"The pretty blonde young lady?" the manager asked.
"Yes, yes. Where is she?"
"Out on the veranda, I believe. Down at the far end, around the
corner. Poor dear, she was crying terribly when she went out."
Marc turned and darted for the door. Then he stopped abruptly. A large
hand had fallen over his arm and was holding him back. He looked up to
see Pete standing beside him.
"Let go," he said impatiently, "I've got to find my...."
"Never mind," Pete said. "You just come along with me. Let's get it
over with, huh? Marge and me, we want to get outa here."
"Get what over with? What are you talking about?"
"You know. Our deal."
"What deal? Say, what is this all about, anyway?"
"You know. The deal you said I wasn't to let you back out on. Remember?"
* * * * *
Subsequent development had completely banished the scene at the
breakfast table from Marc's mind. "No. I don't remember any deal." He
tried to pull away, but the big man held him firmly.
"Oh, come now, Mr. Pillsworth. Remember at breakfast when you told me
how you come up here to commit suicide 'cause your wife is leavin' you?
Only you didn't have the nerve? Remember how you give me two C's to
bump you off? And I wasn't to let you back out no matter what you said?
And the note you give me, sayin' how you was knockin' yourself off over
a busted heart, so's Marge and me, we'd be in the clear on doin' the
job? Remember?"
"I've been framed," Marc said desperately, recalling the note he'd
seen George give to Pete. "That was George you made the deal with. He
wants me out of the way. You weren't talking to me. You were talking to
George!"
Pete started to laugh. "That's pretty funny, Mr. Pillsworth!" he
roared. "George, the talkin' dog, done it, eh? That's real good. I'll
have to tell Marge." His hand moved close to Marc's side. It was
holding a gun. "You paid me for a job, Mr. Pillsworth, and you got
a job comin'. It wouldn't be honest otherwise. And I ain't goin' to
let you talk me outa it, neither. Aren't you glad?" He gave the gun
an extra shove. "I'd rather not do it right here. Let's go outside.
Whaddaya say?"
As Pete shoved him gently but firmly toward the door, Marc peered
frantically around the room. "George!" he called. "George! Oh, George,
for the love of Mike!"
Behind him, Pete's laugh boomed out in a salvo of noisy mirth. "You're
a card, Mr. Pillsworth!" he howled. "You sure are a card. When it comes
time for me to cash in my chips, I hope I'll have the nerve to crack
jokes like that."
All the way up the trail to the brink of the cliff, Marc had continued
to call vainly for George, and the joke, as far as Pete was concerned,
was beginning to wear thin.
"Can't you stop that?" Pete asked. "It kinda gets on a guy's nerves
after a while. If it means so much to you to have that dog around, why
don't you just whistle?"
"I don't feel like whistling," Marc said irritably. "I mean George
isn't a dog. He's ... a ..." He glanced over the edge of the cliff, and
his legs suddenly turned to sawdust. Yards and yards of nothing at all
stretched out endlessly downward. He turned pleadingly to Pete. "Now,
listen to reason, Pete. I don't want to commit suicide. That was all a
mistake...."
"You told me not to listen when you started talkin' like that," Pete
said doggedly. "I gotta do the honest thing, Mr. Pillsworth. I gotta
bump you off."
"Do you _have_ to be so honest?" Marc asked desperately. "Don't you
want to get ahead in your chosen profession? Haven't you any ambition
at all? A good crook would automatically go back on his word, just as a
matter of principle. Think of your future, Pete. Where's Marge? She'll
tell you."
Pete shook his head. "Marge is takin' it easy back at the lodge. She
says we're goin' straight, and I'm to do exactly like you said." He
stepped back and motioned toward the edge of the cliff with his gun.
"Now, why don't you save us both a lot of trouble and just step off
that there cliff? That way, I won't have to shoot you off. I'm goin' to
count three, and if you ain't jumped yet, I'll shoot."
"No, Pete!" Marc cried. "No! You don't understan...."
"One."
Pete took a step forward and Marc edged back a little. He didn't dare
look behind him. The edge of the cliff was only inches away.
"Two."
Pete advanced again, and Marc nervously sidled to the left. Then a
look of hopelessness swept over his face. Closing his eyes, he turned
and faced the cliff. Waiting for the final, fatal number, his body was
tense as a steel spring.
* * * * *
Pete raised his gun level with Marc's back and opened his mouth, but
neither the gun nor the mouth spoke. Julie, a piece of paper clutched
tightly in her hand, had suddenly appeared on the clearing at the top
of the cliff. At the first glimpse of Marc, poised on the edge of
the cliff, she stopped short, her lovely tear-stained face suddenly
twisting with horror. Then she closed her eyes and screamed with all
her might.
