Read Ebook: The spirit of Toffee by Farrell Henry Gray William A Illustrator

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Ebook has 496 lines and 24228 words, and 10 pages

The distress in George's face was genuine. He was earnestly doing everything he could to cooperate. "I'm too excited," he said. "Emotional disturbances always react on me this way."

The knock suddenly sounded on the door again, and Marc started as though he'd been struck. "Calm down!" he yelled. "For the love of heaven, be calm!"

George nodded, closed his eyes and breathed deeply several times. Slowly, a section at a time, he faded from sight.

Marc turned relievedly to the door. "Come in!" he called. Then turning back, he suddenly yelled, "No! Stay out!"

Like a great brown rat, George's shoe was loping lazily across the room. Apparently the spirit was habitually forgetful of this particular extremity. Marc raced after it and came abreast of it just as it reached the chair. He swung his foot behind him and kicked viciously. The shoe faded just in time to save itself, and Marc's foot collided painfully with the chair. Moaning, he sat down helplessly on the floor and began to nurse the offended member. Then, at the sound of Memphis' voice, he glanced up with horrified eyes. The secretary was observing him interestedly from the doorway.

"A new dance step?" she asked tonelessly.

"Just ... just getting a little exercise," Marc stammered lamely. "Got to tone up the old system once in a while, you know. Push-ups." He flexed his arms in half-hearted demonstration.

Memphis moved uncertainly into the room and closed the door. "Look out that chair doesn't push back," she said.

Marc laughed nervously and got to his feet. "I slipped," he said.

"Well," Memphis said resignedly, "since you've already cracked, I guess these can't hurt you too much." She extended a hand full of papers and dropped them on the desk. "Bills," she announced.

"The show?" Marc asked soberly.

Memphis nodded. "I dropped in at rehearsal last night, just out of morbid curiosity." She said it in a tone of voice generally reserved for use in funeral parlors and morgues. "I caught one of Julie's numbers." A look of utmost discomfort rested curiously on her ruddy face. "Sorry, Mr. Pillsworth."

Obviously Memphis was acting as the close friend who always consoles the bereaved.

Marc didn't know when the bug of theatrical ambition had begun to gnaw at the foundations of his home, but he was willing to bet an attractive sum that the craven little termite had been at its ravenous work for years, considering the matrimonial and financial devastation its insidious activities had wrought in just the last few weeks.

Julie's days as a model and "lady of the chorus" had dawned and waned long before Marc had ever met her. And that being the case, he was all too willing to forgive and forget them. Even in moments of domestic stress, when their handsome ghosts stalked arrogantly through his parlor, bedroom and bath, keeping Julie company as she proclaimed her intention to leave him and resume her "career" ... even then he refused to pay them any serious attention.

However, he might have displayed more wisdom had he given those days all the studied attention due a plan of atomic control, particularly during the last few months, during which, in Julie's reminiscences, they had taken on a more intense, misty-eyed glamour. But what Marc didn't know was that one of Julie's erstwhile chorus girl friends had recently arrived at a rather spectacular Broadway success.

For Julie, certain envious reactions had followed this event like a poison oak rash after an active day in the woods. The persistent weed of ambition that had been languishing in her innermost heart all these years suddenly flourished and blossomed forth like a tangle of deadly nightshade. From that moment on, though Marc was blissfully unaware of it at the time, the future of the Pillsworth marriage and bankroll was in deadly peril. Even Marc's better judgment was in jeopardy, for when it came to psychological warfare, Julie was just the girl to teach the War Department a trick or two that would probably curl its hair. It was no time at all before Marc was financing a fabulously expensive musical comedy, entitled "Love's Gone Winging," and wondering what had ever possessed him. And all this on top of several outstandingly bad investments. The future was dusky indeed, if it still existed at all.

Marc stared unhappily at Memphis. "Pretty bad, huh?" he asked.

"If I told you what I think of your wife's talents, Mr. Pillsworth," Memphis said regretfully, "you'd either have to fight me or fire me. Maybe both. Mrs. Pillsworth may be a star tonight, but I bet she does a faster nose-dive than Halley's Comet. I hope she's getting a good rest today. She's going to need her strength."

Marc shook his head. "Got any idea what the total costs are so far?"

Memphis gazed unhappily out the window. "I'd rather not say," she murmured. "You'd think I was lying. I would, too. There just isn't that much money." Her gaze moved self-consciously from the window to the carpet. "The bank wants to see you right away," she added. "They were gentle but, oh, so firm."

Marc flinched. "I guess I'll have to see them," he said. "While I'm gone be a good secretary and make me a reservation in the nearest bread line."

"Don't give up the ship," Memphis said. "We can at least go down fighting. Even if it's only the creditors. In the meantime, business as usual. What do you want me to do about the Carmichael Aspirin Account?"

"I don't know," Marc said wearily. "See if they give free samples."

Memphis crossed to the door. "Well," she said with forced jauntiness, "I'll think of something. Maybe I'll just roll it up and fry it in deep fat." She slapped her girdle. "And I'm just the kid that could do it."

When she had gone, Marc turned forlornly to the window. He wasn't actually thinking of jumping, he was just wondering how long it would be before he did start thinking of it. Then he started as invisible hands began to pat industriously at the back of his coat.

"Stop that!" he yelled.

