Jane Carter Investigates Episode One-Hundred and Fourteen
As the foreman turned off the rotary
press, the throb of machinery died away and the flowing web of paper became
motionless.
“How could such a mistake have been
made?” I said. “I know that originally the name-plate was set up right.”
“You should have taken page proofs and
checked the mat,” said the foreman.
“But I did! At least I took page
proofs. I’ll admit I was careless about the mats.”
“Well, it looks as if someone played a
joke on you. Well, it’s done anyway,” said the foreman with a shrug. “What will
you do about the run?”
“I’ll never let it go through this way.
I’d rather die.”
The foreman reminded me that, with paid
advertisements, I was compelled to print an issue. I knew that it would not be
possible to make a change in the starter plate. The entire page must be recast.
“I don’t suppose the type can be
matched in this plant,” I said gloomily.
“We may have some like it,” replied the
foreman. “I’ll see.”
Soon he returned to report that type
was available and that the work could be done by the stereotypers. However, the
men would expect overtime pay.
“I’ll give them anything they want,” I
said recklessly. “Anything.”
After a trying wait, the new plate was
made ready and locked on the cylinder. Once more the great press thundered.
Again, papers began to pour from the machine, every fiftieth one slightly out
of line.
“What do you want done with ’em?”
inquired the foreman.
“Have the papers carried to the mailing
room and stacked by the door,” I told him. “I’ll be around in the morning to
arrange for deliveries.”
Monday’s first issue of the Examiner
was hot off the press when I stationed myself beside the veritable mountain
of Carter’s All-Story Weeklies. The
room was a bedlam, with newsboys shouting noisily for their wares. As they
passed by me on their way to the street, I waylaid them one by one.
“Here you are, boys. Two dozen papers
each. Sell them for a nickel and keep half of it for yourself. Turn in the
money at the old Morning Press building.”
“Two and a half cents!” exclaimed one
of the boys. “Gee, that’s more than we get for selling the Examiner!”
“Generosity is my motto,” I said. “Just
push those papers for all you’re worth.”
I left the Examiner plant and went directly to the Morning Press building.
As I unlocked the front door, I noticed a faint odor of tobacco lingering in
the air. No one was allowed to smoke in the building. One of Mrs. Dunst’s first
acts as restorer of cleanliness and order had been to plaster “No Smoking”
placards at the entrance and other prominent places as part of her cleanup of
the plant.
I was too busy to search the plant for
possible violators of Mrs. Dunst’s antismoking campaign, so I gave the matter
scant consideration. I tossed the lunch Mrs. Timms had prepared for me on the
counter and prepared for a hard day’s work.
Now and then, to rest my mind from
columns of figures, I wandered to the window. Down the street, newsboys called
their wares, and it pleased me that they shouted Carter’s All-Story Weekly as frequently as they did the Greenville Examiner.
By ten o’clock the boys began to
straggle in with their money. Only a few had failed to sell all their papers,
and not one neglected to make a report. My final check revealed that six
thousand eight hundred and twenty-nine Weeklies
had been sold.
I knew I couldn’t expect to do that
well after the novelty wore off, but one thing was certain, my Weekly wasn’t going to be weakly.
I had a large sum of money in my
possession, and I decided to take no chance of losing it. After making a
careful count, I poured the coins into a bag which I loaded up into Bouncing
Betsy and drove straight to the bank.
It was lunchtime when I returned to the
plant. I went to the counter for Mrs. Timms’ package of sandwiches. To my
surprise, it had disappeared.
I was annoyed. I did not believe that
one of the newsboys had picked up the package. Accumulative evidence pointed to
a likelihood that someone was hiding in the building. The moving light, tobacco
smoke, and unexplained footsteps all suggested that a tramp might be using the
empty plant as a comfortable shelter.
But how had he gotten in? The doors and
windows were kept locked. Flo and I and a few members among the women of the
LWV possessed keys, but I believed we were all conscientious about locking the
door behind us whenever we entered or left the building.
As I considered whether to report the
matter to police, there was a pounding on the entrance door.
I opened the door and a short, stocky
brown-haired man of early middle age, well dressed, but with a sharp,
weather-beaten face and a misshapen nose, pushed his way past me.
“This the office of Carter’s All-Story Weekly?” he demanded.
“Yes,” I said. “Is there anything—”
“I want to see the editor.”
“You’re looking at her now.”
“You! A Woman!”
“Mrs. Jane Carter, Editress, at your service.”
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