"Boy, that dame packs a wallop," he said unhappily.
"So justice has finally prevailed," Toffee said with satisfaction. "One of them finally nailed the right guy. And high time, too, if you ask me."
"And speaking of justice," Marc said evenly. "You have a little duty to perform, George." He removed the money bags from Toffee's arms and thrust them ungently into George's lap. "You're going to return those hellish things," he continued. "Slugging that cop was the last straw. I've had enough!"
"But I was only trying to help," George said.
Something snapped somewhere in the depths of Marc's forgiving soul. "You say that once more," he yelled, "and I'll belt you one myself!"
Hugging the bags to him, George stood up. "But the bank's closed," he said hopefully. "I can't take them back tonight."
"You'll take them back tonight, all right," Marc said with quiet intensity, "before the police find us with them. You were so smart about getting them out, now you can just dream up a way to get them back in."
The bank building loomed darkly as the taxi eased up to the curb and discharged three silent figures onto the sidewalk. Silhouetted against the glow of a distant street lamp, the figures moved forward with obvious conspiratorial intent. The first, burdened with two ominous-looking lumps of darkness, tried to hang back, and was rudely shoved forward by the other two for his efforts.
"Get those things back inside," Marc hissed, "and be snappy about it. There might be a night watchman around."
George remained unenthusiastic. "Even if I manage to fade myself through the wall," he protested, "I'll never be able to take these sacks with me. You're asking for miracles." But as Marc advanced threateningly, he started forward. "All right," he mumbled, "I'll think of something."