Part 2

He threw his hands out behind him on the grass and leaned back luxuriously. He was just closing his eyes when a soft sound whispered against the grass behind him. He started to swing about, but he was too slow. Mid-way, two cool hands pressed down gently over his eyes and two lips closed simultaneously over his mouth. The lips were not nearly so cool or so gentle as the hands, and they went directly to the business of kissing him with an air of abandon and authority. Marc struggled away from them.

"Guess who, you old monster," a voice whispered gaily.

"Unhand me, you perfidious little heller," Marc grated.

"Beast!"

* * * * *

The hands snapped away from Marc's eyes, and he looked up to see Toffee scowling down at him. Her green eyes were alive with annoyance, and her red hair hung loosely about her shoulders like cascading flame. Her transparent emerald-colored tunic was, as always, a completely disinterested party when it came to the matter of concealing her comely figure. One gold-sandaled foot was tapping a silent tattoo against the grass.

"Sometimes," she said evenly, "you turn my stomach. The way you keep shoving me away from you all the time, you'd think I wasn't gorgeous or something. It's beginning to ruin my self-confidence. Just a little peck or pat at the proper moment wouldn't hurt you any, you know."

"Do you have to be quite so effusive with your greetings?" Marc asked timidly. "Couldn't we just shake hands?"

"Shake hands!" Toffee exploded. "If that doesn't take the brass-lined girdle! I don't care what you shake. You can shimmy from one end of this valley to the other, but you needn't expect me to be a party to it. I wash my hands of you. And good riddance!"

And with that, she retreated to the far side of the grove and draped herself angrily against a tree, arms folded. She regarded Marc icily from the corner of her eye.

"Of all the thankless, gutless worms, I would have to wind up with you," she muttered. "You'd look good with your ugly head bashed in."

Marc flinched. "I'm sorry," he began cautiously. "I...."

Toffee was instantly in his arms, and he hadn't the faintest idea how she had gotten there.

"I knew you couldn't resist me," she cooed. "If you're really sorry...."

"Wait a minute!" Marc yelped, trying to free himself. "I didn't mean...."

The words froze on his lips. Over Toffee's slender shoulder he could see the blackness, whole again, rushing down on him, borne on the tide of the shrieking wind. His hands grew limp on Toffee's wrists as the darkness closed in swiftly and snuffed out the last glowing light of the quiet valley.

Then the wind caught them full force, and for a moment they swayed together under its sudden impact. Marc tried to get to his feet, but it was useless. Already, they were being lifted upward, shooting outward into space. Toffee's arms tightened around Marc's neck.

"Since you apologize," she whispered in his ear, "I forgive you."

* * * * *

Marc stirred and opened his eyes with an effort. Instantly, inside his head, a tin-pan symphony swung into a jangling rendition of "Hold That Tiger," and whaled it to a fare-thee-well. The universe seemed to rotate once, twice, and then skidded to a jittery stop and remained fixed. The discordant symphony became muted and distant. Marc discovered confusedly that he was in a sort of small shack-like structure. Bare boards with blinking knot holes stared back at him from an unlovely ceiling. Then an aged head blurred into sight, looking down at him with worried concern. It made a terrible clicking noise with its mouth and moved off to one side. Marc felt strengthless arms moving about his shoulders and with their negligible help, boosted himself into a sitting position. The owner of the head, a little, worried-looking man, was crouching beside him.

"You come around pretty fast," he wheezed. "Ain't really been out no time at all. You had me scared at first, though. Thought maybe you was hurt bad."

* * * * *

Marc stared out a slit-like door that was directly in front of him. Beyond, a row of assorted automobiles testified to his whereabouts. His memory jogged back a bit and arrived successfully at the accident in the drive.

"How's my car?" he asked.

"Not so bad," the man replied. "Bumper's ripped off, and the radiator's not so fancy as she used to be, but it still runs good. I drove it around here to the shack for you. Want me to call a doctor?"

Marc got shakily to his feet and awaited results. His nose throbbed dully, but the rest of him seemed all right. "Never mind," he said. "I'm okay."

