Part 4

Toffee looked up with a smile of understanding. "Of course!" she said. "He lost control of his ectoplasm and materialized."

"Exactly," Marc said, "and it might happen again. Then it would not be just a matter of confusing them with the two of us. If George materialized we could leave him to take the rap all by himself."

"Wonderful!" Toffee said. "Let's do it. It would serve everybody right. How do we trap him?"

"It's simple," Marc said. "We open the crates and get the bottles out _for_ George. At first we pretend to forget about him; we sit around and act like we're swilling down whiskey by the gallon and having the time of our lives. This will drive George close to madness, locked in a room with two drinkers and no drop for himself. When we figure he's sufficiently worked up, we'll weaken and offer him a drink. He won't be able to resist. While one of us hands over his bottle, the other takes a fix on George's position and bashes the daylights out of him with this." Marc permitted himself a smile of pride. "You see?"

"Marvelous," Toffee said. "I particularly love that part at the end, where George gets bashed. Can I be the basher?"

"Okay," Marc agreed. "Let's go. And remember, act as though you've never enjoyed drinking anything so much in your whole life."

With tremendous nonchalance, the two moved across the room to the stacked crates.

"My, my," Marc said in a declamatory, radio announcer's tone, "what do you suppose we have here in all these interesting-looking crates?"

"I should think," Toffee said on cue, "that they contain bottles of fine old tangy whiskey. Of course that's just a random guess, but I believe it's a shrewd one. Shall we have a look?"

"Oh, let's!" Marc cried, with a false grin of eagerness. He turned slightly in what he presumed to be George's direction. "A drink of fine old tangy whiskey would certainly taste mighty good just now."

"I can think of nothing better!" Toffee said, smacking her lips loudly. "My mouth fairly waters!"

Marc reached one of the crates down and, placing it on the floor, pried up one of the slats. He reached out two bottles and handed one toward Toffee.

"Well, well," he cried with studied joviality. "Look what I found!"

Toffee clapped her hands after the manner of a witless child. "Oh, goody!" she gurgled. "Some of that wonderful fine old tangy whiskey! Just what I hoped for!" She took the bottle, opened it and took a swallow. She blanched and covered her face with her hand. "Ugh!" she rasped.

"Yes, sir!" Marc said, lifting his bottle to his mouth. "Some of the finest, oldest and tangyest fine old tangy whiskey there is." He rolled his eyes in broad anticipation. "Yes, sir, bedad!"

"It's a good thing you said that before you tasted the stuff," Toffee hissed between clenched teeth. "You'd never have the breath afterward."

* * * * *

The warning came too late; Marc had already downed a large swallow. He closed his eyes and gagged. Like Toffee, however, he forced a frozen smile through his tears and rubbed his stomach luxuriously. "Umm-umm," he managed to say. "It sure hits the spot."

"And leaves it in ruins," Toffee agreed. "They must cook this stuff up in old lye vats."

"Keep drinking," Marc whispered urgently. "And look happy."

"Okay," Toffee said grimly. "I'll die with a smile on my face, but it'll be the lie of the century." She lifted the bottle gamely and drank. "Oh, boy!" she rasped through drawn lips, "this whiskey is the answer to a drunkard's prayer."

Marc drank dutifully in turn. "You said it!" he announced, tears streaming from his eyes. "It's delicious!"

"I could go on drinking it forever," Toffee wheezed, taking another gulp and clutching her throat. "It's so smooth!"

"Makes you want more and more," Marc said, shaking his head to clear it after a third libation. "It gives you a real boost."

"Let's not carry it too far," Toffee whispered. "If I drink any more of this mange medicine I won't be able to hit the barnside of a broad."

"Broadside of a barn," Marc corrected her weakly. "But you're right. We'd better make the pitch while we're still conscious."

Toffee nodded and made a great show of registering happy inspiration. "Say," she cried, "you know who would just love this whiskey?"

"No," Marc replied like the second part in a minstrel skit. "Who?"

"George!" Toffee said. "You remember good old George?"

Marc nodded vigorously. "Wouldn't he be just crazy about whiskey like this?"

"He certainly would. Crazy mad, he'd be. Isn't it too bad he's not here?" Then Toffee brightened. "But perhaps he is! You never can tell about good old George."

