The Complete Adventures of Toffee

by Charles F. Myers

  “It was that blonde,” he said absently, after a moment.

  “What blonde?” Toffee asked suspiciously, peering from the depths of her chair.

  “The blonde that screamed. She was a decoy. She double crossed me.”

  “They’ll do it every time,” Toffee said firmly. “Now you take a redhead . . .”

  “Never mind that,” Marc said pensively. “She started screaming long before she could possibly have seen the car from where she was standing. She drew my attention away deliberately, so I’d be sure to get hit. I’m sure of it. She probably took the brief case, too. Maybe she was hired for the job. Good grief! If that’s true, I’m really in a spot!”

  “They’ll do it every time, those blondes,” Toffee repeated doggedly.

  “I’m sure my brief case was stolen,” Marc said, almost to himself. “I’ve got to find that blonde. And in the meantime, just to be sure, I’d better have the boys knock out another campaign tonight.” He turned to the telephone and started to dial feverishly.

  After fifteen minutes of assorted telephone conversations, Marc turned to Toffee dispiritedly. “It’s no use,” he announced. “Every last one of them has been called out of town for the weekend. I’ve never talked to so many simple minded wives and landladies in all my life. They haven’t any idea where any of the men are. They would pick a time of crisis to start their weak-minded cavorting.”

  “Who would want to keep you from having the Reece account?” Toffee asked.

  “The Mayes Agency,” Marc answered promptly, and then shook his head. “But Mayes wouldn’t do a thing like this. He’s hard as nails when it comes to business, but he wouldn’t do anything criminal, and I might have been killed by that car this morning. What am I going to do now?”

  HIS question was promptly answered by the shrill ring of the telephone. He picked up the receiver disinterestedly, and before he could give his name, a sultry feminine voice sounded over the wire.

  “This Marc Pillsworth?” it asked.

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “Don’t you mind who this is, Buster,” the voice said evenly. “Just you listen to what I got to say, and don’t interrupt. If you want your brief case back, you be at the Southlawn Cemetery at eleven sharp tonight.”

  “What!” Marc yelled. This was a great deal more than he’d expected.

  “Yeah,” the voice laughed. “It’s just like a kidnapping. In other words, if you want to see your brain child, alive and healthy again, you be at the cemetery, like I said, with a million dollars in cash.”

  “A million!” Marc choked. “But that’s impossible!”

  “Yeah. I know,” the voice replied conversationally. “It’s the craziest thing I ever heard of, myself. I nearly died laughing when they told me. It’s impossible to raise a million in one night—even with a full moon. I know, I tried.”

  “But—but—” sputtered Marc,

  “No but about it, Buster,” the voice said. “Them’s the orders. And, oh yes, at the risk of soundin’ corney, I gotta tell you to have the bills in small denominations and unmarked. Ain’t that a scream?”

  Suddenly the phone went dead, and Marc looked up dazedly. “I just can’t believe it!” he groaned. “I must be dreaming.”

  “What’s wrong,” asked Toffee, “that isn’t already?”

  “I—I’ve been kidnapped,” Marc said wonderingly. “I—I mean, they’re holding my brief case for ransom.”

  “Who is?”

  “I don’t know. It was a woman that called. Probably the blonde. She was undoubtedly paid off to make the phone call, too. I’m pretty sure it’s someone else that has the copy.”

  “But the blonde is a lead,” Toffee pointed out. “Yes,” Marc agreed. “I’ve simply got to get ahold of that girl.”

  “You go around, getting ahold of any girls,” Toffee warned, “and I’ll be down on you like the wrath of the Gods. You’d better hire yourself a detective.”

  Marc stared at her thoughtfully. “That’s not a bad idea,” he said finally.

  “Of course it isn’t,” Toffee replied proudly. “You stick to me, and I’ll have everything straightened out in jig time.”

  “Jig time,” Marc corrected automatically, drawing a soiled newspaper from his desk drawer. For a moment, he thumbed through the wrinkled sheets, and then folded it back at the classified section. His hand traced slowly down the print filled columns for a time, then quickly darted to the opposite page.

