"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' corny, 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 lose 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."