Toffee was instantly in his arms, and he hadn't the faintest idea how
she had gotten there.
"I knew you couldn't resist me," she cooed. "If you're really sorry...."
"Wait a minute!" Marc yelped, trying to free himself. "I didn't
mean...."
The words froze on his lips. Over Toffee's slender shoulder he could
see the blackness, whole again, rushing down on him, borne on the tide
of the shrieking wind. His hands grew limp on Toffee's wrists as the
darkness closed in swiftly and snuffed out the last glowing light of
the quiet valley.
Then the wind caught them full force, and for a moment they swayed
together under its sudden impact. Marc tried to get to his feet, but it
was useless. Already, they were being lifted upward, shooting outward
into space. Toffee's arms tightened around Marc's neck.
"Since you apologize," she whispered in his ear, "I forgive you."
* * * * *
Marc stirred and opened his eyes with an effort. Instantly, inside
his head, a tin-pan symphony swung into a jangling rendition of
"Hold That Tiger," and whaled it to a fare-thee-well. The universe
seemed to rotate once, twice, and then skidded to a jittery stop and
remained fixed. The discordant symphony became muted and distant.
Marc discovered confusedly that he was in a sort of small shack-like
structure. Bare boards with blinking knot holes stared back at him from
an unlovely ceiling. Then an aged head blurred into sight, looking
down at him with worried concern. It made a terrible clicking noise
with its mouth and moved off to one side. Marc felt strengthless arms
moving about his shoulders and with their negligible help, boosted
himself into a sitting position. The owner of the head, a little,
worried-looking man, was crouching beside him.
"You come around pretty fast," he wheezed. "Ain't really been out no
time at all. You had me scared at first, though. Thought maybe you was
hurt bad."
* * * * *
Marc stared out a slit-like door that was directly in front of him.
Beyond, a row of assorted automobiles testified to his whereabouts. His
memory jogged back a bit and arrived successfully at the accident in
the drive.
"How's my car?" he asked.
"Not so bad," the man replied. "Bumper's ripped off, and the radiator's
not so fancy as she used to be, but it still runs good. I drove it
around here to the shack for you. Want me to call a doctor?"
Marc got shakily to his feet and awaited results. His nose throbbed
dully, but the rest of him seemed all right. "Never mind," he said.
"I'm okay."
"Guess the steering gear smacked you in the nose," the little man
observed mildly. "Guess I shoulda put that sign down on the street.
Sorry."
Marc nodded curtly and went outside. The grey coupe was standing
alongside the shack, looking a little crestfallen with its twisted
bumper draped loosely over one crinkled fender. He stared at it
unhappily.
Then he stiffened.
There was a movement inside the car and a brief flash of red.
"It's on fire!" he yelled.
"I do believe," the sign-hider collaborated calmly. "Maybe we should
look."
Marc ran to the car, the little man ambling casually along in his wake.
Then they both stopped short as the red flash repeated itself at the
window and was suddenly followed up with a puckish face. Toffee, her
chin poised on the sill, peered out at Marc relievedly.
"I was wondering where you were," she said. "Thought maybe you'd been
crumpled up on the floor. You really mashed things up, didn't you?"
"Oh, Lord!" Marc moaned. "Now I've got you on my hands!"
"It would be better," Toffee said insinuatingly, "if you had me in your
arms."
At this point the little man shuffled over to Marc's side. "Well, I'll
be!" he exclaimed. "I didn't see no woman in there before." He peered
at Toffee nearsightedly, "You're one of them redheaded hussies, ain't
you?"
"How did you know?" Toffee asked.
"Oughta know," the man said cryptically. "The old woman always
blasphemin' about redheaded hussies."
"What does she say?" Toffee asked interestedly.
"Couldn't repeat it," the little man said, "even to a hussy."
"Then you can believe every word of it," Toffee said. And opening the
door, she stepped lightly out of the car.
The little man gasped at Toffee's faintly obscured charms. "Oh, lady!"
he sighed. "The old lady didn't say nothin' about anything like that!"
By this time, Marc was already at Toffee's side. He reached inside
the car and quickly drew out a rather unkempt fur coat. It was one
of Julie's old ones that she used for driving in cold weather.
Fortunately, no one had remembered to remove it from the car. He threw
it unceremoniously around Toffee's shoulders.
"It would make a refreshing change," he said darkly, "if you showed up
just once without being in a state of indecent exposure."
"There are some," Toffee sneered, "who think this is one of the most
decent exposures they've ever seen. And I'm inclined to agree with
them."
* * * * *
Marc was in no mood to argue the point. He stared nervously at the
inquisitive little man. "Let's get out of here," he said. "Accident or
no accident I have to go to the bank."
As they left the little man behind and walked toward the sidewalk Marc
poured out his troubles to Toffee. He told her of George's untimely
reappearance and the unpleasant business at the bank. Mostly, though,
he entered a stirring plea for her cooperation and good behavior. They
had nearly reached the street when he suddenly stopped and raised a
finger to his lips. A crunching noise sounded briefly on the gravel
behind them, then stopped guiltily.
"What's that?" Toffee asked.
"Maybe nothing," Marc said. But he feared the worst.