As the noise stabbed through the mountain air, Marc started as though
he'd been kicked. Then, clutching his middle in a gesture of mortal
pain, he teetered drunkenly on the brink a moment and ... plunged
downward.
Footsteps sounded on the trail, and Dr. Polk, breaking through the
clearing, ran breathlessly toward Julie. Reaching her, he placed an
enquiring hand on her arm. Julie instantly opened her eyes, stared at
the empty space where Marc had been and screamed again. She started to
run forward, but the doctor caught her and held her back. She whirled
angrily toward Pete.
"Why did you let him do it?" she screamed. "You just stood there!"
Slipping his gun into his pocket, Pete stared at her stupidly. "I'm
sorry," he mumbled. "Seems like he just wanted to do it."
With a gesture of hopelessness, Julie turned back to the doctor and
buried her face in his shoulder. "It was all my fault," she sobbed. "I
drove him to it. And he was sick, too!"
"Julie!"
The voice was from beyond the cliff. Also, it seemed to come from
beyond the grave. There was a distant other-world quality about it.
"Marc!" Julie broke away from the doctor and ran swiftly to the edge of
the cliff. Kneeling, she peered anxiously over the side. Not more than
three yards below, spread eagle over the face of a sloping rock ledge,
was Marc. He was clinging tenaciously to a small bush that had grown
into the side of the cliff, and his feet were braced securely against
the jagged protruding edge of the ledge. Though he could probably have
remained there for days without any real danger, his upturned face was
filled with undiluted terror.
"Julie," he cried weakly. "For the love of heaven, get me out of here.
I've been shot."
After Dr. Polk and Pete, with the babbling moral support of Julie,
had managed to haul Marc back over the edge of the cliff and convince
him that he was not riddled with bullets, they left him lying on the
ground. Julie knelt beside him and took him in her arms. Pete, after
a hasty glance at his resurrected victim, hastily disappeared in the
direction of the trail. Probably the apprentice gunman was worried
lest Marc demand a refund of the two hundred dollars on the grounds
that his services had been incompletely rendered. Dr. Polk, apparently
somewhat recovered from his disquieting encounter with Toffee, stood
by, observing Marc with unashamed directness.
"It's all right," Julie cooed comfortingly. "Everything is going to be
all right ... even if you are crazy. I'll stick by you, darling. You'll
have the loveliest padded cell that money can buy. I'll take care of
you." She held him a little way out from her. "You mustn't ever do
anything like this again. When I found that note in your room, I nearly
went mad myself."
"Could ... could I see the note?" Marc asked weakly.
* * * * *
Julie reached into her pocket and held up a crumpled piece of paper.
Her hand had perspired and smeared the writing until it was completely
illegible, but there was no doubt that the handwriting was Marc's ...
or an exact duplicate.
"But we don't want to see any more of that hateful thing," Julie said.
She crushed the paper into a ball and hurled it over the edge of the
cliff. "There, now, that's all over, that silly business about you
killing yourself." She drew Marc closer to her.
Over Julie's shoulder, Marc glanced uneasily at the doctor. It seemed
this was not quite the time for an observer. But the doctor was no
longer interested in the reconciliation. Instead, his gaze was riveted
on the trail. Marc's eyes automatically followed the doctor's, and the
hair at the back of his neck began to bristle. Toffee, her filmy skirts
held well above her knees, was running toward the clearing as fast as
her decorative legs could carry her. Marc stiffened in Julie's arms.
"What is it, dear?" Julie asked.
"No ... nothing," Marc said faintly. Toffee, by appearing just at
this moment, could easily set matters back to where they were in the
beginning. Something had to be done ... quick! Marc's hand started
forward in a gesture of warning, but in moving upward from the ground,
it brushed lightly against a rock. And there it stopped.
As Marc's hand closed over the rock, his eyes clouded with pain. It was
the only effective way to get rid of Toffee quickly. It had to be done.
His hand moved upward, poised the rock squarely over his head, then
quickly released it. Whack! It was a case of pinpoint bombing. Marc
slumped in Julie's arms.
"Oh, dear," Julie murmured concernedly. "He's passed out again." She
started to massage Marc's wrists. Then, noticing the trickle of blood
over his left eyebrow, she added another; "Oh, dear!"
"Oh, Lord!" Dr. Polk breathed, and his voice was far more earnest than
Julie's. Staring at the place where Toffee had been, he seemed almost
in danger of bolting over the face of the cliff in a fit of terror.
"She's gone!" he cried. "She just melted into nothing!" Avoiding the
spot where Toffee had last stood, he edged cautiously toward the trail,
and reaching it, broke into a dead run toward the lodge. He ran like a
man possessed.
Not conscious of the doctor's odd behavior, Julie gazed softly into
Marc's unconscious face. "I'll take care of you," she whispered. And
slowly she lowered her lips to his.
