"I thought so!" the cop said triumphantly. "I was cautioned to look
out for you around here. But I didn't have anything to go by except
a picture in your wife's dressing room. I think the Chief might be
interested in seeing you about a little bank robbery."
Marc started to back away. He'd been taken completely by surprise.
* * * * *
But, at that moment, Marc was not the only surprised person in the
theatre. Many an eyebrow was being simultaneously hoisted out in the
audience. The chorus, having accomplished a brief change of costume,
had returned to the stage, their number mysteriously increased by
one. At the very end of the line a blazing redhead dressed in a seedy
fur coat and a red jersey ambled calmly onto the scene, two large
sacks and a wisp of filmy grey material clutched tightly in her
arms. Moving quickly before a mirror that was part of the scenery,
this new performer proceeded serenely about the intimate business of
removing the coat and shirt, and wriggling into a light grey dress
that was obstinately uncooperative. Slowly, her efforts became more
and more vigorous and, from the audience's point of view, more and
more exciting. This gaudy newcomer was doing a dance they hadn't seen
since the days of Little Egypt, and doing it surpassingly well. In her
efforts to get into the dress, she was putting her provocative anatomy
through a series of gyrations and contortions that seemed beyond the
limitations of mere flesh and blood. Also, to some, they seemed to
outdistance the limits of ordinary decency as well.
Julie, unaware of the performance in progress behind her,
misunderstood the sudden enthusiasm of the audience. She thought they
had at last caught on to her subtle style of singing and were showing
their appreciation. Then, turning ever so slightly, she learned, from
the corner of her eye, the awful truth. At the sight of the wriggling
redhead, she stopped in the middle of her song and succumbed to a
tremor of rage. She didn't know who this interloper was, but she did
know the stage wasn't big enough to hold the two of them. Clenching her
fists, she started toward center stage and the squirming dervish in the
grey dress.
A chorus girl, seeing that events were coming to a head, danced close
to Toffee.
"Better put up your guard, honey," she whispered. "Here comes the star
with blood in her eye."
Toffee's round eyes peered out at the girl through a chiffon fog.
"What's she so upset about?" she asked innocently.
"In case you haven't heard," the girl hissed, "what you're doing is
called upstaging. Honestly, you didn't think you'd get away with it,
did you? In a way I'm not going to blame that Pillsworth dame when she
strangles you."
"Stage!" Toffee shrieked. "Isn't this the ladies' lounge? I saw all you
girls coming in here, all undressed and everything, and I...! Oh, my
gosh!"
Meanwhile, backstage, Marc was too busy watching his own troubles mount
to notice Toffee's predicament.
"Also, Mr. Pillsworth," the policeman was saying with maddening
deliberation, "there is a certain restaurant owner that would like to
have words with you. Do you want to come along quietly, or shall we mix
it up a little first?"
"Oh, no," Marc moaned. "Not now, officer. Can't you put all this aside
for just a bit?"
The officer shook his head and grinned nastily at the sudden flash of
fear in Marc's eyes. Had he known, however, the cause of Marc's fear,
he might have been less flattered by it. Behind him a steel framed
folding chair was floating swiftly upward, poising itself carefully
over his head.
"No!" Marc yelled. "No!"
"It's nothing to get hysterical about," the cop laughed. "We'll treat
you right...."
Marc started to yell again but his words were drowned out as the wooden
bottom of the chair splintered noisily over the policeman's head. A
moment later the policeman tumbled to the floor, rolled over once, and
then began to slither weirdly, feet first, toward the darkness beyond a
nearby screen of drapes.
"No, George!" Marc yelled. "Don't drag him away! Get him some water!"
George's voice echoed back from the vicinity of the policeman's ankles.
"I guess I turned up just in time, eh?"
* * * * *
Marc rattled off a list of words that will never be found in any
dictionary. Then he started forward. It was a mistake that, in his
anger, he leaped. His foot became ensnared in the wreckage of the
shattered chair, and he shot head-first into space. He came down
heavily against the floor, rolled partly over on his back, grinned
foolishly, and lay still.
