Jane Carter Investigates Episode One-Hundred and Twelve
“I’ll run off the first edition for
you,” Dad promised. “But mind, only the first. How many issues will you want?
About five hundred? I know you’re calling yourself a magazine, but my presses
are configured to print newspapers.”
“Oh, I won’t let that stop me. A
newspaper format is perfectly ducky. It’ll make Carter’s All-Story Weekly stand out from the crowd. For the first
printing, I was figuring on roughly six thousand. That should take care of my
street sales. Of course, when my national subscription scheme takes off, who
knows how big a print run I’ll need.”
Dad’s fork clattered against his plate.
“Six thousand! Street sales? Where, may
I ask, did you acquire your distribution organization?”
“Oh, I have plans,” I said. “Running an
all-story magazine is really very simple. Just a lot of hard work.”
“Young lady, you’re riding for a
heartbreaking fall,” warned my father. “Six thousand copies! You’ll be lucky to
dispose of three hundred.”
“Wait and see,” I said.
During the week which followed there
were no idle moments for the staff of the newly-organized Carter’s All-Story Weekly.
As promised, Mrs. Dunst showed up at
nine o’clock on Monday morning with ten Women Voters prepared to lend their aid
to the cause of creating quality fiction for the modern female. Six of Mrs. Dunst’s
henchwomen showed literary aspirations, so I set them to the task of creating
the needed short stories. I advised them in advance that I reserved the
prerogative to heavily edit their efforts, emphasizing their amateur status and
my professional expertise.
The only things I required of them were
that their heroines must not be lily-livered shrinking violets and that their
romantic heroes—should they choose to write romance at all—must treat their
heroines not with addled and idealistic admiration but clear-eyed respect.
Leaving Florence in charge of
supervising the aspiring lady-novelists, and Mrs. Dunst in charge of seeing
that cleanliness and order were restored to the facility, I focused most of my
attention on the problem of winning advertisers.
One of Mrs. Dunst’s confederates, Mrs.
Ruby Applebee, was the wife of a prominent local businessman, James Applebee of
Applebee and Applebee Glass and Lumber. I immediately identified Mrs. Applebee
as an asset to our enterprise. When I explained to her the inherent
difficulties of gaining advertisers for the inaugural issue of a brand-new
story paper, Mrs. Applebee said she understood completely and was fully
prepared to exert her influence, which was considerable, in helping Carter’s All-Story Weekly round out its
stable of advertisers. She promised to tackle her husband that very
evening.
I then spent the entire following day
going around to every local business and inviting them to buy ad space—at
cut-rate prices—in Carter’s All-Story
Weekly. The novelty of the
enterprise intrigued some businessmen, while others took space because they
were friends of the Applebees. Money continued to pour into the till of Carter’s All-Story Weekly.
Yet, when everything should have been
sailing along smoothly, Florence complained that it was becoming difficult to
keep her staff of writers satisfied. One by one they were falling away.
One of those remaining, Mrs. Pritchett,
turned in a short mystery, “The Black Heart of Malcolm McGrew,” which, while
painting the female sex as strong and highly capable, was a bit more
melodramatically forceful than even my open mind could tolerate.
“Was it quite necessary,” I asked Flo,
as I placed the pages of Mrs. Pritchett’s story back on Florence’s desk, “for
the black-hearted Mr. McGrew to come to quite such a violent end? I could have
stood the heroine stabbing him to death, but did she have to lock him up in a
dank dungeon and let his arms and legs be gnawed off by rats before avenging her sister’s suicide?”
“Well, the villain did besmirch the
sister’s spotless virtue and drive her to the brink of despair,” Flo pointed
out. “And you do have a history of writing similar scenes.”
“I do not!” I protested. “What scenes?”
“The worthy cowboy hero in ‘Evangeline:
The Horse-thief’s Unwilling Fiancée’ lost his arm while fighting off a pack of
ravening wolves.”
“That’s completely different,” I said.
“That wasn’t Evangeline’s fault. It was Mr. Pittman’s. I’d wager my beloved
Bouncing Betsy that never for a single moment during the entire protracted saga
of ‘Evangeline: The Horse-thief’s Unwilling Fiancée’ was even one reader
confused about whether the heroine might actually turn out to be the villain in
disguise.”
Flo sighed, but she conceded my point.
“Well, fix the story to your liking,”
she said. “I have to leave in a few minutes. It’s my afternoon to work at the
library, and after I’m finished there, I promised mother that I’d visit Mr. and
Mrs. Smith and deliver some soup. Mrs. Smith is poorly, and, according to my
mother, Mr. Smith wouldn’t know a saucepan from a coal shovel. I’ve been
instructed to heat up the soup personally and see that Mrs. Smith eats at least
a bowl of it before I’m free to retire for the evening.”
“Is Mr. Smith the one who collects
antique spectacles?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Flo, “and, if you have any
questions on the subject, be sure and ask me later because by the time I get an
entire bowl of soup down Mrs. Smith I expect I’ll be even more enlightened on
the eyewear of yesteryear than I am presently. Did you know that the first pair
of eyeglasses is believed to have been made in Pisa, Italy in 1290?”
I told Flo I had not previously been
made privy to that vital tidbit of information.
“Well, I have apparently been
predestined to become ever more educated on the subject of primitive optics,”
Florence continued. “That is why I do not have time to deal with your scruples
concerning homicidal heroines. Besides, we agreed I’m to be working in a purely
administerial capacity. You know I lack imagination.”
“For which I make up in spades,” I
said. “I’ll figure out a more proportional fate for the black-hearted Malcolm
McGrew, don’t you worry.”
I paused as Flo put the cover on her
typewriter, stood up and collected her coat. I realized I had been remiss and
unappreciative of my friend.
“Thank you, Flo,” I said. “You truly
are the bee’s knees.”
“Oh?” said Florence. She arched one
eyebrow and put on her hat.
“Truly, you are,” I insisted. “I
persist in dragging you into one crazy scheme after another, and yet you
continue to be my loyal friend.”
“Well, your schemes often sound crazy,” said Flo diplomatically. “But they generally turn out all right in the end.”
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