searching for honey in a cluster of toadstools.
Toffee nudged Marc and pointed to the woman. "What's that?" she asked.
"A fortune teller," Marc said absently. "They always have them in dumps
like this. They're considered quaint by the older set. She generalizes
about your future at a buck a throw."
He started across the room, and Toffee followed. As they drew near the
table in the corner, George suddenly glanced up for the first time and
saw them. Blanching, he hurriedly handed Pete a piece of paper, then
got quickly up from his chair and started away. By the time Marc and
Toffee reached the table, he had passed behind a dusty potted palm and
melted away like a cloud of smoke in a heavy gale.
Marge started as she looked up and saw Marc standing beside her. "How
did you get _there_?" she asked. Her hand, that had been stretched out
toward a dark object lying opposite her, on the table, darted back
guiltily. Marc glanced down and recognized his own wallet.
"How did that get here?" he asked.
"You left it just now," Marge said confusedly. "I thought I'd better
look after it while you were away."
Marc picked up the wallet and opened it. Two hundred dollars in bills
were missing, but three hundred dollars and several checks remained.
Obviously, George had lifted the wallet sometime during the night. But
what could he possibly find to do with two hundred dollars in a place
like Sunnygarden Lodge? Marc couldn't imagine. The matter would have
to wait until George decided to reappear again. Helping Toffee into a
chair, Marc seated himself in the place that had been George's.
* * * * *
Resting her elbows on the table, Toffee cupped her chin demurely in her
hand and leveled an accusing gaze on Marge. "Having a little larceny
for breakfast, dear?" she asked.
"Don't get smart," Marge mumbled. "I'm goin' straight."
"To where?"
"Say! I oughta chop you off at the pockets for a crack like that. You
ain't no angel yourself. Why, if you ever showed up around headquarters
in that dress you're wearin', they'd throw the book at you."
"Which book is that?" Toffee asked with genuine interest.
"Huh?" Marge said.
"The book they're going to throw at me. Which one is it?"
"Yeah, Marge," Pete put in from across the table. "Which book is that?"
"How should I know which book!" Marge cried with sudden confusion.
"Any one that's handy, I suppose. I don't care if they throw the whole
library at her. I wish they would."
"Now," Toffee said thoughtfully, "if this book was 'Forever Amber'...."
"Skip it!" Marge cried distractedly. "For the love of heaven, skip it,
can't you? I'm sorry I brought it up."
"You should be," Toffee said sternly. "Besides, flinging books about
seems a very loose way of upholding the law. I don't think you know
what you're talking about."
Marge winced, completely demoralized. Across the table, Pete dug an
affable elbow into Marc's ribs.
"You're plenty smart, Mr. Pillsworth," he said. "That business about
the note is the nuts." He tapped his coat pocket. "It leaves Marge and
me in the clear. Of course, I think the whole deal is kinda loopy, but
if that's the way you want it...." He shrugged his beefy shoulders
significantly.
For a moment Marc was completely mystified ... but only for a moment.
Plainly, Pete was confusing him with George. The best thing, in that
case, was probably just to string along with the gag and find out what
was going on ... what kind of a "deal" George had made.
"Let's see the note," he said, holding out his hand.
"What for?" Pete wanted to know. "You give it to me to keep."
"I want to make a correction," Marc said quickly.
A crafty look came into Pete's eyes. "Say, you ain't tryin' to back
out, are you? You said I wasn't to let you, if you did. Remember?"
Things, Marc could see, were going to take a bit of doing. Perhaps a
little firmness.... "Give me that note," he ordered.
"In front of her?" Pete nodded toward Toffee. "You wouldn't want her
to know about it. It'd shock her somethin' awful. You wanted this all
secret."
Marc decided to drop the matter. Anything that would shock Toffee's
rawhide sensitivities was better left in the dim regions of Pete's
pocket ... for the time being, anyway. Uneasy thoughts of blackmail
coursed quietly through his mind.
Pushing her chair back, Marge got to her feet. "Come on, Pete," she
said. "Let's get outa here and get some fresh air."
