"I don't know," Marc lied quickly. "I've never seen her before in my
life. Why don't you throw her out of here?"
"Why, you lying old ingrate!" Toffee flamed. "For two cents I'd climb
up there on that table and perform a few operations of my own!"
"Madam!" Marc said distantly, "whoever you are, do you really think you
ought to take on in public in this brazen way?"
"I'll take you on in public, no holds barred, you thin-nosed phony,"
Toffee gritted. "You don't know what brazen is yet!"
The doctor turned to the nurse. "Call the orderlies and have this woman
removed," he said. "And have them give her a blanket or something to
wear. We can't delay the operation another moment. I'll give the
anaesthetic myself."
"Hey!" Marc yelled. "Toffee...."
"Go ahead, doctor," Toffee said with evil satisfaction. "Rip him open.
Slit him from ear to ear and top to bottom. I won't lift a finger."
"No!" Marc cried. He turned to Toffee in panic. "It'll mean the end of
both of us!"
"Pardon my girlish laughter," Toffee said. "It's worth it, dogmeat,
to see you get yours after the way you've treated me. Either you fork
over that lanky frame of yours, or you're going to be out of frames
entirely. That's the way it stacks up."
"Do you have to be so vulgar about it all?" Marc asked weakly. "With
all this talk about bodies and frames, I'm beginning to feel like just
so many soup bones displayed on a counter."
"That's exactly the parallel I've been searching for," Toffee said
complacently. "In fact if there's anything vulgar in all this, it _is_
your body. Come to think of it, it suddenly strikes me as so vulgar I'm
no longer interested in it."
"Please!" Marc cried as the doctors gripped him to the table. "Use that
gadget of yours--anything! Please!"
"Sorry, son," Toffee said. "I guess you'll remember after this never to
forget a lady's name."
Marc looked up and saw the mask bearing down toward his face. "Toffee!"
he yelled. "For Pete's sake!"
* * * * *
The mask miraculously paused in its descent, stopped. The action around
the table came to a sharp halt. Eyes swiveled toward the door. Marc
turned on his side just in time to observe Olliphant Gunn lumbering
into the room under the weight of George's upper quarters.
The nurse, her blonde hair in a state of dishevelment, followed bearing
the feet and legs. Arriving at a position inside the door, they
deposited their burden on the floor where it instantly curled over on
its side and emitted a sodden snore.
"It's Mr. Pillsworth," the nurse said breathlessly, shoving back her
hair. "We brought him straight down without waiting for the orderlies."
She looked up into the stunned faces staring back at her from around
the table. Then her gaze fell to Marc.
"My God!" she gasped.
"Good Lord!" Marc groaned, taking in the stupid, smiling face of George.
"Jesus!" breathed the doctor.
"Amen," Toffee put in glibly. "Who's taking up the collection?"
Marc turned to Toffee. "It's that gosh-awful spook again!" he breathed.
"He would have to show up now!"
"Actually," Toffee said, "he could not have shown up at a better time.
I really was going to help you out, but now we have George."
Marc's eyes brightened with slow realization. "Of course," he said,
then turned as he felt the doctor's hand on his shoulder. "Yes?"
"Mr. Pillsworth," the doctor said tensely. "You _are_ Mr. Pillsworth,
aren't you?"
Marc smiled with hypocritical innocence. "No," he said. "That's what
I've been trying to get through your thick skull." He pointed to
George. "That's Pillsworth there on the floor. And if you ask me he's
in a pretty critical condition. You'd better start sawing away at him
right now before he pops off of natural causes and robs you of the
sport."
"Oh, my word!" the doctor gasped. "How can I ever tell you...!"
"Come," Marc said grandly, turning to Toffee, "let's leave this
blood-splattered slaughter house."
"I'm all for it," Toffee said gaily. "Let's flee."
"I thought you didn't know that woman," the doctor said confusedly.
"I begin to recognize her now," Marc replied urbanely. "It was my
horror at the crass brutality of the medical profession that drove her
tender memory from my mind."
"But, I ..." the doctor began hopelessly.
"Say no more," Toffee said airily. "You can tell your side of it in
court."
