watch. "It's nearly eleven now. I'll have to go to the cemetery and try
to make a deal."
"Is a cemetery anything like a night club?" Toffee asked excitedly.
Marc glanced back at the unheeded litter of prostrate figures that
graced the Loma Club. "Quite a bit like this one," he said wryly.
* * * * *
Toffee settled herself comfortably on an ornate tombstone, and leaned
languorously back to rest her head on the buttocks of a stone cupid.
"Get down from there," Marc said sternly. "You look obscene."
"In this moonlight, you're no work of art, yourself," Toffee replied
lazily, making no effort to move.
Marc shrugged helplessly, and seated himself watchfully at the base of
the stone. "It's past eleven," he murmured. "I wish someone would show
up. If I don't get that copy back, I might as well kiss my business
goodbye right now."
"Maybe Manny's got it after all," Toffee suggested. "And he's still
out."
"I don't think so. And speaking of him, I'd sure like to know who the
little man under the table was. He just about saved my life when he
grabbed Manny's ankle." Marc glanced around peering intently into the
darkness that, except for occasional patches of bright moonlight that
filtered through the trees, was all around them. "It looks like we're
all alone here with the spooks."
"What are spooks?" Toffee leaned forward, interested.
"They're something like you," Marc said absently. "Sometimes they are,
and sometimes they aren't. Anyway, I understand they're always raising
hell with somebody."
"They sound fine," Toffee said. "How do you go about stirring up a few?"
"Never mind," Marc replied, "we wouldn't have time for it, even if you
could. Besides, no self-respecting spook would have anything to do with
you. He'd rather be caught dead."
"Oh yeah?" Toffee said unexpectedly. "I'll bet I'm looking at one right
now."
"Nonsense."
"If you don't believe me," Toffee said woundedly, "just look over
there."
Humoring her, Marc turned his gaze in the direction that she had
indicated, and suddenly froze. A claw-like hand was moving stealthily
around the edge of a nearby head stone, and the effect was something
worse than ghostly.
[Illustration: Marc and Toffee stood petrified as a claw-like hand and
wizened head crept into view.]
Transfixed, Marc watched it as it came to rest at the foot of the
stone, and was suddenly followed by a wizened head. Marc tried hard to
suppress a gasp of astonishment as he identified the ferret-like face
as the same one that had appeared beneath the table at the club. He had
only a moment in which to recognize it, for as before, it vanished as
quickly as it had appeared, to be followed by the clicking sounds, that
now echoed weirdly through the cemetery.
"Oh, that's not a spook," Toffee said disappointedly, and then, on
second thought added, "at least I don't think it is."
"You bet it isn't," Marc cried, jumping quickly to his feet. "That's
probably the guy that's got my brief case!" Swiftly, he took a step
forward, caught his toe on a low marker, and sprawled, head long, into
a landing that was all grin and gravel. His breath unhesitatingly
rushed out to meet the night air, and apparently liked the company, for
it didn't bother to come back for a while. In the ensuing stillness,
hasty footsteps could be heard making their way out of the cemetery.
"Well, that's that, I guess," Marc groaned morosely, then he had
regained his breath. "I scared him away, and he was my last chance. And
to think that he was right next to us in the night club all the time!"
He sat up and rested his chin defeatedly in his cupped hands. "With my
wife gone, and my business gone, I might just as well go away and try
to forget it all right now."
"Maybe you could go where those other men went," Toffee said in a
baffling attempt to be helpful.
"What other men?"
"The ones that work for you. You said they'd gone cavorting, and that
sounds pretty forgetful. Did they have something to forget?"
"No. They all got urgent telegrams."
"Who from?"
"How should I know?"
For a moment, neither of them spoke, and then, all of a sudden, Marc's
chin lifted, and his hands fell to the ground. "I'll bet that was a
frame up too," he said. "It was! I'm sure of it! Whoever has my brief
case, sent those wires to get the boys out of town, so they couldn't
get out another campaign. They're all out on a goose chase."
"Then all we have to do," Toffee said brightly, "is find out who sent
them. Then we'll know who to see about the brief case."
"Yeah. But how?"
"Call up their homes again."
"It might be an idea," Marc said, his hope rising faintly. "Come on
down from there. We'll have to find a drug store with a telephone."
With a shockingly familiar hand, Toffee grasped the cupid, and boosted
herself away from her perch. "Let's go!" she cried gaily, landing
lightly beside Marc. "I don't like this place much, anyhow. There isn't
enough life in it."
