The Penny Parker Megapack: 15 Complete Novels (62 page)

Now that several days had elapsed since her experience at the river, even Penny’s interest in John Munn and his strange tattoo, had faded. However, she was determined that the story should appear in the paper if for no other reason than to plague the editor of
Chatter
.

According to a report from Louise, Fred Clousky had called at the
Times
early that afternoon, and had seemed very gloomy as he inspected the plant. He had spent nearly a half hour in the composing room, a fact which Penny later was to recall with chagrin.

“Poor Fred,” she thought. “After my paper comes out his
Chatter
will look more than ever like a sick cat.”

Saturday was another day of toil, but by six o’clock, aided by the few faithful members of her staff, the last stick of type was set, the pages locked and transported to the
Star
ready for the Sunday morning run.

“I’ll be here early tomorrow,” Penny told the pressman. “Don’t start the edition rolling until I arrive. I want to press the button myself.”

At her urging, Mr. Parker, Jerry Livingston, Salt Sommers, and many members of the
Star
’s staff, came to view the stereotyped plates waiting to be fitted on the press rollers.

“You’ve done well, Penny,” praised her father. “I confess I never thought you would get this far. Still figuring on a street sale of six thousand?”

“I’ve increased the number to seven,” laughed Penny.

“And how do you plan to get the papers sold?”

“Oh, that’s my secret, Dad. You may be surprised.”

Exhausted but happy, Penny went home and to bed. She was up at six, and after a hastily eaten breakfast, arrived at the
Star
office in time to greet the workmen who were just coming on duty.

“Everything is set,” the foreman told her presently. “You can start the press now.”

Penny was so nervous that her hand trembled as she pressed the electric switch. There was a low, whining noise as the wheels began to turn, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Pressmen moved back and forth, oiling the machinery and tightening screws.

Penny’s gaze was upon the long stream of paper feeding into the press. In a moment the neatly folded newspapers would slide out at the rate of eight hundred a minute. Only slightly over an hour and the run would be completed.

The first printed paper dropped from the press, and the foreman reached for it.

“Here you are,” he said, offering it to Penny.

Almost reverently she accepted the paper. Even though there were only eight pages, each one represented hours of labor. She had turned out a professional job, and could rightly feel proud.

And then suddenly Penny’s eyes fell upon the uppermost line of the front page. She gasped and leaned against the wall.

“I’m ruined!” she moaned. “Ruined! Someone has played a cruel joke on me!”

“Why, what’s wrong?” inquired the press foreman, reaching for another paper.

“Look at this,” wailed Penny. “Just look!”

She pointed to the name of the paper, printed in large black letters. It read: THE WEAKLY TIMES.

“I’ll be the laughing stock of Riverview,” Penny moaned. “The papers can’t go out that way. Stop the press!”

CHAPTER 7

PETER FENESTRA

As the foreman turned off the rotarypress, the loud throb of machinery died away and the flowing web of paper became motionless.

“How could the mistake have been made?” Penny murmured disconsolately. “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,” replied the foreman.

Penny’s face hardened. “I can guess who did it! Fred Clousky! Louise told me he spent a long while in the composing room one afternoon while I was away. He must have changed the type just to make me look ridiculous.”

“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 Penny that with paid advertisements she would be compelled to print an issue. She 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,” she 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,” said Penny 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,” she instructed. “I’ll be around in the morning to arrange for deliveries.”

Monday’s first issue of the
Star
was hot off the press when Penny stationed herself beside the veritable mountain of papers. The room was a bedlam, with newsboys shouting noisily for their wares. As they passed her on their way to the street, she waylaid them one by one.

“Here you are, boys,” she said with an expansive smile. “Two dozen papers each. Sell them for a nickel and keep half of it for yourself. Turn in the money at the
Weekly Times
office.”

“Two and a half cents!” exclaimed one of the boys. “Gee, that’s more than we get for selling the
Star
!”

“Generosity is my motto,” laughed Penny. “Just push those papers for all you’re worth.”

Leaving the
Star
plant, she went directly to the
Weekly Times
building. Permission had been granted to absent herself from school, and she planned to be busy throughout the day, checking on paper sales.

As Penny unlocked the front door, she noticed that a faint odor of tobacco lingered in the air. A perplexed frown knitted her brow.

“That’s funny,” she thought. “None of the boys are allowed to smoke here. I wonder if someone disobeyed rules, or if there’s really a prowler in the building?”

Too busy to search the plant again, Penny gave the matter scant consideration. Tossing a package of lunch on the counter, she prepared for a hard day’s work.

Now and then, to rest her mind from columns of figures, she wandered to the window. Down the street, newsboys called their wares and it pleased her that they shouted the
Weekly Times
as frequently as they did the
Star
.