Marc left Toffee just inside the bank entrance with firm instructions
to remain where she was, to do nothing and say nothing until he
returned. Also, he advised that she keep Julie's coat drawn tightly
around her as certain misunderstandings were sure to arise if she did
not. Toffee nodded and cooperated to the extent that she gave the
appearance of a mute paralytic freezing in a snowstorm. The effect did
not become her.
Upstairs, on the mezzanine, Marc made his way fearfully toward the
president's office, a glass-fronted arrangement that overlooked
the main floor of the bank like a guard tower in a concentration
camp. As Marc approached, the president, looking up, caught sight
of him and raced him to the door. The scene reminded Marc of a
saber-toothed shark he had once observed in an aquarium, pursuing a
small unidentified fish with murderous intent. Pausing for a moment, he
glanced wistfully down at Toffee standing by the door.
Then he turned quickly and ran to the rail.
Even from that distance the mark of horror was plain on Toffee's face.
Marc followed her stricken gaze and came very close to screaming.
Downstairs, in the clerk's enclosure, a riot seemed to have broken
loose behind the counters. At first glance it seemed the clerks were
merely rough-housing among themselves, but a second look told an
entirely different story. It was a scene that flagrantly thumbed its
nose in the face of credulity, spat on the carpet of comprehension and
sashayed out the door of sanity with an airy flip of the hip.
[Illustration: The bank was thrown into a state of confusion as the
money bags floated toward the door....]
A pair of large money sacks, bearing the bank's name on their coarse
sides, had plainly taken wing in a fit of convulsive madness. And
whatever else these frightful sacks may have had on their minds, it was
certain they possessed a boundless hatred for bank clerks. Progressing
from the door leading into the vaults, they were savagely bludgeoning
their way through the windowed enclosure, leaving a litter of prostrate
figures and wilted white collars in their wake. The fugitive bags were
making it emphatically clear that they would brook no nonsense from
any faction desiring to frustrate them in their desire to be away from
there. The current clientele of the bank was hastily arranging itself
against the opposite wall.
One of the clerks, having miraculously escaped the ravages of battle,
was streaking up the stairs to the mezzanine in a state of gibbering
hysteria. Reaching Marc and the president who was now gasping at Marc's
side, the fellow slowed to a sliding stop and began visibly to wilt
with terror. The president grabbed him quickly beneath the arms and
held him away from the floor.
"What is it?" he yelled. "What's going on down there? Tell me!"
The clerk shivered in his employer's arms. "I ... I don't know," he
gasped. "I ... I was down in the vaults ... in the vaults ... making
up the payroll for the Reedley Chemical Works ... and ... and...." His
voice trailed off into a shuddering whine. "It was aw-w-w-ful!"
The president shook him energetically. "What happened?" he demanded.
"Speak up, you ninny!"
* * * * *
The clerk's eyes rolled loosely in their sockets, fell inadvertently
on the scene below and darted away. "Those two sacks of money ... they
were behind me ... they went crazy all of a sudden. They flew up
into the air and started singing and carrying on something terrible!
Then ... then, they started out the door ... well, I tried to stop
them. At first I tried being nice about it ... I tried to reason with
them ... and ... and they _struck_ me! And that isn't all! Those are
the most foul-mouthed money bags in existence!"
The bank president promptly dropped the clerk to the floor. "The
fellow's hysterical," he said. "It's a plot, a foul plot to rob this
bank! Where are the police?" He stared over the rail and his question
was promptly answered. The bank police, two of them, were trembling
outside the enclosure, trying to nudge each other forward. "They
practice the rhumba," he screamed, "while the bank is looted!"
At this point Marc left the president abruptly, vaulted over the
collapsible clerk and made his way to the stairs. Half way down the
flight he paused and prepared to take the second half in one heroic
leap. There was no question in his mind that his suspicion had borne
the deadly fruit he had feared; George had indeed followed him to the
bank. Now the soulless shade, in a burst of misguided boy-scoutishness,
was blithely playing fast and loose with the Reedley Chemical Works'
payroll.
Marc made his appearance on the scene of strife in a confused sprawl
that was far from heroic. Then, he sat up, bewilderment written into
every line of his face. Not until this moment had he stopped to
consider the course that he was about to take. Clearly, to be seen
in close association with those demented sacks would be to invite
disaster. The implication would be entirely clear to everyone,
especially to the irate bank president. The only safe procedure, then,
was to stay clear of the whole affair and let the money bags shift for
themselves, which they seemed to be doing with remarkable agility from
the sound of things behind the enclosure. Then he started with shock
as a hand fell to his shoulder. He glanced up to find Toffee standing
beside him.
"Don't do that!" he fairly screamed. "Don't scare me like that!"
"I don't blame you for being jumpy," Toffee said. "At the moment I
could easily vault a twelve story building by sheer nerve power. That's
the most soul-shattering thing I've ever witnessed."
"Help me up," Marc begged. He extended a hand toward Toffee, then
promptly leaped to his feet, unaided.
Victorious at last, the dashing bags suddenly emerged around the end of
the clerk's enclosure and sailed through the hinged barrier like a pair
of high-spirited, slightly drunken seagulls. At the sight of them, the
two policemen, who had finally managed to disengage their guns from
their holsters, suddenly turned on each other in panic.
"Do something," one of them hissed. "Call a cop ... I mean, yell at 'em
to stop. Say halt or you'll shoot. That's always good."
