The Mystery of the Magic Circle - M. V. Carey [3]
“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