Toffee Turns The Trick

By CHARLES F. MYERS

The fixage pills caused a major
change in Marc's life—they not only made
him a babe in arms—but Toffee's to boot!

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Fantastic Adventures February 1949.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

The strange valley, its glossy emerald carpet unruffled and unmarked, its scattered groves of odd, feathery trees undisturbed by the blue mists languishing at their feet, lay dozing in the diffused light of a sunless sky. Then, at the crest of a distant knoll, the mists suddenly stirred and gave way to a slender, gold-sandaled foot which was neatly attached to a really top-notch leg.

The leg swung gracefully into view and was instantly joined by various other notable appointments; another exquisite leg, for instance, a body of disquieting shapeliness and a pert young face. As an almost needless bonus there were also two vivid green eyes, a full red mouth and a plethora of gleaming titian hair. Together, these dazzling bits of merchandise added up to Toffee, blithe mistress of the valley of Marc Pillsworth's subconscious mind.

Certainly, Marc Pillsworth was not the first man to have a girl on his mind but at least he could claim the distinction of being the first to have one actually dwelling therein!

The girl paused a moment, gazed at the glowing sky and frowned. Barely discernible in the distance, a number of tiny storm clouds had bunched themselves together and were rapidly being joined by more of their kind. Thoughtfully Toffee started down the slope and across the valley, her slender hips weaving an indolent rhythm beneath the green transparency of her brief tunic.

She watched the gathering clouds with mixed emotions. They meant, of course, that Marc was suffering some sort of mental annoyance, some sort of anxiety ... and for that she was sorry. On the other hand, however, they might also be an indication that she was soon to be released into the world of actuality, a prospect that delighted her beyond words. Compared to the well ordered tranquility of Marc Pillsworth's subconscious, the outer world seemed to her a wonderful region of boundless pleasures and delightful excitements. If there was even a remote possibility that she was soon to be materialized in that glittering world she wanted to know about it at the earliest possible moment.

Crossing the valley, reaching the rising slopes at its outer boundaries, she turned into a sharp ravine and stopped. Ahead lay the region of Marc's conscious mind, and she could not enter there, she could only watch from the distance and wait.

Marc's conscious mind ... at least the portion of it that was visible to Toffee ... was like nothing so much as a great, dark cavern. At one end, however, the darkness was relieved by a large circular screen-like arrangement that reflected scenes and images with a penetrating, third dimensional clarity. These reflections were, of course, of the innumerable things upon which Marc gazed throughout the day. Looking at the screen from within was like looking through a great, round window.

As Toffee watched, the screen registered only a blank expanse of ceiling. Then the scene shifted abruptly, and an oak panel slid into view. A blur followed. Then a window. The window remained a moment, then skidded nervously out of range to be replaced by an eager, hawk-featured face.

Behind Toffee the storm clouds began to thicken and multiply more swiftly.

The face on the screen was furiously animated, the mouth wagging away at a terrific clip. Toffee couldn't hear the words that were the result of this frantic facial activity, but she could watch closely and try to read the lips.

In his private office in the Pillsworth Advertising Agency, Marc Pillsworth stared fixedly at the little man as though trying to will him out of existence. The fellow had been yammering at him steadily for half an hour and had yet to show the first signs of weakening. Marc's gaze wavered and moved wearily to the small green bottle standing before him on the desk. He sighed.

"Just think of it!" the little man was saying. "All humanity will be fairly trampling itself, trying to get Fixage. And you will be in on the ground floor for a whole twenty-five percent! Think of it!"

"I don't want to think of it," Marc muttered, then, realizing with a start that he had actually managed to get a word in edgewise, he pressed his advantage. "As I understand it, Mr. Culpepper, you want me to bring this ... uh ... this ..." he waggled a finger at the bottle on the desk "... to the attention of the manufacturers in the interests of gaining a backer. In exchange for this service you will make me a quarter owner of the invention." He fixed the little man with a severe gaze. "In other words, you haven't been able to slither through a single door with the thing ... except mine. And no wonder, if you ask me. Pills that are supposed to make a person immortal are just too...."

The little man held up an arresting hand. "You misunderstand!" he cried. "They don't make you immortal. Mercy, no! Nothing as fantastic as that. Oh, they might prolong your life twenty years or so, but their main effect is to arrest physical deterioration. In other words.... How old are you, Mr. Pillsworth?"

"Thirty-two," Marc sighed. "But it seems more like fifty."

"Thirty-two! You're right at the peak!"

"If I were at the peak," Marc said, "I would jump off."

"Just think!" the man continued. "Just think what it would mean if you could remain thirty-two for the rest of your life! Even if you live to be a hundred and thirty-two! See what I mean? No loss of faculties. No decrease in vigor. Thirty-two till the day you die! And look at the commercial value of the thing. The women. My word, the women! There isn't a woman alive who wouldn't pauperize her husband and family for a thing like Fixage. They'd be young and beautiful forever!"

"Or young and ugly," Marc murmured. With an air of finality he gripped the edge of his desk and boosted himself to his feet. "And besides, Mr. Culpepper, this agency is not interested in ventures of this sort. Frankly, I don't see why you came to me at all. When you've a proven product, fully backed and on the market, I will be happy to do business with you. But not until. It's my job to sell things to the public, not the manufacturers."

Seemingly out of nowhere, the little man's finger darted toward Marc's face. "Those wrinkles, Mr. Pillsworth!" the little man rasped. He looked as though he'd just opened the door on a closet full of vampires. "Those marks of worry and age around your eyes! They can be stopped! Permanently!"