"Guess the steering gear smacked you in the nose," the little man observed mildly. "Guess I shoulda put that sign down on the street. Sorry."

Marc nodded curtly and went outside. The grey coupe was standing alongside the shack, looking a little crestfallen with its twisted bumper draped loosely over one crinkled fender. He stared at it unhappily.

Then he stiffened.

There was a movement inside the car and a brief flash of red.

"It's on fire!" he yelled.

"I do believe," the sign-hider collaborated calmly. "Maybe we should look."

Marc ran to the car, the little man ambling casually along in his wake. Then they both stopped short as the red flash repeated itself at the window and was suddenly followed up with a puckish face. Toffee, her chin poised on the sill, peered out at Marc relievedly.

"I was wondering where you were," she said. "Thought maybe you'd been crumpled up on the floor. You really mashed things up, didn't you?"

"Oh, Lord!" Marc moaned. "Now I've got you on my hands!"

"It would be better," Toffee said insinuatingly, "if you had me in your arms."

At this point the little man shuffled over to Marc's side. "Well, I'll be!" he exclaimed. "I didn't see no woman in there before." He peered at Toffee nearsightedly, "You're one of them redheaded hussies, ain't you?"

"How did you know?" Toffee asked.

"Oughta know," the man said cryptically. "The old woman always blasphemin' about redheaded hussies."

"What does she say?" Toffee asked interestedly.

"Couldn't repeat it," the little man said, "even to a hussy."

"Then you can believe every word of it," Toffee said. And opening the door, she stepped lightly out of the car.

The little man gasped at Toffee's faintly obscured charms. "Oh, lady!" he sighed. "The old lady didn't say nothin' about anything like that!"

By this time, Marc was already at Toffee's side. He reached inside the car and quickly drew out a rather unkempt fur coat. It was one of Julie's old ones that she used for driving in cold weather. Fortunately, no one had remembered to remove it from the car. He threw it unceremoniously around Toffee's shoulders.

"It would make a refreshing change," he said darkly, "if you showed up just once without being in a state of indecent exposure."

"There are some," Toffee sneered, "who think this is one of the most decent exposures they've ever seen. And I'm inclined to agree with them."

* * * * *

Marc was in no mood to argue the point. He stared nervously at the inquisitive little man. "Let's get out of here," he said. "Accident or no accident I have to go to the bank."

As they left the little man behind and walked toward the sidewalk Marc poured out his troubles to Toffee. He told her of George's untimely reappearance and the unpleasant business at the bank. Mostly, though, he entered a stirring plea for her cooperation and good behavior. They had nearly reached the street when he suddenly stopped and raised a finger to his lips. A crunching noise sounded briefly on the gravel behind them, then stopped guiltily.

"What's that?" Toffee asked.

"Maybe nothing," Marc said. But he feared the worst.

Marc left Toffee just inside the bank entrance with firm instructions to remain where she was, to do nothing and say nothing until he returned. Also, he advised that she keep Julie's coat drawn tightly around her as certain misunderstandings were sure to arise if she did not. Toffee nodded and cooperated to the extent that she gave the appearance of a mute paralytic freezing in a snowstorm. The effect did not become her.

Upstairs, on the mezzanine, Marc made his way fearfully toward the president's office, a glass-fronted arrangement that overlooked the main floor of the bank like a guard tower in a concentration camp. As Marc approached, the president, looking up, caught sight of him and raced him to the door. The scene reminded Marc of a saber-toothed shark he had once observed in an aquarium, pursuing a small unidentified fish with murderous intent. Pausing for a moment, he glanced wistfully down at Toffee standing by the door.

Then he turned quickly and ran to the rail.

Even from that distance the mark of horror was plain on Toffee's face. Marc followed her stricken gaze and came very close to screaming.

Downstairs, in the clerk's enclosure, a riot seemed to have broken loose behind the counters. At first glance it seemed the clerks were merely rough-housing among themselves, but a second look told an entirely different story. It was a scene that flagrantly thumbed its nose in the face of credulity, spat on the carpet of comprehension and sashayed out the door of sanity with an airy flip of the hip.

