The Penny Parker Megapack: 15 Complete Novels

by Mildred Benson

  “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 r
un 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.”

  CHAPTER 8

  THE STORM CAVE

  “Well, Penny,” remarked Mr. Parker casually at the breakfast table. “I finally bought the cottage.”

  Penny closed her history book with a loud snap, favoring her father with complete attention. “You bought a cottage?” she echoed. “Where? When? Why?”

  “I’ve talked about it for the past week, but you were so busy stealing the Star’s advertisers that you never listened.”

  “I’m all ears now, Dad,” Penny assured him, absently reaching for a piece of toast. “Tell me all about it.”

  “The cottage is located on the Big Bear River. Four rooms and a boathouse. Incidentally, I’ve hired a man to look after the place and keep the boat in shape. He calls himself Anchor Joe.”

  “Are we going to live at the cottage this summer?”Penny inquired.

  “No, I merely bought it for week-end trips. I plan on a bit of fishing now and then. You may enjoy going with me.”

  “Oh, Dad,” groaned Penny, “how can I? These days I don’t even have time to wash my neck. Running a newspaper is more work than I figured.”

  “I’ll give you the address of the cottage, at least,” smiled Mr. Parker. “If you have any spare time during the next three months drive out and look over the place.”

  “I’ll get there somehow,” Penny promised, pocketing the card. Her hand encountered a typed, folded sheet of paper which she immediately placed in front of her father. “Oh, by the way, sign this for me, will you?”

  “No more cheques.”

  “This is only an order for a ton-roll of paper. I’m trying to store up a few supplies so that eventually I can publish the Weekly in my own plant.”

  Mr. Parker signed the order, inquiring teasingly:“Have you engaged your pressman yet? Their wages come rather high you know.”

  “It takes everything the Weekly makes to meet its current bills,” sighed Penny. “But one of these days I’ll get the paper out in my own plant. Just wait and see!”

  “I’ll wait,” chuckled Mr. Parker. “My hope is that you don’t fail in your studies before that happy day arrives.”

  On her way to school, Penny studied the card given her by her father, and noticed that the new cottage was situated not far from The Willows. Often she and Louise had talked of calling upon Peter Fenestra, but both had been kept busy at the Times office. Now that a linotype operator had been hired to set type, they had a little more free time.

  “If Louise will accompany me, I’ll visit both places tonight,” decided Penny.

  Four-thirty found the two girls walking through a dense maple and oak woods which rimmed the Big Bear River. A breeze stirred the tree leaves, but even so the day was hot and sultry.

  “I wish it would rain,” remarked Louise, trudging wearily beside her companion. “I never knew it to be so warm at this time of year.”

  “Maybe we can cool off by taking a boat ride when we get to the cottage,” encouraged Penny. “I think I see the place through the trees.”

  Directly ahead, in a tiny clearing, stood a freshly painted white cottage. Quickening their steps, the girls soon arrived at the front door. No one seemed to be within call, so they pushed it open.

  A long living room with a cobblestone fireplace met their gaze. Beyond was the kitchen, a dining alcove, and two bedrooms.

  As they went outside again, they saw a short, wiry man coming toward the cottage from the river.

  “You’re Miss Parker?” he asked, looking at Louise.

  “No, I am,” corrected Penny. “And you must be Anchor Joe.” Her eyes fastened for an instant upon the tattoo of a four-masted sailing ship imprinted on his arm.

  “That’s me,” agreed the man. “Go ahead an’ look around all you like.”

  Penny and Louise wandered about the grounds, then returned to find Anchor Joe giving the motor boat, which was upturned on the grass, a coat of varnish.

  “We thought you might take us for a ride,” remarked Penny. “It must be cool on the water.”

  “I sure would like to, Miss Parker,” said Anchor Joe regretfully. “But I dasn’t get ’er wet now. Not until this varnish dries.”

  Penny nodded, and then asked: “You’re a sailor, aren’t you? Where have you sailed?”

  “The Atlantic, the Great Lakes, the Gulf o’ Mexico. Oh, I been everywhere.”

  Penny and Louise chatted with Anchor Joe for a time but, although they asked any number of questions, they gained very little definite information. The sailor seemed unwilling to tell anything about himself, save in generalities.

  “We may as well go on to Peter Fenestra’s place,”Penny presently remarked. “It’s getting late.”

  Anchor Joe’s varnish brush became motionless. He glanced up with sudden interest.

  “I wouldn’t go there if I was you gals,” he said.