Marc backed away, affrighted. For a moment he was very close to hiding his face in his hands. He recovered his poise just in time however.

"This is incredible," he said with hostile dignity. "My wrinkles were come by honestly, Mr. Culpepper, and if you don't mind, I'd prefer not to have them pointed at. Also, I'll thank you to stop talking in headlines and get out of my life and my office. You've already talked me out of my lunch hour and I've a great deal of work to do."

At last Mr. Culpepper seemed to get the idea. He shrugged and turned partly away.

"Oh, well," he said. "I'm willing to wait until you've made up your mind. In the meantime, I'll just leave that bottle with you, and you can think it over. You could even try it yourself and see how it works. You'll be surprised what it will do for you."

"You'll be surprised what I'll do for it," Marc said, "if you leave it here." He picked the bottle up and started around the desk with it. "Here, take it with you. I don't want you to have any excuse to come creeping back in here. Do you have your hat?"

But now the little man was as anxious to leave as Marc was to have him leave. He raced to the door and threw it open.

"Just keep it," he called back. "I'll drop back in a few days." And just before closing the door, he added, "I don't wear a hat."

Marc returned to the desk and sank into his chair. He deposited the bottle before him and regarded it thoughtfully. "Holy smoke," he murmured, "where do they come from, these crackpot ideas?"

The door opened and Memphis McGuire, Marc's secretary, bounded into the room. She was a large, healthy girl with an equally large and healthy contempt for formal office procedures. She hadn't had a decent girdle since the war.

"Hi, boss man," she said airily. "You look awful. What's the big beef?"

"I feel awful," Marc said. "Whatever possessed you to let that little creep in here? Or is this Ground Hog Day?"

"He talked so loud and so fast and so crazy," Memphis said, "I thought he might be a genius. Besides, he kept pointing at my wrinkles in front of the rest of the girls, and a lady can take just so much of that sort of thing. I had to get rid of him somehow. Get on your nerves?"

Marc nodded. "Got on 'em and stayed on 'em. My head is splitting."

"That's bad," Memphis said. "Old man Wheeler just called about his soft drink account. He's on his way over. If you're in bad shape now you'll be in ruins when he gets through with you. We'll have to get you in condition for the attack. Here, come over and stretch out on the lounge and close your eyes."

Marc did as he was told. No use arguing when Memphis was in a Nightingale mood. The secretary made retreating and returning noises and then, without warning, shocked Marc's brow with a damp cloth. She pressed a glass of water into one of his hands and two pills into the other.

"Swallow those down," she commanded. "I'll take the glass when you've finished."

Marc obeyed. "Thanks," he said.

"Glad you had some aspirin handy," Memphis said, starting to move away. "I was plum out."

"Yeah," Marc murmured. Then he sat up. "What!"

It struck him, all of a sudden, that he hadn't any aspirin either. A chill went through him. He opened his eyes and glanced at the desk, and his heart accepted an invitation to the rhumba. The little green bottle had moved to the edge of the desk and it was open!

"Memphis!"

Memphis was standing in the doorway. "Shut up," she said. "Lie down, take it easy. I'll stall Wheeler in the waiting room and feed him raw meat to dull his appetite."

She closed the door behind her.

Marc made the length of the room without once noticeably touching the floor. He grabbed the bottle and stared at its label. "Take one," it instructed, "every six months."

Panic crept across the silent room, but Marc forced it back.

"Oh, well," he murmured, "there's probably nothing to it. Couldn't be."

Then it hit him.

The nausea came in waves, each one growing deeper and more relentless than the last. Everything was suddenly edged in black and gold, and slowly the room began to sway. Marc felt his knees go weak and he started back toward the lounge, stumbling; if he was going to die, he might as well do it in style. He might have cried out only his throat was suddenly dry and stiff.

Toffee fled across the valley and darted into a tiny grove of trees just as the last faint glow in the sky gave way to complete darkness. A driving wind lashed the trees above her in frenetic rhythm, and the darkness was suddenly split by a writhing streak of white lightning. Her hair whipped stingingly across her face, and her tunic pressed flat against her body until it was like a part of her. Her expression, if it could have been seen, was a curious mixture of terror and exhilaration. She steadied herself against a tree and turned into the wind so that her hair blew away from her eyes. She peered into the darkness and waited.

She didn't have to wait long; the storm lasted only a moment and then it was gone. All at once the darkness was replaced by the same diffused glow that had prevailed before its coming, and the valley had returned to its former state of drowsy tranquility. Toffee emerged from the grove and surveyed the valley with expectant eyes. She was not disappointed; a lank figure lay crumpled at the bottom of the knoll. With a little cry of gladness, she ran toward it.

"Marc!" she cried. She threw herself down beside him on the grass. "You divine devil, you! I've been expecting you all day." In a burst of enthusiasm, she threw her arms around him and hugged him to her.

Marc opened his eyes and frowned. "Handle with care," he said thickly. "I think I'm fragile." He glanced around at the valley and his face registered recognition. "So I'm back here again, am I? I'm not dead then."

"You drew a blank," Toffee said. "It was a daisy, too. This valley wasn't fit for man nor any other kind of beast when you hit it. What happened?"

Marc boosted himself forward and ran a lean hand through his sandy hair. "I don't remember," he said. "It must have been terrific, I feel all twisted up inside."

"Just a little shaken up," Toffee said confidently. "You'll be all right. Tell me, just to make conversation, how's your wife? That big blonde?"