The other fidgeted self-consciously. "I'd feel silly," he demurred.
"You yell at 'em."
"I'd feel silly, too," the other admitted grudgingly. "Silly as hell."
He gave the matter his thoughtful attention. "Tell you what," he said
finally. "Let's just turn the other way and make out we don't see. It's
nothing no human eyes should be gazing at anyway. It's indecent to say
the least."
* * * * *
Simultaneously, the cops turned their broad backs on the fearful
spectacle and pretended to engage each other in casual conversation.
"Tell me," one of them was heard to say in a strained voice, "and how
is that charming wife of yours? And those two darling children?"
This chatty arrangement, however, was not destined to endure. The
president's voice rang down from the mezzanine with such a volley
of scalding invective and personal criticism that the two reluctant
officers decided it would be the lesser evil to face their duty and do
it, even if their souls fried in hell as the result.
By now the flying bags had singled out Marc and Toffee and were headed
toward them in an affectionate rush.
"Go way!" Marc yelled desperately. "Beat it!"
But the bags were not to be put off so easily. They continued forward,
dancing through the air in a sort of bottom-heavy samba.
"Let's take steps!" Toffee cried. "Lots and fast! Let's get the hell
out of here before those fiendish bags put the finger on us!"
Physically, mentally and spiritually, Marc was in complete and utter
accord with Toffee's suggestion. His whole being longed to its very
depths to be away from those awful bags and the tailor-made life of
crime that George so obviously meant to force upon him. Taking Toffee's
arm he took as few steps as possible to the main entrance and swung the
door open. Behind, the bags hesitated, seeming somewhat taken aback
at this unfriendly gesture, then with a sort of shrug, started out in
playful pursuit. The two policemen, their duties now engraved on their
sluggish minds in letters of flame, joined the chase reluctantly.
Marc and Toffee headed instinctively toward the parking lot behind the
bank, set on giving themselves every possible mechanical advantage
in this mad race for respectability. Behind them, the bags steadily
lost ground right from the start, probably because their weight held
back their ghostly means of locomotion. Still further back, the two
policemen, plugging along in their own flat-footed way, were hardly in
the running at all.
Marc and Toffee reached the grey coupe at about the same instant and
threw themselves on it like a couple of drowning sailors who had just
sighted a lifeboat. In the midst of their frenzied activities the
wizened attendant appeared at the door of the shack and watched with
quiet interest.
"Wildest pair of young folks I ever seen," he murmured. "Leapin' around
all over the place like they was crazy in the head or somethin'.
Nervous type I guess."
Unmindful of the attendant's concern over their hurried activities,
Marc touched the starter and put the car into rapid motion. There was a
sharp hiss as the tires spit gravel into the air, and a second later a
loud clatter announced the abandonment of the wrecked bumper.
But with the rapid exit of the grey coupe and its harried occupants,
the little attendant's worries were destined to increase rather than
diminish. No sooner did the car disappear down the drive than two
bags, alarmingly on their own, flashed onto the scene and presented
themselves before him in mid-air.
The little man looked at them, rubbed his eyes and looked again. For a
long, tense moment he continued to stare at them. Then he turned about
and stepped abruptly inside the shack, closing the door firmly behind
him. He lowered himself into an ancient rocking chair, sighed deeply
and closed his eyes.
"Keep a grip on yourself, you old fool," he muttered. "Sun spots ain't
nothin' to get excited about. What if they do have People's Trust
printed on 'em?"
* * * * *
The little man's grip on himself, however, might have slipped
considerably had he remained outside to witness the subsequent
movements of the "sun spots." Racing to a green sedan, they threw the
door open and disappeared inside. A moment later the car, with no
apparent aid, leaped from its place in line, grazed the fender of its
neighbor, and went rolling swiftly down the drive.
As it was, two other grips were rudely pried loose by the incident. The
two policemen, standing on the sidewalk, watched with horror-glazed
eyes as the driverless sedan darted playfully toward them, then bounded
over the curb and started in spirited pursuit of the grey coupe. To
the one nearest the diabolical car this was not only the last straw,
but the whole final load of hay. He turned disillusioned eyes on his
companion.
"That's done it," he said in a hollow voice. "After fifteen years on
the Force I'm going down to headquarters and fling this badge of mine
smack in the Chief's homely mush."
"You can't do that," his partner protested, fingering his own badge.
"You'd be quitting in the face of duty."
"If that's the face of duty," the saddened law enforcer replied, "then
it had better be lifted before it gets any worse. I'd rather be buddies
with Frankenstein."
"We gotta at least make an effort," his friend reasoned. "After all,
them sacks ain't armed. And maybe there'll be a reward for their
capture."
This last thought seemed to put a fairer complexion on the face of
duty. The two trudged to the center of the street and hailed a passing
taxi.
"Follow that car," the more enterprising of the two growled, directing
the driver's attention to the careening sedan three blocks distant.
"And if you catch it, I'll have you stored in the pokey for the rest of
your life."