* * * * *
In the drug store, Toffee had just finished her third soda, and the
teen aged fountain attendant, chin on counter, to have a better view
of her, had just completed his fiftieth blissful sigh. He'd never seen
so dazzling a creature anywhere, before. Suddenly, they both looked up
as the door to the corner telephone booth burst open, and Marc came
hurrying out.
"I've got the name," he said excitedly. "It was a Mr. Polasky, whoever
that is. A few of the wives I talked to, said their husbands didn't
know who it was either, but left because the messages were so urgent.
It's my guess that the name's a phoney."
"What are you going to do?"
"I don't know," he said, as though just realizing it for the first
time. "Good night! It's just another dead end, isn't it?"
For a moment, they gazed at each other worriedly, as the boy, overcome
by his consuming curiosity about Toffee, edged closer.
"I have it!" Toffee cried suddenly.
"What?" yelled Marc and the boy simultaneously. Marc turned witheringly
on the youngster, and he moved away again.
"I know what you can do," Toffee continued, pausing long enough to
reassure the boy with a radiant smile. "You call up the telegraph
company, and tell them you're Mr. Polasky. Tell them that you were
expecting answers to the wires you sent and you still haven't received
any. Then ask them to check to see if the wires were really delivered
and check back with you. When they say they will, ask them to check the
address and telephone number they have written down for you, and insist
that they read it to you, just to make sure. That way, you'll know
where Polasky lives, anyway,--or whoever it is."
Marc stared at her in amazement for a moment. "I don't know if it'll
work," he said, "but it's certainly worth a try, Toffee. You're
wonderful!" He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.
"I'm pretty darned surprised, myself," Toffee replied happily. "I'll
say it all over again, if you'll kiss me again." But Marc was already
on his way to the phone booth.
Toffee turned to the boy and shrugged. "I don't know what he'd do
without me," she said, her voice heavy with theatrical weariness. "I
simply don't know!" Then she smiled as the boy leaned his chin back on
the counter and sighed.
* * * * *
Marc paid the cab driver and turned to regard the apartment house
questioningly. "I didn't expect anything quite so shabby," he said.
"Are you sure this is the number you got from the girl at the telegraph
company?" Toffee asked.
"Positive," Marc replied. "Well, we can be sure of one thing, at least.
Mayes wouldn't be living here. I'll bet he's never even seen this part
of town." A small frown creased his forehead. "Maybe it's just another
run around. Maybe Ruby sent the wires; she could have easily. I'd hate
to run into her again."
"If it is Ruby," Toffee replied heavily, "I'll rip that yellow hair of
hers out by its black roots. Her and her Irish blood!"
"Well, there's only one way to find out," Marc said wearily, starting
forward. Then, he stopped, as Toffee tugged at his sleeve.
"What if it turns out to be Manny?" she asked apprehensively.
Marc winced. "We'll just have to face him, I guess. Anyway, it might
not be. It could be the little fellow that tripped Manny."
"Yes. I guess it could be," Toffee admitted. "Well, in that case, let's
go."
* * * * *
Inside, the old apartment house held all the stale, musty smells of old
cooking and all the other activities of daily, crowded living, and the
gloom in its hallways was almost tangible. Slowly, Marc and Toffee,
like a couple of conspirators, crept along the downstairs passage,
pausing before each door to read its carelessly stenciled number.
Presently, at the rear of the hall, where the gloom was the thickest,
they stopped.
"Well," Marc whispered uneasily, "this is number seven. This must be
it."
"Yep," Toffee echoed. "This must be it, all right."
For a long moment, they just stood and stared at each other with
apprehension.
"Well," Toffee said finally, "don't just stand there,--knock, ring a
bell,--do something!"
"Don't rush me," Marc hissed irritably. "I'm looking for a name plate."
"Well, don't look at me. I'm not wearing one. Try looking on the door."
Marc, realizing the wisdom of her advice, turned his attention to the
forbidding panel, and subjected it to a more thorough scrutiny than was
absolutely necessary. All he needed was a magnifying glass to complete
his impersonation of Sherlock Holmes on one of his more important
cases. He was so close to the door, that when it suddenly opened, he
nearly pitched into apartment number seven head first.
"I heard you snooping around out here!" a metallic voice shrilled above
him. Marc could hardly believe his ears.