"Away," Marc said. "Julie went to Kansas to look after an ailing relative. A cousin, I believe."

Toffee nodded with satisfaction. "Good," she said. "That leaves me a free field, doesn't it?" The speculation in her eyes was undisguised. "We will have fun. Lots."

"Now look here," Marc said, trying to look firm. "Let's not have any horsing around. Just this once why don't you stay here, where you belong? Just because I dream you up that doesn't mean that you have to come popping into my life, messing it up. Be reasonable."

"Sure," Toffee said. "I'll be reasonable ... dirt cheap, if need be. I'll listen to any proposition you may have to make ... if it's not too respectable." She twined her arms around his neck. "Kiss me. All this dull talk is beginning to tire me."

Marc was in the midst of shoving her away from him when the storm returned. It came as suddenly and as mysteriously as it had departed, lashing the trees on the knoll against each other, driving the light from the sky. In a sudden start of surprise, Marc clutched Toffee to him.

"Why, you impetuous old rogue!" Toffee cried. "What a clutch!"

For a moment they clung together, helpless under the driving blast of the wind. Then they felt themselves being lifted, as by a giant hand, and hurled into space.

A vari-colored pin-wheel whirled through the darkness and struck Marc squarely between the eyes. Instantly his mind cleared a little, and he opened his eyes. A strip of oak paneling met his gaze, its dark grains writhing before him like water snakes in a pond. He turned over on the lounge and looked at the room. Slowly the room and its objects fell into place and became fixed. He flinched.

Toffee smiled down at him. "Greetings," she said. "Always flat on your back, aren't you?"

Marc gazed at the girl and her brief tunic without pleasure; it was a sight that shocked his finer sensibilities. Surrounded by the severity of the office she looked even more naked somehow than she really was. Absently he tried to imagine her in a more suitable background, but the only setting that occurred to him was one that featured a great deal of plumbing and running water. His mind veered away from a vision that thoroughly repelled him.

"Go 'way," he said. "If you have any shame at all, go 'way and hide yourself. I don't want to look at you."

"You should be so lucky," Toffee retorted. "And don't try pulling any of your phony moralistic airs on me. Remember, I know what's in your mind." She sat down on the edge of the lounge. "How do you feel?"

Marc sat up and considered. He examined his emotions and state of health with care, and was soundly surprised at his findings.

"I feel wonderful!" he exclaimed. "I feel great!"

"Who boffed you?" Toffee asked.

"Boffed?" Marc asked. "How do you mean?" He thought back, trying to remember. "Oh, that!" he said finally. His gaze wandered to the green bottle on the desk. "Those pills. I took a couple." He laughed shortly. "They hit me like a sledge hammer, but they don't seem to have had any serious effects. Memphis gave them to me by mistake just before...." His eyes widened. "Oh, my gosh! How long have I been out? Old man Wheeler may walk in here any moment! He mustn't see you!"

"Who's Wheeler?" Toffee asked.

"A client. He's about sixty-eight and as...."

"I'll leave," Toffee said. "When they get past sixty I begin to lose interest ... and patience."

Marc took her by the arm and started her across the room. "You can take the rear door," he said. "It leads to the hallway and.... Stop twitching your hips like that. When you get outside...."

He stopped and made a small whining noise.

It was as though the ceiling had suddenly come crashing down around his head. For a moment he was numb all over. Then he could feel himself sinking toward the floor, but he wasn't falling. The sensation was alarmingly strange and disagreeable.

"What the devil's...!"

He stopped again; his voice was echoing back to him in an unfamiliar falsetto. The words were his but the voice definitely was not. He started back in alarm, tripped over something and sat down heavily on the floor. It was then that he glanced up and saw Toffee. For a moment he was certain he was losing his mind.

Instead of the well-curved, half-clad redhead he had last seen, he was now confronted by a chunky little moppet of about eight. Her heretofore inadequate tunic now covered her completely, part of it even trailing on the floor. He opened his mouth to speak but gave it up as Toffee expressed his emotions for him with a shrill scream of dismay. Apparently unmindful of her sudden transformation, however, she was staring at him with horror.

"You've shrunk!" she cried. "You've ... you've shriveled!"

Her voice, also, had moved up an octave or so.

Marc quickly turned his attention to his own person and found to his complete stupefaction that Toffee spoke the truth. Indeed he had shrunk like a ten-dollar suit in a cloudburst. What he had tripped over had been his own trouser legs, the spare yardage of which was wadded loosely about his ankles.

"Those pills!" he yelped. "Good grief! They've not only stopped my age, they've backed it up!"

Toffee giggled a little hysterically. "You look so funny!" she tittered. "Your ears are so big. And ... and you've got freckles!"

Marc winced; it was probably all too true. As a youngster he had been plagued with these disfigurements and he had been very sensitive about them. After all, being called "pitcher ears" and "leopard puss" hadn't been fun. Outgrowing these names had been his own personal triumph. And now all that was cancelled; he was back where he had started. He looked up woundedly.

"Look who's laughing," he said. "With that pot belly of yours, you're no glamour item yourself."

An expression of utmost horror swept Toffee's face as she ceased to stare at Marc and turned her attention to herself. One quick, shuddering glance told her the story. This time she screamed as though she really meant it.

"No!" she shrieked. "No! NOooooh! It isn't me! It isn't!" She turned on Marc, raging. "You did this! You swallowed those crazy pills!" Irrationally, she held her hand under his mouth. "Spit them out!" she demanded. "Spit them out this instant or I'll rip those revolting ears right off your despicable head!"