* * * * *
In the grey coupe Marc was driving with a suicidal brilliance such as
he had never before displayed. Some sainted sixth sense took him safely
in and out and around cars at times when it seemed that sudden death
would surely be the result. All the while, Toffee busied himself with
the diverting task of observing and reporting the progress of their
pursuers from the rear window. The green sedan appeared to be doing
dishearteningly well, probably because of its driver's hair-raising
disregard for any and all traffic laws. George, with a splendid lack of
prejudice, was using both sides of the street indiscriminately. On the
other hand, the taxi wasn't faring nearly so well. Actually, it didn't
seem to be really trying. According to Toffee's lights, it showed a
distressing, sissy tendency to play strictly according to the rules.
Probably the only thing that prevented this lunatic chase from strewing
the streets with death and tragedy was its early and untimely end.
Allowed to continue to its ultimate conclusion, unrestrained, heaven
only knows what madness might have ensued. The beginning of the end
came swiftly when Marc cut the coupe screamingly through an alley and
onto a side street.
Emerging from the alley, full speed ahead, he suddenly rocked the car
to a jouncing stop that sent Toffee flying into his lap. Ahead and
behind, the street was jammed to its curbs with automobiles of all
descriptions, their horns bewailing their predicament in no uncertain
terms. It was the worst traffic jam Marc had ever seen, and by some
miraculous maneuver that even he, himself, couldn't believe, he had
managed to wedge the grey coupe very nearly into its center.
From Marc's lap, Toffee reached slender arms toward his neck. "You
impetuous boy," she giggled. "We love in the midst of danger."
Marc shoved her rudely back onto the seat. "We'll languish in the midst
of Sing Sing, if we don't look out," he growled. "Where is that green
sedan?"
Toffee peered out the window. "Good grief!" she cried. "It just pulled
up in the alley. It's so close I could hit it with a pebble."
"Hit it with a bomb." Marc moved to Toffee's side just in time to
witness the arrival of the cop-laden taxi behind the green sedan. The
sight of the policemen was not reassuring; and neither was the sudden
appearance of the money bags, darting stealthily toward them from the
door of the sedan.
"Trapped!" Marc groaned. "What'll we do?"
Of course, the only answer was flight. Opening the car door, Toffee
tugged at Marc's sleeve. "Come on," she urged.
"Where to?" Marc asked hopelessly. "We're jammed in here tight. Bumper
to bumper and fender to fender, so to speak."
"Sounds lecherous," Toffee murmured. "Come on."
* * * * *
Marc was willing to be led, it appeared, even when he didn't know where
he was being led to. He didn't object even when Toffee blithely opened
the rear door of the next car, nodded cheerfully to its startled owner,
and bounded through to the other side. In fact, he heartily endorsed
the idea by rapidly following suit.
And Marc was not the only one to realize the wisdom in Toffee's
methods. Soon, not only the pursued, but the pursuers as well, were
romping in and out of strange vehicles with a reckless abandon that
indicated a decided taste for the sport. The sound of wailing horns
slowly died to be replaced by excited screams and dark curses. Toffee,
easily the most fleet of foot, took a fast lead, Marc bringing
up a close second. The skittering money bags, an early entry in
this car-hopping sweepstakes, followed hot on the trail, flitting
felicitously past the noses of astonished motorists like a pair of
featureless rag dolls suddenly come to life. The two policemen,
definitely dark horses without a prayer, brought up a couple of blue
serge rears that lent a certain full-bodied homeliness to the affair.
The reactions of the jammed-in motorists were varied and extreme.
One dapper little gentleman, the proprietor of a low black sedan,
watched with bemusement as Toffee leaped lightly into his presence and
made for the next car with business-like directness. But when Marc
lunged after the lithesome redhead, the little fellow began to take
an active interest in the proceedings, which, as he saw them, were
becoming rather sordid. He held an arresting hand up to Marc.
"Why don't you let her go, mister?" he asked reprovingly. "You're
running the poor kid nearly ragged. Maybe she just doesn't like you."
Marc brushed the hand impatiently aside and continued on his way.
The little man squared his shoulders manfully, slid across the seat and
hopped quickly out the door.
"Maybe it isn't any of my business," he muttered, jumping to the
running board of the next car, "but somebody's got to be there to
protect that poor child when he catches her!"
The little man had no way of knowing that he was setting a dangerous
precedent. Flinging one's self in and out of strange automobiles seemed
to be just the sport that all America had been waiting for. Within
only a few minutes after the beginning of the chase, the number of
participants had increased by leaps, bounds and broad jumps. Clearly,
there was an irresistible appeal about the thing that captured the
imagination. With a why-didn't-I-ever-think-of-this gleam in their
eyes people were soon leaping from car to car like a horde of salmon
shooting the rapids at spawning time.
* * * * *
There was, however, a dreary minority in the traffic jam that found
certain aspects of this frolicsome pastime highly objectionable. One of
this number, particularly, was Mrs. Priscilla Carthwright, a matron of
some standing who hadn't been known as "Prissy" during her girlhood
for nothing. Mrs. Carthwright suffered an unconditional defeat,
however, in her efforts to defend the sacred confines of her limousine
from the ravages of the joyous herd. Crouched on ample knees on the
seat of the car, she came dangerously close to falling into a swoon as
the door burst open under her protesting, bejeweled hand, and a lank
young man burst unconcernedly into her august presence with a broad
wink and a primitive whoop that was strongly reminiscent of the cries
of avenging Indians in the days of the early West. In the end, though,
drawing on the waning reserves of her courage, Mrs. Carthwright managed
to waylay one lean bespectacled reveler long enough to score her own
little moral triumph.