He had always known that, as long as he lived, he would never see a
more horrible looking woman than Miss Quirtt, but now, as he looked up,
he was dismayed to find that even she, this time a prickly nightmare in
pin curlers, had surpassed herself for sheer frightfulness. And just
to complete the picture, there was a strange light in her pallid eyes,
that he had never seen there before. The movie monsters would have to
go a long way to match this, he thought.
"Nice of you to drop in," Miss Quirtt said, and her usual twangey voice
had something else in it that was almost undefinable. "Might as well
ask your girl friend in too."
From outside, Toffee was spared the alarming sight of Miss Quirtt,
but the voice had already suggested to her what she might see, if the
door were fully open. "I think I have to be running along," she said
uncertainly. "Thanks."
"I think you'd better come in," Marc warned shakily. "She's got a gun."
Toffee peered around the edge of the door and her face went starkly
white. Her nose had almost brushed against the business end of a
pistol that was almost as formidable as Miss Quirtt, herself. Then,
unaccountably, as though remembering a joke, Toffee suddenly smiled
and stepped into the room. "Well, if you really insist ..." she said
breezily.
* * * * *
Toffee's manner had an instant calming effect on Marc, and in the
moment in which Miss Quirtt closed the door behind Toffee, he felt his
sense of reality slowly returning. "Is this a joke, Miss Quirtt?" he
demanded.
Miss Quirtt regarded him with a sidelong, hostile glance. "I'm not
laughing, am I?" she shrilled.
"Then, what...."
"You'd sure like to have your hands on that again, wouldn't you?"
she gloated, gesturing toward a shabby table in the corner. On it,
looking like a diamond in the mud, rested Marc's brief case. He started
automatically toward it, but stopped short as, from the corner of his
eye, he saw the gun swerve quickly from Toffee to him.
"Don't be greedy," Miss Quirtt said amusedly.
"I can't get a million dollars together right away," Marc began
feverishly, "but I'll...."
"Don't be silly," Miss Quirtt broke in, with a weird laugh. "I wouldn't
give it to you for two million. And if you went to the cemetery, I hope
you had a lovely time. I'm sorry that I couldn't make it."
"We saw your friend there," Marc said sourly, "but he got away."
"My friend?" Miss Quirtt's eyes rolled, and came dangerously close to
crossing, in a futile attempt to express perplexity.
"Yes. The little fellow you sent; the one with the ferret face."
"That clicks," Toffee added helpfully.
Miss Quirtt looked at them unbelievingly. "I didn't send anyone out
there," she said, her voice racing uphill, out of control. "I had no
intention of going myself, either. That was just a touch of mystery to
throw you off the track. I don't intend to give you that brief case at
any price. Besides," she added thoughtfully, "I don't know any little
ferrets that ... that click."
"I wonder who it was?" Toffee said, deeply absorbed in the question.
The strange, fanatic gleam suddenly burned more brightly in the
horrible woman's eyes. "I'm going to ruin you, Marc Pillsworth!" she
announced dramatically, her stringy voice rising to such a pitch that
it caused one to wonder if she hadn't studied bird calls at one time or
another. Then she added as an afterthought, "And I think I'll kill you,
too."
"But why?" Marc and Toffee chorused.
Miss Quirtt's eyes rolled again, this time in a painful attempt at
coyness. "You promise you won't tell?" she asked foolishly.
Marc and Toffee exchanged a glance that held a full hour's discussion
on the woman's mental status.
"Of course not," Toffee said persuasively. "Your secret couldn't be in
safer hands."
"Well," Miss Quirtt said, becoming incongruously chatty, considering
the formidable weapon in her hand, "I'll tell you all about it. It's
all part of a plan, and it's terribly clever. I'm sure you'll think
so." She paused to smile at them like a five-year-old about to recite
a poem before company. "I've been working for big firms for twenty
years now ... and just working that's all. I've been watching my smug
employers and their smug wives, going about their smug lives, never
giving me a thought, for twenty years. Can you imagine what that can
do to a sensitive woman, like me?" She turned pleading eyes on Toffee.
"Has a boss ever made a pass at me?"
"No!" Toffee cried, catching the confessional spirit of the thing.
Miss Quirtt nodded approvingly. She seemed to like dramatic effect.
"Has a boss' wife ever been jealous of me?" she screeched.
"No!" Toffee cried again, recognizing her cue.
* * * * *
"That's right," Miss Quirtt continued sadly, brushing a tear away from
the end of her nose with the muzzle of the gun, then promptly leveling
the weapon directly to Marc's heart. "They never have. So I decided to
ruin the lot of them." She turned back to Marc. "You're not the first
one," she said, beginning to brighten. "There have been many others. I
used to work for Mr. Burke."