"I was only brushing you off," George's voice said, near at hand. "You got a little messed up on the floor."

"I'll dust myself," Marc said. "Thank you, just the same."

"I sure wish I could think of a way to straighten things out for you."

"Just forget it," Marc said. "Don't trouble your invisible little head about it."

"You need money," George mused. "That's the key to the whole problem as I see it."

"Sometimes," Marc said sarcastically, "you show signs of true genius."

George made strange musing noises for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, he asked, "Where's Toffee?"

Marc started visibly. He hadn't thought of Toffee in a long time, and he didn't particularly want to think of her now. One supernatural creature at a time was more than enough. Especially at a time like this.

Also, Marc was shudderingly mindful of Toffee's intimate relationship with pandemonium; the two of them romped about, hand in hand, like a pair of grade-school sweethearts. The most remarkable thing about Toffee, though, was that, in fact as well as fancy, she sprang from the very depths of Marc's own subconscious mind. Marc had long ago reconciled himself to the uneasy fact that his mind sheltered a precocious spirit who might, at almost any moment, be released into the world of actuality, and materialize right there before his astonished eyes. Then, too, there was Toffee's penchant for snatching the affairs of his life from his own grasp and instilling in them the breath of sheer madness. It was a difficult pill to swallow, and one that was rarely graced with a sugar coating. Even if she did manage to leave his life in a fair state of repair, her methods always put him through such a rigorous program of mental anguish that the end seemed hardly to justify the means at all. Marc tried to turn his thoughts away from her, for to think of her might easily start the chain of psychological reaction that always provoked her reappearance. He wished that George hadn't remembered the girl from his previous visit.

"I don't know where she is," he said. "Let's just try to forget her, shall we? Things are confused enough already. In the meantime, I've got to get down to the bank." He frowned thoughtfully. "But what am I going to do with you?"

"Oh, I'll come along!" George said eagerly. "There's no telling where I might stumble onto just the sort of thing I'm looking for. What's a bank?"

"They keep money in a bank," Marc said absently. Finally he shrugged. "I guess I'll just have to put you on your honor, though I've a feeling it's rather like putting a man-eating tiger on a lettuce diet. You'll have to promise to stay here and keep out of sight. I'll lock the office door so no one will walk in and surprise you. Do you promise?"

A perfunctory "uh-huh" echoed from George's direction. Then there was a brief scuffling sound and Marc's hat whirled crazily from the rack in the corner, flashed across the room and settled in a raffish angle on its owner's startled head. Invisible hands began to fuss at Marc's tie.

"Don't!" Marc cried. "How often do I have to tell you I don't want to be helped? Why can't you be yourself? I think I liked you better when you were trying to do me in."

"I want you to make a good impression," George explained.

Marc started toward the door. "That's very nice of you, I'm sure. But all I ask is that you just remember to behave yourself while I'm away."

"Oh, I will!" George's voice proclaimed earnestly. "I will!"

If Marc's mind hadn't been so filled with dread of the impending meeting at the bank he might have noticed that the voice was being just a little too earnest.

Marc turned the grey business coupe into a side street and headed for the parking lot behind the bank. He wasn't thinking too much, though, about what he was doing. Instead, his mind was occupied with a sneaking suspicion. There was something strange about the car, something odd about the feel of it and the way it rode. The body seemed to lean to the left a bit, almost as though someone were clinging to the side. Also, there had been the incident at the intersection, when a truck had broken through the light and headed directly toward the grey coupe. He could have sworn someone yelled at him to look out, someone very close to his left ear. It had given him a creepy feeling at the time. And thinking back on it, he was no longer so certain about the gust of wind that had brushed past him as he was closing the office door. It might have been....

Reaching the parking lot, he swung the car quickly to the right, into a drive, and pressed down on the gas as it turned onto a short, steep incline. Then he went tense in his seat. The post and chain barrier hadn't been visible from the street. Neither had the sign saying, "Use Other Entrance." And now that they were visible, there wasn't time to do anything about them. Sign, posts and chain were swarming over the car in a rush.

There was a tearing, whacking sound and the coupe jerked wickedly to the right. Suddenly, the steering wheel seemed to be leaving its post, spiraling upward toward Marc's face. A split second later everything went black to the raucous accompaniment of a blaring horn.

The horn continued to scream in the darkness, and, to Marc, its windy blast seemed to be hurling him outward. He shot swiftly out and up into lightless, unknown regions, his body curiously unhampered by the faintest trace of atmospheric resistance. He sailed through space, arms outspread, unrestrained, as though in a vacuum, and strangely, he felt wonderfully free, almost exultant. As he moved further into the distance the sound of the horn took on a thin, silvery tone that was almost musical.

Then, slowly, like a projectile approaching the apex of its arc, his body began to lose momentum. For a time there was the sensation of treading air as a swimmer treads water. Gradually, he churned to a complete, suspended stop. He felt himself hovering precariously in mid-air, and then, all of a sudden, he plunged downward.

In his descent there was no sense of easy motion as there had been before. Instead, he was falling rapidly, hurtling through the dark, a tangled mass of helpless arms and legs. His efforts to fight the force that was sucking him downward were useless. Then, sooner and more easily than he had expected, he came to rest. All at once there was a soft, cool surface beneath him that seemed to give with his weight, then lift him gently.

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