Читать книгу Murder in the Telephone Exchange - June Wright - Страница 9

CHAPTER II

John Clarkson’s “medicine” must have done the trick, because I slept very deeply for several hours. I don’t recall having had any vivid dreams as perhaps I should, and awoke, prosaically enough, feeling refreshed and active. The burning sun was seeping through the brown blind at the single window of my bedroom. I stretched out a hand to the bedside table, that I had bought a month previously at a sale, for my watch. It was 11 a.m. About twelve hours since Mac and I had stumbled into that horrid affair; plenty of time before I need shower and dress before lunch. I had missed breakfast altogether. I kicked off the sheet that I had used through the night as a protection against mosquitoes, and hunted for some fruit. Chewing an apple, I lay back on my pillows to reflect.

The day was promising to be another scorcher, and mentally I selected the frock I would wear. Then my eyes roamed around the little north room which I had made my home in the city. The green linoleum on the floor belonged of course to Mrs. Bates, my landlady, but the couple of sheep-skin rugs came from my home in Keramgatta. One was at the side of my divan bed, the other in front of a chest of drawers, both pieces of furniture being made in some uninteresting hardwood. My eyes dwelled appreciatively on the folk-weave curtains, striped in green and white, that I had bought and made up myself; presently the bed on which I lay would be disguised with a cover of the same material. The walls had been covered with some hideous wallpaper. This, with Mrs. Bates’ reluctant permission, I had stripped off only to disclose stained plaster. The marks were minimized by tinting the walls a faint pink and a cunning arrangement of furniture. I had put a very bad water-colour of the old homestead into a rather good frame, so that it had a blended effect on the observer. This hung opposite the flattering, pink-tinted mirror that Mac had given me. For this room and three meals a day, I paid a substantial amount from my fortnightly pay envelope. But I was comfortable enough, and my fellow boarders did not worry me.

Only Mrs. Bates, a follower of some obscure religion, ever pryed into my private affairs. To do her justice, I think that she considered herself responsible for the ignorant country girl whom she had occupying a front room on the first floor of her boarding-house. I had heard her light switch on and the bed creak as I crept past her door the previous night. I fully expected a visit from her to learn why I was so late, so I was not surprised when a tap synchronized with my thoughts.

“Come in,” I called, pulling the sheet over my pink silk pyjamas. Sure enough, it was Mrs. Bates. When I first set eyes on my landlady I had the impression she was too unreal to exist. She was more a product of the imagination; the type of character Dickens would have created and revelled in. She was fairly tall, clad always from head to bunion-swollen feet in respectable black, with a surprisingly enormous bosom pushed high to her chin by old-fashioned corsets. Her face was long and narrow, and there was something wrong with her tear-ducts. She was compelled to wipe her pale blue eyes continually. It gave her the appearance of a mastiff dog, which was rather apt. According to the saga she had told me in serial form over a space of months, she had had a dog’s life. This canine career included a drunkard of a husband, who, having deserted her many years previously, turned up frequently demanding money. I often heard Mrs. Bates haranguing him when I was hanging stockings over my window-sill to dry. Her Billingsgate, or perhaps I should say Fitzroy language, to make it more local, must have been totally at variance with the weird religious creed to which she was always trying to convert me.

In addition to the affliction of her eyes, she had had an operation for goitre, which had in some way impaired her windpipe. This caused her to wheeze every few words she spoke. It held Clark fascinated the first time he met her. She carefully inspected all the men whom her young ladies, as she called us, brought to the house, and later issued gloomy warnings as to the general infidelity and unsteadiness of the male sex. Clark had had a bad start. He was too good-looking to be trusted at all, though I had seen Mrs. Bates relax a little under his infectious smile.

“Good morning, Miss Byrne,” she said, as usual omitting the “s” from my surname and thus rendering it completely insignificant. I could see that I was in for a bad time, and tried to brazen it out.

“Hullo, Mrs. Bates,” I said brightly. “Have you come for your rent? I don’t get paid until tomorrow, you know.”

She hated any direct allusion to money, and disliked the word rent. When I did pay my board, she would write out a receipt quickly and hand it to me, so as to forget the disagreeable occurrence immediately. I often wondered what would happen if I didn’t see her each fortnight in my honest way.

“There are two letters for you,” she said, putting them on my table and ignoring my question. “The telephone has been ringing all the morning. I said that I wouldn’t disturb you, as you were so late last night.”

“Here it comes,” I thought, before saying aloud: “Yes, I was rather late, wasn’t I? Sorry if I awoke you.”

Mrs. Bates was one of those people who say that they hear the clock strike every hour. I pondered as to the best way to attack her. I was feeling physically at a disadvantage lying in bed lightly clothed, while she was standing on one of my sheepskin rugs, thickly upholstered. Presently she came to my assistance.

“Here is the morning paper,” she said, handing it to me folded.

“Are you sure that you’ve finished with it?” I asked, not attempting to open it. “Any special news?”

“You’d better read and see,” she said grimly.

I spread the front page on the bed, hoisting myself to a sitting position. The first thing that struck my eye was a photograph of myself. One in profile taken at the boards some weeks ago for publicity purposes; not this type of publicity, however. I didn’t bother to read the caption below, but grinned up at Mrs. Bates.

“Not bad, is it?” I asked, surveying the picture again with my head on one side. “It makes my nose look rather long, don’t you think?”