* * * * *
The two of them, linking arms, started toward the door. They were just
about to sweep out of the room when suddenly the situation hit a new
snag. It was at this juncture that George opened his eyes, waggled
them around woozily, then reared up in a sitting position, staring at
Marc.
"You!" he said with a strangled gasp. "You're alive!" The way he said
it, it sounded like a hideous accusation.
Marc stopped short, caught off guard. "Of course I'm alive," he said.
"But you can't be!" George wailed, great tears of awful disappointment
welling in his eyes. "It isn't fair! You _have_ to be dead!"
"I'm sorry," Marc said, somewhat at a loss. "I'm not."
"It's rotten," George said with drunken bitterness. "It's cruel. I'm
probably the only ghost alive who's haunted by a human!"
"Well, it's a distinction," Toffee offered hopefully.
"Just a minute," the doctor put in suspiciously. "What's going on here?
What are you people talking about?"
Marc nodded sadly toward George. "The poor chap's delirious," he said.
"We're only trying to humor him."
"Oh, yeah?" the doctor said. His gaze moved from Marc to George and
back to Marc again. "Just which one of you really _is_ Marc Pillsworth?"
Marc and George pointed at each other in unison. "He is!" they chorused.
The doctor passed a trembling hand over his forehead and lifted his
gaze to the ceiling. A tremor of frustration passed through his sturdy
frame. He turned to the small blonde.
"Is Mrs. Pillsworth still in the waiting room?" he asked.
"I believe so, sir," the nurse said.
"Will you please call her in here to make an identification?"
"No!" Marc said, glancing uneasily in Toffee's direction. "Don't do
that...! I mean there's no need to disturb Mrs. Pillsworth. Obviously
this pitiful creature here on the floor is Pillsworth. Just by looking
at him you can see he's under the weather."
At this George drew himself up sedately, stiffling a hiccough. "Nothing
of the sort," he said piously. "I'm in perfectly splendid condition."
"Go ahead, nurse," the doctor said firmly. "Bring Mrs. Pillsworth."
"Yes, sir," the nurse said, and departed.
"But, you can't afford to delay the operation that long," Marc said.
"You said so yourself. Anyone with half an eye can see that this poor
man is getting more feeble by the second. You owe it to him to slit
him open immediately...!" In speaking Marc had paused to look at
George. The result was that the words froze on his lips. Never had he
spoken more truly; George was not only getting more feeble but more
non-existent by the second. His legs had evaporated to the knees, his
arms were entirely gone. Where his eyes should have been there were
now only empty sockets. Staring at this awesome demonstration, the
doctor tottered slightly and braced himself against the operating table.
"Oh, good Lord!" he moaned.
"Stop that, you coward," Marc said angrily. "Stop sneaking out like
that!"
* * * * *
In response, George merely dissolved his head to a grinning skull.
"Gotta go now," he chortled hollowly. "Gotta be corking off." He turned
to the others and clacked his teeth menacingly. Olliphant Gunn was the
first to snap.
"There's just so much that human flesh and blood can stand," the poor
man wailed, and leaping to the operating table he snatched up the
anaesthetic mask and plunged it over his face.
"Come on," Toffee said urgently, tugging at Marc's sleeve. "Let's get
out of here before that cheap ghost sticks us with an operation."
Marc jolted into action. Under Toffee's guidance, he lunged out the
door and started down the hall.
"Let's leave this place," Toffee said. "Let's go somewhere where we can
have fun."
"We can't leave like this," Marc said, indicating their brief attire.
"We can't go out on the street half naked."
"We can say we're artists' models on our way to work," Toffee said.
"Come on."
Marc didn't pause to debate the point as a cry from the operating room
indicated that the doctors had recovered from their dismay with an
urgent sense of loss.
Together, he and Toffee began to run. They proceeded swiftly around a
corner and down a flight of steps to the floor below. Suddenly Marc
stopped.
"What's wrong?" Toffee asked.
"Listen," Marc said. "What's that?"
Toffee listened. Descending footsteps sounded on the stairs behind
them. She whirled about. The stairway was unoccupied.