"The ... the Mr. Burke that committed suicide?" Marc faltered.
"That's right," Miss Quirtt answered proudly. "That was one of my most
poetic projects. Mr. Burke found himself with a lot of worthless stock
on his hands one morning, and simply jumped out the window. He died
without ever knowing who had bought the stuff for him. We parted the
best of friends. He left me one of my very finest references ... along
with the suicide note."
"It did end well, didn't it?" Toffee put in blandly.
"Yes. It was just lovely," Miss Quirtt agreed. "Much better than the
job I did on old Mr. Grant. He didn't leave me any reference at
all, and I had to write it myself. How I hate forgery! Of course, it
may not have been entirely his fault. After all, they did rush him
something awful when they came to take him away to the asylum." A
dreamy reminiscent look came into her eyes. "The job with Mr. Forbes
was much better. He said some very nice things about me before he left
for prison. I was the last one he said goodbye to."
Marc shuddered. "A very impressive career," he said, "but you can't
get away with it this time. I know that it was you that stole my brief
case."
"Yes," Miss Quirtt answered promptly. "And that's why I'm going to have
to make corpses of you ... so you can't talk, you know. It's really
not my way of doing things, but I suppose that everyone has to make
exceptions occasionally." She turned to Toffee and smiled. "I'm sorry
to have to put you out of the way, dear, but you understand, I'm sure."
"Oh, perfectly," Toffee said helpfully, returning the smile.
Marc was beginning to wonder just how many of them were crazy, and in
what combination. Even Toffee was making less sense than usual.
"And if I do say so, myself," Toffee continued. "Marc and I will make
lovely corpses."
"Oh, indeed you will!" Miss Quirtt agreed enthusiastically. "Some of
the nicest I've ever seen. And you'll be the very first ones that I've
made all by myself. I'll be very proud of you."
"That's nice to know," Toffee said, "but you're not going to use that
gun are you?"
"Why not?"
"It won't work," Toffee said simply. "You'd better think of something
else."
Miss Quirtt looked at her suspiciously. "What do you mean, it won't
work?"
"We hate to admit it, and we wouldn't to anyone else," Toffee said,
"but Marc and I are a little odd in some ways. Guns don't faze us. In
fact, there's very little that does. If you doubt me, shoot me, and see
for yourself."
Marc's mouth started open in alarm, but closed again as Toffee winked
at him.
Apparently Miss Quirtt was as open to suggestions as was Miss Ruby
Marlow. "All right," she said agreeably, a shrewd look coming into her
eyes. "Just stand over there."
* * * * *
Toffee followed her directions, and took her place before the wall, and
near Marc, where Miss Quirtt could keep them both covered during the
experiment. "Be sure you fire close up," she said. "I wouldn't want you
to miss."
"Don't worry," Miss Quirtt said menacingly, leveling the gun at Toffee.
"I won't." She squinted down the barrel, her eyes really crossing this
time, and pressed the trigger.
There was a sudden flash of white light, and an explosion. A crack
etched it's way crazily through the plaster just behind Toffee, but
Toffee, herself, remained just as she had been, a composed, smiling
figure in a scandalous black evening gown.
"You see?" she said. "You'll just have to think of something else."
Miss Quirtt stared at her, not seeming to be so much amazed as
thoughtful. "I'll have to think this over," she said pensively. "I had
my heart set on making corpses of you, ... being my first, and all, you
know." She crossed to the door and locked it, keeping the key, then
turned back to them apologetically. "I'm afraid I'll have to leave you
for a while," she said. "I'll have to dream about this. I get all my
best ideas in my dreams."
"I'll bet you do," Marc said flatly.
She regarded the crack in the wall for a moment. "The landlord's going
to make an awful fuss about that. He's so narrow minded. What's a home,
if you can't shoot it up a bit once in a while?" She turned to Toffee.
"It's rude of me, I know, to leave you alone like this, but I simply
have to get to sleep right away, to think of some way to rub you out,
as they say. You won't mind?"
"Certainly not!" Toffee replied grandly. "Go right ahead!"
As the strange woman started in the direction of the bedroom, Marc
turned amazedly to Toffee. "She's crazy as a loon," he whispered.
"Balmy as a night in June," Toffee hissed back.