Mrs. Bates wheezed several times in a visible effort to control her indignant curiosity. “Miss Byrne,” she demanded, pointing a trembling finger at the paper, “what is the meaning of all this?”

I leaned back on my pillows again and closed my eyes.

“It means, dear Mrs. Bates, that you are harbouring in your respectable house a suspect of murder.”

Her wheezing was so loud that I opened one eye anxiously. Her pale blue eyes were filling and being emptied in such rapid succession that unkindly I wanted to laugh. She was as curious as a cat and was trying not to appear so.

“Is that why that man has been ringing all the morning?” she asked.

“What man?”

“Sergeant someone or other from Russell Street. But I told him that you were still asleep.”

I sat up with a jolt and swung my legs over the side of the bed. Mrs. Bates transferred her gaze to my solitary picture.

“What did he want? And why didn’t you get me up? Where’s my dressing-gown?”

Mrs. Bates got it from a hook, and held it out in front of her face.

“Thanks,” I said, slipping it on and tying the girdle. “All right, Mrs. Bates, I’m modest now. What did Sergeant Matheson want?”

She sniffed audibly. “He said that he’d call back, and he did again and again until I said you’d let him know when you were up.”

I made for the door. “I’d better ring him at once. It may have been important.”

Mrs. Bates moved after me, wiping her eyes again. “Get dressed first, please, Miss Byrne. I can’t have one of my young ladies walking down the hall in night attire.”

“Don’t talk rot,” I said irritably. “There is no one around at this hour, and what does it matter? We are all females here, worse luck!” I dashed along the hall and slid down the banisters under Mrs. Bates’s mortified gaze.

“Russell Street—Russell Street,” I muttered as I ran. “I should know that number. What the devil is it? Do you know the number of the police station?” I called to Mrs. Bates, as she came down the stairs after me.

“I’ve never had any dealings with the police, so I can’t tell you,” she returned virtuously.

“Never mind, Mrs. Bates, dear,” I grinned from the telephone book. “I’ll tell you all about it in a minute. Just be patient.”

I dialled quickly, and sat down on the edge of a table. Mrs. Bates passed to close the front door, not because of any draught that might be blowing, but in case anyone should pass and see me in pyjamas.

I got on to Sergeant Matheson without any difficulty; it seemed as if he were waiting for me. He sounded as ill-at-ease as he appeared the previous night, so much so that I was glad television was still considered impracticable.

“What’s the matter?” I asked quickly. “Anything new?”

“Only routine stuff, Miss Byrnes. I rang to ask you to be at the Exchange at 2 p.m. this afternoon.”

“Is that all?” I said in disgust. “Do you realize that you’ve got me out of bed?”

He gave an embarrassed murmur.

“My landlady is just as scandalized,” I assured him. “What do you want of me at 2 p.m.?”

“Inspector Coleman wants to ask a few questions.”

“What, more?” I interrupted.

“Can you get hold of Miss MacIntyre. We want her, too.”

“She’s coming to lunch with me. We’ll arrive together. Is that all you want?”

“Yes, I think so. Er—how are you?”

“Pretty fit, thanks.”

“Did you take those aspirins?”

“They worked like a charm,” I answered mendaciously, not wishing to disillusion him. “Do you mind if I go now? I must get dressed, or Mrs. Bates will be fainting with outraged modesty.” I thought I heard him laugh softly, and wondered if his eyes were twinkling as they had the night before. He was quite a lamb, but of course not in the same street as Clark.

“Very well, Miss Byrnes. We will see you and Miss MacIntyre this afternoon.”

“We’ll be there,” I promised, and hung up the receiver. I started up the stairs, but paused halfway to say over the banisters: “By the way, Mrs. Bates, will it be all right for Miss MacIntyre to come to lunch?”

“I suppose so,” answered my landlady in a grudging tone. “Did you find your number?”

“Yes, thank you. Sergeant Matheson wants Mac and me to be at the Exchange at 2 p.m. for further questioning.”

She digested the information in silence and then asked suddenly: “What exactly happened last night?”

“Last night,” I answered softly, “a very inquisitive, prying old woman was found dead with her face bashed in. A very nasty sight! If you want to know more, read the papers again. They always seem to know everything.”

Mrs. Bates looked offended. “I’m not being merely curious, but I have the tone of my house to think of.”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Bates, they won’t arrest me. I’ve got a watertight alibi.”

“I wouldn’t dream of thinking that you committed such a dreadful crime,” she said indignantly. “You are one of the quietest young ladies that I have ever had.”

“Thank you,” I replied dryly, thinking how uninteresting I must be. “Were there any other ’phone messages?”

“Mr. Clarkson rang,” she said, looking very sour. “I believe that it was he who brought you home at such an unearthly hour.”

“You asked him, I bet,” I accused her, grinning.

“Well, what if I did? If you only knew how I lie awake at night worrying, when you girls are out with young men.”

“Who else rang?” I cut in with impatience.

“Miss Patterson, and it isn’t often that I run down one of my own sex, but that girl is an out and out liar.”

“I find her most entertaining. There is no need to tell me what she wanted. I can guess.”

“What did she want?” asked Mrs. Bates immediately.

“Didn’t you ask her?” I inquired in mock surprise. “I imagine that she wanted to hear all the gruesome details, much the same as you do.”

Mrs. Bates ignored this. “She says that she is coming to lunch.”

“What!” I shrieked. “Who said she was? I haven’t invited her. Well, if she comes, she’ll have to pay for herself, for I’m damned if I will. The nerve of the wench! She knows I detest her.”