It was precisely at this moment that Julie drew abreast of the
struggling redhead out on the stage.
"I'll lay you out so stiff," she grated, "people will think you're a
pool cue!"
She reached out a slender, red-taloned hand and clutched a handful of
grey chiffon. There was a sudden ripping sound, and then it happened.
The redhead, dress and all, instantly vanished into thin air. Julie
drew back with a startled cry.
The explanation of Toffee's disappearance was simple. Since she
was projected into the world of reality only through Marc's full
consciousness, the blow that had temporarily put an end to Marc's
activities had simultaneously snuffed out Toffee's earthly existence.
To the audience, though, it was a matter of even greater simplicity.
The vanishing girl was merely an excellent stage effect, excellently
executed, and they applauded it with bountiful enthusiasm. They were
still applauding when the curtain swung together to hide the confusion
that followed.
Behind the scenes, George was briskly brushing the dust of the law from
his hands as he returned to the wings where Marc still slumbered. Just
why the ghost had chosen this particular moment to expend a portion
of his limited ectoplasm on materialization was never quite clear;
perhaps it had somehow aided him in his labors with the prostrated
minion of the law. At any rate he strode, a full figure of a man, as
it were, from the shadows, just as Julie emerged from the stage, the
picture of pent-up rage. It was unfortunate that the paths of these two
beings were fated to cross at this particular moment. Julie regarded
the replica of her husband as a frost might look on a blossoming violet
just prior to administering the chilly sting of death.
"You!" she seethed, unreason glowing in her eyes. "You were behind all
that, Marc Pillsworth!" She gestured angrily toward the stage. "I feel
it in my bones."
"I don't doubt it," George said amiably, a bit bewildered. "That dress
you have on is terribly thin, isn't it?"
The barometer of Julie's control registered DANGER just before
she struck George squarely on the chin. It was a blow that any
professional might have been proud of. And it caused a curious sort of
short-circuiting reaction in George. At the precise moment of contact,
he vanished completely.
Julie stepped back, aghast. According to her tastes, this sort of thing
was happening all too consistently. Then her eyes darted to Marc's
hitherto unnoticed form, still crumbled some yards distant.
"Oh, my heavens!" she gasped. "I knocked him clear across the stage!"
At first she started contritely forward, then suddenly she stopped.
"Serves him right," she said self-righteously.
"On stage!" a voice yelled, and Julie whirled about. A call boy was
hurrying toward her. "Curtain going up on the second scene, Mrs.
Pillsworth," he said. "You're supposed to be on."
Julie squared her lovely shoulders, took a deep breath, and started
regally stageward. A moment later her voice rang out with a certain
deadly sincerity in a song called, "I Wouldn't Give a Dime For the Ten
Best Men in Town."
* * * * *
Meanwhile, Toffee, finding herself suddenly rematerialized, gathered up
the money bags and the fur coat from a piece of scenery which was now
thankfully hidden from the eyes of the audience and started in search
of Marc. The redhead was now entirely clothed in the filmy grey dress
that had proved the making of her theatrical success. When she found
Marc he was sitting up, shaking his head. He looked at her blankly for
a moment, then leaped to his feet.
"We've got to get out of here," he said. "George slugged the cop.
Incidentally, where is that fiend?"
The fiend obligingly appeared, lengthwise on the floor, looking
singularly unfiendish. He was a trifle fuzzy about the extremities,
perhaps, but he was all there. He sat up and stroked his chin gingerly.
"Boy, that dame packs a wallop," he said unhappily.
"So justice has finally prevailed," Toffee said with satisfaction. "One
of them finally nailed the right guy. And high time, too, if you ask
me."
"And speaking of justice," Marc said evenly. "You have a little duty
to perform, George." He removed the money bags from Toffee's arms and
thrust them ungently into George's lap. "You're going to return those
hellish things," he continued. "Slugging that cop was the last straw.
I've had enough!"
"But I was only trying to help," George said.
Something snapped somewhere in the depths of Marc's forgiving soul.
"You say that once more," he yelled, "and I'll belt you one myself!"