"But when we were talking to him earlier he didn't answer."

"Perhaps he misunderstood something one of us said," Toffee suggested. "Maybe he didn't understand our type of humor and got offended. You know, like when I said I was going to gouge his eyes out? A harmless remark to most people, but perhaps not so to good old George."

"True," Marc said sagely. "George always was sensitive." He glanced around the room. "George?" he called. "If you're here, old man, how about having a drink with us? If we said anything to hurt your feelings we certainly didn't mean to."

He paused to listen. There was a hesitant shuffling across the room.

"Well ..." a voice said uneasily.

Marc and Toffee exchanged glances of triumph.

"You mustn't miss out on this, old man," Marc cajoled. "You really mustn't."

"And it will make such a nice friendly gesture," Toffee put in, "to show that you forgive us our thoughtless little jibes."

"Well," the voice returned, a shade less hesitant. "I am a little dry."

"Of course you are," Marc said jovially, "and we have the very thing to bring you comfort and contentment. Just step over here and I'll give you this whole bottle."

"No tricks?" George asked warily.

"George!" Toffee said, thoroughly scandalized, "how can you even entertain such a notion?"

"Just to show you," Marc said, "why don't you stay invisible? You're perfectly safe that way."

"Okay," George agreed. "Just hold out the bottle."

"Right-oh," Marc said and turned to Toffee. "Give it everything," he whispered. Toffee nodded.

* * * * *

As Marc held out the bottle, Toffee sighted on the area in line with his hand, on the principle that George, being a duplicate of Marc, his head would be on the same level. The best strategy, she felt, was to concentrate on this area as swiftly and violently as possible. She held the bottle in readiness and when, a moment later, the bottle jogged in Marc's hand, she was prepared. She swung as hard as she could in a wide horizontal swipe. About half way, the bottle jarred to an abrupt stop and shattered, spewing liquid and glass in all directions. This was subsequently followed by a surprised moan and a heavy thudding sound in the vicinity of the floor.

"Got him!" Toffee cried jubilantly. "Smashed him right on the button!" She dropped the jagged neck of the bottle daintily to the floor.

"He's still invisible," Marc said worriedly. "I hope there'll be developments."

Developments came almost immediately, and they were well worth watching, though hardly the sight for sore eyes. Marc's calculations had been correct. Surprised, as it were, into unconsciousness, George had completely lost control of his ectoplasm. The trouble, though, was that instead of splashing out through his body all of a piece, it trickled out in fits and starts.

What appeared on the floor, under Marc's and Toffee's watchful eyes, was not George in total, but a sort of jig-saw George in which many of the vital pieces had been omitted. While one could be grateful for George's head, there was bound to be a pang of regret for the neck which had failed to appear.

An arm lay to the left, with only a finger or two to indicate that it had once blossomed a hand. Had there ever been an expression to the effect that half a torso was better than none, George had disproved it beyond measure; a torso, apparently severed from the collar bone to the mid-riff was so much worse than no torso at all as to be positively hair-raising. A random foot here, an errant knee cap there only garnished the over-all picture of hideous human butchery. With a shudder of revulsion, Toffee turned from the awful sight.

"Leave it to George," she said, "just leave it to that monster to be as revolting as possible."

"I don't suppose it's really his fault," Marc said fairly, "but I wish he were invisible again."

It was at this moment that the congressman and his henchman, having completed their discussion in the front of the warehouse, arrived at the door of the storeroom and fitted a key to the lock.

"Duck!" Toffee said. "Get behind those crates!"

"What about you?"

"I'm going to get my invention back. Besides they can't hurt me, and the important thing is to give you a chance to escape."

"Okay," Marc nodded and faded into the dimness behind the crates.

* * * * *

Toffee moved to the nearest stack of boxes, boosted herself atop them and leaned back in an attitude of relaxed languor. She watched from the corner of her eye as the door swung open and the congressman and the thug advanced into the room. She lifted her gaze dreamily to the ceiling and began to hum quietly to herself.

"There she is, boss," the thug said. "There's the dame, up there."

"My word!" Congressman Entwerp said. "Where did Pillsworth ever pick her up?"