“Please, Miss Byrne,” said my landlady, looking up at me with earnest eyes. “You must not hate anyone. It should be all love and truth between souls.”

“Not between Gloria’s and mine. Anyway, you just called her a liar yourself.”

“Then I did a great wrong. Miss Patterson probably has her good points.”

“Don’t talk such rubbish,” I said irritably, continuing on my way. “If Miss MacIntyre comes, send her up to my room.”

I took a hot shower and then a cold one, but they were much of a muchness. The sun had been beating down on the water pipes all the morning. Back in my bedroom I began to tidy things up, clad only in a slip, when Mac walked in. Her face gave me what Mrs. Bates would have termed a “nasty turn.” It was ghastly, so white that it seemed almost blue as though with the cold, which was impossible that hot morning. Her brown eyes, which did not meet mine, were heavily ringed, and there was a line between her delicate brows that I had never noticed before.

“Well!” I said slowly, tucking in the bedclothes. “It doesn’t look as though Clark’s medicine did you any good.”

“I slept on and off,” she shrugged indifferently. “Want some help?”

“Yes, round the other side, and toss over the bedcover,” I replied, following her lead. Whatever Mac had on her mind, she most obviously did not wish me to know. I felt hurt, of course, but what were friends for if they didn’t respect each other’s moods?

“Inspector Coleman wants us at the Exchange at 2 p.m.,” I remarked presently, and saw those small hands pause a second in their smoothing of my folk-weave spread.

“Oh?” said Mac casually. “What for, do you know?”

“More questions,” I answered, trying to observe her surreptitiously. She turned aside to dust my chest of drawers.

“What is it like out?” I asked, as Mac for no reason at all inspected an absurd dog that I had won at a charity fair in the city.

“Hot as hell!”

“No stockings,” I decided. “Do you think that I’ll pass all the old diehards?”

“I’m not wearing them. Anyway, the only one who objected to bare legs was—”

“Sarah Compton,” I supplied gently. There was silence.

“Mac,” I said pleadingly, but she did not look around. The silver pin-tray that she was dusting fell to the floor.

“Blast! Sorry, Maggie, I’ve scratched the wood.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I replied mechanically, bending with her to retrieve the tray. Our heads bumped.

“Out of my way,” I commanded flippantly. At last her eyes met mine. Kneeling there on the floor I caught hold of her shoulders.

“Mac, you silly, silly fool,” I said, shaking her gently. “What is the matter?” I looked deep into her eyes and thought that I could read fear. But they seemed so full of misery that I wondered if I had been mistaken. She shook her head without speaking.

“All right,” I said, getting up, “if you won’t tell me, won’t you at least let Clark try to help you. He is a very nice person, Mac.” As I thought back on the previous night, I wondered if it were possible that she was jealous.

‘Damn this thing they call love,’ I said to myself, ‘if it divides such good friends as Mac and I have been.’

She jumped up quickly, trying to smile. “Don’t be so imaginative, Maggie. I’m tired, that’s all. I didn’t sleep too well. Can you wonder after last night?”

“No, indeed,” I said truthfully, omitting to tell her of my own sound slumber. As I took out a navy sheer frock from my wardrobe she started to chatter inconsequently.

‘My lamb,’ I thought anxiously, ‘you wouldn’t deceive a baby.’ I lent only half an ear to her story about Mrs. Bates and the salad she said she was ‘throwing together’ for our lunch. I ran a comb through my hair, and hunted in a drawer for lipstick.

“By the way,” I cut in. “I have another guest arriving, but not at my invitation. Our cherished friend, Gloria.”

“Patterson?” repeated Mac in genuine amazement. “What on earth does she want?”

“I seem to have answered that question before,” I said with difficulty as I was concentrating on my lips. “I suppose she wants to be in on the news. I bet she was wild when she saw my picture in this morning’s paper.”

It did my heart good to hear Mac’s laugh. “Don’t be too hard on her, Maggie.”

“She’s a little fool,” I said, shutting all the drawers that I had delved into, “with no brain above clothes and boy-friends.”

“Both of which are most necessary.”

“I don’t agree,” I declared firmly. “Look at Mrs. Bates. Not a male around the place, and the same old black garment year in and year out. A worthy example to all.”

Mac laughed again, and I made a mental vow to pursue this banal conversation to its utmost.

“Maggie, you do talk the most utter rot. Come and see what she has got for lunch. When I last saw her she was chopping lettuce and singing the most awful songs.”

“Those are hymns,” I corrected, opening the door, “all based on truth and love. She even loves Gloria.”

“She must be mad,” said Mac frankly.

We walked down the hall to the stairs.

“Is that you, Maggie?” called a voice from the lower hall.

“Oh, lord!” I said softly, as we went down. “She is here already. Hullo, Gloria, to what do I owe this honour?”

To my horror, Patterson started to weep. Her round babyish face broke up in typical fashion: mouth awry and tears pouring out of wide open eyes. I threw Mac a resigned look, and tried to speak kindly.

“What’s the matter? Do you feel sick?”

She continued to sob, but burst out presently: “Oh, Maggie, I’m so scared.”

It sounded like an act. I raised one eyebrow at Mac who shook her head gently. As I considered Mac a shrewd judge of Gloria’s emotional performances, I inquired in what I thought was a sympathetic but firm voice: “What are you scared about? And why come and tell me about it?”

“I thought that you’d be able to help,” she sniffed, lifting her head. “You are always so—so sensible.”