  “There she is!” he yelled.

  Toffee glanced suspiciously about the room. “Where?” she demanded.

  “Here!” As Marc held out the newspaper, his finger indicated an advertisement in the entertainment section.

  “The Loma Club,” it read, “Where you can loose a weekend and never miss it.” Under that curious legend was the picture of an over-lush blonde young lady, whose name, according to the ad, was Ruby Marlow. The picture had apparently been taken during one of her performances at the club, for her mouth was wide open. Toffee gazed at the picture critically.

  “That’s just the way she looked on the street,” Marc said.

  “I don’t think you were hit by a car, after all,” Toffee said sourly. “A face like that would stop anything.”

  “Well, at least we know where to start,” Marc said enthusiastically. “We’re going to the Loma Club. A detective would take too long.”

  “Night clubbing?” Toffee asked happily. “Wait till I find me a club. I remember the last time. It was heavenly.”

  “This isn’t going to be like the last time,” Marc said sternly, “If you start another riot, I’ll break your neck with my own bare hands.”

  THE inner sanctum of the Loma Club appeared to be more a murky den, designed especially for barbaric rituals, than a place for relaxation and entertainment. To confirm this impression, the orchestra platform, when in use, proved to be nothing more than an altar, upon which a tinny group of exhausted, down-andout musicians offered up, in horrible, though bloodless sacrifice, the popular tunes of the day. High priestess of these gory activities, and hiding under the title of “vocalist,” was Ruby Marlow. At the moment, she was holding a battered microphone in a death grip, that may, or may not, have accounted for the nerve-wracking, strangled sounds that were issuing from it. To Marc and Toffee, sitting at a table in a dark corner, the amplification of Miss Marlow’s horrible mouthings, was simply incredible.

  “Lose a weekend?” Toffee said bitterly. “You’d fairly murder the poor thing in here. In fact, the whole atmosphere in this place is pretty murderous.” She shoved her glass disdainfully away. “When I want embalming fluid, I’ll go to a mortician. But come to think of it, maybe the waiter knows best, after all. One more of those, and I’ll be dead as a flounder, anyway.”

  “I wish I hadn’t even tasted the first one,” Marc said morosely, “I keep seeing things.”

  “What sort of things?”

  Marc pointed to a vacant table about a yard from theirs. “I think it’s haunted,” he said. “I keep seeing a little man down there. It’s awful.”

  Toffee looked in the direction he indicated. “I don’t see anything,” she said reassuringly. “It’s just an ordinary table with a table cloth on.

  Suddenly she stopped speaking, and turned frighteningly pale.

  Slowly, a scrawny hand appeared at the edge of the cloth and lifted it. Then, as if that weren’t enough, a wrinkled ferret-like face jutted from under it, peered out querulously for a moment, and quickly disappeared. This singular performance was followed by a series of quick clicking sounds that were totally inexplicable.

  “Lord love me!” cried Toffee. “I saw it too, and it was horrible! Is that all it does? Just peer out and click at you?”

  “Isn’t that enough?” Marc answered dumbly. “It’s happened three times now.”

  “Maybe he’s a bashful castinette player,” Toffee suggested uncertainly.

  “I don’t think so,” Marc answered gravely. “I think it’s the liq
uor. If I start to order again, stuff your napkin down my throat.”

  They both had become so engrossed in the phenomenon of the adjoining table, that neither of them noticed the approaching Miss Marlow. That the murderess of innocent songs was full blown, was unmistakable even at the distance of the microphone, but close up, she looked like something that should be turned on side, and hung over a bar.

  “You Mr. Pillsworth?” she asked lazily. “One of the boys says you want to talk to me.”

  “That’s right,” Marc said, looking up, “Please sit down.” He gestured toward Toffee. “This is Miss—uh—Miss—”

  “Don’t embarrass yourself Mr. Pillsworth,” cut in Ruby, turning an appraising eye on Toffee. “I know the type. They don’t come with names—just sizes.” She smiled maliciously. “And what’s yours in mink coats, dear?”