"In a Turkish bath, I guess, before they passed out the towels."

Toffee turned slowly and observed the two with heavy disdain.

"Please be quiet," she drawled, "you're disturbing my meditations."

"Where's Pillsworth?" the thug asked.

Toffee shrugged. "Somewhere around, I suppose."

"Okay, sister," the thug growled, "cut out the jazz. Where is he?"

"You're sure you want to know?"

"We insist," Congressman Entwerp said.

"Then just step nearer," Toffee said with an airy wave, "and feast your eyes. You will find Mr. Pillsworth--more or less--on the floor, just to the right of these boxes. I'm sure you'll excuse him if he doesn't rise to greet you."

Warily, the two men edged closer. Then suddenly the thug, catching sight of George in his disconnected condition, stopped short. His mouth worked soundlessly, and his eyes rolled loosely in their sockets. The congressman, not yet aware of George, looked at him.

"What's the matter with you?" he asked shortly. "Why are you standing there making faces? Stop that and...!"

The tirade ended abruptly as the congressman's gaze fell to George. He lost his breath in a thin wheeze.

For a long moment the two men simply goggled, then slowly they turned away.

"You fool!" the congressman screamed. "I only told you to finish him off, not to hack him up into cutlets!"

"But I didn't!" the thug said shakenly. "He was all right when I locked him in here."

"Then, who...!"

Together, the two of them turned and regarded Toffee with incredulous eyes. Toffee returned their stares with innocent directness.

"Yes, gentlemen?" she murmured.

"Did you...?" the congressman began, then broke off with a shudder.

"Did I what?" Toffee asked demurely.

"What the congressman means," the thug said in a whisper, "is did you ... do _that_?"

"Oh, that," Toffee said. She returned her gaze thoughtfully to the ceiling as though trying to remember. Finally she shook her head. "No," she said. "I'm certain that's not one of my jobs. Too messy."

The men gaped.

"Holy smoke!" the thug quavered. "What happened to him?"

"Who knows?" Toffee shrugged. "Maybe he has some horrible disease. I figure it's his business."

"Good God!" the congressman breathed. "We've got to get him off our hands. We'll have to be careful, though. The hospital has the entire police force out looking for him. It's on the radio. If we were caught with him in that condition the party wouldn't like it."

"Nobody would like it," the thug said. "Shall we dump him in the river?"

* * * * *

The congressman shook his head. "Too many patrolmen around. There must be...." His voice trailed off into thoughtful silence. Finally he nodded with decision. "We won't try to hide him. We'll deliver him to the police just as he is--in an automobile crash. The girl too."

"Huh?" the thug said. "How do you mean?"

"It's simple enough. Pillsworth looks like a crash victim, so why don't we just let him be one? Go get a sack or something to carry him out in." He turned and moved toward the door. "I'll have Hank fix up one of the cars."

"Good night, boss," the thug said plaintively, following after him, "you mean I've got to pick him up--with my hands!"

The moment they were gone, locking the door after them, Toffee jumped down from her perch and Marc appeared from the shadows.

"Do you know who that was?" Marc asked excitedly.

"The old bird with the sable hair-do?"

Marc nodded. "It's Congressman Entwerp. I should have known he was behind this mess. And that isn't all; those crates of cheap whiskey are just a front. Underneath there's enough bacteria culture to wipe out the whole country. These boys are planning mass murder!"

"Also individual murder," Toffee said.

"What?"

"They're going to arrange an auto crash. When the wreckage is sorted out George and I will be prominent amongst the demolished extras."

"Good grief!"

"It's nothing to worry about," Toffee said. "After all, they can't possibly kill me--or George either, for that matter. In the meantime you can contact the police and see that they're arrested. There's just one thing though; you're going to have to get the police without letting the police get you."

"Huh?"

"It seems the entire force is out scouring the city for you, and I get the impression that they're supposed to rush you along to the operating room without messing around with any conversation."

"Golly," Marc said. "How am I going to work it? Even if I get a chance to tell them about Entwerp, they'll just think I'm delirious."