What a vile epithet! First Mrs. Bates practically informed me that I was like a cow in a paddock, and now I was sensible!

“You speak as if I wear skirts six inches below the knee. Come on now, what’s the matter?” I asked briskly.

Gloria looked around her, throwing Mac a rather watery smile. “Do you think,” she whispered, “that we could go some place where we can’t be overheard?”

“There’s only Mrs. Bates in the kitchen,” I said impatiently.

Everyone else is at work. But we can go into the lounge-room.”

I led the way down the hall to the first door on the right.

“Now,” I said, as we seated ourselves on Mrs. Bates’s fat leather settee. Gloria looked at me earnestly.

“Will you swear that you won’t tell anyone about what I’m going to say? You too, Gerda?”

Mac nodded, but I said with caution: “That all depends on what it is.”

Gloria became very agitated. “Oh, very well,” I agreed, “I swear.”

Gloria settled herself comfortably. She seemed quite happy now that she had our attention. I thought grimly of all the things that I would do to her if this was just an act.

“You remember last night,” she began.

“Will I ever forget,” I declared, closing my eyes.

“Maggie, please listen. I don’t mean the—the murder, or rather I do, really.”

“Just what do you mean?” I asked. “Now take a deep breath, and start at the beginning, but don’t take too long. I want my lunch; which reminds me, I hope you realize that the cost of yours is not going on my bill.”

“Of course I do,” she said indignantly. “Let me tell you that I cancelled an engagement to have lunch at Menzies’ to come and see you.”

“I have already said that I was honoured. Get on with your story, and see that it’s a good one.”

“Maggie,” she said, raising one hand solemnly, “I swear that everything I’m going to say is the truth.” I forbore any comment in the hope that she would get to the point more quickly.

“Last night,” she continued, “Compton abused me for being late back from relief, and said I was to work overtime. Do you remember?” I nodded briefly. “When 10.30 p.m. came, and all the girls on my rota went, I thought that I’d better stay just in case Compton saw me. So, by the time that I left the trunkroom, all the others had gone home. There was not a soul in the cloakroom, and the restroom door was still closed.”

“Was it locked?” I asked quickly.

“I didn’t try it. But there was an atmosphere in the cloakroom that I can’t describe. As you know, I am considered psychic, and I felt then that something was going to happen.”

I heard Mac sigh, but frowned myself. Although I did not wish to couple my brain with Gloria’s, I had to admit to sharing that feeling all night.

“What time was this?” I inquired.

“It couldn’t have been much after 10.35 p.m. That was when I signed off.”

“Yes, I noticed that. Go on.”

“Did you?” asked Gloria, as if I had done something particularly bright. “Where was I? Oh yes, I was just getting my orchid out of my locker. That beast Compton, though I suppose I mustn’t say that now that she is dead, told me not to wear it at the boards. Then I heard someone coming down the passage. Who do you think it was?” She paused dramatically. Mac and I sighed together. Gloria was that type of person who, when she rang anyone, invariably asked: “Can you guess who is speaking?”

“Well, who was it?”

“Sarah Compton!”

I sat up with a jolt and heard Mac’s quick indrawn breath.

“Now look here, Gloria,” I said sternly. “You’re not making any of this up, are you?”

She seemed so frightened that I believed she was in earnest. Sarah, alive at 10.35 p.m.! Mac, Mac, what was worrying you?

“Continue,” I said, trying to be calm. She looked a little shamefaced.

“I hid behind the lockers, and she came into the cloakroom.”

“Why did you hide?” Mac asked. It was the first time she had spoken.

“I didn’t want her to see me,” Gloria answered defiantly.

“That,” I remarked, “is obvious. But why didn’t you want her to see you? You’d worked your overtime.”

She remained silent, looking sullenly down at her hands. “Good Heavens! another mystery,” I thought.

“All right, we’ll let that pass. What happened next?”

“I stayed where I was. I thought that I’d slip out later when she had gone. But she didn’t go. She went into the restroom.”

“Did she just open the door, or did she have to use a key?” I demanded. That restroom door had me puzzled.

“I don’t know,” Gloria confessed. “I didn’t actually see Compton go in, as I was hiding behind the lockers. I only heard.”

“Well, think! Do you remember hearing a click? Anything like a door being unlocked?”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t like to say.”

“Go on,” I repeated.

“Well, that was all,” she replied. “As soon as I knew that the coast was clear, I left.”

“If that is all,” I remarked practically, “what are you so scared about? All you have to do is tell Inspector Coleman everything you have told us.”

The tears welled into her eyes again, and she looked genuinely upset. “Oh no, no, I couldn’t do that,” she whispered.

“Why not? If you don’t, I will.”

“Maggie, you wouldn’t. You promised.”

“Pull yourself together,” I advised. “I don’t see why you are making such a fuss. It all seems perfectly simple.”

She gazed at me piteously, “Don’t you understand?” she whispered again. “They’ll think I murdered Compton.”

“And did you?” I asked brutally.

Her eyes met mine, wide with horror. “Maggie, how can you? I don’t know anything about it.”

“You seem to have been hanging around quite a bit,” I pointed out. “I just wondered. Furthermore, my pet, as a statement your story appears to have a few gaps. You’d better fill them in when you tell it to the Inspector.”

“I tell you—” she began, but I waved her aside and got up.

“Not interested, are we, Mac? All we are concerned with now is food. Come along, my children.”