"What does all this mean, young man?" she demanded imperiously. "Just
where do all these people think they are going?"
The young man paused long enough to take the question under thoughtful
consideration, obviously a matter that had heretofore not troubled him.
"I think we're marching on Washington," he murmured finally, "to demand
our rights."
"Just as I thought!" Mrs. Carthwright boomed triumphantly, dismissing
her victim. "Communists!"
And having said, she settled back in the seat, cross-legged, her
features fixed in a glassy stare that suggested haughty royalty in
exile.
And there were other unfortunate incidents. Particularly bad was the
one in which Toffee, completely innocent of purpose, threw the door
open on a young couple locked in an amorous embrace. The lovers,
looking up to find themselves observed by what appeared to be a surging
sea of prying eyes, came close to sharing an hysterical fit. The young
lady, in a seizure of confused madness, turned on her adored one and
dealt him such a stinging blow in the mouth that several of his front
teeth were completely dislodged. Clearly, it was the death blow to a
beautiful, if careless, romance.
More gratifying was Toffee's foray into a bus load of energetic young
basketball players. Though the delighted redhead was relayed from seat
to seat and finally lifted out of a rear window with all dispatch,
when she waved good-by to her instantly-won admirers, she was wearing
a crimson sweat shirt with a golden N splashed across its front. Also,
she had been unanimously elected the team's mascot in favor of an
infant pig.
And so the racing procession continued, unabated, in limousine and out
sedan, over jeep and under truck, for the better part of a quarter of
an hour. And it might have continued longer had it not been for the
enterprising spirit of a nearby restauranteer who rolled several kegs
of beer onto the sidewalk thereby introducing into the occasion a
further distraction. And since spontaneous entertainment is invariably
the best, the wandering motorists were not long in realizing the
inherent possibilities in this delightful turn of events. Other
divertissments, including street dancing and a sidewalk performance by
a theatrical troupe from a neighborhood burlesque, were quickly added
to the program.
Never in the history of the city had the police been confronted by
such an ungovernable, pleasure-bent traffic jam. After several futile
attempts at laying down the fun-loving uprising, the Chief of Police
and his aides finally accepted the inevitable, roped the area off from
further traffic, and went in search of a cooling tumbler of beer. The
Chief, sitting democratically on the curb, bending his elbow with
refreshing regularity, was a little worried, however. He wasn't at all
sure how the Mayor was going to look on this incident, and tomorrow
there would be the tiresome business of restoring abandoned vehicles to
their subdued owners. For his own part, he didn't feel there was any
harm in the thing. Here was a group of jaded, work-weary city dwellers
having their first delightful taste of real, communal fun in a long
time. After his fifth mug of beer, though, the Chief's worries began to
vanish. He decided he didn't really give a damn what the Mayor thought.
* * * * *
Toffee and Marc, however, were not among those participating in these
impromptu sidewalk festivities. They had resigned their charter
membership in the reveling brotherhood some time before the beer rolled
onto the scene.
Stylishly garbed in a fur coat and the flaming red jersey, which came
nearly to her knees, Toffee burst onto the sidewalk from the door of
a glittering convertible, looking a little like a grand dame who had
recently suffered some extremely devastating losses in a cloak room
crap game. Her face a bit flushed from her recent triumphs, she turned
and waited expectantly for Marc. Soon, her vigil was rewarded. Marc,
hatless, tieless, his hair hanging loosely in his eyes, staggered
through the convertible and moved breathlessly to her side. His eyes
were immediately drawn to the garish sweat shirt.
"Where on earth did you pick that up?" he asked with distaste.
"A charming group of youngsters gave it to me," Toffee told him
proudly. "Also, they favored me with several choice bruises." She ran a
hand gently over her thigh. "Those kids sure know their way around."
Marc wasn't really interested in the precociousness of the younger
generation. Not at a time like this. He glanced nervously over his
shoulder. "Have you seen those ghoulish bags lately?"
Toffee shook her head. "I think we've given them the slip. The cops,
too. The last time I saw those two flatheaded flatfoots they were
slobbering all over each other like a couple of rejected brides. I
really think they've lost their reason. One of them was mumbling
something about hurling the Chief into the Mayor's face, whatever that
means."
"Now what do we do?" Marc asked. "We're free, but we haven't a car any
more."
Toffee crooked a slender finger. "Follow me," she said. "There is
madness in this method. But it'll still work."
She led Marc around the block, back to the alley that had proved their
one-way path to dilemma in the first place.
Marc hung back. "What's the idea?" he asked.
"The taxi," Toffee explained brightly. "The one the cops arrived in.
It's the only transportation for miles that isn't all tied up. And it's
just waiting for someone to come along and snag it."
Marc shrugged wearily and followed without protest as Toffee crossed to
the driver's window and stuck her head inside.
"Is this car for hire?" she smiled.
The driver, an open-faced fellow of obvious good will, smiled back.
"I'm supposed to be waitin' here for a couple of cops, lady," he said.
"They said I wasn't to leave till they told me. They said...." Suddenly
he broke off, his eyes focused on Toffee's fiery red jersey. "Say!
Ain't that one of Neopolitain High's sweat shirts you got on there?"
Admiration grew in his face as Toffee nodded. "I gotta kid over at that
school, lady. I bet you have too." Toffee maintained a discreet silence
on this point. "Maybe you seen my kid play basketball sometime."
