The Complete Adventures of Toffee

by Charles F. Myers

“Why not? I’d be sore as hell myself.”

  “When do we get to the curve, boss?”

  “I don’t know,” the congressman said. “But I can’t wait. The sooner that car crashes and takes that frightful thing with it the better.”

  MEANWHILE, as the two cars skidded and reeled toward the appointed spot of disaster, Marc continued to loiter several blocks behind. Having deliberately cut across traffic in the middle of the block, he pulled up beside the police car and leaned out the window.

  “I just cut across traffic!” he called out.

  The cop behind the wheel left his conversation with his companion and observed Marc dubiously.

  “So what?” he asked. “You want me to give you a gold star on your driver’s license?”

  “I don’t have a driver’s license,” Marc offered hopefully. “What are you going to do about it, you big, thickheaded slob?”

  The cop turned back to his partner. “A kidder, we’ve got here,” he said. He turned back to Marc. “Beat it, comedian, you and your girl friend take off.”

  “Aren’t you going to chase me?” Marc asked. “I’m a lawbreaker.”

  “Move along, chum,” the cop drawled, “before I sell you a ticket to the orphan’s picnic.”

  “But you’ve got to chase me,” Marc said urgently.

  “No I don’t, friend,” the cop said. “I’ve got to sit here and listen for radio leads on this goofy Pillsworth guy.”

  “But that’s me!” Marc said. “I’m Pillsworth!”

  The cop looked at him with forced patience. “Sure, sure,” he said. “And I’m Miss Atlantic City. Beat it.” He turned back to his companion.

  “What if I told you I knew where a murder was going to happen?” Marc ventured.

  The cop looked around. “You’re just full of news, aren’t you?” he said, and turned away again.

  For a moment Marc sat in silent indecision. Then he turned to the blond.

  “Why don’t you scream?” he asked.

  “Why should I?” the woman asked interestedly. “Do you really know where a murder’s going to happen?”

  “You said screaming made you feel good,” Marc suggested.

  “I feel fine,” the woman said. “I always do with a lot of stuff going on. Who’s going to get murdered?”

  Marc glanced desperately from the woman to the cops and back again. A determined look came into his eyes. He cautiously extended two fingers to the woman’s thigh. “I’m sorry,” he said, and pinched as hard, as he could.

  THE results were everything to be wished for—and more. Stiffening in her seat, the woman let out a bleat that surpassed even her previous efforts. Even George might have envied the torment in her voice as it soared, swooped, scaled the heights and dipped into soul-shattering depths. At its completion, the blond turned and took a clawing swipe at Marc’s face.

  Marc ducked. “That’s the stuff!” he said happily, noting from the corner of his eye that he had finally gained the undivided attention of the police force. Pinching the blonde again and nodding his satisfaction at the second chorus, he threw the coupe into gear, cut across traffic and headed down the speedway. It was only a moment before the wail of a siren mingled with the shrill vocalizations of his companion. He pushed the gas feed to the floor.

  To the witnesses along the speedway, the pedestrians, the vendors, the shop owners and just plain malingerers, the events of the evening were never entirely clear. Some, judging simply by the volume of noise, settled for the notion that what had passed was nothing more than an overly exuberant wedding procession. The sticklers, however, rejected this notion flatly, pointing to the significant details of the affair.

  Which, they demanded to know, was the wedding couple? Certainly it couldn’t have been the redhead and the wailing man in the green sedan; certainly no bride—or at least very few—had ever used that kind of language to her groom on the wedding night. And it took the most wretched husband years to achieve the note of despair which this poor fellow was loosing on the evening air.

  As for the black limousine, that was out. Though its occupants seemed locked together in some sort of mad embrace, the arrangement appeared to have its roots in terror rather than affection.

  The couple in the coupe that followed was even more difficult to wedge into the picture of the young couple united. After all, wasn’t she screaming her lungs out and hammering on his head with both fists?