"You ain't finished breakfast yet," Pete reminded her.
"All of a sudden I got sour stomach." She glanced meaningfully at
Toffee.
Together, the two of them left the table and moved across the dining
room, to the door leading onto the veranda. Marc stared worriedly after
them.
"Don't look so glum," Toffee said gently, reaching out to pat his hand.
"You still love me, you know, no matter what happens."
"I don't deserve you," Marc said sadly. "I've never been that mean."
It was then that he caught sight of the jug. It had begun to behave
very strangely in the last few seconds. Surreptitiously, it was inching
away from his chair like a footless penguin.
"So you're back, are you?" Marc said addressing the ambling jug.
The jug came to a guilty halt. "Uh-huh," George's voice said quietly.
"What have you been up to behind my back? What's this deal with Pete?"
"Nothing ... much."
"You sit down," Marc commanded irritably, "and materialize. I want to
tell you what I think of you right to your treacherous face."
* * * * *
The jug swooped over to the chair that Pete had just left and settled
on the floor. The chair moved briefly out from the table, then back
again. Slowly, George came into view, looking very sheepish. That no
one besides Marc and Toffee seemed to notice this singular occurrence
was probably due to the failing eyesight of the other guests of
Sunnygarden Lodge.
Marc leveled a tense finger at George's nose. His lips parted angrily,
but he didn't speak. An alien hand had suddenly closed over his own. He
looked up to find the decrepit gypsy standing beside him. She was bent
over his hand, staring at it myopically.
"You," she said in heavy, theatrical tones, "are destined to live a
long and happy life. It is written in your hand."
Toffee looked on these proceedings with high disapproval. "You quit
holding his hand, you old moll," she put in heatedly, "or your life
won't be worth living."
The woman looked up in alarm. "Alright, dearie," she said, dropping
Marc's hand. "No harm done." She tottered briskly away from the table.
Not to be deterred by this interruption, Marc leveled his finger back
at George's nose. "Now, listen, you ..." he began. But there he stopped.
A strange expression had come into George's face and he was beginning
to look a little ill. He glanced uneasily around the room, then
swallowed ... hard. For a moment he looked like he was going to speak,
but all of a sudden there was a sharp popping sound, like a blown fuse,
and he instantly vanished. In the same moment, the jug beside his chair
began to tremble violently, then, astonishingly, leaped about a foot
into the air, as though seized with a fit of anger. It lingered there,
undecidedly suspended for a moment, then suddenly crashed to the floor,
sending shattered crockery and liquid fanning out in a messy arc. Marc
and Toffee stared at the wreckage as the little white-haired lady, who
had found George's feet so fascinating, suddenly started from her chair.
"I can't stand it another minute!" she whimpered. "I must see! I
_must_!" And whirling around to face Marc she stared at him wretchedly
for an intensely silent moment. Then, with a quick movement, she
reached quickly down beneath the table and started tugging at the legs
of his trousers.
Marc was instantly on his feet. "Lady!" he yelped in surprise. "What a
thing to do! Let go of my pants!"
"Yes," Toffee put in excitedly, rising from her chair. "You should have
given up ideas like that long ago!"
The little woman hesitated in her activities, seeming to realize for
the first time what she was doing. And, clearly, it shocked her even
more than Marc or Toffee. With an agonized upward glance at Marc, she
made an unintelligible sound, turned chalk white and slumped to the
floor in a dead faint.
At this point the situation might have straightened itself out. It
might have, that is, if the woman had only thought to release her hold
on Marc's trouser legs. But she hadn't. Falling back, she dragged
Marc's balance after her. Clawing the air in a sort of breast stroke,
Marc crashed to the floor, and sprawled out full length.
At this, the woman's male companion, who had been watching these
proceedings through a nearsighted haze, shot from his chair like an
avenging angel. "He attacked my wife!" the little man screamed. "The
fiend! I seen him! He attacked my old lady!"
* * * * *
The quiet atmosphere in the dining room suddenly gave way to riot.