Toffee looked at the driver closely. "Is he a tow-headed little devil
with searching blue eyes?" she asked.
"Could be, lady. Sounds like him. He's a real nice kid."
Toffee's answering laugh was brief and bitter, but the driver didn't
notice. He was busy opening the rear door.
"Hop in!" he said grandly. "Anything for good old Neopolitain High!"
Climbing into the cab, Toffee rubbed her thigh reflectively. "Yeah,"
she murmured. "Anything."
* * * * *
Marc and Toffee collaborated on a deep, heart-felt sigh of relief as
the taxi backed out of the alley and onto the street. They didn't know,
however, that the breath they were expending with such satisfaction
was soon to be reclaimed in a horrified gasp. This curious phenomenon
occurred only a moment later when the taxi slowed to a stop at the
corner signal.
They didn't see the sacks approaching; the fearful things were just
there at their feet all of a sudden, having arrived with a sickening
plop. The car door on Toffee's side swung open, and there was suddenly
another depression in the seat. The door closed again just as the
taxi pulled out toward the intersection. Apparently the driver hadn't
noticed.
"Thought I'd never catch up with you two," George's voice said
breathlessly and pleasantly. "It was all a lot of fun, of course, but a
bit fatiguing, don't you think?"
With a soul-searing groan Marc closed his eyes and sank deeper into
the seat.
"Go strangle yourself," Toffee suggested waspishly.
But George's high spirits would not be quashed. "I really fixed things
up, didn't I?" he asked proudly. The money bags leaped from the floor
and deposited themselves in Marc's shrinking lap. "How's that, old man?"
Marc responded to this inquiry with a brief strangling noise. His face
was turning crimson.
"What's the matter with him?" George asked. "Something disagree with
him?"
"I think it's money poisoning," Toffee said dully.
"Well," George sighed, "now that I've set things right, I guess I
might as well just relax and enjoy myself from now on. It's only four
o'clock. That leaves me sixteen whole hours just to have fun. Until
tomorrow noon. All's well that ends well, eh?"
Marc said a very singular and unprintable thing.
The driver turned and regarded Marc interestedly. "How come?" he asked.
"You been blabbin' your head off and that's the first time you moved
your lips. I been watchin' in the mirror. You a ventriloquist?"
"Yes," Toffee answered for Marc. "He throws his voice like crazy."
Apparently, the driver was not the sort to ask too many questions. He
accepted the fact of Marc's voice tossing accomplishments on Toffee's
say-so. And his attitude toward his customers instantly warmed.
Confiding rather bashfully that he'd always thought of his own singing
voice as something rather special, he burst into an unsolicited
rendition of "Mexicali Rose" that had his helpless audience cringing in
their seats. A truly ghastly moan issued from George's vicinity.
And it was a moan that Marc would certainly have echoed had he been
able. He was wondering if a sort of plague of theatrical ambition had
descended on all humanity. Thoughts of Julie and the imminent opening
of "Love's Gone Winging" crept despairingly through his mind. He tried
to console himself with the old bromide that things were always darkest
before the dawn, but he couldn't help wondering where fate had stumbled
onto this newer, darker shade of black and why the nights of misfortune
had to be so interminably Alaskan.
Afterwards, it seemed to Marc that it was Toffee who suggested that
they hide themselves in a movie theater. It seemed so, but Toffee
stoutly denied it. But Marc's memory of that dark period was far too
confused to be relied upon. Certainly, though, it was Toffee who
invited the taxi driver along so that they might hide the money bags
under the seat of the cab.
Once inside the theatre, it is doubtful that anyone, except Toffee,
saw much of the film, and that young lady, having never attended a
movie previously, was far too engrossed in the activities on the screen
to notice anything else. To her, the gigantic reflections of racing
vehicles and exploding firearms were a terribly personal matter.
Mostly, she concerned herself with repeated attempts to gain the
doubtful protection of Marc's lap.
* * * * *
The others of the party, though, were absorbed in other, more immediate
problems ... most of which stemmed from the dogged efforts of a
bewildered usher to seat terrorized patrons in George's seat, which
indeed appeared quite vacant. On these occasions the mouthings of
the screen were rudely interrupted by startled cries of surprise and
subsequent accusations that usually involved Marc who was occupying
the next seat. One spinsterish female, thus offended, summoned the
usher and accused the cowering man of inflicting upon her unlovely
person brutalities which included pinchings, proddings and other
familiarities too terrible to mention. In a whisper, George vehemently
denied these charges to Marc, but the die had already been cast, the
usher had already threatened to call the manager if they didn't remove
themselves from the premises at once.
Flushed from its retreat like a covey of reluctant quail, the party
made its way silently back to the cab which was waiting in a nearby
taxi stand. No one spoke to George of his misdemeanors, lest they
stir in his perverse soul a rebelliousness and a will to even more
awful achievements. Besides, it didn't seem that mere reprimand could
possibly be enough. Apparently the taxi driver was used to being thrown
out of theatres, for he seemed to find nothing untoward in this latest
ejection. He seemed to take the affair of the offensive seat in his
stride, too.
It was hunger that next drove the strange foursome from the
semi-private confines of the taxi, and again it seemed to Marc, in
retrospect, that Toffee was the one to set the project afoot.