* * * * *
But in the tranquil valley of his own mind, Marc was concerned with
other lips ... the very singular lips of Toffee. One arm still around
his neck, Toffee leaned back and smiled.
"Another day," she sighed happily, "another dilemma. You do live such a
rapturous life. Never a sane moment."
"It has never occurred to you," Marc said dryly, "that you contribute
somewhat to that insanity yourself?"
"Me?" Toffee asked, wide-eyed. "How can you say a thing like that? I'm
always the one that has to straighten everything out."
"I suppose you were on your way to straighten things out when you ran
out on the cliff. If Julie had seen you she'd have tossed me over the
brink again."
"I was on my way to save your wretched life," Toffee replied haughtily.
"I cornered Marge back at the lodge and made her tell me the whole
story. She thought you were already dead, but I knew you weren't. If I
still existed, you did too. So I ran up there to stop Pete from killing
you. Now I get blamed."
Marc took her hand in his. "You were wonderful," he said sincerely.
"You bet I was," Toffee said self-righteously. "It was that fiend,
George, that caused all the trouble."
Marc had almost forgotten the ghost in the excitement of the last half
hour. "That demon! First I couldn't get rid of him, then when I wanted
him, he wasn't anywhere."
"Of course not. George went back to ... well, wherever he came from.
Remember how he disappeared at the table?" Marc nodded. "Well, George
did his swan song right there."
"What!"
"Sure. Because of that fortuneteller," Toffee explained. "It was the
simplest thing in the world. She said it was written in your hand that
you would live a long time. Well, George believed her. And if you
were going to live, he had to get going. That's the rules, and he's a
stickler for the rules. And it's only natural that George believes in
fortunetellers. He's very superstitious, you know. After all, he's a
ghost, himself, isn't he?"
"I see," Marc murmured wonderingly. "Then George is gone for good."
Toffee nodded and began to laugh. "You remember how that jug lurched
about when George disappeared?"
"Uh-huh. What's so funny about that?"
"George," Toffee giggled in a fit of hilarity, "tried to take it with
him."
Marc started to laugh too, then stopped. The earth was moving away from
under him. Either that, or he was rising lightly in the air. Whichever
it was, only he, himself, was affected by the phenomenon, for Toffee
remained on the grassy knoll. He reached down toward her, but she only
smiled up at him.
"It's all over," she called. "Goodbye. It's been lovely being with you
again. Don't forget me."
Marc tried to force himself downward, but he couldn't. His will was too
weak against the force that was lifting him. When he stopped trying, he
shot upward all the faster. Moving away into the distance, he looked
regretfully back at Toffee, a tiny waving figure, now, in the soft,
loveliness of the valley.
"Goodbye!" he called. "Goodbye!"
Then, looking up, he saw the darkness racing down to meet him. He
felt a little sad at leaving Toffee and the valley, and yet it was
comforting to know that in a few moments he would be back in Julie's
arms.
* * * * *
The next morning the sun glinted brightly over the hood of the blue
convertible, then flashed against its rear bumper as it left the
graveled drive of Sunnygarden Lodge and turned onto the pavement of the
highway.
Behind the wheel, Marc, with an impressive-looking bandage over his
left eye, glanced uneasily at Julie, who sat rigidly upright in the
opposite corner of the seat. Marc wondered how he could reassure her.
Probably the truth about Toffee and George would be worse than nothing
at all when it came to restoring her confidence. Maybe just some nice,
intelligent conversation.
"What ... what happened to that nice fellow, Dr. Polk?" he asked rather
stiffly.
"I really don't know," Julie said, careful that her gaze remained on
the scenery along the road. "He left without a word early yesterday
afternoon."
That took care of that. A heavy tide of silence washed between them and
bore the conversational topic of Dr. Polk away, beyond recovery. Marc
hummed self-consciously to himself for a moment, then, in desperation,
reached toward the car radio and switched it on. Presently, a sonorous
voice broke dispiritedly through the silence.
"... in Europe," it said. "And now for the news, here at home. Probably
the most provocative story of the day concerns the psychiatrist, Horace
D. Polk. It seems that Dr. Polk, in a state of acute agitation, turned
himself in for psychiatric treatment at his own clinic late last night.
The doctor claims that overwork had caused him to be the victim of
hallucinations that take the form of scantily clad women who suddenly
appear, wink at him, and vanish into thin air. Before being taken into
the care of one of his associates, the doctor told newsmen that his
patients would be notified that any diagnosis pronounced by him within
the last two months should probably be disregarded. He said that such
people would be advised to place themselves in the hands of other,
reliable doctors until his recovery. Dr. Grimes, a long-time friend and
associate of Dr. Polk, stated that the clinic...."