"George," she said disgustedly. "He's following us."
The footsteps stopped guiltily.
"Okay," Marc said, addressing himself to the empty stairs. "It's no use
pretending you're not there. You might as well show yourself."
A subdued hiccough echoed out of the emptiness, but that was the extent
of George's communication.
"If you're entertaining any notion of bumping me off so you can stay
here," Marc warned, "just forget it. I'm alive and I intend to stay
that way."
"Just ignore him," Toffee said. "He's bound to get bored and go away if
we refuse to pay any attention to him."
* * * * *
The discussion went no further, for suddenly there were sounds of
approaching pursuit from above. Grabbing Toffee's arm, Marc raced
ahead, down the hall and around another corner. A third set of
footsteps continued to sound in their wake.
"He's still with us," Toffee panted.
"The vulture," Marc said. "He's just hoping they'll catch me. Run
faster."
Renewing their efforts, they left behind another stretch of corridor,
turned another corner. There they stopped abruptly. Ahead a group of
orderlies loomed before them.
"That's them!" a young athletic type yelled. "That's Pillsworth!"
"To hell with Pillsworth!" a companion responded. "Get the dame! She's
practically all skin, just like they said!"
Marc and Toffee darted back around the corner.
"Surrounded!" Toffee panted. "I think that sums up the situation."
"What'll we do?" Marc asked confusedly.
Toffee pointed to a door marked JANITOR'S CLOSET. "In there," she said.
"Quick!"
They ran to the door, threw it open and darted inside just as their
pursuers surged into view at either end of the hallway. They paused
in the darkness to listen. As the sounds of the chase continued
outside they turned their attention to their new surroundings. The
air was close with the heady aroma of cleaning fluid, wax polish and
disinfectant.
"Isn't there a light in here?" Toffee asked.
"I can't find one," Marc said. "I've looked all over."
"Well," Toffee said, "at least it's a place to relax for a bit and
catch our breath. I just wish it didn't smell so oppressively clean. I
was hoping for a bit of dirt tonight--of the right sort, of course."
"You stay on your side of the closet," Marc said, "and I'll stay on
mine."
"We'll never get anywhere that way," Toffee said. "Suppose Romeo had
taken that attitude with Juliet?"
"They'd both have lived a lot longer," Marc said.
"I suspect that George is in here with us," Toffee said. "I fancy I
hear him breathing back there amongst the mops and brooms."
"I suppose he is," Marc said. There was a pause, followed by a number
of rattling sounds. "What are you doing?"
"There's a whole shelf of bottles over there," Toffee said. "I'm just
sniffing about to see if there's anything interesting. And there is.
The janitor has strong tastes. Irish whiskey, I should judge, by the
jolt of it. Have some?"
* * * * *
Marc paused, took note of the new vapors overriding those of the
cleaning fluids.
"Well," he said, "it is a little drafty in this nightgown."
Toffee handed him the bottle in the darkness. "Bottoms," she said
pleasantly.
"The expression," Marc said sedately, "is bottoms up."
"Up or down," Toffee said, "it doesn't matter. I was just tossing in
bottoms at random. Assorted bottoms, so to speak. If you prefer them
up, you'll get no argument out of me."
There was a smacking sound as Marc lowered the bottle from his lips.
"Let's just skip the bottoms," he said, "and go on to something else."
"Sounds pretty giddy," Toffee mused, "all this leaping about over
bottoms. However...."
"Look outside," Marc suggested wearily, "and see if they're still out
there."
"Okay," Toffee said. A small shaft of light darted in and out of the
closet as she opened the door and closed it again. "They're churning
about like cattle in a loading chute," she reported. "Where are you?"
"Sitting on the floor," Marc said. "I'm beginning to find this place
restful."
"You're beginning to stink of Irish whiskey," Toffee said. "Stop
gulping at that bottle like a great fish and hand it back."
"I wonder if we should offer George a drink?" Marc said with growing
amiability. "I definitely heard him breathing back there just now.
Sounds a trifle wheezy, I'm afraid."
"I think we ought to banish George from our minds," Toffee said.