  As for the police who followed—and they probably knew the truth of the matter—they looked shocked to the core. So there simply wasn’t any answer for it until the morning papers came out.

  The participants in the demented chase along the speedway, however, were far too engrossed in their own problems to care for the conflict they introduced into the lives of innocent bystanders. Toffee, for one, could not have been less concerned; she was too mad at George.

  “Stop that caterwauling!” she yelled. “Stop it, you idiot.”

  GEORGE pulled his disconnected head inside the window and eyed Toffee owlishly. His other parts adjusted themselves and the head sank into Toffee’s lap. There, gazing up at her, it lazily crossed its eyes and began to whimper piteously.

  “Ugh!” Toffee cried. “I’ll go mad!”

  The head relaxed its face obligingly into an expression of feebleminded delight, letting its tongue loll loosely from the corner of its mouth.

  “That’s all!” Toffee screamed. “I’m getting out of here!”

  Without further consideration for the occupants of the limousine and the approaching curve, she relinquished the wheel, threw the car door open, and with one last agonized glance at the loathsome head, which was now foaming prettily at the mouth, prepared to depart its company. In the limousine this bit of action was not unobserved.

  “She’s trying to get away!” the congressman yelled. “Stop her!”

  The thug turned to the window and looked. “Get back!” he hollered. “Get back or I’ll blast you!”

  “Go ahead,” Toffee cried. “It’ll be a positive pleasure next to what I’ve just been through.”

  “Okay!” the thug said grimly. “You asked for it!”

  His finger closed down on the trigger. It was just at that moment, however, that the green sedan, no longer benefitted by a driver, swerved toward the limousine, throwing Toffee back inside. The congressman cramped the wheel of the limousine sharply to avoid a crash. The gunman, thrown sharply against the door, fired wildly into the night. From the rear there was the sound of screeching tires and forced brakes.

  “Good night!” the congressman panted, righting the limousine as the green sedan veered away again. “What did you hit?”

  “I think it was that coupe back there,” the thug said, peering out the window. “I must have hit a tire; it’s out of control.”

  “Good Lord!” the congressman yelled, “the curve’s right ahead! We’re pinned in between them. We’re going to crash. Everybody’s going to crash!”

  No sooner was this dire prediction out of the congressman’s mouth than it became a deafening reality. Ahead, the green sedan raced headlong into the concrete embankment with a rending smash and almost literally flattened itself into two dimensions.

  This was the signal for the two lesser crashes that followed. The limousine engaged its radiator forcibly into the wreckage just in time to receive a skidding broadside from the coupe.

  A MOMENT of silence followed, emphasized by the approaching scream of a siren. The police car jolted to a stop and the two cops ran forward to the scene of destruction. They reached the coupe first.

  “Here!” the first cop said. “What’s going on?”

  The faded blonde jutted her head out of the window. “He blew out my tire!” she rasped. “Not to mention all that pinching!”

  “Pinching?” the cop asked curiously. “What kind of pinching, lady? Where?”

  “All kinds of pinching,” the woman said evilly. “Everywhere.”

  The cop peered at Marc. “Why’s he dressed in
that nightshirt?”

  “How should I know?” the woman said. “Maybe he thinks he’s cute or something.”

  The cop leaned closer. “Here, you,” he said, “why are you dressed like that?”

  “I’m tired,” Marc said exhaustedly, “and I want to go to bed. I had a little drink about an hour ago...”

  “Stop that now,” the cop barked. “No nonsense.”

  “But it’s all perfectly true,” Marc said.

  The cop started to speak further, but he caught sight of the congressman and his companion climbing out of the limousine and tore himself away.

  “There are people dying in that car!” the congressman shouted tragically, hurrying forward. “It’s awful, officer!”

  “All maimed and cut up,” the thug put in. “Loose heads and legs and stuff all over the place.”

  “Have you seen them?” the policeman asked.

  “Well, they must be,” the congressman put in quickly. “How could it be otherwise? The man in the car is Marc Pillsworth. I saw him just before the crash.”

