Part 5

"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."

"Sure, your Honor." The girl winked broadly at her sisters-in-arms on the sidelines. "It's a cinch." She turned to the two men standing before her. Her hand went promptly toward the one on the right, and she looked back at the Justice. "That's the one, your...." Suddenly her voice faltered and trailed away into silence. She turned back to the men and her eyes darted crazily back and forth, from face to face.

"Oh, murder!" she murmured miserably. "They _are_ both alike! They both even have that dirty-minded look in their eyes." For a moment she gazed up at the Justice entreatingly, and slowly began to tremble under his venomous glare. Then, all in a rush, she turned and fled to her companions from the diner. Collapsing into their out-stretched arms, she began to sob loudly.

Once more a bleak stillness gripped the courtroom. Everyone seemed to hold his breath, as though afraid not to. The only moving things in the room were the Justice's eyes, which appeared to have gone dangerously out of control. Then, after a long moment, black robed shoulders were lifted to accommodate a tremendous sigh. The gavel darted into the air and came down against the stand with a blow that split it neatly in two.

"The case is dismissed!" the justice roared. "And this damned court is adjourned!" And hurling the gavel to the floor, he lifted his robes about his ample waist and stalked ceremoniously out of the room.

Through a stunned silence, Toffee rushed gleefully to Marc and George. Reaching them, she stopped and gazed bewilderedly from one to the other, rather duplicating the performance of the remorseful waitress. Then she threw her arms around the one on the left.

"You can't fool me, Marc," she sighed happily.

Immediately, arms closed around Toffee's waist and drew her closer. She drew back.

"Let me go, George!" she cried. "You're taking advantage of my mistake."

George released her. "How did you know?" he asked disappointedly.

"Don't be silly," Toffee laughed. "If Marc ever showed that much cooperation, I'd drop dead ... of sheer joy. I'd...."

"Holy smoke!" George broke in unexpectedly. He was looking fixedly at the clock on the opposite wall.

"What's wrong?" Marc asked.

"It's only five minutes to twelve," George replied uneasily. "My thirty-six hours are all but over. The High Council will be recalling me any minute now."

Meanwhile, the spectators had joined together in a general exodus. With a definite feeling of having been cheated, they were moving toward the doorway in a sullen, grumbling tangle. Some, however, were struggling toward Marc and his companions. These were reporters.

"Oh, Judas!" Marc cried. "If you fade out right here, where they can see you, we're cooked. Let's make a run for it!"

* * * * *

Together, the threesome made for the only available avenue of escape ... the door to the Justice's chambers. Reaching it, they slammed it after them and turned the lock. A second later the reporters also reached it and began to pound against it. The fugitives turned to inspect their surroundings. Apparently, the Justice had already gone in search of greener, more soothing pastures, for the walnut-paneled room was deserted. They exchanged congratulatory glances and joined together in a sigh of relief.

Toffee turned to the throbbing door. "Go way!" she yelled. "We're closed for alterations!"

George's eyes, though, were on the desk clock. Now, it was only three minutes to twelve. "Tell me," the spirit said hopefully, turning to Marc, "did I really help you out there in the courtroom?"

"You were sensational, old man," Marc said, feeling a sudden warmth for the ghost. "Couldn't possibly have seen it through without you."

"You aren't just saying that to be nice, are you? The Council will have ways of knowing your true feelings."

"I wouldn't lie to you, George."

George extended his hand, and grinned as Marc accepted it. "It's been fine knowing you," he said. Then he turned away. "You know," he continued foolishly, "I feel real sentimental."

Toffee crossed to the ghost and silently took his head in her hands. "This time it's no mistake, George," she said softly. And pulling his face level with her own, she kissed him well and soundly, full on the mouth.

"What a time to be leaving," George said regretfully when it was over.

And even as he said it, he began to fade.

"Goodbye, George, old boy," Marc said. "We won't soon forget you."

"No," Toffee seconded. "Not in a million years."