"Besides, now that I've got the bottle back I don't intend to be free
about handing it around for quite some time."
"All right," Marc said. "Have it your way. George is banished."
There was a prolonged period of contented silence, broken
intermittently by faint gurgling sounds, first from one side of the
closet then the other. It was Toffee who finally spoke.
"By the way," she said, "what was all that nonsense about your getting
yourself shot?"
"Oh, that," Marc said negligently. "It's a bunch of subversives.
They have a subtle plan to poison the minds of the public against
the government--with the government's permission. I went on the air
to expose them, but they had me shot to stop me. There was this dark
fellow with a scar over his left eye in the control booth...." He
paused. "Holy smoke! I forgot. This is serious business, isn't it?"
"It sounds like it," Toffee said. "How far did you get in your
broadcast?"
"I didn't even get started. I suppose I ought to try to do it again."
"If they think you're dead or dying, they won't be watching for you any
more."
"That's right," Marc said. "Let's get out of here."
"Okay," Toffee said. "Just take your arms away from my waist so I can
get up."
"Huh?" Marc said. "I don't have my arms around your waist."
"You haven't!" Toffee said. "Didn't you take the gadget from under my
arm either?"
"Of course not."
"It's that sneaky George," Toffee snorted. "And when I think of how I
was enjoying it...!" She turned in the darkness. "Let go of me before
I lose my temper, George. So help me, you spurious spectre, I'll twist
your head off when I get ahold of you."
There was no answer but apparently the threat had taken hold; there
were sounds of Toffee getting to her feet.
"That'll hold him," she said. "Look outside and see how things are. I
want that gadget back."
Marc fumbled his way to the door, opened it a crack, then shoved it all
the way open.
"All clear," he said and turned back to Toffee. "Can you see him back
there? Is he visible?"
"I can just make him out," Toffee said, peering into the back of the
closet. "He's sort of lurking."
"Okay, you rat," Marc said. "Come out of there and give it to us. Snap
into it."
There were shuffling sounds from the shadows and slowly a figure
emerged into the light. It was a dark, heavy figure. The face was
swarthy and there was a scar over the left eye. The man leered at the
two in the doorway.
"Okay," he said. "Keep your shirts on. I'm going to give it to you all
right. I'm going to give it to you good."
He moved closer. In his left hand was Toffee's gadget, in his right an
enormous revolver.
* * * * *
The swarthy man closed the door to the storeroom, locked it, and
shaking his head, moved purposefully down the hallway to a door
at the front of the warehouse. He stopped and knocked, and as an
unintelligible grunt issued from inside, he opened the door and entered.
"I got 'em," he announced.
Across the room a portly gentleman with a white mane and great shaggy
black eyebrows looked up from a sheaf of papers on the desk before him.
"Them?" he said. "I told you just to pick up Pillsworth and finish him
off."
The swarthy man glanced away, embarrassed. "I couldn't finish him off,
congressman. He wasn't even started. I went to the hospital, like you
told me, to make sure about Pillsworth--and I was going along the hall
lookin' for this place where they cut 'em up--and all of a sudden there
was a racket like a lot of people runnin' around and yellin', so I
ducked into this closet to keep under cover. Well, I was only in there
a little bit when all of a sudden somebody yanks the door open and this
guy and this dame come shaggin' in with hardly any clothes on. So I
kept quiet and listened."
"I'm not interested in the sordid doings behind the scenes at the
hospital," Congressman Entwerp interrupted. "Stick to the pertinent
facts."
"Oh, no, it wasn't nothin' like that. I just listened and pretty soon
it come up in what they were sayin' that this guy with the dame is none
other than Pillsworth himself. And believe me, congressman, I can't
explain it, but there ain't a thing wrong with him--physically."
"Physically?" the congressman asked. "What do you mean?"
"The guy's mentally a mess," the thug said. "So's this dame with him.
She's a terrific lookin' little job, but crazy as a coot. It's a dirty
shame."
"How do you know they're crazy?"