“I don’t know how you can bear to eat,” declared Gloria with a shudder, “I didn’t have any breakfast after I saw the headlines.”

“Are you sure that it was the first you knew of it?” I asked, bending to retie my shoe-lace.

“Shut up, Maggie,” interposed Mac.

“I’m glad that someone sticks up for me,” said Gloria, gratified.

“I wasn’t,” answered Mac in her calm way, “but all this bickering spoils my appetite. Are Mrs. Bates’s salads as good as ever, Maggie?”

We went down to the dining-room. Gloria, despite her protestations, made an excellent meal. But Mac barely touched her plate, and I started to worry again. I knew that I had absolutely no chance of persuading her to confide in me. Mac, for all her sweetness, could be as obstinate as a mule. However I comforted myself with the reflection that Clark might be able to do something. Gloria seemed to have forgotten her worries, confident that I would not break my promise. It was absurd that she would not tell Inspector Coleman the truth at once, as they would be certain to find out sooner or later. Her story was very thin, to say the least.

She had started chattering about our charity dance which was to take place the following Saturday. I roused myself to inform her that quite likely it would be cancelled now. Her eyes widened in surprise.

“Why should it be? They can’t stop it now that all the tickets have been sold.”

“I daresay,” I said, annoyed that I had started another argument. “But don’t forget the slight disturbance that we had last night. Those policemen have come to stay; that is, until the truth has been discovered. We might dance over important footprints.”

“Don’t be so silly. No one would want to go near the restroom.”

Mac raised her eyes quickly, her small fingers crumbling at some bread. “Why do you say that?” she asked in a quiet voice. I looked at her in astonishment, wondering at what she was driving. Gloria seemed surprised, too.

“My dear Gerda,” she said loftily, “who would want to go near a room where a murder has been committed?”

“You can stop the ‘my dear’-ing,” I interrupted. “What’s up, Mac?”

She was leaning across the table. I could see her eyes boring into Gloria’s.

“How do you know where the crime was committed?” she asked, her voice suddenly clear and hard.

“Good girl,” I thought, “you’ve got something there.”

Patterson looked confused. “Why—why, I just heard.”

“Where did you hear it?” I put in quickly.

“I read it in the papers.”

Mac sat back again. “I read two morning papers before I came out, and in neither of them was there any mention of the exact place where the body was found.”

Gloria’s eyes darted around the room. “You told me yourselves,” she whimpered.

“We most certainly did not,” I declared emphatically. “Now think up another one.”

“Leave her alone,” interrupted Mac, passing a hand over her face wearily. “It’s not our job to try and trap her.”

“You’re not trapping me,” Gloria cried. “I’ve got nothing to hide. I remember now. One of the girls rang and told me.”

“No good,” I said, shaking my head. “They wouldn’t know any more than what the papers printed. Who was it rang you, anyway?”

Gloria got up from the table. “I—I won’t tell you.”

I shrugged indifferently and folded my table-napkin. “Have it your own way, my pet,” I said, “but if you are a wise person, which I very much doubt, you’ll take my advice and go straight to Inspector Coleman.”

She turned towards the door sullenly.

“Surely you realize that once the police know you were late off, they’ll question you. Then where will you be? If an untrained person like myself can see through your flimsy yarn, how will you fare with experts? That is all I have to say. You came to me for advice, and I have given it to you. Have you finished, Mac? I’ll dash up and get a hat. You two can start on ahead, but don’t you forget to see Mrs. Bates first, Gloria.”

* * * * *

They were nearly at the station when I caught them up. I hadn’t bothered to look up a train. Having travelled for years on that particular line to attend different shifts at the Exchange, I practically knew the time-table by heart. Mac and I both had monthly tickets, but we had to wait at the barrier for Patterson, who lived in the eastern suburbs, to buy a single to town. I found a vacant carriage, but the short journey was unbroken by any conversation. Gloria seemed subdued, and neither Mac nor I felt inclined for any more talk. It was only when we were crossing the river into the city that I asked Gloria: “Have you made up your mind? You can come with Mac and me to see the Inspector.”

“I’ve nothing to say to him,” she muttered sulkily.

“You’re a silly little fool,” I told her roundly, wondering why I bothered. “You’re certain to be found out, isn’t she, Mac?” I saw the strained look come back into Mac’s eyes. She nodded and turned to the window. I watched her averted head in silence.

“Mac, Mac,” cried a voice in my brain, “why don’t you tell me what it is? What has filled your eyes with inexpressible sadness and lined your lovely skin?”

We lost Gloria when we got into town. She must have slipped away in the crowd at the station. I was rather thankful. After all, whatever foolish game she was playing, it was none of my concern. I had vindicated myself of any responsibility that she might have thrust upon me by appealing for my advice.

We boarded a west city bus that would take us right to the Exchange door. It was too hot to walk for pleasure, although the usual lunch-time crowds were milling at the street corners waiting for the green light. Wet or fine, city workers always take a constitutional down town between the hours of 1 p.m. and 2 p.m.

I always think that the Exchange buildings look different by day; perhaps because of the continual stream of telephonists tripping up and down those few steps, passes in hand. By night, it is a gaunt, lonely place, situated on a hill away from the heart of the city. As we entered, I saw a summer-helmeted policeman sitting with our usual guard. I supposed that this was to be expected. I nudged Mac significantly as I fumbled for my pass. We walked by a group of Central girls who were talking together in the hall. They stopped to look at us curiously, and I noticed Mac’s chin lift a little. I gave them a brief nod as we went through the swing doors to the new building. The stuffy atmosphere of air-conditioning enveloped us. As we passed a block of apparatus, the continual click of the automatic feelers warned us that it must be after 2 p.m. and that afternoon work had commenced all over the city.