Marc quickly turned off the radio, pressing his lips tightly together
to hold back the mirth that was bubbling inside. He turned cautiously
to Julie. She was looking at him now, and the twinkle that always
foreshadowed laughter was in her eyes. Then, she edged closer to him,
and suddenly they both began to laugh in the same instant.
Marc's laughter rang out, clear and unrestrained. Everything was all
right again. He reached an arm around Julie and drew her closer. Yes,
sir, everything was perfectly all right.
* * * * *
_In a faraway time and space, on a drifting world of vagrant mists
and shrouds, five strange figures had drawn together on what appeared
to be a shapeless chunk of steam. Reclining in various attitudes of
majestic ease, they seemed happily unaware that, by human standards,
their physical contours left something to be desired. For reasons known
only to themselves two of the party had seen fit to dispense entirely
with the customary appendages, and were lounging in armless and legless
splendor on their paunchy stomachs. Two others, even less ambitious,
manifested only bulbous heads that terminated in trailing vapors. The
fifth was merely a torso, or at least, a simulation of what the torso
thought a torso should be._
_In the foreground, fidgeting guiltily, George stood before them, his
head bowed in an attitude of abject contrition._
_From one of the five ... it would be difficult to say which under the
circumstances ... a low rumbling voice issued forth. Really more of a
sound than a voice, it seemed to produce only guttural snorts rather
than words. It appeared to be saying:_
"_Spectre, George Pillsworth, the Council finds much cause for
displeasure in your report. It is in fact, severely distressed over the
whole matter. It would seem that you have gone to extravagant lengths
to make us the laughing stock of all limbo._"
_George slowly raised his head. His eyes, the eyes of Marc Pillsworth,
looked pained and darkly apprehensive._
_"But, my lords," he pleaded, "what was I to do?"_
_"Do?" the voice thundered. "You were supposed to haunt the environs of
your subject in a business-like and orderly manner, befitting an agent
of the High Council. It seems that it was too much to ask. The only
mortals you frightened even a little were two office girls who quite
rightly mistook you for nothing more than an unscrupulous employer
displaying his lower impulses. You may as well know that the Council
is considering an action that will remove your ectoplasm credits
permanently...."_
_"No!" George cried. "It wasn't my fault ... after all, the deceased
refused to yield. These mortals can be unreasonable creatures when...."_
_There ensued a short series of rumblings as various anatomical
fragments made brief appearances on the steam beds, then as quickly
vanished. After an abrupt silence the ominous clearing of a throat
sounded from a source impossible to ascertain._
"_Hmm. Yes.... There ARE extenuating circumstances ... for which
you may consider yourself fortunate, and hummph, from which we may
still be able to salvage some slight measure of respect from our
allied departments. Perhaps the blame can be laid at the door of the
bookkeeping section, if you...._"
_A tiny gleam of hope crept timidly into George's eyes as he nodded in
vigorous assent. "I have my release," he offered eagerly, "signed by
the section head."_
_"But!" the voice resumed, "that does not explain your irresponsible
conduct, or the disgraceful affinity you displayed for alcoholic
beverages!"_
_George's head slumped dejectedly to his chest again, and he stared
into the bottomless regions beneath him. Then he started visibly as
he noticed that the gaseous substance upon which he was standing was
no longer secure beneath his feet. Already, it had grown thin and
unsubstantial and he was beginning to sink downward till his legs were
obscured almost to the knees. It was apparent that his worst fears were
being realized and he was being sent into--_
"_Wait! My lords! I admit my conduct was contrary to all the fine
traditions of haunting ... but I'll never touch a drop again ... not
for a thousand years!_"
_George's voice echoed away, and his feet stopped slipping. With
another series of low rumblings, the voice spoke again:_
"_The Council is inclined to accept the penance you have imposed on
yourself. There is the proviso, however, that the other departments
must receive no inkling of this scandalous affair. Agreed!_"
_George's head bobbed up and down in such energetic agreement that it
seemed almost in danger of becoming dislodged from his neck._
_There was an abrupt sound. A loud clap that may have been thunder.
The steam beds expanded, billowed outward, then faded away. From
somewhere, it seemed a long way off, a voice was heard to say: "Council
dismissed!"_
_And George, finding himself alone, dissolved his ectoplasm and sat
down with a troubled sigh. Absently, he scooped a handful of steam
cloud from the small embankment and tossed it lightly out, into space._
_He would need a long time to ponder the narrow escape he had just had.
Then, too, the fact that Marc Pillsworth, through his unreasonable
obstinance, had nearly wrecked his career, was not a matter to be
dropped without serious consideration. And beyond that there was also
that shrewish little creature who called herself Toffee. Toffee. Yes, a
singular creature indeed. He wondered what department she worked under.
To be sure, she was a nasty tempered little package, but her legs were
nice, and her figure.... He wondered, musingly, if someday they might
meet again...._