"Be your own bait," Toffee suggested. "Entwerp will be busy murdering George and me. All you have to do is get the cops to chase you to the scene of the crime so they can catch him red-handed. I'll see to it that the door's left unlocked long enough for you to get out of here...." She stopped as the key sounded again in the lock. "Anyway, work it out as you go along, and I'll see you later..."

* * * * *

"What took so long?" the congressman demanded. He was standing by the green sedan, holding the door open.

"It was the dame," the thug said breathlessly. "When I turned to lock up the storeroom, she let out a yip and took off. I had to chase her all over the joint before I caught her."

At his side, Toffee shook her head to get the hair out of her eyes. "I just wanted a little exercise to get up the circulation," she said.

"We certainly circulated," the thug agreed sourly. "All over the place."

"You didn't leave the storeroom open?" the congressman asked.

"I went back and locked it."

"I see you got Pillsworth in the car."

"Yeah," the thug said. "But he handled awful funny, like he was all strung together with invisible wire. I had a job spreadin' him out in the seat."

The congressman looked at him sharply. "You've probably been drinking that dummy whiskey again," he said. "Anyway, let's get going. The girl will have to drive."

"I don't know how to drive," Toffee said. "Besides, I haven't got a license."

"Never mind, sister," the thug said, "that's even better." He nudged her toward the door of the car, as the congressman moved off into the night. Toffee gazed inward at the dismembered George sprawled across the seat.

"Do I have to get in there with him?" she asked.

"The boss doesn't want you to be lonesome," the thug said.

"I'd rather be lonesome," Toffee said, but she got into the car anyway.

The thug closed the door after her and leaned through the window.

"Just so you'll know," he said, "I'd better explain. This car hasn't any brakes, and the steering is fixed. It's okay now, but after a few minutes it will break and the car will be out of control. We have it timed out with the curve at the end of the speedway, the one called Dead Man's Curve. By the time you reach that the wheel will be just about as much good to you as a set of knitting needles. In other words, you're going to drive due south with your foot to the floor and crack up on the curve. No one's missed that curve yet and lived."

"There's always a first time," Toffee said brightly.

"Don't count on it, sugar. And just to make sure you do what you're told, the congressman and me will be alongside in the congressman's car. I personally will be holding a rod aimed at your head, so don't get notions. Also, we want to be around to report the accident."

Toffee nodded approvingly. "It only seems the sort of thing any good citizen would do," she said.

The gunman stared at her. "Too bad a good looking dame like you has to be so wacky."

"We all have our little flaws," Toffee said chattily. "That's life."

"Aren't you even worried?"

Toffee shook her head. "I've always wanted to learn to drive," she said, smiling.

"Oh, my God!" the thug moaned. "Maybe, it's best; you're sure to kill yourself sooner or later anyway."

"Of course," Toffee said, patting his hand. "I don't want you to blame yourself. Just consider you're doing a public service."

* * * * *

Meanwhile, a lanky figure had emerged warily from the warehouse and was lurking, in a twitchy sort of way, in the dimness of the alley. Obscured in shadow, Marc had watched Toffee get into the green sedan, the thug instructing her in the art of driving. He glanced anxiously down the street, praying for a police car.

A small coupe, with a man and woman inside, pulled up to the curb at the end of the block, and the man got out and disappeared into the telegraph office on the corner. But that was all.

Marc jumped as he heard the green sedan start up. He turned to see a black limousine, driven by the congressman, pull up beside it. The thug crossed and got inside and a moment later the barrel of a gun caught light from the window. Time was seeping out.

Ducking from cover, Marc raced for the coupe and the waiting woman on the corner. Reaching it, he threw the door open and jumped inside. The woman, a faded blonde, pressed back against the seat with a startled cry. Marc, however, was too relieved at finding the key in the ignition to notice.

He started the car, threw it into gear and set it in motion almost in a single action. The woman's reaction to this was a shrill, braying scream.

"Please," Marc said distractedly. "Don't." The woman screamed again. "Do you have to do that?" he asked annoyedly.

"I have to do something, don't I?" the woman enquired wretchedly. "I can't just sit here, can I?"

"I don't see why not," Marc said, peering down the street intently. "It doesn't help anything to scream like that."