By ten o’clock the boys began to straggle in with their money. Only a few had failed to sell all of their papers, and not one neglected to make a report. Penny’s final check-up disclosed that six thousand eight hundred and twenty-nine Weeklies had been sold.

“I can’t expect to do that well after the novelty wears off,” she thought. “But one thing is assured. My
Weekly
isn’t going to be
weakly
!”

With a large sum of money in her possession, Penny decided to take no chance of losing it. After making a careful count, she poured the coins into a bag which she transported by car to the bank.

It was lunch-time when she returned to the plant. She went to the counter for the package of sandwiches. To her surprise it had disappeared.

“Now who took my food?” she muttered.

Penny was annoyed. She 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, unexplained footsteps, suggested that a tramp might be using the empty plant as a comfortable shelter.

“But how can he get in?” she asked herself. “Doors and windows are kept locked.”

As Penny considered whether or not to report the matter to police, the front door opened. A man of early middle age, well dressed, but with a sharp, weather-beaten face and a mis-shapen nose, entered.

“This the office of the
Weekly Times
?” he demanded grumpily.

“Yes,” said Penny. “Is there anything—”

“I want to see the editor.”

“You’re looking at her now.”

“You! A girl!”

Penny smiled and waited. The stranger hesitated and then took the
Weekly Times
from his overcoat pocket. With his forefinger he jabbed at a story on the front page—Penny’s account of the tattooed man who had been pushed from the bridge.

“You know who wrote this?” he questioned.

“I did.”

Again Penny’s words surprised the man although he tried not to disclose it.

“That’s a right interesting yarn,” he said after a long pause.

“I’m glad you like it.” Penny stared at the man with interest, wondering why he had come and what he wanted.

“I was kind of curious to know where you got your information.”

“Why, I saw it happen, Mr—I don’t believe you told me your name.”

“Fenestra. Peter Fenestra.”

“I was driving near the bridge at the time the man was pushed into the water,” Penny resumed.

“You didn’t see the one who did it?”

“Not clearly. May I ask why you are so interested in the story?”

“I thought maybe I knew that man, Munn. What became of him?”

“I can’t tell you that. He was rescued by a tugboat captain. Everything I know about the affair is in the story.”

“Well, thank you kindly,” Mr. Fenestra said, tipping his hat.

Penny watched him leave the office and walk to his car. She had never seen the man before to her knowledge. Although she should have felt flattered by his visit, it left her with a vague, unexplainable sensation of distrust.

“There’s something queer about the way he came here,” she reflected. “Perhaps he knows more than he pretended.”

Penny soon dismissed the matter from her mind, turning her thoughts to the problem of the missing lunch. Resolutely she made a tour of the building, venturing everywhere save into the basement. As she had half expected, she found no one. However, returning once more to her work, she occasionally caught herself listening for footsteps.

At three-thirty Louise came from school with other members of the
Times
staff. She and Penny retired to the latter’s private office there to discuss plans for the next week’s paper.

“Lou,” said Penny abruptly, “did you ever hear of a man named Peter Fenestra?”

“Why, yes, I have.”

“He was here today to ask me about the octopus tattoo story. What can you tell me?”

“Not very much, Penny. He lives on a farm two miles from the south edge of Riverview. A place called The Willows.”

“Oh, is he a farmer?” Penny was surprised. “I never would have guessed that.”

“He isn’t one. He merely lives there. According to the report, he has prospered by leaps and bounds.”

“How does he make his money?”

“No one seems to know. When Fenestra came here a year or so ago he didn’t appear to have anything. Lately he bought a fine car, and he spends money rather lavishly.”

“He inquired about John Munn,” Penny remarked. “Somehow I had a feeling that he was trying to pump information from me for a particular reason.”

“Those who know Fenestra say he’s a sly old fox.”

“That’s the way he impressed me, Lou. Perhaps I flatter myself, but I believe my tattoo story may cause quite a stir in Riverview.”

“Was Fenestra annoyed by it?”

“I think so, Lou, although he tried to cover his feelings. He may or may not be a friend of John Munn, but he certainly was anxious to learn what became of him.”

“You didn’t ask him any questions?”

“No, his visit took me by surprise. But I’ve been thinking, Lou. I very much want a follow up story on John Munn for next week’s paper. Suppose we run out to Fenestra’s farm tomorrow.”

“What purpose would there be in that?”

“Fenestra may be able to tell us interesting facts which will throw light on the mystery. He may understand the significance of the octopus tattoo.”

“You’re rather hopeful, I think.”

“But you’ll go with me?”

“Yes,” promised Louise. “I’ve always had a curiosity to see The Willows. Besides, I need a vacation from my strenuous duties as editor.”