Chapter II: Part 2

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.

Marc nodded absently, and, before he thought, murmured, "Yes."

"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.

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.

The girl nodded vigorously. "And it made me feel all...."

The Justice suddenly seemed to remember that he was presiding over a court rather than a ladies' tea. His features fixed themselves into an expression of severity. "I'm not sure you should divulge confidences of such a personal nature, young lady," he said, straightening up. "However, I can see your complaint."

"Anyone can see her complaint," Toffee commented dryly. "I guess she was just born that way."

"Silence!" the Justice snapped. "And besides, this sort of thing doesn't really get us anywhere." He turned to the waitress. "You're certain this is the man, are you? No doubt in your mind whatsoever?"

"None."

"She's lying!" Toffee cried. "How _can_ she be sure? They're just alike."

"Sure," George put in. "How can she be when _I'm_ not so sure which of us is which. Maybe I am really he, for all I know."

"Eh?" The Justice's eyebrows seemed about to leave his face. "How's that?"

"I propose a test for the witness," George continued. "If you want a positive identification from her, why don't you let the two of us go out of the room for a moment, then return. If she can successfully pick out this gentleman over here, then we'll have to accept her testimony."

A look of deep confusion passed over the Justice's face. He turned to the waitress. "Is that a good idea?" he asked. "I'm so mixed up, I can't tell."

"Sure," the girl said. "Let 'em go. I'll pick out the right mug the minute they step through the door."

* * * * *

Nevertheless, something about the arrangement seemed to bother the Justice as Marc and George quickly removed themselves from the room. The minute the door closed after them, it struck him.

"Oh, my Lord!" he murmured. "Now we may never know which is which if that new one decides to double cross me. We may not even be able to tell which one was arrested outside the bank last night." He looked worriedly at the waitress. "The court's integrity is resting on you, my dear," he said.

"The court's integrity," Toffee put in, "is in one hell of a spot, in that case."

The corridor door swung open and Marc and George smilingly reappeared. Side by side, they presented themselves before the girl.

"Go ahead," the Justice urged. "Pick out the right man. Don't be nervous."