A pair of large money sacks, bearing the bank's name on their coarse sides, had plainly taken wing in a fit of convulsive madness. And whatever else these frightful sacks may have had on their minds, it was certain they possessed a boundless hatred for bank clerks. Progressing from the door leading into the vaults, they were savagely bludgeoning their way through the windowed enclosure, leaving a litter of prostrate figures and wilted white collars in their wake. The fugitive bags were making it emphatically clear that they would brook no nonsense from any faction desiring to frustrate them in their desire to be away from there. The current clientele of the bank was hastily arranging itself against the opposite wall.

One of the clerks, having miraculously escaped the ravages of battle, was streaking up the stairs to the mezzanine in a state of gibbering hysteria. Reaching Marc and the president who was now gasping at Marc's side, the fellow slowed to a sliding stop and began visibly to wilt with terror. The president grabbed him quickly beneath the arms and held him away from the floor.

"What is it?" he yelled. "What's going on down there? Tell me!"

The clerk shivered in his employer's arms. "I ... I don't know," he gasped. "I ... I was down in the vaults ... in the vaults ... making up the payroll for the Reedley Chemical Works ... and ... and...." His voice trailed off into a shuddering whine. "It was aw-w-w-ful!"

The president shook him energetically. "What happened?" he demanded. "Speak up, you ninny!"

* * * * *

The clerk's eyes rolled loosely in their sockets, fell inadvertently on the scene below and darted away. "Those two sacks of money ... they were behind me ... they went crazy all of a sudden. They flew up into the air and started singing and carrying on something terrible! Then ... then, they started out the door ... well, I tried to stop them. At first I tried being nice about it ... I tried to reason with them ... and ... and they _struck_ me! And that isn't all! Those are the most foul-mouthed money bags in existence!"

The bank president promptly dropped the clerk to the floor. "The fellow's hysterical," he said. "It's a plot, a foul plot to rob this bank! Where are the police?" He stared over the rail and his question was promptly answered. The bank police, two of them, were trembling outside the enclosure, trying to nudge each other forward. "They practice the rhumba," he screamed, "while the bank is looted!"

At this point Marc left the president abruptly, vaulted over the collapsible clerk and made his way to the stairs. Half way down the flight he paused and prepared to take the second half in one heroic leap. There was no question in his mind that his suspicion had borne the deadly fruit he had feared; George had indeed followed him to the bank. Now the soulless shade, in a burst of misguided boy-scoutishness, was blithely playing fast and loose with the Reedley Chemical Works' payroll.

Marc made his appearance on the scene of strife in a confused sprawl that was far from heroic. Then, he sat up, bewilderment written into every line of his face. Not until this moment had he stopped to consider the course that he was about to take. Clearly, to be seen in close association with those demented sacks would be to invite disaster. The implication would be entirely clear to everyone, especially to the irate bank president. The only safe procedure, then, was to stay clear of the whole affair and let the money bags shift for themselves, which they seemed to be doing with remarkable agility from the sound of things behind the enclosure. Then he started with shock as a hand fell to his shoulder. He glanced up to find Toffee standing beside him.

"Don't do that!" he fairly screamed. "Don't scare me like that!"

"I don't blame you for being jumpy," Toffee said. "At the moment I could easily vault a twelve story building by sheer nerve power. That's the most soul-shattering thing I've ever witnessed."

"Help me up," Marc begged. He extended a hand toward Toffee, then promptly leaped to his feet, unaided.

Victorious at last, the dashing bags suddenly emerged around the end of the clerk's enclosure and sailed through the hinged barrier like a pair of high-spirited, slightly drunken seagulls. At the sight of them, the two policemen, who had finally managed to disengage their guns from their holsters, suddenly turned on each other in panic.

"Do something," one of them hissed. "Call a cop ... I mean, yell at 'em to stop. Say halt or you'll shoot. That's always good."

The other fidgeted self-consciously. "I'd feel silly," he demurred. "You yell at 'em."