  The policeman did a take. “Yeah?”

  “Sure,” the thug said excitedly. “Only now he’s all cut up—loose head and arms and ...!”

  “Shut up,” the congressman snapped.

  “They might still be alive,” the cop said. “We’ve got to do something about it.”

  “Indeed we do,” the congressman said. “Perhaps we can assist them.”

  “Come on,” the cop said. “You can give a hand.”

  DUTIFULLY the three turned to the sedan. They turned and then stopped with a harmonized gasp, the cop taking the bass. In the moment of their turning there had been a sudden movement in the car and the door had swung partially open. In the opening there appeared a leg of provocative shapeliness.

  “A leg!” the thug shuddered. “I told you!”

  “A dame’s leg,” the cop breathed. “And just think what the rest of her must have been like with a leg like that! Just imagine ... !” He sucked in his breath as the leg began to show unexpected signs of life. It quivered, turned and was quickly joined by a mate of equal perfection. It was only a moment before Toffee appeared in total, quite unmarked. Her mood, however, was hostile. Quitting the ruined car she turned back to the door and thrust her head inside.

  “Of all the beastly, rotten, evil-minded, stinking things to do to a girl!” she snapped. “Come out of there you slimy-souled son of Satan and fight like a man. I’ll teach you to make foul passes at a girl when she is stuck under a clutch. I’ll show you ... !”

  “Good gosh!” the cop said. “Who’s she talking to?”

  “She must be hysterical,” the congressman said, thoroughly shaken. “Probably got a crack on the head and isn’t accountable for what she’s saying.”

  “That’s certainly no way to talk to the dead,” the cop said.

  “It’s no way to talk to the living,” the thug said. “If she hauled off at me like that I’d rather be dead.”

  “The poor child’s obviously insane,” the congressman said firmly. “There’s no question about it.”

  Meanwhile Toffee was still at it. “Come out of there, you hulking lout,” she grated, “before I come in there and drag you out by your ears!”

  “Poor little thing,” the cop said sadly. “She really believes Mr. Pillsworth can come out of that car. She refuses to believe he’s dead.”

  By now Toffee had stepped forward and yanked the door all the way open. As the three in the background stared in varying degrees of apprehension, a thin figure in a brief linen gown crawled out on its hand and knees. The congressman swayed slightly as though about to faint.

  “You look more natural down on all fours, you beast,” Toffee rasped. “I ought to kick you right in the slats. Get up and try to face me if you’ve the nerve!”

  APPARENTLY the shock of the accident had given George’s ectoplasm a further jolt for now he was completely materialized. He looked up at Toffee ruefully and got to his feet.

  “I was only trying to get you loose,” he said.

  “The way you were pawing me was enough to get any girl loose,” Toffee said. “Just don’t try it again.”

  “Gawd a’mighty!” the thug whispered. “Pillsworth!”

  “Pillsworth?” the cop said. “But that’s the same guy who was pinching the other dame in the coupe. My gosh! how he gets around!”

  Just then the other policeman, who had retreated to the background, arrived on the scene with Marc and the blond in custody.

  “Hey,” he said, “I caught this creep on the creep. He was trying to sneak out.”

  The cop looked quickly at Marc, then back to George. “It’s the same guy!” he said. “Which one of you birds is Pillsworth?”

  Marc and George went smoothly into their routine of pointing to each other in unison.

  “He is!” they said.

  The cop turned to Toffee. “Do you know which is which?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Toffee said and nodded at George. “He’s Pillsworth.”

  “She’s crazy,” George retorted hotly. “She’s as crazy as bedbugs in a bathtub.”

  “That’s right,” the thug put in. “She’s a looney if there ever was one.”

  Marc moved urgently to gain the cop’s attention. “You’ve got to arrest that man,” he said, pointing at the congressman. “He’s a subversive and a murderer.”

  THE congressman whirled about. “You must be insane, sir!” he rasped in frantic denial.

  “You must be,” Marc said. “You must have been ripe for the hatch years ago.”