George was grinning as his face dissolved into thin air. The word "good-bye" whispered through the room, and for a moment seemed to coil warmly around Marc and Toffee, engulfing them in a tide of friendliness. Then it was gone.

"You know," Toffee said thoughtfully, "he really wasn't such a bad sort. I hope he makes out well with that High Council of his. They sounded awfully heavy-handed."

"If my feelings in the matter count for anything," Marc said, "he's a cinch."

During this tender passage the drumming had continued, unnoticed, on the door. But now that George had been seen off in proper style, the insistent reporters resumed their former place of pressing immediacy on the agenda.

"We've got to get out of here before they break that door in," Marc said.

"There's a side door," Toffee observed. "The Justice must have gone out that way."

"Good night!" Marc cried. "And the darned thing has been unlocked all this time. The reporters might have walked in on us at any minute. Well, let's get out before they do."

He walked to the door and reached for the knob, but he never quite completed the motion. Suddenly, the door burst open in his face, and its edge caught him squarely between the eyes. For a moment he rocked crazily back and forth, then he closed his eyes and crumpled to the floor.

The young reporter bounded into the room and stopped short. He could have sworn he'd seen the redhead when he'd first thrown the door open, but now she didn't seem to be there at all. He searched the room systematically and finally decided the girl had only been a trick of the imagination. Settling for second best, he turned his attention to Marc.

He looked at the unconscious man and frowned. There was something odd in the way the fellow's lips kept moving. Also, something odd in his expression. He seemed to be holding a whispered conversation with someone. The reporter dropped to his knees and lowered his ear to Marc's murmuring lips.

"No, no," Marc was saying. "No, Toffee! Stop wrapping your arms around my neck like that. What are you trying to do, throttle me? Can't we say good-bye without all that?" Then he made a strange whooshing noise as though a fist had been jabbed into the pit of his stomach. For a moment his expression was angered, then it slowly relaxed. "Goodbye," he whispered. "Goodbye."

* * * * *

The reporter sat up, deeply perplexed. If he had been expecting to overhear an inadvertent confession, he was sadly mistaken. He wasn't quite sure just what he had heard. It didn't seem to make sense.

It might have made a great deal of sense, however, if the reporter had only known of the valley of Marc's mind and the blue mists from which Toffee had come, and to which she was returning. If the young man had only known of these things, he might easily have written the most startling story of the year. As it was, though, he only shook his head, got to his feet, and went in search of water with which to revive Marc.

* * * * *

It was an apprehensive Marc that left the elevator and made his way slowly toward apartment 17-B. Since the sudden departures of George and Toffee a sobering reaction had set in and certain salient facts, relative to his financial and domestic status, had made themselves hatefully apparent. That George had managed to guide the courtroom fiasco to a satisfactory conclusion hadn't really resolved any problems other than those that he, George, had created himself. Otherwise, everything was just as unsettled as before. Probably more, by now. Marc sighed heavily and proceeded to the apartment door, where his ring was quickly answered by the diminutive maid, Marie.

Marie's distress was ill concealed. "Madam is most wretched," she said. "She awakened only a bit ago, and the papers seem to have upset her terribly. I took some breakfast to her, but.... Perhaps if you went to her now...."

Marc left Marie wringing her hands in the hallway. He knocked lightly on Julie's door and when he received no answer, went on in.

Julie, looking very small and miserable against a cloud of pillows, was lavishly salting a plate of scrambled eggs with a flood of tears. She was so absorbed in this undertaking that she didn't notice Marc until he sat down beside her on the edge of the bed. Immediately, she threw her arms around his neck, buried her face against his lapel and proceeded to soak it through.

"Oh, Marc!" she sobbed. "I feel like such a horrible mess. I could die! I didn't know until I read the papers. Why didn't you tell me? I thought we were rich!"

With his free hand, Marc reached out and plucked the paper from between the pillows. The article was easy to find since it was still damp around the edges. It was the review of "Love's Gone Winging."