Hugging the bags to him, George stood up. "But the bank's closed," he
said hopefully. "I can't take them back tonight."
"You'll take them back tonight, all right," Marc said with quiet
intensity, "before the police find us with them. You were so smart
about getting them out, now you can just dream up a way to get them
back in."
The bank building loomed darkly as the taxi eased up to the curb
and discharged three silent figures onto the sidewalk. Silhouetted
against the glow of a distant street lamp, the figures moved forward
with obvious conspiratorial intent. The first, burdened with two
ominous-looking lumps of darkness, tried to hang back, and was rudely
shoved forward by the other two for his efforts.
"Get those things back inside," Marc hissed, "and be snappy about it.
There might be a night watchman around."
George remained unenthusiastic. "Even if I manage to fade myself
through the wall," he protested, "I'll never be able to take these
sacks with me. You're asking for miracles." But as Marc advanced
threateningly, he started forward. "All right," he mumbled, "I'll think
of something."
Marc and Toffee peered into the darkness after George as he proceeded
toward the bank and finally reappeared, in silhouette again, against
one of the bank's huge plate glass windows, which was dimly illuminated
by a night light somewhere inside.
George seemed to hover uncertainly before the window for a time,
then he bent down and seemed to take an intense interest in a trash
container standing nearby. Finally he straightened up, fumbling with
the bags.
"What's he doing?" Toffee asked. "He wouldn't have the nerve to pocket
that money, would he?"
"I don't know," Marc replied. "He seems more to be putting something
into the sacks. Rocks or something." Then he stiffened as George's
motives suddenly became hideously clear. "No!" he yelled. "Don't, you
fool!"
But it was too late. Already, George had swung the sacks over his
head and hurled them at the window. Marc's cry rang out just as they
completed their grisly mission. A horrible crashing sound was instantly
followed by a loud clamor of bells, the bank's burglar alarm was
heralding the awful news with a din that froze Marc and Toffee in their
tracks. For one panicky moment their blood seemed to stand still in
their veins.
* * * * *
As though by magic, the scene was suddenly filled with bounding,
milling figures, most of which had a nasty, official-looking cut to
them. They swarmed down on Marc and Toffee, forcing them back toward
the taxi, which promptly streaked away from the curb, withdrawing its
sanctuary. Apparently, the little driver had at last begun to see his
new-found friends in a different light ... a prison grey, for instance.
Marc and Toffee were promptly surrounded.
"We got two of 'em!" a voice yelled. "You get the other one?"
"No!" another voice answered bewilderedly. "We thought we had him but
he got away somehow. Darned if I can figure out how he did it. One
minute he was right here in our hands, next minute he was gone. He's a
slippery rat, that one." A dull whack interrupted the voice briefly.
"Ouch!" it continued. "Which one of you wise guys slugged me in the
nose?"
There ensued a whole series of whacking sounds, followed by
accusations, counter-accusations and athletic retaliations.
Departmental jealousies and prejudices suddenly flared into the open,
and the result was a sort of policemen's brawl. Later, one of the
participants was heard to proclaim, whilst nursing a black eye, that he
had seen a disembodied fist flying about delivering blows willy-nilly
in all directions, without any noticeable favoritism to any of the
various contestants. For his very accurate reportorial work, the fellow
was quickly hustled off to the police psychiatrist.
George's little ruse, however, did not have the desired effect. Before
the fight had effectively gotten under way, Marc and Toffee were rushed
off to a police car that had screamed onto the scene with depressing
promptness.
Stepping into the car, Toffee nodded toward the field of battle.
"George is still helping," she observed bitterly.
"I'd like to help _him_," Marc replied dully. "I'd like to help him
right through the gates of Hell."
Justice Harvey was a bear with a gavel, and he was proud because of
it. With only the most delicate twist of the wrist, he could produce
a resounding smack that rivaled even the awesome clatter of heavenly
thunder. When the good Justice laid gavel to stand, men, women,
children and morons sat up and silently searched their souls. Promptly
at eleven o'clock, A.M., the Justice displayed his talent with an even
greater finesse than was common. The crowded courtroom became silent,
and all eyes turned hopefully to the bench.