  Toffee’s answering gaze dwelt indolently on Miss Marlow’s expanding hips. “About five smaller than yours in girdles, hon,” she said sweetly.

  With all the callousness of the seasoned warrior, Ruby accepted this retort, and eased the objects that had inspired it into a vacant chair. She leaned forward and smiled at Marc.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked coyly.

  “I like your singing,” Marc lied with apparent irrelevance.

  “I’m so glad to hear it,” Ruby was all graciousness as she said it.

  “For the first time in your life,” Toffee appended viciously.

  “But I like it even better in the open air,” Marc said evenly. “Your street singing left me with quite an impresson.”

  GONE were the days of Ruby’s innocence, but she wasn’t above trying to look lamb-like when the occasion seemed to demand it. She did so now. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

  “Okay,” Marc countered, “we’ll skip that, but who were you working for?”

  “You heard me,” Ruby said, trying to look indignant. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. From where I’m sitting, it just sounds like the wind whistling through the holes in your head.”

  “Stop the kidding,” Marc demanded. “I know you took the brief case, and I intend to have it back. Where is it?”

  “Search me!” said Ruby.

  “If he does,” put in Toffee, “I’ll scratch his eyes out.”

  Ruby turned on Toffee a searing gaze that knocked in her teeth, tore the gown from her back, and left her bent and bleeding in a dark alley. “I’m getting out of here,” she announced, pushing back her chair. “You’re both nuts.”

  It was Marc’s guess that the flambuoyant Miss Marlow would probably be considered a flop in her own social set without a police record, and took a chance on it. “Just a minute,” he said, “There are a few boys on the force that would like to know where you are, since you’ve dyed your hair, and if you don’t level off right now, I’ll have them on you like a swarm of flies.”

  Ruby settled back in her chair immediately. “Okay! okay!” she said. “You don’t have to yell about it. I’ll tell you the whole thing. After all, I was only hired to go downtown and yell like crazy, and pick up any loose brief cases I happened to see lying around. There’s nothing illegal in that.”

  “Who hired you?”

  Ruby glanced nervously around the room, and then suddenly smiled. “All right,” she said pleasantly. “I’ll tell you. You see that guy sitting over there? The rough looking bird in the opposite corner. That’s Manny Groute, the racketeer. He hired me.”

  Marc glanced briefly over his shoulder and shuddered. Manny Groute was the sort of fellow no one would ever suspect of having had a mother. He seemed to have been assembled, rather than born. In front of him, the table looked like a delicate foot rest.

  “What does he want with my brief case?” Marc asked uneasily.

  “Search me,” Ruby said easily. “The ransom I suppose.”

  “You ask him to search you just once more,” Toffee broke in menacingly, “and I’ll break your bottle of peroxide.”

  “That’s enough!” bawled Ruby. “That’s the shot that got me! Stand up, and I’ll tear that red hair out by the roots! And don’t think I can’t do it, either. I’ve got Irish blood in my veins!”

  “And if you’d like it splashed all over the floor, where you can show it off better,” Toffee flared, “just start something!”

  Ruby, an affable creature by nature, and always open to suggestions of all kinds, took Toffee at her word, and lifted her none too daintily from her chair.

  “Stop that!” yelled Marc, and rushing to the struggling women, took a bare shoulder in each hand. No sooner did he have them parted, than, as if by magic, a huge, meaty hand fell on Marc’s shoulder and nearly weighted him to the floor. “Oh, murder!” he murmured as he looked up into the terrifying face of Manny Groute, which, at the moment, bore an expression that did little toward inspiring open-hearted confidence and trust.

  “You named it right, bud,” Manny rumbled ominously. “I don’t like guys pawin’ my girl friend.”

