"He knows what we're after," Marc explained. "He knows we want him to show himself to these people so they won't know which one of us is me. And look what happened to George the last time he was knocked out."
Toffee looked up with a smile of understanding. "Of course!" she said. "He lost control of his ectoplasm and materialized."
"Exactly," Marc said, "and it might happen again. Then it would not be just a matter of confusing them with the two of us. If George materialized we could leave him to take the rap all by himself."
"Wonderful!" Toffee said. "Let's do it. It would serve everybody right. How do we trap him?"
"It's simple," Marc said. "We open the crates and get the bottles out for George. At first we pretend to forget about him; we sit around and act like we're swilling down whiskey by the gallon and having the time of our lives. This will drive George close to madness, locked in a room with two drinkers and no drop for himself. When we figure he's sufficiently worked up, we'll weaken and offer him a drink. He won't be able to resist. While one of us hands over his bottle, the other takes a fix on George's position and bashes the daylights out of him with this." Marc permitted himself a smile of pride. "You see?"
"Marvelous," Toffee said. "I particularly love that part at the end, where George gets bashed. Can I be the basher?"
"Okay," Marc agreed. "Let's go. And remember, act as though you've never enjoyed drinking anything so much in your whole life."
With tremendous nonchalance, the two moved across the room to the stacked crates.
"My, my," Marc said in a declamatory, radio announcer's tone, "what do you suppose we have here in all these interesting-looking crates?"