Bill was on duty, so I entered the lift with but few qualms. He gave us his usual cheery greeting, perhaps a little kindlier than was his wont. I inquired mechanically after his vegetable garden.

“Do you know where we can locate Inspector Coleman?” asked Mac, as Bill managed the lift dexterously with his one hand. We learned that the police had taken over the room next to the sick-bay to use as a temporary office. It was there that, some years previously, higher officials of the Department had sat mapping out operational instructions. In the opinion of the majority of telephonists, these instructions were all very well in theory, but put into practice with four lines buzzing on your board and a pile of dockets to break, were well-nigh impossible to obey.

We were informed by a man in uniform outside the cloakroom that lockers and coat-racks had been moved to another room off the corridor. We retraced our steps to the telephonists’ classroom which had been fitted up as a temporary cloakroom. A quantity of telephone sets were neatly laid out in rows on a table. The powers that be must have authorized someone to go through the lockers with a duplicate key and remove them before the police closed up the rooms. A number stamped on each chest piece coincided with the numerical signature with which we signed dockets. But I recognized mine immediately by the small chip in the mouthpiece. Telephonists are very jealous of their sets. They become as attached and accustomed to them as a child to a doll. It is only with extreme reluctance that they are loaned, and any criticism by the borrower as to the quality of the telephone is strongly resented.

I balanced my cartwheel hat on top of a dummy pedestal telephone and observed casually: “I hope that it won’t change to-night. I didn’t bring a coat.”

I was slightly apprehensive about the forthcoming interview. There was Gloria’s semi-confidence that had fallen on my unwilling ears that morning. Not that it worried me overmuch. She could stew in her own juice for all I cared. But Mac’s tragic eyes troubled me. There seemed neither rhyme nor reason for her secretive manner. She appeared placid enough now, a small cool figure in a printed crepe dress with her dark hair brushed up from her temples against the heat. Together we went down to the sick-bay passage.

The solemn-faced Roberts opened the door, and I heard a familiar voice say: “Here they are now.”

It was Bertie Scott, the Senior Traffic Officer. Somehow his existence had gone out of my head completely, so that it came as a surprise when I saw him seated with Inspector Coleman and the Sergeant. His appearance was shocking. The gradual disintegration of his face and bearing that we had observed had risen to a climax. He looked an old man.

“I suppose that you would like me to go now, Inspector,” he said, getting up slowly.

“I’d rather that you stayed, Mr. Scott; that is, if your duties are not calling you urgently. There may be a few questions for you to answer in collaboration with these young ladies.”

Sergeant Matheson placed chairs for Mac and me opposite the wide desk, from behind which the Inspector had half-risen when we entered. Then we all sat down together in a rush as though we were playing musical chairs.

That little room was almost unbearably hot. The close atmosphere and the nervous anticipation that I was feeling made me perspire in a most unladylike fashion. I wiped the palms of my hands on my handkerchief and cast a covert glance at Mac who was sitting very straight. She still looked calm and cool, but I considered that her fine eyes were more than naturally alert and wary. Beyond Mac’s profile, I could see Bertie. He was clad in his alpaca office coat and was sitting slackly with his hands hanging loosely from his knees.

The Inspector hunted on his desk until Sergeant Matheson put a single sheet into his hand. His big frame fitted badly into the dark suit which most of our city men seem to wear in all seasons. Only the Sergeant had compromised with the heat. With unreasonable irritation, I saw that he was wearing a thin, fawn-coloured outfit without a waistcoat. In spite of a glaring tie, he looked all one colour, with his sandy hair and skin. I had had plenty of time for these observations. A long silence had fallen as Inspector Coleman read through his paper, frowning. I sighed and transferred my attention to a solitary fly buzzing about his head. It settled on his broad wet forehead, and he brushed it away with an impatient wave of his hand. At length he raised his eyes, and the three of us—Bertie Scott, Mac and myself—were compelled to run the gauntlet of his keen scrutiny. It took me all my control not to fidget my feet like a guilty schoolgirl. Up to that moment I had a clear enough conscience, but I began to wonder if perhaps there was not some little thing that I was trying to conceal. I think it was then that I realized what a very formidable body the Police Force was. I made a mental vow never to get mixed up with them again.

“Miss MacIntyre,” he began and I saw Mac’s eyelids flicker. “I understand that it was you who discovered the body. According to your statement you last noticed the deceased about 9.30 p.m. Wednesday night, that is yesterday evening, when she approached the sortagraph position where you were working.”

“That is so,” said Mac in a low voice. “She put a docket in the file at the side of the sortagraph.”

“Did she speak to you at all?”

Mac frowned. “I don’t think so.”

“Come, Miss MacIntyre, my question required only yes or no.”

She looked at him directly. “She muttered something. Whether it was meant for my ears or not, I don’t know.”

“Did you catch what she said?” asked the Inspector. Mac hesitated.

“I am not sure,” she replied cautiously, “but I thought she said ‘that’ll fix it’ or something similar.”

“H’m,” said the Inspector, “it may or may not be significant. Was it an unusual phrase for Miss Compton to use?”

A slight smile crossed Mac’s lips. “I have heard stronger remarks made during the rush time,” she said.