  “You’re a fine one to talk,” the blonde put in nastily. “Officer this man is off his rocker like a busted hobby horse. He’s done nothing but pinch me ever since we met.”

  Toffee levelled her gaze at Marc. “What were you doing pinching that tomato?” she demanded. “Just what were you getting at?”

  “Oh, don’t be crazy,” Marc said distractedly.

  “Oh, so I’m crazy, am I?” Toffee said, doubling her fists.

  “You sure are, sister,” the thug put in. “You’re the most hopped up dame I ever saw.” He turned to the cop. “She ought to be locked up.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Toffee said. “At least I didn’t put anyone in a busted car and send them off to get killed. Officer, I want you to arrest that killer.”

  “Look, officer,” Marc insisted, “you’ve got to take this man into custody. He’s a menace to the whole country.”

  “If you take anyone in, officer,” the blond put in harshly, “make it this skinny bimbo. Pinch him like he pinched me.”

  The congressman moved in aggressively toward Marc. “You’re making slanderous accusations!” he blustered. “You should be committed to an institution!”

  “You’re crazy!” Marc raged.

  “You’re crazy!” the blond screeched.

  “You’re crazy!” Toffee hollered at the blond.

  “You’re crazy!” the thug insisted moodily.

  The cop turned dizzily to his companion and held out a palsied hand. “Hurry!” he pleaded, “call the wagon, and let’s take the whole bunch of them in. In another minute I’m going to be crazy!”

  THE morning sun poured through the high windows of the courtroom, wasting its brightness on a scene of sullen dementia. Judge Carper’s heavy face had achieved a shade of dyspeptic vermillion in record time this morning. Even the flies clung to the walls in muted terror as his gavel banged on the substantial wood of the bench and set the room atremble.

  “Silence!” the judge roared. “Silence, damnit! And if one more defendant makes just one more crack about the sanity of any other defendant I’ll lock the whole crew of you up and melt the key down for a watch fob.” He ran his shaking hand over his forehead. “Besides, so far I don’t even know which ones of you are the defendants and which are the complainants.” He turned to the policeman. “Do you know?”

  “I’m not sure, the cop admitted uneasily. “I think they’re all both.�
�

  “Both what?” the judge asked confusedly.

  “Both defendants and complainants. As far as I can tell everybody’s mad as hell at everybody else. It sort of goes around in a circle.”

  “And I’m burned up at the lot of them,” the judge said malignantly. “Who are those two over there without any clothes on?”

  “I think they lost their clothes in the crash,” the cop said vaguely. “The guy is really two guys, so it’s hard to tell.”

  “What?”

  “There are really two guys like that,” the cop said. “Dressed alike.”

  The judge peered across at Marc with deep speculation. “I only see one of him,” he said dryly.

  “The other one disappeared,” the cop said, casting down his eyes. “He—well, sort of evaporated.”

  “Evaporated? What are you talking about?”

  “It’s a fact, your honor. It happened on the way in. The only way I can explain it is that one minute he was there and the next he just sort of melted away.”

  “Rooney,” the judge said, “have you lost your wits?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me, judge,” the cop sighed. “Everyone else has. Why not me?”

  “There’s only one man there, Rooney,” the judge said harshly. “And judging by those skinny legs of his, maybe not even that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you bucking for another vacation, Rooney, is that it?”

  “Well, your honor, I do feel tired. It seemed to come over me all of a sudden, after I ran into all those people.”

  “All right, we’ll see what can be done. In the meantime let’s have no more of this falderol about one man being two, only one of them evaporated.”

  “YES, your honor,” Rooney said, greatly saddened. “There’s only one man. I guess I was mistaken.”

  “Or drunk,” the judge murmured sourly and turned his gaze to the assortment before him. “Now what happened with this gang?”

  “They were all in a wreck that involved three cars. The young lady in the underskirt was driving the first one. She claims that the dark man with the scar tried to murder her by forcing her to drive a car with a broken steering gear.”