"Don't be disgusting," Marc said, looking away.

"You'll be surprised how disgusting I can really be," Toffee wailed, "if you don't do something about this."

"What can I do?" Marc asked helplessly. "After all the pills were Culpepper's idea, not mine. He's the only one that can do anything about it."

"Get him!" Toffee cried. "Get him! Ring him, call him, wire him, cable him! Only get him!" Her cherubic face began to pucker, her large eyes beginning to cloud. "Wouldn't you know that I'd have to suffer too, just because you were simple-minded enough to take a couple of pills! Wouldn't you know? Look at me! ... just a shapeless little chunk of blubber. I've got about as much appeal as a smudge pot. Less!"

"Stop your sniveling," Marc said crossly. "It isn't helping matters. And I've got to think."

"Why start now?" Toffee asked waspishly.

Marc thoughtfully rolled up his trousers and got to his feet. Full length, he was even stranger to look upon than when sitting down.

His coat sleeves hung limp at his sides, extending nearly a foot beyond his hands; his shirt collar, previously a perfect fit, was now a perfect scream; his scrawny neck jutted out of it like a wire coat hanger. When he walked, his shoes shifted loosely about his feet, making an annoying clattering noise against the floor. Marc Pillsworth, taken all in all, which really wasn't so very much as things stood, had suddenly become an offense to both eye and ear. Toffee, who, on the other hand, had retained a goodly portion of her comeliness, regarded him with distaste.

"If we ever get out of this, pitcher ears," she said, "I hope you have to go through your adolescence again."

Suddenly they both jumped as the door opened and Memphis' head jutted into the room. The secretary opened her mouth to say something, then froze, goggle-eyed. She stared blankly at Marc and Toffee, and they, for want of anything better, simply stared back. There was a long moment of super-charged silence before Memphis found her voice.

"Wh ... ," she said weakly. "Where's Mr. Pillsworth?"

Toffee laughed bitterly. "That jerk," she murmured.

Memphis smiled stiffly. "I don't know how you got in here, honey," she said with false sweetness, "but you really shouldn't be here; this is a business office."

"You're telling me?" Toffee said. "I'm the kid that got the business in it."

Memphis cleared her throat. "Now why don't you just tell me where Mr. Pillsworth has gone and then run along and play?"

Toffee turned to Marc. "Listen to that overstuffed tomato giving us the rush act," she said. She cast glittering eyes toward Memphis. "For two cents I'd come over there and hammer your big thick shins for you. And if you don't clear out I may decide to do it for free. Beat it yourself. You're bothering us."

Memphis gasped. Then she turned to Marc. "Tell me, sonny," she said, "how does your sister like her spankings ... sunny side up or over easy? Or are you a wiseacre too? Now, look here...." She stopped short as her gaze fell on Marc's sagging costume. Her eyes grew wise and fearful. "You're wearing Mr. Pillsworth's suit!" she shrieked. "What have you done to him?"

"You'd be surprised, Bertha," Toffee sneered. "In my opinion it wasn't half what he deserved."

For a moment Memphis was struck dumb. Then her voice came back to her in a lusty scream. She wheeled around and charged out of the room. A second later there was the sound of a telephone dial being put into frenzied motion. Memphis was bawling for the police even as she dialed.

Marc, who had remained in a state of mental and physical paralysis during this disquieting interview, suddenly came to life.

"Now see what you've done!" he piped in his child's voice. "Why couldn't you tell her the truth?"

"She'd have to be daffy to believe it," Toffee said. "Besides, I didn't like her attitude; she was treating me like a child."

"Now we'll have to run for it," Marc said. "Once the police get hold of us, we'll never find Culpepper."

They left the office through the rear door and made their way quickly down the hall to the fire escape window. Marc pointed to a blue convertible in the parking lot below.

"We'll have to try to drive the thing somehow," he said. "After we've gotten away, we'll do what we can about getting in touch with Culpepper."

"I'd like to get in touch with him," Toffee lisped, "with a crowbar."

As Marc was boosting Toffee over the sill and onto the fire escape, a nearby door opened and a large, florid woman stepped into the hallway. She stopped at the sight of the children and observed their activities with alarm.

"Here, here, kiddies," she said, looking maternal, "you mustn't play out there; you might get hurt. Where are your mummy and daddy?"

"Down at the hoosegow," Toffee said evilly. "Mummy's bailing daddy out for peddling hashish at the orphans' picnic. What's it to you?"

"Oh, dear!" the woman exclaimed. "You poor, little, neglected, underprivileged things!" She started forward but was suddenly stopped by a warning glance from Toffee.

"Better stay out of this, fatso," Toffee cooed. "You might get your girdle fractured."

The woman turned red. Then she swung around and continued abruptly down the hall. "Little monsters!" she snorted. "Hope they break their dirty, little underprivileged necks!"

Away from the building and in the car, the two inadvertent juveniles found themselves at sharp odds with the mechanical age. Squatting on the floor, Toffee attempted to operate the foot mechanisms while Marc knelt on the seat and tried his small hand at manipulating the steering apparatus and gear shift. After much concentrated effort and grinding of gears they managed jointly to smash the fender of the neighboring sedan. There the operation ended in dismal failure. Time was running out like water in a hair net. Memphis, in the company of two uniformed companions, was gesticulating wildly from a fourth story window.

"Delinquents!" she yelled. "Juvenile fiends! Now they're stealing his car!"