Suddenly Miss Quirtt whirled about. "I heard that!" she shrieked. "I
heard what you said!" She regarded Toffee regretfully. "And I thought
you were such a nice, helpful girl, too. It makes me sad to know that
you can't be trusted. Now I won't be able to enjoy having your corpse
around, like I would have." She moved quickly to a closet, dragged out
two straight jackets, and handed them to Marc and Toffee. "Put them
on!" she commanded, brandishing her gun.
"They're perfectly lovely," Toffee said sarcastically, struggling into
hers. "They remind me of nurse's uniforms. Where did you ever get them?"
"Oh, I have dozens of them," Miss Quirtt said proudly. "And they were
all given to me. Every time I go for a vacation, when I leave, they
give me one of those. I remember a lovely summer at Bellview. The one
you have on reminds me of it."
A few minutes later, Miss Quirtt surveyed her trussed up guests from
her bedroom door, and smiled with satisfaction. "I think the gags were
a nice idea, too," she said. "You'll have to be quiet, anyway, if I'm
to get any sleep." Then, closing the door, she sighed, "Oh, but you'll
make such lovely corpses. And I can hardly wait to have some of my own."
Silently, Marc and Toffee, their mouths uncomfortably full of Miss
Quirtt's more intimate garments, gazed at each other mournfully.
* * * * *
It would be supposed that the last minutes of one's life would seem to
pass with a terrible swiftness, but to Marc, it seemed that the minutes
of the last two hours had dragged like the third act of a bad play, and
he was certainly convinced that the morning would see him a corpse. And
the fact that his lifeless body would receive all the personal care and
attention due it, as the victim of Miss Quirtt's first murder, didn't
help his state of mind as one might have supposed. He was not surprised
that Toffee, during the last five minutes or so, had begun to behave
peculiarly.
She seemed to be acting on a definite pattern, for she had repeated
her little routine three times now, and it had always been precisely
the same. She would leave her chair, walk directly to the wall, stand
facing it for a moment, and then bend over at the hips, as though
looking at something on the floor. This done, she would look up at Marc
and nod her head toward the spot which she had been watching.
At first, Marc merely thought that it was nice that Miss Quirtt had
left their legs free, if exercise meant so much to Toffee, but then,
slowly, he began to realize that perhaps the nodding meant that Toffee
had discovered something and wished him to follow her.
Walking to the wall, he waited until Toffee began to bend forward, and
followed her example. Once down, he gazed at the floor intently, but
there didn't seem to be anything to see, except a dismal section of
very ordinary flooring. He looked up questioningly, but Toffee motioned
him back again. This time, he gave the floor his undivided attention.
He was determined to discover what it was that she had been looking at,
and wanted him to see. At least it would give him something to think
about, besides becoming a dead body.
If Marc had seen Toffee remove herself from his side, to a position
just behind him, he would probably have moved away from the wall like
a flash, but since he did not, he remained just as he was, bent over,
head to the wall, and perfectly motionless. Toffee couldn't have asked
a more willing victim, or a more perfect target.
Slowly, as she brought her foot to Marc's unsuspecting posterior, a
pained expression crept into her green eyes. She hesitated a moment,
made a few practice kicks for aim, then swung her foot quickly behind
her. Sure of her aim now, she closed her eyes tightly, and brought her
foot forward with all the force of a sledge hammer.
There was a dreadful splitting sound as Marc's head struck the wall.
As he dropped to the floor and rolled over, the blissful, foolish grin
of unconsciousness was discernible even behind the gag. In the next
second, the room had become deathly still.
* * * * *
As Marc closed the door to Gregory Reece's office, he saw Toffee
waiting for him near the elevator, and scowled. Somehow, in the morning
light, the black dress seemed to leave even more of her exposed than it
had in the evening. Undaunted, Toffee smiled brightly at the sight of
him.
"Did he like the advertising campaign?" she asked. "Are you going to
get the account?"
Marc nodded wearily. "Yes," he said in a dead voice. "He was very
enthusiastic."
"What did he say?"
"I don't know," Marc replied sourly. "I could barely hear him. My
head was roaring like a lion cage at feeding time." He turned to her
fretfully. "Was it absolutely necessary for you to drive my head half
way through that wall? If that landlord's to be sore about that bullet
hole, he'll fairly scream his head off at the chunk of plaster I
knocked out."
"I had to be sure," Toffee explained logically. "I had to be sure you'd
lose consciousness, so I could return to your subconscious until you
woke up. It was the only way I could get out of that straight jacket.
You know that."
"Well, you could have told me, so I could have braced myself," Marc
argued unreasonably. "You nearly broke my neck."
"With a gag in my mouth?"