“I guess Beefy’s father only meant to protect Beefy and his inheritance,” Mr Grear had said one day. “He was such a clumsy boy. No one suspected that he’d show a flair for publishing, but he did. He’s got a real nose for a saleable manuscript. Now in spite of that, we’re all stuck with William Tremayne–at least until next April, when Beefy turns thirty. It’s a great trial. He’s the only one who can make any decisions about money, so every time I need new supplies–even a box of pencils–I have to get his permission to order them!”
Mr Grear always looked outraged when he told the boys about William Tremayne. He looked outraged now, but he did not speak again. He was still in his office, staring unhappily at the papers on his desk, when Pete set out to deliver the mail to the other offices in the building.
Amigos Press was located in the Amigos Adobe, a historic two-storey structure that was sandwiched between more modern commercial buildings on busy Pacifica Avenue in Santa Monica. The adobe dated back to the days when California was ruled by governors from Mexico. The walls were thick, as adobe walls always are, and even though the summer sun blazed outside, the rooms were cool. Decorative iron grilles on all the ground-floor windows added to the charm of the building.
Pete stopped first in the accounting department, a big room across the hall from the mail room. A dour, middle-aged man headed this department, supervising the work of two sullen women who laboured there with adding machines and heaps of invoices.
“Good morning, Mr Thomas,” said Pete. He put a packet of envelopes down on the man’s desk.
Thomas scowled. “Put the mail in the box on that table over there,” he ordered. “What’s the matter with you? Can’t you remember a simple thing like that?”
“All right, Thomas,” said a voice behind Pete. It was Mr Grear. He had come out into the hall and was watching Mr Thomas. “I’m sure Pete understands. Just remember, I supervise the mail room. If the boys get out of line, you tell me and I’ll talk to them.”
Pete scooted out of the accounting department. As he passed Mr Grear in the hall, he heard the office manager muttering to himself. “Troublemaker! He won’t last a year here. I don’t know how they put up with him at that pharmaceutical company for five years!”
Pete didn’t comment. He had several letters for the receptionist, whose desk was in the big front room of the adobe. He delivered these, and then went up the stairs to the first floor. The editors, book designers, and production people had offices there.
Mr Grear and Mr Thomas did not speak to each other again until mid-afternoon. Then the copying machine that stood in a corner of the mail room jammed. This caused a fierce argument between Mr Thomas, who insisted that the machine be fixed immediately, and Mr Grear, who declared that the repair man couldn’t come until morning.
The two men were still exchanging angry words when Jupiter went upstairs shortly before four to collect outgoing mail from the staff there. Mrs Paulson, Beefy’s assistant, looked up and smiled when Jupe stopped at her desk. She was a smooth-faced, plump woman many years Beefy’s senior, who had previously been assistant to Beefy’s father. She handed a couple of envelopes to Jupe. Then she glanced past him at someone just coming up the stairs.
“He’s waiting for you,” she said, pointing to the open door of Beefy’s office.
Jupe looked around. A thin, dark-haired man in a light gaberdine suit went past him and into Beefy’s office.
“That’s Marvin Gray,” said Mrs Paulson softly. “He’s delivering Madeline Bainbridge’s manuscript.” Mrs Paulson sighed. “He’s given his whole life to looking after Madeline Bainbridge. Isn’t that romantic?”
Before Jupe could comment, Beefy came out of his office with a sheaf of papers in his hands. “Oh, Jupe, I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “Take this manuscript down to the copying machine and make a duplicate of it right away. It’s handwritten, and there’s no copy. Mr Gray is concerned about its safety.”
“The machine is out of order,” said Jupe. “Shall I take the manuscript out and have it copied elsewhere?”
Gray appeared in the doorway beside Beefy. “No, don’t do that,” he said. “It would be safer just to keep it here.”
“We’ll take good care of it,” promised Beefy.
Gray nodded. “Fine. And now that you have the manuscript, if you’ll give me the cheque, I’ll be on my way.”
“The cheque?” Beefy echoed. “You mean the advance?”
“Why, yes,” said Gray. “According to the terms of the contract, you are to pay Miss Bainbridge twenty-five thousand dollars upon delivery of the manuscript.”
Beefy looked flustered. “Mr Gray, we usually read the manuscript first. The cheque hasn’t even been made out yet?”
“Oh,” said Marvin Gray. “I see. All right. I’ll look forward to receiving the cheque in the mail.”
He went off then, down the stairs.
“He’s certainly in a hurry for the money,” said Mrs Paulson.
“I guess he doesn’t understand publishing contracts,” said Beefy. “He missed the phrase about how the manuscript has to be acceptable.”
Beefy went back into his office and Jupe returned to the mail room.
“Want to work overtime tonight?” Mr Grear said when Jupe came in. “The printer just sent over the brochures for the mailing on the songbird book. We can stuff the envelopes in a couple of hours, and I can take them to the post office first thing in the morning.”
The boys were glad to put in the extra time, and they called their homes in Rocky Beach to report that they would be home late. They were busy folding circulars and putting them into envelopes when the rest of the staff left, singly and in groups. At a quarter to six, Mr Grear set out to take the last of the mail to the main post office. “On my way back I’ll pick up some fried chicken at the shop down the street,” he promised.
The boys toiled on after he left. A breeze came up and blew through the open window of the mail room. It caught the door and slammed it shut. The boys jumped at the sound, then resumed work.
It was six-fifteen when Bob stopped working and sniffed. “Do I smell smoke?” he said.
Pete looked around at the closed door. In the silence, the boys heard the hum of traffic on Pacifica Avenue. They heard another sound, too–a low, crackling roar that came to them muffled by the thick adobe walls.
Jupe frowned. He went to the door and put his hand against it. The wood felt warm. He put his hand on the knob, which felt even warmer, and very cautiously pulled the door open.
Instantly the roar became almost deafening. A great billow of smoke gushed into the room and overwhelmed the boys.
“Good grief!” shouted Pete.
Jupe threw his weight against the door and slammed it shut. He turned to face the others. “The hall!” he said. “There’s fire all over the hall!”
The smoke was seeping in around the door now, thickening the air as it wafted towards the open window, which looked out on a narrow walkway between the adobe and the building next door. He leaned on the iron grille covering the window and pushed. “Help!” he shouted. “Help! Fire!”
No one answered and the bars didn’t budge.
Bob snatched up a metal chair and shoved it through the bars. He and Pete tried to prise the metal grille away from the building. The chair only bent in their hands, and one leg snapped off.
“It’s no use,” called Jupe from Mr Grear’s office. “The telephone is dead. And there’s no one around to hear us yell.”
He hurried back to the door that led to the hall. “We’ve got to get ourselves out, and this is the only way.”
He went down on his knees, and again he edged the door open. Again the smoke gushed in through the opening. Bob coughed, and Pete’s eyes began streaming. The two boys knelt behind Jupe and peered out into the hall. They saw smoke that looked almost solid. It seethed and glowed red with the light of flames that danced up the walls and licked away at the old staircase.
Jupe turned his face from the fire for an instant. He took a breath that was almost a sob. Then he started forward, holding his breath. But before he could get through the doorway, a gust of hot air pushed at him like a giant hand. He flinched, drew back, and slammed the door.
“We can’t,” he whispered. “Nobody can go through that fire! There’s no way out! We’re trapped!”
2
The Bleeding Man
FOR A MOMENT no one spoke. Then Pete made a choking sound. “Someone’s got to see the smoke and call the fire department,” he gasped. “Someone’s just got to!”