"Just ask Hank. He drove the car. All the way over from the hospital
they kept talkin' to this guy who wasn't there, and bawlin' him out for
followin' them everyplace. They called him George, and they carried on
a regular conversation with him. It was weird, leave me tell you. But
one thing, this guy George, whoever he is, is lucky he doesn't exist;
the way that little dame kept tellin' him what she was going to do to
him if he didn't show himself and help them out of this jam was enough
to curl your hair. Pillsworth was all the time tellin' this imaginary
character what a ghoul he was to be hangin' around just to see him get
killed. They're both nuts, boss, an' no lie!"
"Maybe it was just an act," Congressman Entwerp suggested skeptically.
"I don't think so. You'd really have to feel mean to say some of the
stuff those two was dishin' out to this George." The thug paused
and withdrew Toffee's thought gadget from his pocket. "Look what I
lifted off the dame in the closet." He placed it on the desk before
the congressman. "She's plenty hot to get it back. You'd think it was
somethin' worth somethin'."
"What is it?"
"I don't know. Some sort of two-way flashlight, I guess. Just a piece
of junk."
* * * * *
The congressman bent his shaggy head close over the gadget and examined
it minutely. He picked it up, weighed it in his hand, then shrugged and
dropped it negligently into his pocket.
"Let's have a look at these two crackpots," he said, rising from his
chair. "We'll have to dispose of them, of course."
"Okay," the thug said. "I just hope they've got things settled with
this George before we get there."
Back in the storeroom, however, events were lurching ahead in a most
uncertain manner. Things had started with an air of mild strangeness
and mounted swiftly to a state of wild-eyed madness.
Finding themselves confined and in the hands of blood-thirsting
murderers, Marc and Toffee had paused only momentarily to survey their
musty prison, the cases of wines, brandies and whiskies stacked along
the walls, before returning to the subject uppermost in their minds.
Toffee, doubling her fists, addressed herself to the room at large.
"George," she said evenly, "we know you're with us. You gave yourself
away in the car when you let that foot materialize, and you'll give
yourself away again. And when you do, brother, I'm going to kick your
teeth out one at a time and have them made into shirt studs. I'm going
to...!"
"It's no use threatening him," Marc interrupted. "He's got the
advantage. He's just hanging around waiting for me to be killed. And
he'll probably have his way before they're done with us."
In answer, a stifled yawn echoed from somewhere in back of them. Toffee
whirled about.
"Listen to him!" she fumed. "Now he's rubbing it in! That was the most
put-on yawn I ever heard."
She started forward, but Marc put out a hand to stop her. He drew her
toward the corner.
"Listen," he said in lowered tones, "I've just thought of something.
Maybe we can trap him."
"We certainly should be able to," Toffee agreed hotly. "George is pure
rat, through and through. If we only had some cheese...."
"What about whiskey?" Marc asked. "There's plenty of it here, and where
George is concerned it's the best bait in the world."
"I wonder why he hasn't been at it already?" Toffee said, surveying the
crates along the walls. "The place is practically seething with the
stuff."
"He's too smart," Marc said. "He doesn't want to show where he is.
By the time he opened a crate and got the bottle out we'd have him
located. He's afraid we'd slug him."
"Of course we'd slug him," Toffee said. "I personally intend to bop
the living bejesus out of him at the very first opportunity. What
difference does that make?"
"He knows what we're after," Marc explained. "He knows we want him to
show himself to these people so they won't know which one of us is me.
And look what happened to George the last time he was knocked out."
* * * * *
Toffee looked up with a smile of understanding. "Of course!" she said.
"He lost control of his ectoplasm and materialized."
"Exactly," Marc said, "and it might happen again. Then it would not
be just a matter of confusing them with the two of us. If George
materialized we could leave him to take the rap all by himself."
"Wonderful!" Toffee said. "Let's do it. It would serve everybody
right. How do we trap him?"
"It's simple," Marc said. "We open the crates and get the bottles out
_for_ George. At first we pretend to forget about him; we sit around
and act like we're swilling down whiskey by the gallon and having the
time of our lives. This will drive George close to madness, locked in
a room with two drinkers and no drop for himself. When we figure he's
sufficiently worked up, we'll weaken and offer him a drink. He won't be
able to resist. While one of us hands over his bottle, the other takes
a fix on George's position and bashes the daylights out of him with
this." Marc permitted himself a smile of pride. "You see?"