"I'd feel silly, too," the other admitted grudgingly. "Silly as hell." He gave the matter his thoughtful attention. "Tell you what," he said finally. "Let's just turn the other way and make out we don't see. It's nothing no human eyes should be gazing at anyway. It's indecent to say the least."

* * * * *

Simultaneously, the cops turned their broad backs on the fearful spectacle and pretended to engage each other in casual conversation. "Tell me," one of them was heard to say in a strained voice, "and how is that charming wife of yours? And those two darling children?"

This chatty arrangement, however, was not destined to endure. The president's voice rang down from the mezzanine with such a volley of scalding invective and personal criticism that the two reluctant officers decided it would be the lesser evil to face their duty and do it, even if their souls fried in hell as the result.

By now the flying bags had singled out Marc and Toffee and were headed toward them in an affectionate rush.

"Go way!" Marc yelled desperately. "Beat it!"

But the bags were not to be put off so easily. They continued forward, dancing through the air in a sort of bottom-heavy samba.

"Let's take steps!" Toffee cried. "Lots and fast! Let's get the hell out of here before those fiendish bags put the finger on us!"

Physically, mentally and spiritually, Marc was in complete and utter accord with Toffee's suggestion. His whole being longed to its very depths to be away from those awful bags and the tailor-made life of crime that George so obviously meant to force upon him. Taking Toffee's arm he took as few steps as possible to the main entrance and swung the door open. Behind, the bags hesitated, seeming somewhat taken aback at this unfriendly gesture, then with a sort of shrug, started out in playful pursuit. The two policemen, their duties now engraved on their sluggish minds in letters of flame, joined the chase reluctantly.

Marc and Toffee headed instinctively toward the parking lot behind the bank, set on giving themselves every possible mechanical advantage in this mad race for respectability. Behind them, the bags steadily lost ground right from the start, probably because their weight held back their ghostly means of locomotion. Still further back, the two policemen, plugging along in their own flat-footed way, were hardly in the running at all.

Marc and Toffee reached the grey coupe at about the same instant and threw themselves on it like a couple of drowning sailors who had just sighted a lifeboat. In the midst of their frenzied activities the wizened attendant appeared at the door of the shack and watched with quiet interest.

"Wildest pair of young folks I ever seen," he murmured. "Leapin' around all over the place like they was crazy in the head or somethin'. Nervous type I guess."

Unmindful of the attendant's concern over their hurried activities, Marc touched the starter and put the car into rapid motion. There was a sharp hiss as the tires spit gravel into the air, and a second later a loud clatter announced the abandonment of the wrecked bumper.

But with the rapid exit of the grey coupe and its harried occupants, the little attendant's worries were destined to increase rather than diminish. No sooner did the car disappear down the drive than two bags, alarmingly on their own, flashed onto the scene and presented themselves before him in mid-air.

The little man looked at them, rubbed his eyes and looked again. For a long, tense moment he continued to stare at them. Then he turned about and stepped abruptly inside the shack, closing the door firmly behind him. He lowered himself into an ancient rocking chair, sighed deeply and closed his eyes.

"Keep a grip on yourself, you old fool," he muttered. "Sun spots ain't nothin' to get excited about. What if they do have People's Trust printed on 'em?"

* * * * *

The little man's grip on himself, however, might have slipped considerably had he remained outside to witness the subsequent movements of the "sun spots." Racing to a green sedan, they threw the door open and disappeared inside. A moment later the car, with no apparent aid, leaped from its place in line, grazed the fender of its neighbor, and went rolling swiftly down the drive.

As it was, two other grips were rudely pried loose by the incident. The two policemen, standing on the sidewalk, watched with horror-glazed eyes as the driverless sedan darted playfully toward them, then bounded over the curb and started in spirited pursuit of the grey coupe. To the one nearest the diabolical car this was not only the last straw, but the whole final load of hay. He turned disillusioned eyes on his companion.

"That's done it," he said in a hollow voice. "After fifteen years on the Force I'm going down to headquarters and fling this badge of mine smack in the Chief's homely mush."