"Duck down!" Toffee rasped. She reached up and pulled Marc down beside her. "Stay out of sight!"

"They've already spotted us," Marc returned. "They'll be down here in a moment." He reached past her and opened the car door. "Crawl out," he instructed. "I'll follow. We can crawl along under the cars."

Like a couple of bemused slugs, they scooted out of the car, under the sedan of the abused bumper and started on a scenic tour of gravel and axles. They had removed themselves from the convertible by only five cars when the sound of flat feet scraping over gravel sullied the quiet afternoon air. Toffee, leading the way, peered fearfully from beneath the fender of their current refuge.

"They're closing in," she said. "They've searched your car and now they're fanning out. What'll we do?"

Marc thrust his wide-eared countenance next to Toffee's and surveyed the situation. The policemen, under the supervision of Memphis, were embarked upon a campaign to beat every inch of automotive brush in the entire parking lot. Currently, however, these activities had been arrested by the arrival of the parking lot attendant who, quite understandably, was wanting to know just what was going on. Still the situation looked grim for Marc and Toffee once the search was resumed ... as it would be in only a second ... the jig was up. Marc glanced quickly around for possible avenues of escape.

The vehicle next to the one under which they were hiding was a large delivery truck with paneled sides. It was black and rather formidable looking but still it offered a possibility.

"Over there," Marc whispered, pointing to the truck. "Crawl under and toward the back. We can open the rear doors and climb inside without being seen."

Toffee nodded and started out. When they arrived at the rear of the truck, they managed to open the doors and get inside with a certain amount of cooperative pushing and pulling. They closed the doors after them and Marc found an inside catch with which the doors could be locked. They settled back in the dimness to catch their breath.

A removable panel isolated the rear compartment from the driver's cab, cutting off most of the light, and the two fugitives had to feel their way about.

"There's a bundle of rags or something over here," Toffee whispered presently. "Anyway, it's soft. Come on over and sit down."

Marc groped his way across the truck, found the bundle and sat down at Toffee's side.

"Guess there's nothing to do now," he said, "but wait for the worst."

"In the meantime," Toffee said, "what are we going to do about this kiddie business? I don't like it."

"You don't like it," Marc sighed. "I don't like it. And come to think of it, I don't suppose my wife will go for it much either."

"Ouch!" Toffee cried suddenly. "Stop it! This is no time for that sort of thing."

"What sort of thing?"

"You pinched me, you big ... little oaf, and you know it."

"I haven't layed a hand on you," Marc said. "In your present condition, why should I? You flatter yourself."

"Oh yeah?" Toffee said. "I've heard about nasty little boys who run around pinching little girls. If you do it again...."

From outside there was the sound of approaching footsteps. They moved to the rear of the truck and suddenly the door handles began to rattle. Then they stopped, and a voice called out, "Not in here. All locked up." The footsteps moved away, into the distance.

"Anyway," Toffee said, getting back to the matter of the pinchings, "you keep your offensive little paws to yourself from now on or I'll snap them off."

"You back on that?" Marc asked wearily. "Even in childhood you're dirty-minded, aren't you? One would think that.... Ow! Of all the spiteful things to do!"

"What did I do?"

"As if you didn't know, tubby," Marc said nastily. "Pinching me behind my back. Literally!"

"I didn't," Toffee said. "Behind your back or anywhere else. I was too busy massaging my own...."

"Hissst!"

"Now what?" Marc asked.

"Hissst!"

"Stop that silly hisssting, will you?" Toffee said irritably. "You sound crazy. Probably look it, too."

"Who's hissting?" Marc asked. "I haven't made a sound."

"Hissst!"

Both of them were suddenly on their feet.

"Oh, mother!" Toffee moaned. "Snakes! We're in a pit of snakes. Just listen to the beasts. They're fairly lusting for us!"

"Moses!" Marc gasped. "We've been bitten and hissed at by snakes!"

They froze as the dark compartment suddenly came alive with heavy thumping sounds, intermingled with, "Hisst! Hisssst! Hissssst!"

"Pythons!" Toffee whinnied. And all but falling over herself, she lunged to the door and threw the catch.

"The cops!" Marc cried. "What about the cops? They're still out there."

"Right now," Toffee said positively, "there is nothing I would love better than a big, tough cop. I'm going to fling myself on the very first one I see and never let go. I'm going to love that ugly cop like a mother."

She threw the door open, and the compartment flooded with light. She was just about to jump to the ground when she glanced quickly back over her shoulder and stopped.

"Look!" she cried, pointing back into the compartment. "It's human!"

For a moment they simply stared at the transformed bundle of rags. In the light it had suddenly developed a head, arms and legs. It was lying on its stomach with its face turned painfully toward them. A crude gag covered the lower half of its face and its hands were lashed behind its back, which probably explained the mysterious pinchings. The feet were bound together like the hands. It said, "Hisst!"

Marc and Toffee ran to it. They knelt beside it, and Marc untied the gag. A small hawk-like face peered up at them.

"Culpepper!" Marc gasped. He turned to Toffee. "It's a snake after all."

The little man sighed with relief. "Hurry and untie me," he said. "They'll kill me."

"And I'll help them," Marc said.

The little man blinked. "How's that?" he asked.

"I'm Pillsworth," Marc said. "Look at me."

"Ah, yes," the little man said. "Mr. Pillsworth's son. I see the resemblance, though your mother must have been an exceptionally large-eared woman. Untie me, sonny, and...."