"Marvelous," Toffee said. "I particularly love that part at the end,
where George gets bashed. Can I be the basher?"
"Okay," Marc agreed. "Let's go. And remember, act as though you've
never enjoyed drinking anything so much in your whole life."
With tremendous nonchalance, the two moved across the room to the
stacked crates.
"My, my," Marc said in a declamatory, radio announcer's tone, "what do
you suppose we have here in all these interesting-looking crates?"
"I should think," Toffee said on cue, "that they contain bottles of
fine old tangy whiskey. Of course that's just a random guess, but I
believe it's a shrewd one. Shall we have a look?"
"Oh, let's!" Marc cried, with a false grin of eagerness. He turned
slightly in what he presumed to be George's direction. "A drink of fine
old tangy whiskey would certainly taste mighty good just now."
"I can think of nothing better!" Toffee said, smacking her lips loudly.
"My mouth fairly waters!"
Marc reached one of the crates down and, placing it on the floor, pried
up one of the slats. He reached out two bottles and handed one toward
Toffee.
"Well, well," he cried with studied joviality. "Look what I found!"
Toffee clapped her hands after the manner of a witless child. "Oh,
goody!" she gurgled. "Some of that wonderful fine old tangy whiskey!
Just what I hoped for!" She took the bottle, opened it and took a
swallow. She blanched and covered her face with her hand. "Ugh!" she
rasped.
"Yes, sir!" Marc said, lifting his bottle to his mouth. "Some of the
finest, oldest and tangyest fine old tangy whiskey there is." He rolled
his eyes in broad anticipation. "Yes, sir, bedad!"
"It's a good thing you said that before you tasted the stuff," Toffee
hissed between clenched teeth. "You'd never have the breath afterward."
* * * * *
The warning came too late; Marc had already downed a large swallow. He
closed his eyes and gagged. Like Toffee, however, he forced a frozen
smile through his tears and rubbed his stomach luxuriously. "Umm-umm,"
he managed to say. "It sure hits the spot."
"And leaves it in ruins," Toffee agreed. "They must cook this stuff up
in old lye vats."
"Keep drinking," Marc whispered urgently. "And look happy."
"Okay," Toffee said grimly. "I'll die with a smile on my face, but
it'll be the lie of the century." She lifted the bottle gamely and
drank. "Oh, boy!" she rasped through drawn lips, "this whiskey is the
answer to a drunkard's prayer."
Marc drank dutifully in turn. "You said it!" he announced, tears
streaming from his eyes. "It's delicious!"
"I could go on drinking it forever," Toffee wheezed, taking another
gulp and clutching her throat. "It's so smooth!"
"Makes you want more and more," Marc said, shaking his head to clear it
after a third libation. "It gives you a real boost."
"Let's not carry it too far," Toffee whispered. "If I drink any more of
this mange medicine I won't be able to hit the barnside of a broad."
"Broadside of a barn," Marc corrected her weakly. "But you're right.
We'd better make the pitch while we're still conscious."
Toffee nodded and made a great show of registering happy inspiration.
"Say," she cried, "you know who would just love this whiskey?"
"No," Marc replied like the second part in a minstrel skit. "Who?"
"George!" Toffee said. "You remember good old George?"
Marc nodded vigorously. "Wouldn't he be just crazy about whiskey like
this?"
"He certainly would. Crazy mad, he'd be. Isn't it too bad he's not
here?" Then Toffee brightened. "But perhaps he is! You never can tell
about good old George."
"But when we were talking to him earlier he didn't answer."
"Perhaps he misunderstood something one of us said," Toffee suggested.
"Maybe he didn't understand our type of humor and got offended. You
know, like when I said I was going to gouge his eyes out? A harmless
remark to most people, but perhaps not so to good old George."
"True," Marc said sagely. "George always was sensitive." He glanced
around the room. "George?" he called. "If you're here, old man, how
about having a drink with us? If we said anything to hurt your feelings
we certainly didn't mean to."