Most of those in attendance, being either complainants or voluntary
witnesses, were present in the interests in seeing a terrible justice
done as speedily as possible. Many a face was alight with the fanatical
gleam of vengeance.
The Justice cast a hawk-like eye toward a nearby official. "Let the
crim ... the prisoner ... be brought before the bar," he proclaimed.
The official hurried importantly to a distant door and made quite a
show of throwing it open. Marc, in the company of an iron-faced guard,
was rudely revealed to the court, looking rather like a modest maiden
lady who had been surprised in her bath. He gazed on the courtroom
with an expression of embarrassment and fearful expectancy. Then
he shuddered as his gaze was returned coldly by an assemblage that
included the faces of such hostile personages as the bank president,
the owner of the ravaged diner, the counter boy and the three
waitresses. Also, among many others, there was a sprinkling of bank
clerks and policemen whose features seemed not altogether unfamiliar.
Marc glanced studiously at the floor as, with lagging step, he
followed the official to a position of frightening prominence before
the bench. A moment later, he was joined by Toffee, in the custody of a
grim-looking matron.
* * * * *
Toffee nudged Marc. "I'm your accomplice," she said pridefully. "They
say you used me for a lure."
But Marc didn't respond; he was far too fascinated by the disgusting
sight of the Justice, rattling through a noisy throat-clearing
operation. When it was over, the formidable servant of the public
peered down at him maliciously.
"Prisoner," he thundered, "you are to be congratulated!"
"Thank you, your Honor," Marc said confusedly.
The gavel barked against the stand. "The prisoner will be silent until
requested to speak," the Justice reproved. "As I was saying, you are
to be congratulated. In a single day you seem to have established a
criminal record that would ordinarily take a hardened thug a full year
to achieve. The list of your wrongdoings is so extensive that frankly I
can hardly bring myself to believe it. Virtually single-handed you have
perpetrated a crime wave the like of which has not been seen in this
city for the past thirty years."
"Single-handed!" Toffee snorted, injured at being relegated to a role
of insulting minority. "I like that!"
The Justice fixed Toffee with a steady eye. "The court is all too well
aware of your part in all this, young lady," he said. "I can only say
that a girl who would allow herself to be used as a foil for innocent
citizens ... who would lend her charms to the perpetra...."
"Oh, go on," Toffee broke in, pleased at having gained so much
attention. "Flattery will get you almost any place with me."
The gavel performed new wonders. For a time the Justice seemed to fall
into a painful lethargy. When he finally roused himself, he directed
his gaze carefully at Marc.
"To continue," he said in a controlled voice, "the list of your
crimes has seldom been equalled. Just for a sample, I will read off
a few of the more outstanding ones. At the top of the list is a bank
robbery. There is some confusion surrounding the methods used in the
performance of this deed, but we are sure you will choose to explain
everything at the proper time. After that, in rapid succession, there
are a dozen charges of assault and battery, one of inciting to riot,
two of resisting arrest, two of destruction of private property, seven
of traffic violation, and one of attempted breaking and entering.
The other, miscellaneous charges of improper conduct and ordinary
misdemeanor seem hardly worth mentioning after all that."
This last comment provoked a brief bristling disturbance in the ranks
of the complainants, most noticeable in the vicinity of the waitresses.
Marc glanced toward them and quickly averted his eyes.
"Do you have a statement to make?" the Justice boomed. "Can you deny
these charges?"
"Of course he can," Toffee said blandly. "He's as innocent as a newborn
emu."
Toffee's careless choice of similes shocked the Justice to the
extent that he forgot his resolve to ignore her. "Emu?" he asked
disapprovingly. "Don't you mean a newborn babe?"
"If I'd meant babe, I'd have said babe," Toffee replied tartly. "Why
should a babe be any more innocent than an emu?"
"I don't know," the Justice replied, thoroughly mixed up. "I don't
even know what an emu is. A babe just seemed more appropriate, that's
all."
"Just as I thought!" Toffee snapped triumphantly. "You're not fit to
sit on the bench. You're prejudiced. Practically babe-crazed, too."