Marc choked. "Don't sonny me, you degenerate genius," he grated. "I'm Marc Pillsworth, the Marc Pillsworth you were chattering to death in his office a little while ago, the Marc Pillsworth who used to be over six feet tall, so that his ears didn't look so big ... that's the Marc Pillsworth I am, butter brain. I took a couple of your pills. Look at me, you monster!"

"What!" The little man struggled to sit up under his bonds. "You what!"

"Took a couple of your pills. And frankly, Mr. Culpepper, I am not satisfied with the results. I want my money ba.... I mean, you've got to get us out of this. My wife isn't going to understand."

"Us?" the little man asked. He glanced at Toffee. "Her, too?"

Marc nodded. "You'd better whip out an antidote or I'll turn you over to whoever is trying to kill you before you can say corpus delicti. I'll even loan them my old blunderbuss which is guaranteed to blast a hole a foot deep in a wall of solid concrete."

"An antidote?" the little man said. "I don't have one. I've been working on one, but I haven't thought it out completely yet. If you'll just get me out of here, I promise to do what I can."

"Untie him," Toffee said, already grappling with the ropes round his ankles. "Hurry."

Marc nodded and set to work on Mr. Culpepper's wrists. "Who's trying to kill you?" he asked.

"Mr. and Mrs. Harper," the little man said. "They want my formula for Fixage. I met them down in the Marlborough district. It's a pretty bad neighborhood. My laboratory is down there in an old building, I couldn't afford anything better. Anyway, I met these people one night ... I guess I was drinking a little too much ... and I told them about Fixage and how I was going to make a fortune with it. They were quite impressed. Ah, my dear, that feels good. My feet had nearly gone to sleep."

"Go on," Marc said. "What about the Harpers?"

"Well, I could tell they'd had plastic surgery done on their faces, and I guess I should have suspected them right away. Illegal treatment, you know, thrives down in that part of town. I think maybe they've escaped from the penitentiary or something, but there's no way of identifying them. They broke into my laboratory several times, but I didn't know who it was until now. They're planning to steal my formula and kill me and say they invented Fixage themselves. They followed me here today somehow and grabbed me when I came out."

"Where are they now?"

"They saw me carrying a brief case into the building and they think I've hidden it in there. They've gone back to look for it."

"Where is it?" Marc asked.

The little man chuckled. "In the men's room," he said. "I forgot and left it. They'll never find it there."

"Good night!" Marc said. "Someone else might. Is the formula in it?"

"Oh, no," the little man said. "There's nothing in it but my dirty laundry. I never put my experiments on paper."

"Where is the formula?"

Mr. Culpepper smiled. "In my head," he said. "I work everything out in my head. I just go into a kind of trance and things start coming to me. I don't really need a laboratory at all but it makes a better impression to have one. I just go down there and cook up a pot of coffee once in a while for the sake of appearances."

At last Marc unraveled the snarl of knots about the little man's wrists. "There you are," he said. "Let's go."

He proceeded to the door of the truck and peeked out. Memphis and the policeman were at a safe distance and seemed too involved in a heated argument to notice anything else. Marc lowered himself to the ground and turned back, holding out his arms. "Here, I'll help you down," he said to Toffee. "Just give me your...."

"Now isn't that obliging?" a man's voice said smoothly behind him. "The little tyke's put his hands up without even being told. Good training will tell every time, Agatha, I've always said it."

Something cold and round nuzzled Marc's spine with unrequited affection.

"He shows splendid manners," a woman's voice returned, "for one so young."

Just then Toffee appeared in the doorway. "Oh, my gosh!" she said.

Behind Marc, both holding pistols in gloved hands, were a man and woman of truly stunning elegance. The man was tall and straight and beautifully tailored ... a gentleman down to the last hand-woven thread. The woman at his side was dark and svelte, and her soft grey suit was so Parisian that her figure was plainly speaking French beneath it. Both of these prepossessing creatures were graced with extraordinary handsome faces. Faint scars whispered the truth; something other than nature had worked these perfections.

"Mr. and Mrs. Harper, I presume?" Toffee drawled, eyeing the guns. "I'm sorry I didn't expect to meet you folks or I'd have fixed up a bit. I must look a mess without my diamond tiara and tommy gun."

The woman eyed Toffee with disdain. "What an offensive child," she murmured. Her words were clipped and exaggeratedly European. "Really, Chadwick, if she keeps on like this, I'm afraid I'll be tempted to do her in."

Chadwick regarded Marc and Toffee with dulled eyes. "It's a sad thing," he said morosely, "when we have to deal with such low types."

"Ah, yes," Agatha replied. "It's a situation that needs mending when we are forced to waste our talents on mere moppets. However ..." she shrugged philosophically "... things will be better when we've gotten the old man's formula. I wonder how they came here?"

"Search me, love."

"Don't ever say that," Agatha warned, "Someone might take you up on it."

"S'pose you're right," Chadwick mused. He jostled his gun in Marc's back. "There's a good lad," he said. "Let's hop back in there."

Marc hopped and found himself once more in the more comforting company of Toffee and Mr. Culpepper.

"The Harpers," Mr. Culpepper explained wryly, "are charming people."

"Yes," Toffee said. "Charming, like an emerald-studded hand grenade."

"Culpepper's come untied," Chadwick said outside. "I suppose you'd better ride with them and keep them covered whilst I drive."

"What a bother," the woman lamented. "Oh, well, hand me up."