His face a study in calamity, Marc followed his curious companions into
an obscure diner with the lusterless resignation of a man who no longer
gives a damn. Fully aware that the venture hadn't a Chinaman's chance
for turning out well, he only hoped it would not fall into complete
ruination before he at least had a chance to fortify himself with a cup
of coffee.
The affair of the diner, however, all things considered, really turned
out better than expected. Marc managed to choke down not just one cup
of coffee, but two, before disaster came storming over the horizon. It
is perfectly true, of course, that George greedily and invisibly downed
a milk shake while a counter boy, three waitresses and a handful of
customers looked on with goggle-eyed fascination. Even the incurious
taxi driver found this phenomenon somewhat diverting. He was not
entirely certain in his own mind that long distance guzzling was a
standard accomplishment in the bona-fide ventriloquist's bag of tricks.
In the end, he decided it probably was and looked on Marc with new
respect. But there were others who gazed on the driver's new-found hero
not so much with respect as disgust. Marc, for his part, pretended not
to notice.
The main event, so to speak, patiently bided its time until Marc had
downed the second cup of coffee. Then, on the stroke of the last drop,
it commenced promptly and devastatingly. It will never be known exactly
what George did to the waitress to make her so hostile, but the record
definitely shows that the young woman, just passing George's stool
bearing a platter of ham and eggs, suddenly jerked to a halt, turned
beet red, wheeled and bestowed her messy burden squarely in Marc's
face. This she followed up with a few observations on the type and
dexterity of Marc's hands, which were uttered in round phrases, no
cooler, in any noticeable degree, than the sizzling platter now resting
on Marc's lap.
* * * * *
Here, the situation reached the point at which it might have taken a
course for either the better or worse, pending Marc's apology to the
truculent waitress. But just as Marc opened his mouth, Toffee, smitten
with the injustice of it all, gave the rail switches a deft twist and
sent the whole issue into a sharp decline. Lifting her water glass,
in which several large cubes of ice were still afloat, she calmly and
deftly reached out and poured the entire contents into the startled
waitress's accommodating bodice.
It is to be supposed that a dining room brawl, at best, is bound to be
an untidy business. The one that followed was hardly an exception. The
employees of the diner, all accomplished hash slingers by profession,
exerted every effort to prove their professional standing in a horribly
literal way. What the good people lacked in cool headed aim, they made
up for in sustained volume. The members of the Pillsworth party, not
too ambitious, anyway, to be the victors in this war on foodstuffs,
were quickly beaten into a disordered retreat. Running swiftly down
the sidewalk toward the waiting taxi, their last glimpse of the enemy
only caused them to redouble their efforts to be elsewhere. The counter
boy and the waitresses, joined by a managerial reinforcement who had
miraculously arrived on the scene in the midst of hostilities, were
lined up on the sidewalk like a bespattered operatic chorus. In unison,
and with gusto, they were calling for the law and horrible revenge.
One of the waitresses, distinguished from the others by a spasmodic
addition to quivering disturbances about the upper torso, was loudly
describing the abysmal blackness of Toffee's future should she ever be
permitted to arrange it.
After the skirmish in the diner, there followed a long ride in the
country which might have been restful except for the persistent singing
of the driver, whose favorite selection continued exasperatingly to be
"Mexicali Rose." Through it all, Marc tried to assemble his thoughts,
a task rather like trying to assemble a house of cards in a derailed
streetcar. However, he did come to several definite conclusions. Out of
the shambles that was now his life, there were two things that surely
had to be salvaged. Those were his love for his wife and hers for him.
Having those two ingredients with which to work he might be able to
rebuild from the beginning again, providing, of course, that he did
not become a permanent resident of the state penitentiary because of
George's misbegotten helpfulness. Another conclusion concerned Julie's
debut as a Broadway star and her certain failure as same. If Julie was
to go down in humiliation, he would be there to help cushion the fall,
no matter what the consequences might turn out to be.
Thus, Marc's conclusions determining their course, darkness found
the taxi and its odd crew heading warily back toward the city and
the Hamilton Theatre. They traveled quietly through side streets and
alleys, displaying a noticeable reticence in the vicinity of bright
lights and police cars. Besmirched both in character and person, the
fugitives ordered their movements in concurrence with their recently
lowered social status.
Marc's hope that he might be able to make his entrance into the theatre
unaccompanied proved nothing more than an empty dream. The taxi driver,
Toffee and the stealthy scuffling noise that was George pressed close
behind him as he identified himself to the doorman backstage and went
inside. Toffee had decided that the money should be carried inside the
theatre for purposes of security and elected to smuggle it in under her
coat. Unfortunately, with the bags stowed around her middle, the little
redhead looked curiously like a very unconcerned young lady in a very
delicate condition. It was an extremely unhappy arrangement.
* * * * *
Marc had forgotten the backstage policeman, a regular fixture in the
theatre. And now that he did remember him there wasn't much that
could be done about it. Standing just inside the door, the cop turned
inquisitive eyes on the newcomers and started forward. As the law
approached, however, the little company retreated in kind toward a
shadowed area beyond several frames of scenery. They were about mid-way
to this retreat when Toffee, in her haste, relaxed the hold on her coat
and one of the money bags dropped to the floor with a sickening thud.