  “Why not?” questioned Penny in astonishment.

  “The weather don’t look so good. She might blow up a gale before sundown.”

  “Oh, we’re not afraid of a little wind or rain,” answered Penny carelessly. “Come along, Lou.”

  Anchor Joe said nothing more, but his sober gaze followed the girls as they walked away.

  Keeping close to the river, Penny and Louise trod a path which they knew would lead to the main road and Peter Fenestra’s farm.

  “Queer sort, wasn’t he?” Penny remarked thoughtfully.

  “Anchor Joe?”

  “Yes, I wonder where Dad found him? He certainly didn’t tell us much about himself.”

  Crossing the river by means of a swaying, suspension bridge, the girls came out from beneath the solid canopy of trees. Penny paused to stare up at the sky.

  “Aren’t those clouds odd?” she observed. “Just watch them boil!”

  “They must be filled with wind,” declared Louise uneasily. “Anchor Joe said he thought a storm would blow up.”

  “It’s not far away either. Unless we step right along, we’ll surely get caught in it.”

  “Perhaps we should forget The Willows and start home.”

  “We never could get there now,” responded Penny. “If we hurry we may reach Fenestra’s place before the storm breaks.”

  Walking even faster, the girls hastened along the winding path. The air remained sultry and very still. The sky, Penny noted, had changed to a peculiar yellowish color.

  Then, as she watched with increasing alarm, a writhing, twisting, funnel-shaped arm reached down from the boiling clouds, anchoring them to earth. For a moment the entire mass seemed to settle and flatten out.

  “Listen!” commanded Penny.

  Plainly they both could hear a sullen, deep-throated roar as the storm moved forward.

  “A tornado!” gasped Louise. “It’s coming this way!”

  “Run!” urged Penny, seizing her hand. “We still have a chance to make Fenestra’s place.”

  In a clearing beyond a weed-grown field stood a white farmhouse, a red barn and a silo. One side of the property was bounded by the willow-rimmed river, the other by the road.

  Crawling beneath a barbed-wire fence, the girls cut across the field. The sky was darker now, the roar of the wind ominous. They could see the tail of the funnel whipping along the ground, veering to the south, then coming toward them again.

  “We’ll never make the house,” Louise cried fearfully.

  “Yes, we will,” encouraged Penny.

  She raised another wire strand for Louise to roll beneath. Her own sweater caught on the sharp barbs,
tearing a large hole as she jerked free.

  Dust had begun to blow. Trees and bushes bowed before the first gusts of wind.

  Glancing frantically about for a place of refuge, Penny saw a low, circular cement hump rising from the ground not many yards distant. Instantly she recognized it as an old fashioned storm cellar.

  “We’ll get in there, Lou!” she shouted. “Come on!”

  Running across the yard, they reached the cave. Entrance was guarded by a door built in the side of the cement dome. A brass padlock hung unsnapped in the hasp.

  “Thank goodness, we can get in,” gasped Louise. “Hurry!”

  Penny tugged at the heavy door. It would not raise, and then it gave so suddenly that she nearly tumbled backwards.

  The door clattered back against the cement dome. Through the rectangular opening protruded the head and shoulders of Peter Fenestra. His face was convulsed with rage.

  “What are you trying to do?” he demanded harshly. “Speak up!”

  CHAPTER 9

  A FALLEN TREE

  “Speak up!” Peter Fenestra commanded again as the girls stared at him in blank astonishment. “Why are you trying to get into my cave?”

  “Listen to that wind!” cried Penny, recovering the power of speech. She pointed toward the sky.

  “A tornado!” exclaimed Fenestra in a stunned voice.

  “And it’s coming this way,” added Louise. “Let us down into the cave!”

  Instead of stepping aside, the man came up the stone steps. Slamming the door of the cave, he padlocked it.

  “Quick! Into the house!” he ordered.

  “We’ll be much safer underground,” argued Penny. “That twister easily can lift a building from its foundation.”

  “Do as I say!” commanded Peter Fenestra harshly. “The cave is half filled with water. You can’t go down there.”

  Deserting the girls, he ran toward the house. Mystified by the old man’s actions, Penny and Louise followed, overtaking him as he reached the porch.

  “Get inside!” he ordered.

  The girls scurried through the door and he closed it behind them. Barely had they reached shelter when the wind struck the house in full force, fairly shaking it to its foundation. Windows rattled, a tree bough came crashing down on the porch, the air was filled with flying debris.