Chadwick lifted Agatha to the compartment and she stepped lightly inside. Then he closed them in and took his place behind the wheel. The removable panel at the front of the truck slid down and he turned toward them.

"What will we ever do with them, Aggie?" he asked.

"The children?" Agatha said. "Oh, I don't know, dear. Dispose of them in the usual manner, I suppose."

"Yes, I suppose so," Chadwick said. "Only it really doesn't seem quite proper, you know, their being children and all, I mean."

"But they're not very pretty children," Agatha replied. "And after all, when you come right down to it, what are children except just ungrown people?"

"You may be right," Chadwick mused. "Perhaps if we use small bullets...."

"I really think we should be getting on, don't you?" Agatha broke in. "I observed several police persons at the end of the lot when we came out."

"Right-ho," Chadwick said.

"Police persons!" Toffee snorted. "Just listen! You'd think this was a garden party!"

Agatha turned to her with a slow smile. "Quite right," she said. "Tea and bullets will be served directly. And remember, should we be stopped for any reason along the way, you and your little friend will act as our children. You'll call Chadwick daddy and me mummy." She pointed to Toffee. "You're Gwendolyn and the boy is Horace. Mr. Culpepper is your uncle Ben. Understand?"

"Oh, yes," Toffee said brightly. "We're just one big stuffy family. Only if mummy drops her gun, Gwendolyn is going to kick the stuffing out of her, and don't you forget it, sister."

Agatha shuddered delicately. "Please," she said. "Unless you watch your language a bit more closely I'm afraid I'll have to wash your mouth out with cyanide."

Toffee retired to a corner and sat down, folding her arms dispiritedly over her chest. "I wash my hands of this whole affair," she mumbled. "This is the most boring stick-up I've ever been in."

The occasion, thankfully, did not arise for Marc and Toffee to use their unlikely aliases. Uninterrupted, save by traffic lights, the black delivery truck made its way from the center of the city into an old commercial district of derelict buildings and littered streets. Chadwick turned the truck in at an alleyway and pulled to a stop behind an aging, disreputable-looking warehouse. He got out of the car long enough to open a pair of huge barn-like doors and returned to drive the vehicle inside. The little party alighted, and the newcomers were given a brief moment to inspect their surroundings before the doors were closed again, shutting out most of the light.

Bare rafters lay high above them and all the windows had been boarded over. Along the right hand wall a rickety stairway stretched upward to a kind of landing, the outer edge of which was lined with a mouldering railing. Beyond the railing a blank, unpainted wall offered several doors, probably entrances to subsidiary storerooms or offices. Whatever things of value the place had once protected it now harbored only dust and disuse.

"What a lovely little nest," Toffee murmured. "It looks so died in." She turned to Agatha. "With all this, you must feel just like a bird in a gilded cage. A vulture."

"We do not live here," Agatha returned distantly. "We felt, however, that it was more than sufficient for Mr. Culpepper until we were done with him. It will do for you and your little friend, too, now that you're here." She gestured toward the stairway with her gun. "Shall we go up?"

Marc and Toffee, with Mr. Culpepper between them, started up the stairs, and Agatha, Chadwick and their pistols followed. Under their tread the ancient boards screamed threateningly, and the sound echoed weirdly all around them.

"You know, Agatha," Chadwick said suddenly, "just seeing these youngsters has made me rather thoughtful."

"Indeed?" Agatha rejoined.

"Yes, quite." A mellow tone had come into Chadwick's voice. "I was wondering, dear, if it wouldn't be rather nice if we had some children of our own. What do you think, eh?"

"I see no reason why we couldn't," Agatha said agreeably. "There are any number of really well-bred children roving the streets these days. There would be nothing to kidnapping a couple of the nicest."

"No, no," Chadwick said. "That's not what I mean. I thought we might have some that were really our own."

"How common!" Agatha exclaimed, truly shocked. "Really, Chadwick!"

"You've no sentiment, Aggie," Chadwick said, a shade of reproach in his voice.

"Oh, really?" Agatha said. "I suppose you've forgotten when we were getting Freddie Freemont's body ready to chuck in the channel? Wasn't it I who wrote 'Bon Voyage, Frederick' in the cement before it dried? And very pretty it was, too, what with the writing wreathing his neck as it did."

"That's right," Chadwick said. "That was quite sweet of you, Aggie."

"I should think so," Agatha said self-righteously. "I could just as easily have written 'Fry in Hell' as Bugsy Turner wanted me to. I was too sentimental, though."

At the top of the stairs Agatha, the gushing sentimentalist, directed Marc, Toffee and Mr. Culpepper into the first room to their left, with a curt wave of her gun. Apparently the room had seen service as an office at one time, for there was a sort of teller's window cut into the inner wall. There was a larger window in the opposite wall, but since it was boarded up like all the others, it offered only a bare minimum of air and light. In the center of the room an old packing crate had been turned face down so as to provide a resting place for a silver tea service and several extremely potent looking bottles. A number of fruit boxes had been distributed around the room to serve as chairs, and the floor was generously littered with mashed out cigarettes.

When her guests were seated, Agatha stood back, studied them and frowned. "Oh, Chad," she said. "They're so ordinary!"

"There, there, Aggie," Chadwick said, stroking her cheek affectionately with the nose of his gun. "In business you can't always associate with the best. It's all part of the game, you know."

"Some game," Toffee said sourly. "I could stage a better crime wave with a water pistol."