He paused to listen. There was a hesitant shuffling across the room.
"Well ..." a voice said uneasily.
Marc and Toffee exchanged glances of triumph.
"You mustn't miss out on this, old man," Marc cajoled. "You really
mustn't."
"And it will make such a nice friendly gesture," Toffee put in, "to
show that you forgive us our thoughtless little jibes."
"Well," the voice returned, a shade less hesitant. "I am a little dry."
"Of course you are," Marc said jovially, "and we have the very thing to
bring you comfort and contentment. Just step over here and I'll give
you this whole bottle."
"No tricks?" George asked warily.
"George!" Toffee said, thoroughly scandalized, "how can you even
entertain such a notion?"
"Just to show you," Marc said, "why don't you stay invisible? You're
perfectly safe that way."
"Okay," George agreed. "Just hold out the bottle."
"Right-oh," Marc said and turned to Toffee. "Give it everything," he
whispered. Toffee nodded.
* * * * *
As Marc held out the bottle, Toffee sighted on the area in line with
his hand, on the principle that George, being a duplicate of Marc, his
head would be on the same level. The best strategy, she felt, was to
concentrate on this area as swiftly and violently as possible. She held
the bottle in readiness and when, a moment later, the bottle jogged in
Marc's hand, she was prepared. She swung as hard as she could in a wide
horizontal swipe. About half way, the bottle jarred to an abrupt stop
and shattered, spewing liquid and glass in all directions. This was
subsequently followed by a surprised moan and a heavy thudding sound in
the vicinity of the floor.
"Got him!" Toffee cried jubilantly. "Smashed him right on the button!"
She dropped the jagged neck of the bottle daintily to the floor.
"He's still invisible," Marc said worriedly. "I hope there'll be
developments."
Developments came almost immediately, and they were well worth
watching, though hardly the sight for sore eyes. Marc's calculations
had been correct. Surprised, as it were, into unconsciousness, George
had completely lost control of his ectoplasm. The trouble, though,
was that instead of splashing out through his body all of a piece, it
trickled out in fits and starts.
What appeared on the floor, under Marc's and Toffee's watchful eyes,
was not George in total, but a sort of jig-saw George in which many
of the vital pieces had been omitted. While one could be grateful for
George's head, there was bound to be a pang of regret for the neck
which had failed to appear.
An arm lay to the left, with only a finger or two to indicate that it
had once blossomed a hand. Had there ever been an expression to the
effect that half a torso was better than none, George had disproved
it beyond measure; a torso, apparently severed from the collar bone
to the mid-riff was so much worse than no torso at all as to be
positively hair-raising. A random foot here, an errant knee cap there
only garnished the over-all picture of hideous human butchery. With a
shudder of revulsion, Toffee turned from the awful sight.
"Leave it to George," she said, "just leave it to that monster to be as
revolting as possible."
"I don't suppose it's really his fault," Marc said fairly, "but I wish
he were invisible again."
It was at this moment that the congressman and his henchman, having
completed their discussion in the front of the warehouse, arrived at
the door of the storeroom and fitted a key to the lock.
"Duck!" Toffee said. "Get behind those crates!"
"What about you?"
"I'm going to get my invention back. Besides they can't hurt me, and
the important thing is to give you a chance to escape."
"Okay," Marc nodded and faded into the dimness behind the crates.
* * * * *
Toffee moved to the nearest stack of boxes, boosted herself atop them
and leaned back in an attitude of relaxed languor. She watched from
the corner of her eye as the door swung open and the congressman and
the thug advanced into the room. She lifted her gaze dreamily to the
ceiling and began to hum quietly to herself.
"There she is, boss," the thug said. "There's the dame, up there."
"My word!" Congressman Entwerp said. "Where did Pillsworth ever pick
her up?"
"In a Turkish bath, I guess, before they passed out the towels."
Toffee turned slowly and observed the two with heavy disdain.
"Please be quiet," she drawled, "you're disturbing my meditations."
"Where's Pillsworth?" the thug asked.