The patrons of the lodge were magically transformed into a league of
formidable warriors ... no longer the slowly disintegrating remnants
that they had first appeared to be. Summoning hidden vigor, from heaven
only knew what source, they rose as a body and swarmed toward the scene
of outrage. One of their number had been attacked and they were plainly
not to be found wanting. Crutches, ear trumpets and miscellaneous
silverware were instantly pressed into service in lieu of weapons.
One old gentleman, racing his wheel-chair at break-neck speed, hurled
himself into the fray with all the proud spirit of a knight astride a
charger. Other ancient enlistees, in their near-sightedness, promptly
engaged each other in ferocious battle, no questions asked. Crockery
flew in all directions and crashed unheeded against the walls. The
orderly dining room was reduced to a raging ruin in only a matter of
seconds.
At the first signs of hostilities, Toffee had jumped to Marc's defense.
It was her thought that the whole thing could be prevented with a few
pertinent words of explanation. But no sooner had she opened her mouth
than the arm rest of a crutch caught her rudely under the chin and
pinned her against the wall, silent and helpless. Her captor was a
wild-eyed little lady in subdued lavender.
"Hussy!" the little woman screamed. "Runnin' around with fiends! You're
just as bad as the company you keep. Don't you dast open your painted
mouth to me!"
Somehow, Marc, by this time, had managed to stagger to his feet. Seeing
Toffee's predicament, he started toward her, but was cut off by his
howling tormentors. Wildly, he swung about in the opposite direction.
Then he stopped short. For an instant his gaze had swept over the open
door leading onto the veranda. Coming up the steps, and losing no time
about it, were Julie and Dr. Polk.
Marc whirled back toward the door. "Julie," he screamed.
Julie glanced frightenedly toward the scene of chaos. But Marc never
saw her face, for at that same moment a warming dish, complete with
heavy metal cover, came down thunderously over his head. Poached eggs
were streaming into his eyes as he pitched toward the floor, but he
wasn't aware of them. Everything had already gone pitch black.
The little lady in lavender started forward a bit as the crutch gave
under her hand and jolted against the wall. She stared quizzically
at the wall. Then, dropping the crutch, she removed her glasses and
wiped them vigorously with a delicate lace handkerchief. Replacing the
glasses carefully, she stared at the wall again.
"Well, I'll be blessed," she murmured. "I could have sworn I had that
little harpy all the time."
Toffee had vanished into thin air.
* * * * *
A tiny bubble of awareness rose through the blackness of Marc's
mind, reached the surface and exploded with a flash of light. It was
immediately followed by another ... then two ... and three ... and a
score. Marc stirred and opened his eyes. His vision was pulsing and
dim. Objects leaped into view, then disappeared. A chair, a table, a
door, a window with the blind mostly drawn. His hands fell against
softness and he knew he was lying on a bed. He rolled over. The motion
must have had a clearing effect on his head, for the objects were
suddenly more distinct and remained in focus longer. A seated figure
swam into view very close by. For a moment it hovered over him, then
faded, vanished, reappeared and remained. It was Dr. Polk.
The doctor's precise features arranged themselves into a sparse smile.
"Well, my boy," he said. "How are you feeling?"
"I ... I don't know," Marc faltered. "How did you find me here?"
"We gave the police the license number on your car as soon as you ran
off yesterday," the doctor answered. "They didn't have much trouble
locating you." He smiled sadly. "You've been a rather naughty boy. They
tell me you've taken to beating old ladies."
"No," Marc murmured. "A mistake ... it was a mistake."
"Yes, yes," the doctor patronized. "But we must face things as they
really are, my boy. It's the only way out, you know. Something has
upset you badly, but everything can be set right again if we can get
to the root of the trouble. You must be pronounced well again, you
know, if you're to go to court against Mrs. Pillsworth. We'll have to
re-establish your legal status."