Agatha swung on Toffee, eyes blazing. "You soiled little hoyden!" she fumed. "You should be honored. Chadwick and I were the most celebrated thieves in Europe before the war. We robbed kings, I'll have you know. Our names were on aristocratic lips all through the continent."

"What's the matter?" Toffee said. "Did those aristocratic lips spit you out finally? Why didn't you stay on the continent?"

"Don't think we couldn't have," Agatha said with a little lift of her chin. "People were practically begging us to stay and rob them." She sighed. "However, they were only putting up a front; they had nothing really worth robbing. They only wanted the social prestige that one of our robberies could give them. We were forced to come to America." She made a wry face. "They're all like you here; want a lot of shooting and uncouth language with their hold-ups. No appreciation for continental finesse. That's why we've decided to take Mr. Culpepper's formula. We're going into business. It's a shameful come-down, of course, but I suppose we'll just have to make the best of it."

"You poor, brave things," Toffee said. "My nose fairly runs for you."

"Oh!" Agatha exploded. "Little pig!"

"Big pig!" Toffee shot back.

"Here, here," Chadwick broke in. "This bickering has got to stop. Really. There's business to be taken care of."

Agatha nodded and turned her attention to Mr. Culpepper. "Shall we torture it out of him?" she asked.

"I think so," Chadwick said. "That's why I've brought the pliers ... to pull his fingernails, you know. I thought it might cheer you up, old girl. Remember when we used that method on the Marquis?"

Forgetting her gun, Agatha clasped her hands together. "Oh, what a triumph!" she exclaimed. "The Marquis was simply enthralled. He said it was the most exquisite torture he'd ever experienced."

"Is everybody nuts in Europe?" Toffee asked. "Or just your particular crowd?"

No one answered her.

"What a shame," Chadwick said, "to waste such divine methods on a commoner." He removed a pair of silver, leather-encased pliers from his jacket pocket and held them out proudly. He turned to Mr. Culpepper. A look of injury spread over his handsome features.

The little scientist, far from shivering with delighted horror over his impending torture, had closed his eyes and was leaning back against the wall in an attitude of deep meditation. At his side, Marc was staring eagerly at the thoughtful face. The two seemed completely oblivious to all else except themselves.

A flame of anger flickered in Chadwick's eyes. "Oh, really!" he exclaimed. "If that's the way it's going to be, I've half a mind not to pull his nails at all. He doesn't deserve it."

Agatha moved quickly to his side. "Now, don't lose your temper, love," she said. "You must force yourself. So much depends on it."

"Oh, very well," Chadwick said sullenly. He strode to Mr. Culpepper's side and stamped his foot. "Peasant!" he sneered.

Marc looked up, startled, and quickly put a finger to his lips. "Shhh!" he said. "Culpepper's working on an antidote. If you disturb him he may not get it finished. He works everything out in his head, you know."

"Well!" Chadwick exploded. "Of all the...!" He reached down and shook the scientist's shoulder. "Wake up!" he commanded.

Mr. Culpepper opened his eyes and gazed up at Chadwick, but it was apparent that he didn't really see him. His eyes were glazed and introspective. His mouth fell open to complete an expression of sheerest idiocy.

"My word!" Agatha breathed. "What's happened to him?"

"I don't know," Chadwick said decisively, "but I do know what's going to happen to him." He grasped Mr. Culpepper's hand and separated the little finger from the others. "Let's see him work this out in his mind."

Now that he was getting down to business, Chadwick seemed to experience a lift in spirit. "I think this will snap him out of it." He said it like a doctor about to administer the shock treatment to a mental patient. He hummed softly to himself.

"Oh, Mona!" Toffee moaned. "Just look at him! Happy as a hophead with a new poppy patch!"

She glanced at Mr. Culpepper but the little man had closed his eyes again, completely unaware that fate had singled him out for the main attraction at a sadistic fun fest. At his side, his eyes riveted on the advancing pliers, Marc was rigid in a state of white-faced paralysis.

Toffee darted from her place just as the pliers closed over Mr. Culpepper's nail. "Stop that!" she cried. She ran to Mr. Culpepper and shook him. "Wake up!" she pleaded. "Tell them the silly formula and let them have it!"

Mr. Culpepper's mouth snapped shut, but other than that, there was no reaction. She shook him again, but with no further result. Her eyes darted to his outstretched hand, and she gasped. Chadwick was beginning to pull.

Toffee sucked in a deep breath. "I ... I'll tell!" she faltered. "I know the formula. I'll give it to you."

The pliers came apart and Mr. Culpepper's small, veined hand fell limply to the little man's side. Toffee found herself instantly and confusingly confronted by Chadwick and Agatha.

"You know the formula?" Agatha said. "You'd best not be lying."

"Why ... I...." Toffee stammered.

"Speak up!" Chadwick snapped.

"I know all about it," Toffee said. The words came in a rush. "I was his human subject. He experimented on me in his laboratory. You'd never guess that I'm really twenty years old, would you?"

The two looked at her suspiciously.

"She's lying," Agatha said. "She couldn't be twenty."

"Oh, yes," Toffee insisted, warming up to the lie. "Mr. Culpepper lured me into his laboratory with a stick of candy when I was only eight years old. I haven't aged a day since."

"Might be right at that," Chadwick mused. "After all, you'll have to admit that her language is rather advanced for just a child ... in an appalling sort of way."

"Can you prove what you say?" Agatha asked.

Toffee hesitated. "Well," she said presently, "in a way, I can. There's another thing about Fixage that you don't know."

"Yes?" Chadwick and Agatha chorused. "What's that?"