The Mystery of the Magic Circle - M. V. Carey [2]
“He went upstairs a few minutes ago,” said Jupe.
“I have to see him,” said Mr. Grear. He sighed. Mr. Grear was not fond of William Tremayne.
Indeed, no one on the staff seemed to care for him. William Tremayne was regarded as a usurper. Amigos Press had been founded by Beefy’s father, and Beefy was heir to it. A tragic boating accident had made Beefy an orphan when he was nineteen, but according to the terms of the will left by Beefy’s father, William Tremayne was president of Amigos Press and would control the business until Beefy was thirty.
“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.