"About these cases," the congressman said. "That fellow in England...."
"Oh, the one who thought the magistrate was a beautiful girl? It's
hard to believe, of course, but you must remember it was an extreme
case. The most severe ever recorded, I believe. The funeral was only a
formality, of course, since there wasn't even a scrap of him recovered.
Exploded, you know."
"Exploded!"
"That's right. The only thing of its kind in medical history. Poor
devil went right off. With a great whopping roar, they said. The
doctors said it was caused by repressed emotion."
"Oh, Mona!" the congressman groaned.
"Didn't mean to upset you, old friend," Toffee said. "It's an
unpleasant thing to talk about."
"But couldn't they have saved him?" the congressman asked. "Suppose
they had gotten him to a psychiatrist or something before it happened?"
"Actually it was much simpler than that," Toffee said ponderously.
"The fellow could have saved himself merely by confessing. Confession,
you know, is the only thing for a bad conscience. Highly recommended
by all the best authorities. Those church people are doing it all the
time--can't stop church people from confessing--and you never heard of
one of them exploding, did you?"
"That's right," the congressman said hopefully. His gaze travelled out
the window, a clouded look of inner turmoil on his face.
"It was just one of those things," Toffee put in. "One minute this
chap was standing there in court just as hail and hearty as beans and
the next--boom!--and the spectators were whisking him off their coat
sleeves and passing round the cleaning fluid!"
The congressman whirled about in a convulsion of anguish. "I confess!"
he blurted. "I confess _everything_!"
"Not everything," Toffee said. "Leave the racy personal stuff for
another time."
The congressman reached out the gadget and dropped it on the bench.
Toffee picked it up as he followed that contribution with a key.
"There's the key to the storeroom," the congressman said, "and the
one to the private files. And here's a list of the members of the
organization." He started as Rooney stepped forward and took him by the
arm.
"Take him away," Toffee said blithely. "Find him a cell with lots of
padding. And take his body-guard too."
* * * * *
As the congressman and the thug disappeared in the custody of Rooney,
Toffee mashed out her cigar, quitted the bench and proceeded across the
court where the blonde was still throttling the judge.
"Better let him up, honey," she advised gently. "He's turning a very
nasty blue."
The blonde stopped to consider the judge's complexion and let him drop
to the floor.
"Loathsome old bore!" she hissed as he sat up and rubbed his neck, then
got to his feet and tottered off toward the bench. "That'll teach you
next time."
Toffee moved on to Marc. "Well, don't just sit there," she said, "Let's
get at it."
Marc looked up apprehensively. "At what?" he asked.
"Everything." Toffee said spaciously. "On the town."
"Haven't you had enough excitement?" Marc asked wearily.
"Not of the right sort," Toffee said. "What I crave is soft lights and
wine and all that sort of elegant truck. Come on."
"What about George?"
"Oh, yes," Toffee reflected, "there is George, isn't there?" She
regarded the transfixed half-spirit thoughtfully. "It would serve him
right if we just left him here, cut off at the pockets. Still I don't
suppose it's the thing to do...." A look of inspiration came to her
face. "I know."
Taking her gadget from beneath her arm, she levelled it at George and
pressed the button. Instantly George disappeared entirely. Toffee
replaced the instrument and turned to Marc.
"There," she said brightly. "George in the handy pocket size, where he
can't do any harm. Now we're all set for a life of gin and sin, and no
interruptions."
"Now, wait a minute!" Marc said. "We're not set for anything, much less
a life of gin and sin as you so pungently put it. Do I have to remind
you that I have a wife to think of?"
"I don't care if you have a whole regiment of wives to think of,"
Toffee said testily. "I've protected and preserved you and, by gum,
you're mine. At least right now. Your wife can just take her chances on
what's left."
"If you continue with this scandalous talk," Marc said, shocked into
primness, "I'm going to be forced to get up and walk right out of here."
"You take one step without me," Toffee warned, "and I'll break both
your legs."
"Oh, well...." Marc sighed.
"That's better," Toffee nodded. "Of course I'll need some clothes,
something terribly expensive and revealing...."
* * * * *
She broke off as the doors of the courtroom burst open and Julie,
followed by the three doctors from the hospital, charged down the aisle.
"My God!" Marc cried. "Julie!" He swung around to Toffee. "Go away!
Vanish!"
"I'm darned if I will," Toffee said. "I've stuck by you through all the
thin and now I want some of the thick of it."
"Don't worry," Marc said miserably. "Just wait till Julie sees us;
things will get thick in a hurry."
Even as Marc spoke the atmosphere began to congeal swiftly. Julie,
having caught sight of the curious tableau formed by Marc and the
scantily clad Toffee, jarred to a stop, digging her heels into the
floor. A sharp, enraged sound came from her lips.
Julie, after her experience of the night before had recovered her
physical faculties, but her emotional condition was still skittish.
A wife, summoned to identify her dying husband, rather sets her mind
on a scene of tearful sighs and murmured remembrances, with perhaps
a touch of violin music in the background. When she finds her waning
spouse looking perfectly alive and perky and in close proximity to a
dangerous looking redhead, her bubble has a tendency to burst with a
considerable bang.
"_Marc Pillsworth!_" Julie screamed. "Who is that woman!" And raising
her handbag aloft she proceeded forward with mayhem unmistakably number
one on her agenda.