  IN THE following moments, Ruby and Manny looked like rather grotesque members of a water ballet, as, in perfect unison, they held their victim at bay, and drew back their fists. To anyone else, in Toffee’s very potent position, Ruby’s doubled fist would have been an item of consuming interest, but to Toffee, it was a forgotten detail, as her attention fell on the acrobats that were the current floor show attraction. It was the first time she had ever seen a human pyramid being formed, and that so many well developed masculine bodies should appear all in one clump, seemed to her, the most wonderful spectacle in the whole world.

  If Toffee was oblivious of her coming fate, however, Marc was not. Indeed, as he glimpsed Manny’s mammoth hand in the impressive process of doubling itself, he found himself regretting his oversight in not reserving a room while at the hospital that morning. He had a strong hunch that he would shortly have need of it. It was then that the unexpected happened.

  Swiftly, a claw-like hand jutted from beneath the next table and grabbed Manny’s thick ankle. In another second, Marc felt the racketeer falling against him, and the two of them were headed for the floor like a couple of felled pines. Instantly, for Marc, everything went black.

  In the meantime, Ruby, in her determination to do a really bang-up job on Toffee, was giving her blow all the careful aim, and driving power it would need. Squinting, she sighted Toffee’s right eye, and let go. It was precisely in this moment that Marc’s head struck the floor and Toffee vanished into thin air.

  The man on the flying trapeze had nothing on Ruby. She sailed gracefully through the air and came quickly to a skidding stop on the top of a nearby table, at which sat two of the club’s more befogged patrons.

  “Perfect belly landing!” one of them cried delightedly. “Smooth as glass.”

  “Just like a dame,” complained the other, seeing the incident in a different light. “Not satisfied with yelpin’ her horrible yellow head off at us up there, she’s got to come over here and knock over our drinks.”

  Ruby boosted herself dazedly to one elbow, and gazed malevolently at the two. Daintily, she picked up a remaining beer bottle and dispatched them to the floor in attitudes of idyllic slumber.

  “That’ll teach you to talk about a lady,” she mumbled quickly, and with that, silently collapsed.

  It was in this restful atmosphere that Marc regained consciousness, and for a moment, as he rolled the still unconscious Manny from his chest, he had highly colored thoughts of atomic bombs and such. Then, reassuringly, the wild applause of the more awake customers of the night club, came to his ears. He got to his feet to discover the cause of their noisy enthusiasm.

  On the dance floor, there was the most remarkable human pyramid anyone had ever seen. It wasn’t so much the acrobats themselves, although they were a fairly curious looking lot, it was the girl in the black evening dress that sat casually on the shoulders of the top-most man. Toffee had not only materialized, but had chosen her spot for doing so, as well, and
from the spectator’s point of view, the affect had been pretty astounding.

  “Smartest trick I ever saw,” one seedy little man mumbled to himself, “but I’m dogged if I can figure how they got her up there so fast.”

  Another guest of the Loma, already dazed by drink, gazed wide-eyed at the spectacle, and slipped blissfully under the table. “I’d have broke me pledge long ago,” he murmured, coming to sodden rest on the floor, “if I’d known I was going to start seeing dames like that. It sure beats the snakes.”

  But successful as the glorious tableau was, like all good things, it was destined for an early end. However, it might have continued longer, if the “Base” acrobat, upon whom the rest were depending for their support, hadn’t become curious about the audience’s sudden approval of the act. Usually, at this stage in the performance, a noticeable chill descended on the club.

  IT IS hard to say what the fellow expected to see, as he turned his head awkwardly to look above him, but judging by subsequent developments, it is a pretty safe guess that it was not a redhead in a dangerous black evening grown, lounging radiantly on the shoulders of his partners, graciously blowing kisses to the audience. To say that the man was shaken, is to tell the whole story.

  There was a dreadful series of whacking sounds as the forces of gravity worked swiftly to bring the entire act to an untimely end. As for Toffee, she alone descended gracefully, looking much like a streamlined ballerina, knocking off the swan after a busy day in the woods. As she bowed in the spotlight, the audience went nearly crazy with loud appreciation.

  “I knew they couldn’t hold it long,” she said breathlessly, rushing up to Marc. “They’re not as strong as they look.”