* * * * *
For one fearful second the gavel poised itself in mid-air, then it
descended slowly, tremblingly to its stand, making only a faint
clattering sound. The Justice's eyes roved aimlessly around the
courtroom for a moment, then darted to Marc.
"Why do you let her go on like that?" he asked. "She's not making
things any better for you, you know. Why don't you stop her?"
"Could you?" Marc asked hopefully.
The Justice cleared his throat and scowled. "That's neither here nor
there," he said gruffly. "You were about to answer to the charges. The
court wishes to know if you consider yourself guilty or not guilty."
"Will it make any difference?" Marc asked recklessly.
"Primarily," the Justice went on, "The court wishes an answer to the
charge of robbery. The court knows that the money was returned in
a highly informal manner, but finds no reason for leniency in this
circumstance. I advise you to consider your answer carefully. The
consequences will be very serious when ... if ... you are proven
guilty, let me assure you. Now, answer the court with a simple
statement of guilty or not guilty. It will not be necessary to
elaborate."
"Not guilty," Marc said desperately. "I didn't do any of those things.
It ... it was someone else."
"Someone else?" the Justice laughed nastily. "Let me tell you, Mr.
Pillsworth, these infantile attempts at evasion will not avail you...."
"He is too guilty!" a voice suddenly rang out from the direction of the
complainants. "He's as guilty as original sin!"
"He is not!" Toffee yelled back. She jerked back as the matron held out
a restraining hand. "Get your claws off me, you lumpy old trull!"
The gavel danced a thunderous jig against its stand. "That's enough of
these emotional outbursts!" the Justice hollered distractedly. "Any
further demonstration, and the courtroom will be cleared." He turned a
reproving eye on the matron. "Please keep the prisoner quiet," he said.
"If need be, stuff a fist down her garrulous throat."
The matron nodded with a splendid show of willingness to duty. Clearly,
from now on, she was only waiting her chance.
Once again the Justice turned doggedly toward Marc. "I advise you not
to persist in this foolish assertion that someone other than yourself
performed this list of crimes. The court is fairly jammed to the
rafters with witnesses who will testify to the contrary. Can you still
make such a claim in the face of all that?"
"I can," Marc said gravely. "And I do. It was someone else."
The Justice frowned impatiently. "I suppose," he said, "you are
prepared to give the court a full description, if not the actual name,
of this mysterious villain?"
"It was George," Toffee put in quickly.
"You shut up," the Justice said rudely, forgetting his poise.
Toffee cast the matron a murderous glance that quickly forestalled any
action from that quarter. Then she turned back to the Justice. "I'm
here to see that Marc gets a fair trial," she said primly.
The Justice chose to deal with Marc. "Perhaps you could tell the court
what the young lady is talking about? Perhaps you can identify this
George person that she alludes to?"
"Why, yes," Marc said quietly. "The young lady is right. It was George
who did it all. He's a ... a...." He couldn't bring himself to say the
word.
"He's lying!" The bank president was suddenly on his feet. "I saw
him with my own two eyes. I don't know how he did it, but that money
followed him right out the door of my bank. I'll never forget it."
* * * * *
The banker's cry was the spark that touched off the bonfire. Suddenly,
the witnesses and complainants were on their feet in a body, crying out
against Marc. Some screamed their willingness to swear in any court
in the land, and promptly proved their overwhelming ability to do so
in phraseology that was strikingly unlegal. Through the hub-bub, the
Justice's gavel made riveting gun noises to no avail. The court had
suddenly become an echoing cavern filled with a multitude of voices,
all crying out for retribution. The scene was one of such hysteria that
no one noticed the courtroom door sliding stealthily open and closed
again, apparently of its own free will.
Before the enraged Justice, Marc began to sway slightly, all but
leaning against the bench for support. He passed an unsteady hand over
a forehead that was throbbing dreadfully. This was unquestionably the
end. His doom was being swiftly sealed by a master craftsman called
Fate, and there was nothing he could do to save himself. Worst of all,
he was being taken away from Julie just at the time when she needed him
most. He wondered feverishly why they didn't just lynch him and get
it over with.