"You can't do that," his partner protested, fingering his own badge. "You'd be quitting in the face of duty."

"If that's the face of duty," the saddened law enforcer replied, "then it had better be lifted before it gets any worse. I'd rather be buddies with Frankenstein."

"We gotta at least make an effort," his friend reasoned. "After all, them sacks ain't armed. And maybe there'll be a reward for their capture."

This last thought seemed to put a fairer complexion on the face of duty. The two trudged to the center of the street and hailed a passing taxi.

"Follow that car," the more enterprising of the two growled, directing the driver's attention to the careening sedan three blocks distant. "And if you catch it, I'll have you stored in the pokey for the rest of your life."

* * * * *

In the grey coupe Marc was driving with a suicidal brilliance such as he had never before displayed. Some sainted sixth sense took him safely in and out and around cars at times when it seemed that sudden death would surely be the result. All the while, Toffee busied himself with the diverting task of observing and reporting the progress of their pursuers from the rear window. The green sedan appeared to be doing dishearteningly well, probably because of its driver's hair-raising disregard for any and all traffic laws. George, with a splendid lack of prejudice, was using both sides of the street indiscriminately. On the other hand, the taxi wasn't faring nearly so well. Actually, it didn't seem to be really trying. According to Toffee's lights, it showed a distressing, sissy tendency to play strictly according to the rules.

Probably the only thing that prevented this lunatic chase from strewing the streets with death and tragedy was its early and untimely end. Allowed to continue to its ultimate conclusion, unrestrained, heaven only knows what madness might have ensued. The beginning of the end came swiftly when Marc cut the coupe screamingly through an alley and onto a side street.

Emerging from the alley, full speed ahead, he suddenly rocked the car to a jouncing stop that sent Toffee flying into his lap. Ahead and behind, the street was jammed to its curbs with automobiles of all descriptions, their horns bewailing their predicament in no uncertain terms. It was the worst traffic jam Marc had ever seen, and by some miraculous maneuver that even he, himself, couldn't believe, he had managed to wedge the grey coupe very nearly into its center.

From Marc's lap, Toffee reached slender arms toward his neck. "You impetuous boy," she giggled. "We love in the midst of danger."

Marc shoved her rudely back onto the seat. "We'll languish in the midst of Sing Sing, if we don't look out," he growled. "Where is that green sedan?"

Toffee peered out the window. "Good grief!" she cried. "It just pulled up in the alley. It's so close I could hit it with a pebble."

"Hit it with a bomb." Marc moved to Toffee's side just in time to witness the arrival of the cop-laden taxi behind the green sedan. The sight of the policemen was not reassuring; and neither was the sudden appearance of the money bags, darting stealthily toward them from the door of the sedan.

"Trapped!" Marc groaned. "What'll we do?"

Of course, the only answer was flight. Opening the car door, Toffee tugged at Marc's sleeve. "Come on," she urged.

"Where to?" Marc asked hopelessly. "We're jammed in here tight. Bumper to bumper and fender to fender, so to speak."

"Sounds lecherous," Toffee murmured. "Come on."

* * * * *

Marc was willing to be led, it appeared, even when he didn't know where he was being led to. He didn't object even when Toffee blithely opened the rear door of the next car, nodded cheerfully to its startled owner, and bounded through to the other side. In fact, he heartily endorsed the idea by rapidly following suit.

And Marc was not the only one to realize the wisdom in Toffee's methods. Soon, not only the pursued, but the pursuers as well, were romping in and out of strange vehicles with a reckless abandon that indicated a decided taste for the sport. The sound of wailing horns slowly died to be replaced by excited screams and dark curses. Toffee, easily the most fleet of foot, took a fast lead, Marc bringing up a close second. The skittering money bags, an early entry in this car-hopping sweepstakes, followed hot on the trail, flitting felicitously past the noses of astonished motorists like a pair of featureless rag dolls suddenly come to life. The two policemen, definitely dark horses without a prayer, brought up a couple of blue serge rears that lent a certain full-bodied homeliness to the affair. The reactions of the jammed-in motorists were varied and extreme.