I coughed suddenly, noticing at the same time Bertie’s hand crossing his mouth for a moment. Mac’s answer could tickle the risible faculties of telephone employees only, although I observed Sergeant Matheson lower his eyes quickly to the papers on the desk. Only the Inspector remained grave.

“That was the last time that you noticed her in the trunkroom?”

“Yes,” answered Mac, and I felt almost happy. The form of the Inspector’s question had not necessitated her lying. I looked around the room benevolently, and caught Sergeant Matheson’s keen eye fixed on me. As he leaned over and whispered to his superior, I cursed myself heartily for not keeping a poker face. The Inspector nodded. and turned again to Mac.

“Have you anything that you wish to add to your statement, Miss MacIntyre?”

There was another pause, while Mac stared at her hands. Presently the Inspector stirred impatiently.

“Well, Miss MacIntyre?”

“I was thinking,” she remarked coolly. “Perhaps it would help if I could see my statement?” She held out one small hand for it.

“She’s playing for time,” I thought anxiously, as Mac’s eyes travelled down the single sheet to her signature at the bottom. Only her left hand pleating a fold of her floral skirt betrayed her nervousness.

I said to myself: ‘You’re no good at deceiving people, Mac, my sweet. Why don’t you tell them that you saw Sarah later. They’ll soon find out about the relief you had.’

“That is quite in order,” she said, returning the sheet, “I have nothing further to tell you.”

It was my turn next.

“I believe that you can swear to Miss Compton’s presence in the room at a later time than Miss MacIntyre can.”

“Correct,” I answered without hesitation. “I remember she queried a docket with me about a quarter to ten. A Windsor number was the caller, so it should be easy to trace.”

Bertie spoke for the first time: “Dockets are filed under the calling number, Inspector. I’ll have it looked up for you. Any query on a docket is always noted on the back and signed by the person handling it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Scott,” said the Inspector. “Perhaps if I could have that call at once?”

Bertie rose with alacrity. He seemed to be anxious to be up and doing. “A Windsor number you said, Miss Byrnes?” I nodded. He trotted out of the room in his fussy manner.

“Now, Miss Byrnes,” continued Inspector Coleman, as Roberts pulled the door shut. “That was definitely the last time that you saw Miss Compton?”

“I didn’t see her,” I corrected again. “Working at top speed you don’t see anything but the board and dockets that you are handling. But I’d swear that it was Compton who made the inquiry. I’d know her voice anywhere.”

Sergeant Matheson whispered to the Inspector again, who smiled a little.

“No, that is a little too subtle,” he answered, and added to me: “Sergeant Matheson suggests that it may have been someone imitating her voice, but I think that we will trust to your judgment.”

“You can rely on it,” I said firmly, directing a withering glance at the Sergeant. He reddened a little.

“You don’t know if the deceased was seen by anyone else at a later time?” I was asked. I felt Mac stir beside me and closed my eyes for a minute thinking: ‘Now what do I say? It is obvious that Mac doesn’t want me to mention her meeting, and then there is my promise to Gloria.’ Of course it would be me who came up against the difficult part. I crossed my fingers and lied bravely, hoping that I was a better actress than Mac.

John told me later that it was the silliest damn thing I did throughout that dreadful time. He adheres to the opinion that if I had told the truth, the case might have been broken then and there.

I sighed with relief as Mac drew their attention by suggesting that they query the all-night telephonists as to whether they saw her. The Inspector did not seem pleased with the advice. He probably did not like being told his business, and on any other occasion I wouldn’t have blamed him. However he made a note on his pad and asked at what time they came on duty.

“At 11 p.m.,” I informed him. “We usually went when they relieved us, but last night it was so busy that we stayed on helping to clear things up. I signed off about 11.10 p.m.” I glanced at Mac inquiringly.

“11.8 p.m.,” she said, meeting my eyes calmly.

“You can check that up with the time book,” I bit my lips, suddenly remembering Gloria Patterson. ‘Oh well, what’s the difference?’ I thought, ‘Bertie’s certain to have suggested them seeing it.’

“How many all-night telephonists were there?” asked Inspector Coleman.

“Four. Two of them came into the trunkroom a few minutes early, for which I was very glad.”

“Were you and Miss MacIntyre working near each other?”

“Have you seen the trunkroom?” I demanded, but they shook their heads together in a way that was almost comical. “The country boards, which Miss MacIntyre was working, are on the west side of the room. Pillars, inquiry posts and booking boards separate them from the interstate positions where I was on duty last night.”

“When these girls came in, did they make any mention of having spoken to Miss Compton?”

“You didn’t talk to Sarah Compton unless you had to,” I retorted. “In spite of Miss MacIntyre’s suggestion, I consider that it would be very unlikely if they saw her at all.” Mac knew what I was getting at, just as I had realized that her interruption had been to divert the two officers’ attention from my untrue statement. They appeared puzzled, so I went on to explain: “The all-night telephonists take it in turn to sleep. There is a dormitory on the seventh floor which they use instead of the cloakroom.”

“You mean that none of them would go near the eighth floor?”

“They might have,” I said carefully, “but it would not be usual. They generally leave their headsets in the dormitory all day, so that there would be no need to go up to the cloakroom when they came on duty at night.”

Inspector Coleman turned to Mac. “You knew this, Miss MacIntyre?” Mac nodded. “Then why,” he went on sternly, “did you suggest that the all-night telephonists may have seen Miss Compton?”