"It helps me plenty," the woman retorted hotly. "When naked men come leaping into a lady's car and driving her off to God knows what, it gives her a great satisfaction to scream." As though to prove her point she paused to scream again. "Anyway, it makes her feel a hell of a lot better."

"I don't see why," Marc said with rising irritation.

"Well, put yourself in my place," the woman snapped. "What would you do if a naked man came leaping into your car?"

"Naked men don't leap into my car." Marc said self-righteously. "I wouldn't let them."

"Are you suggesting that I invite naked men to come leaping into my car?" the woman asked frigidly. "I'll have you know...."

"The way you carry on about it," Marc said, "one just automatically draws his own conclusions. One pictures a whole procession of naked men just waiting their turn to leap into your car, you're such an authority on these occasions."

* * * * *

For a moment the blonde fell into a sulky silence. She glanced out the window at the rapidly passing scenery.

"What I want to know," she said at length, "is what is my husband going to say."

"Not knowing your husband," Marc said, "I'm in no position to guess. If I were you I'd judge by the way he's expressed himself on other similar occasions."

"There you go again," the woman said, "insulting me. Where are you taking me?"

"I'm not taking you anywhere," Marc said. "I'm taking myself. You just happened to be here."

"Oh," the woman said, not, it seemed, without a touch of disappointment. There was another lapse of silence.

"Do you know where there's a cop?" Marc asked, after a few more blocks.

"If I did," the woman said, "I'd be with him instead of you. What do you want with a cop?"

"I've got to find one," Marc said anxiously. "It means everything."

By this time the woman had resigned herself to the unhappy fact that she was out for a spin with a raving lunatic. She nodded sagely, as though agreeing with this last remark entirely.

"Sure," she said, "sometimes I feel that way myself. Cops are everything. It just sweeps over me all of a heap."

"What sweeps over you?" Marc asked absently.

"Cops," the woman said.

"Do you think you ought to be making these little confessions to a total stranger?" Marc asked distastefully. "Or do you mean your husband is a cop?"

"Of course not," the woman said. "My husband is a butcher. What's that got to do with it? I was just saying that sometimes cops just seem to surge over me." She giggled with nervous desperation. "A sort of blue serge, you might say."

"Well," Marc said, "since you seem to know all these cops so well, you ought to be able to tell me where they hang out."

"I don't know all these cops," the woman said.

"You mean they're a bunch of total strangers?" Marc asked, thoroughly shocked. "My word!"

"Couldn't we just drop the subject?" the woman asked defeatedly. "I'm all confused somehow."

"I should think you would be confused," Marc agreed. His voice trailed away on a rising inflection as he spotted a police car parked at the curb across the street. "Cops!" he breathed. He glanced ahead. "You see that green sedan up ahead with the black limousine beside it?"

The woman nodded vaguely. "The one that just cut up over the sidewalk? What about it?"

"Keep your eye on it," Marc instructed, "while I get the cop's attention. It's a matter of life and death."

* * * * *

The green sedan, as it turned out, was eminently worth keeping an eye on. Toffee, beleaguered as she was with the mechanics of keeping the vehicle in motion, had come upon other problems. Early in the game, feeling vague stirrings at her side, she had looked around to see George's dismembered head yawn thickly and open its eyes. Then, as if this wasn't loathsome enough, a set of fingers wriggled to the edge of the seat, gripped it and boosted the halved torso around so that the disjointed feet dropped to the floor. George, rising from unconsciousness had hauled himself into a sitting position. Toffee looked on this development without favor.

"Stay down, George," she hissed. "Get back where you were."

The head swiveled around hideously, a wounded look in its eyes.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" he said sadly. "You hit me."

"And I'll hit you again," Toffee promised, "if you don't get down."

George merely looked baffled at this. "Where are we goin'?" he asked.

"To an accident," Toffee said.

George's face brightened. "Was Marc in it?" he asked.

"It hasn't happened yet," Toffee explained. "We're going to be in it, you and I. In fact, we're the whole accident."

"Huh?" George said, edging up a bit. "Us?"

"That's right," Toffee nodded. "They figure we know too much."

"Too much about what?"

"About this subversive business," Toffee said. "They think we know their plan to overthrow the government."

"So they're going to kill us in an accident?"

"Uh-huh."

"Aren't you scared?"