"What!" Marc didn't know where the strength came from but he was
suddenly sitting up. "Get out of here! I'll stay nutty the rest of my
life if that's the way the wind is blowing." He fell back, exhausted,
but he was beginning to feel better. Stronger, anyway.
"Now, you must be reasonable," the doctor went on, undisturbed. "You
wouldn't want to be put away in an institution, would you?"
Marc shook his head. It was the truth; he wouldn't.
"Then you must help me to help you. First of all, I want you to go back
in memory to your childhood, and tell me anything, everything that
comes to mind. Just close your eyes and think back. Start with your
earliest memory."
Marc glared at the doctor for a moment, then resignedly closed his
eyes. There was a long period of silence. Finally, he said, "The first
I remember is the night I was born."
"What!" the doctor's voice was excited.
"Yes. I recall that someone gave me a pair of soft blue booties."
"Yes, go on!"
"I used them," Marc said flatly, "to beat the doctor's brains out." He
opened his eyes and boosted himself forward. "How's that for a memory?"
But the doctor wasn't listening. In fact, he wasn't even looking at
Marc. Instead, his gaze was fastened in horrified wonder on the bureau
across the room. A shudder crept through his thin body, and he turned
away, one slender hand pressed firmly to his eyes.
The reason for the doctor's distress was instantly apparent; Toffee had
materialized. Seated pertly atop the bureau, one perfect leg crossed
seductively over the other, she was truly a vision from another world.
There was something statuesque and unnatural in her pose. But when
Marc looked at her, she came momentarily to life. Quickly, she raised
one tapering finger to her lips, then shook her head. That was all.
Immediately, she resumed the mannikin pose and held it rigidly. Marc
nodded and slumped back on the bed.
"Well, doc," he said brightly, "what do you think of my childhood?"
* * * * *
The doctor drew his hand away from his eyes and stared at Marc
stupidly: "Your childhood?" he asked bemusedly. "I ... I ... think ..."
He glanced quickly over his shoulder at the bureau and shuddered again.
"Tell ... tell me," he faltered. "What do you see on that bureau over
there?"
With elaborate deliberation, Marc raised himself and squinted at the
bureau. "A Gideon bible," he said pleasantly. "That's all I see."
The doctor's face turned ash grey. "Been working too hard," he
muttered. "Got to ... to ... to take a rest." He turned misery-ridden
eyes on Marc. "You'll have to excuse me. We will continue ... later ...
maybe."
He got unsteadily to his feet and moved slowly toward the door.
Reaching it, he stretched his hand toward the knob, then withdrew it.
Clearly, the good doctor was struggling against some inner conflict.
Suddenly, with a determined lift of his chin, he turned and gazed
squarely at the bureau. It was a grave mistake.
It wasn't so much that Toffee met the doctor's gaze unblinkingly. The
real damage was done when she smiled and winked at him. That was too
much. With a cry of purest despair, the doctor pivoted, threw open the
door and bolted into the hall. A second later his footsteps echoed on
the stairs with machinegun rapidity.
Marc swung himself off the bed and impulsively crossed to Toffee and
kissed her on the cheek. "You were wonderful," he said. "You certainly
stewed his prunes."
Toffee leaned back and giggled. "You only say that," she murmured,
"just because I'm gorgeous. I wonder if Julie ever found...."
"Julie!" Marc's eyes were panic-stricken.
Perhaps Julie was a bit high tempered at times, but she was still his
wife. It seemed, now, that he had been caught in a raging flood of
madness and Julie was the rock of reality to which he must cling at all
costs. Whirling away from Toffee, he raced toward the door.
When Marc reached the foyer of the lodge, he was surprised to find it
completely deserted, except for the little manager. Astonishingly, at
the sight of Marc, the fellow clasped his hands ecstatically before
him and ran to meet him. "Oh, Mr. Pillsworth!" he cried. "You don't
know what you've done! You just simply don't _know_! You've absolutely
rejuvenated my guests with that little riot of yours. They all said
they didn't know when they felt so young. They've all gone out in the
woods for a picnic ... with beer! They took up a collection for the
damage in the dining room, and...."