For a moment the little group stopped, transfixed in a horrified
tableau, then in unison, they all became wildly animated in an attempt
to retrieve the wayward pouch and return it to the place from whence it
had come. By the time the policeman had drawn close enough to see what
was going on, these activities were in full cry. The man of law stopped
short with a startled gasp. Just why these demented people should be
clutching so furiously at this woman's stomach was beyond him.
"Here, you!" he called out. "Stop that!"
The trio looked up with matching expressions of fright and guilt. All
hands, except Toffee's, suddenly abandoned ship. Toffee, left to shift
for herself, bent forward in a sort of agonized, doubled-up position.
The policeman drew closer for a second look, and, getting it, instantly
clamped his eyes shut, his features crowding together in a look of
pain. The glimpse he'd had of Toffee's mid-section had twisted his very
soul. When he opened his eyes again he was careful that their gaze fell
no lower than the girl's chin.
"I don't understand it, lady," he said. "What seems to be the trouble?"
Toffee flushed a deep red. "I ... I don't know, officer," she said
demurely. "It just came over me all of a sudden. It's terribly
embarrassing."
"I can imagine," the policeman said shortly. "If I were you, I'd be
throwin' fits all over the place."
"If you were me," Toffee observed reasonably, "you'd be entitled to
every fit you throw. I shouldn't think a few convulsions would go
amiss, either."
This didn't rest well with the policeman and as much was registered in
a disapproving scowl. "You come with me," he said sternly. "We'll find
a place for you to lie down and rest a bit."
Toffee darted entreating glances to her companions, but when she
received no response from either quarter, she resignedly hugged the
bulging coat to her and hobbled forward in a tortured half-squat.
But the policeman didn't leave immediately. Instead, he lingered long
enough to favor Marc with a long and searching glance, a glance that
clearly implied an unusual interest in Marc's face. Marc didn't like
the look of it. Plainly, it was the manifestation of a methodical mind
that was moving methodically toward a memory that Marc feared would not
be to his advantage.
All this was accomplished to a musical accompaniment that issued from
the general direction of the stage. When the policeman and Toffee had
gone, Marc moved quickly toward the wings.
Left with nothing else to do, the little taxi driver followed Marc,
filled with the wonder of it all. It was his own impression that he
had fallen in with people of true greatness. Show people. He was not
concerned over the curious presence of the money bags. These folks
were clearly artists given to eccentric practices in all matters ...
including those of money. If they chose to carry their loose cash about
in a couple of official bank sacks, why, who was he to ask questions?
It was enough that they suffered him to remain in their wonderful
company. The little fellow clamped the gift horse's mouth tightly shut
and looked blankly in the opposite direction.
* * * * *
On the stage a whole regiment of very remarkable chorus girls were
doggedly stomping their way through a lot of expensive scenery in
pursuit of a dance routine that seemed hardly worth the effort. Marc's
gaze darted beyond the girls to the other side of the stage, and his
heart suddenly lifted, then shortly after, scraped against his shin on
its way south of his instep. Julie, apparently awaiting a cue in the
opposite wings, stared back at him wretchedly, her face too filled with
fright to have room for recognition. The miracle that was needed to
pull her through to success obviously hadn't come to pass.
At Marc's side, this impression was being vigorously corroborated by
two diminutive bit actresses, chummily exchanging job tips to be looked
into first thing in the morning.
"Too bad Linda Godfrey isn't in that dame's shoes," one of them
commented sadly. "We wouldn't have to beat the pavement for the next
two years."
"Yeah," the other agreed. "You know, this show was really written with
Godfrey in mind. I heard the author say so himself, the other night.
The poor guy was ready to hang himself when he saw La Pillsworth
murdering all his best numbers."
"I hear this Pillsworth put up enough cash to steal the show from under
Godfrey," the other replied. "Bet it cost him about a dozen solid gold
fortunes. Money still talks, I guess."
"Too bad it doesn't sing, too. This show could use some good singing."
"Oh, I don't know. The dame's got a nice little voice when you come
right down to it."
"I don't think the audience is going to get that far down, though.
Anyway, that's just the trouble with her voice, it's too nice and too
little. What this show needs is a big dirty voice with lots of guts.
Like Godfrey's."
Marc edged away, too saddened by what he'd heard to listen to any more.
Out on the stage the chorus had ceased to stalk the scenery and Julie,
looking terribly alone and lonely, was moving uncertainly before the
footlights. Marc felt his heart head south again as her nice little
voice began to quaver over the words of a musical cynicism called
"Love is a Clop in the Chops." The words of the song to the contrary,
she looked and sounded like a very small girl singing in a church
choir. Her lovely blondness seemed suddenly dulled and all the natural
animation was drained from her blue eyes. The audience was starkly
unresponsive.
Marc watched his wife's performance as long as was bearable, then
turned away. He wondered how he would ever manage to say the right
thing to her when it was all over. The taxi driver, however, still
in the wings, seemed completely enthralled by what he saw. Marc
only wished there were a thousand more of his benighted kind in the
audience. Somewhere backstage a chorus girl yipped, turned about, and
slapped the nearest male within reach. Apparently, George was also
enjoying himself.
Marc was still deep in thought when the policeman suddenly bore down on
him.
"You're Marc Pillsworth, ain't you?" the cop asked.