Even through the calamitous events of the previous day he had managed
to bolster his spirits with the notion that everything would somehow
clear itself up when the time came, but now he realized that he had
only indulged in wishful thinking. Now, he just wanted to have done
with it all. Compared to this yowling courtroom, a nice quiet cell
seemed a haven of unblemished loveliness. He glanced behind him and
shuddered. He seemed to be surrounded by a wall of accusing, pointing
fingers.
Then he blinked and turned about. There appeared to be a curious
divergence in the direction of the pointing fingers. Most of them, it
was perfectly true, were pointing at him, but a few indicated a region
far to the right. And even as he watched, others began to waver from
him and move uncertainly away. Then, a great collective gasp scraped
through the room, and was followed by a charged silence. Marc stepped
forward and immediately echoed the gasp. George, fully materialized and
smiling, was leaning nonchalantly against the right hand wall.
Casually smoking a cigarette, at the sight of Marc, the spirit plucked
the smouldering cylinder from his lips and tossed it to the courtroom
floor.
Marc's eyes promptly sought the face of the Justice. It was a grave
mistake. The Justice's face, never a thing of beauty, was now an item
of extreme repugnance. More than a human face, it looked like an ugly,
mottled sponge that had been squeezed dry. The Justice's lips, a fierce
blue color, were working at odds with each other in an attempt to say
something that was probably better left unsaid.
One of the waitresses broke the spell with a shrill, hysterical giggle.
"Oh, my God!" she jabbered. "Now there's two of them!"
This accurate statement of matters seemed to steady the Justice's
nerves somewhat. "How ... how did you get in here, may I ask?" he
demanded.
[Illustration: Justice Harvey pounded his gavel noisily as he pointed
an accusing finger at George and bellowed: "How did he get into this
court?"]
George boosted himself away from the wall and sauntered indolently
toward the bar. "None of your fat-necked henchmen dragged me in," he
said.
The Justice's gavel wavered uncertainly a moment, then remained at
rest. The Justice regarded it dolefully. Somehow, in the last few
minutes it had lost some of its appeal.
"As someone seems to have remarked," the Justice observed sadly, "we
now have two of them." He sighed deeply. "Will someone volunteer to
tell the court which is which?"
"It's a trick!" the bank president yelled. "We have the one that was
arrested in front of my bank." He pointed to Marc. "That's the one we
want!"
* * * * *
The crowd seemed inclined to agree. Marc, so far, had provided them
with a splendid target for their injured feelings, and they were loath
to give him up ... even for a replacement that was like him in every
detail. Besides, this newcomer seemed the type that would fight back.
"But," the Justice put in wearily, "there appears to be a margin of
doubt in this whole business ... a mighty wide margin, too. The court
must be fair. A positive identification must be established." He
pinched the ridge of his nose for a moment, then glanced up hopefully.
"Can anyone here point to either of these men and state positively that
he is the miscreant?"
"I can!"
All eyes turned to one of the waitresses as she started forward. It
was the young lady who had suffered the water cure at the hands of
Toffee. She placed herself stolidly before the bar, sneered briefly at
Toffee, then pointed to Marc.
"That's the one," she said positively. "That silly map of his is
stenciled on my memory for the rest of my life. I saw it in a nightmare
last night. There's something funny about his eyes, too. No mistake,
your Honor. That's the bird that did the mischief."
"You lie in your nasty bucked teeth!" Toffee rasped.
The girl whirled on Toffee, her body tense with anger. "You keep your
phony two-bits worth outa this, or I'll tell his Honor what you did.
I'll never be right again because of you!"
At this his Honor seemed to pick up his ears. Here was a note of
intrigue worthy of his personal attention.
"What did she do?" he asked in a hushed voice.
The girl beckoned with a stained finger and the Justice obligingly
leaned down over the bench. Lip-to-ear, the waitress whispered at
length, and as the narrative progressed the Justice's mouth formed a
scandalized O.
"All the way down?" he asked when she had finished.