"Marc Pillsworth," it said, "the big advertising man from whom the Broadway wiseacres were unanimously predicting a swift and unconditional trip into the unholy state of bankruptcy, last night proved himself to be the same shrewd businessman who raised the Pillsworth Advertising Agency from a pup several years ago. With last night's opening of "Love's Gone Winging," a musical, starring none other than Mrs. Pillsworth, herself, our hero has turned out to be the sole owner of the season's most lush theatrical gold mine. He laughs best, it appears, who has the inside info on Julie Pillsworth's extraordinary talents.

"Mrs. Pillsworth, appearing courageously under her own name, has proved herself a musical comedienne of no mean standing. It is true, of course, that during her first scene she appeared nervous and restrained, but that can be attributed to first night jitters, an occupational malady that is easily forgivable on the occasion of an opening night. The real story, however, was told after the first scene. Mrs. Pillsworth, having apparently found her footing with the audience, hit the footlights with a surging vengeance that reacted on the paying customers like an electric shock. After that, she carried the show, almost single-handed, to a raging finish that had the boys and girls out front cheering the house down.

"A new dancer, a redhead unfortunately not listed on the program, appeared briefly to set the stage afire with a routine that did not dwell on inhibitions. The young lady's unusual exit was an effect that...."

The paper fell from Marc's hand and sprawled out on the floor. He could hardly believe his eyes. He gently lifted Julie's face away from his sodden lapel.

"But that's wonderful!" he said excitedly. "You were a sensation!"

"I know," Julie said dejectedly, blinking back the tears. "That's just the trouble."

"What!"

Julie nodded. "The only reason I was any good, though, was just because I was so mad I didn't know what I was doing. I haven't an ounce of talent, really. I couldn't possibly give another performance like that, even if I had to."

"Oh," Marc murmured unhappily. "Then we're washed up after all."

"Oh, no!" Julie cried. "Linda Godfrey came backstage after the show and I talked her into taking over. She knows the songs already and she's stepping into my place tonight. The show will run forever with her in it."

Wonderful relief surged through Marc. "Then why all the weeping?"

* * * * *

The tears welled in Julie's eyes again. "I nearly ruined you. I badgered you into it, and you let me do it, you dope. I feel awful. I feel like a fraud, too. I'm not a star. I'm just an ex-chorus girl with delusions of grandeur."

"Nonsense," Marc said. "You _are_ a star. The paper says so. It's nothing to cry over, darling. Retiring like this, after a one night triumph, you'll be a Broadway legend. And on top of all that, you've steered me into one of the best investments I've ever made."

Julie blinked. Apparently she hadn't thought of it quite that way. A thoughtful smile played over her lips. "It does kind of add up that way, doesn't it?" she murmured. "Everything did turn out pretty well, didn't it?"

"Sure it did. So let's have no more of this crying. Why don't you put on your best clothes and go out and bask in your own glory, just for the thrill?"

Julie gazed up at him, and there were stars in her eyes. "You're so wonderful," she sighed. "You make everything seem so right. I wish I'd wakened you when I came in last night so we could have talked it over then. It would have saved me so much misery. But it was so late, and I felt so awful, I just didn't have the courage."

"Oh, that's all right," Marc said quickly. "Probably it was all for the...."

Suddenly he stiffened.

His gaze had wandered absently to the outspread newspaper on the floor, and a caption was shrieking up at him; "Marc Pillsworth and Unidentified Woman Jailed on Suspicion of Robbery!"

Marc's hand reached down and caught the paper in a strangle hold. Obviously, Julie hadn't bothered to look any further than the theatrical section, so, for the time being, he was still safe. He stuffed the paper under his coat and turned back to her. His throat was dry.

"Maybe you hadn't better go out after all," he said in a rush. "Maybe you'd better just stay right here, where you are. Don't get out of bed."

"What?"

"I was ... was thinking," Marc gasped. "You ... you must be awfully worn out after all those rehearsals and last night's per ... and everything. Maybe you should just stay here and rest for a few days. You know, complete rest ... no telephone calls and ... uh ... newspapers. Nothing to upset you."