Mac was silent, and I cursed the Inspector for his acuteness. I realized it was going to be very difficult to continue deceiving him, but having gone thus far I could not retreat now. But it was obvious that he knew that we were both withholding something, and I was surprised that he did not press for further information. Later I learned that this was not his method, and that in spite of his calling, he was a soft-hearted man, as far as his duty would allow him.

However, he gave us a severe warning.

“Last night,” he began, punctuating his words with a tap of his pencil, “you two girls stumbled on one of the foulest crimes that can be committed. A middle-aged woman was battered to death by some person whom we only know now as a coldblooded fiend. The time of her death is uncertain, and the weapon used still undiscovered. You see, I am laying the facts before you in the effort to make you realize that this is a very serious affair, and one in which you should endeavour to render the police every possible assistance. The motive for this unfortunate woman’s death is, we imagine, due to her curiosity.”

‘I told you that,’ I thought indignantly.

“But what knowledge she held and over whom is still unknown. Therefore I ask you two girls to think, and think hard, whether there is not something more you can tell us, Miss MacIntyre?”

I gripped the edge of my chair with my wet hands. I was glad that he had asked Mac first. At least I could get my cue.

“No, nothing,” she replied in a low, tired voice.

The Inspector turned towards me, I shook my head slowly, trying to appear as if I were searching my brain.

“Very well,” said Inspector Coleman in an expressionless way, I thought that his eyes were as hard as granite. “One more matter. As you know, the Exchange building is not the accessible place it was once.” I knew what was coming. It had been in the back of my head ever since we left the building the night before, but I had tried to close my mind to it.

“Everyone,” continued the Inspector, “who wishes to enter the Exchange has to pass an armed guard, and present his or her identity pass. Therefore unless the murderer got by on a stolen pass, which we shall consider in due time, this terrible crime was perpetrated by an employee of the Telephone Department. I want you to realize that we intend to bring that person to justice even if it means questioning every single inhabitant of the building, and you have several hundred people working with you. This will make our job long and tedious, and will allow the criminal to cover his tracks and perhaps-who knows-strike again in the same cold-blooded way.”

I shivered in spite of the heat, feeling suddenly cold at the thought of an unknown killer walking freely in our midst. If the Inspector had expected some return for his dramatic speech, he was doomed to disappointment. Mac was as silent as a tomb, and I had vowed to myself that as much as I distrusted it, I would follow her lead only.

“To continue with your statement, Miss Byrnes”—I started as he spoke my name, and looked at him inquiringly—“you informed Sergeant Matheson that earlier in the evening you were accused of having locked the door of the room where the crime took place.”

“I wasn’t accused directly,” I declared. “Some busybody had conjectured it, because I was the last telephonist to be near the restroom. The rumour was spread to the boards.”

“Do you know who that person was?”

“Not the faintest. To be quite candid, I didn’t hear of the accusation until about 10.30 p.m. Even then I didn’t pay much attention to it. The girl Gordon, who was sitting at the next board, told me what everyone was saying. It was then that I noticed Compton was not in the room.”

Inspector Coleman delved amongst his papers again.

“When was the locked door first known?”

I concentrated on the events previous to the murder. It was rather difficult to assimilate them, overshadowed as they were by more major happenings.

“Miss Patterson,” I said suddenly. “I was relieving her and she came back late. I remember now that Compton rebuked her and said that she was to work overtime.”

It was then that I saw the trunkroom time-book under the Inspector’s hand, and felt a slight admiration. They had probably checked up on our statements already.

“G. M. T. Patterson, 10.35 p.m.!” read the Inspector, and looked up. “Is that the girl?”

“Yes,” I answered, feeling maliciously pleased. They were on to Gloria’s trail now. How like her to have three initials!

“She was the last telephonist to be off before you two,” stated the Inspector, keeping his finger on her name. “What time will Miss Patterson be on duty this evening.”

“3.30 p.m. this afternoon,” I replied promptly, almost exultant. This new fact which had come to their notice would probably take their attention from Mac and me. I was a little tired of being number one suspect. They appeared to have disregarded our admirable alibis. Perhaps they were considered a little too water-tight to be wholesome.

The Inspector glanced at his watch. “That is very soon.”

“Can we go and find her?” I asked hopefully. “She may have arrived already.”

He threw me a cold glance, and my heart sank.

“That will not be necessary. We have not finished with you yet. Roberts!” he yelled. The solemn-faced policeman put his head round the door. “Find G. M. T. Patterson—she’s a telephonist due on duty at 3.30 p.m.—and tell Mr. Scott that we will not require him for a while.”

Roberts withdrew his head without having said a word. If he hadn’t spoken to me the previous night I would have had doubts of his ability to do so.

Inspector Coleman turned his attention once more to his desk. He was in truth the most untidy man that I had ever seen. I often said to John afterwards that it was a miracle that he ever solved the case. I came to realize that the more haphazard the Inspector appeared, the closer he had his nose to the right scent. At length he produced a small, grimy piece of paper. This was handed to me without comment. I gave him a surprised look and glanced at the document. Sudden excitement tingled my nerves as I knew at once that it was the mysterious note that had hit me in the lift the night before. I have, like the majority of telephonists, developed a good memory, so I can give you its contents word for word. Printed in block letters, obviously disguised, it ran:

SARAH COMPTON, UNLESS YOU KEEP YOUR SPYING NOSE OUT OF OTHER PEOPLE’S BUSINESS, YOU’LL GET WHAT HAS BEEN COMING TO YOU FOR A LONG TIME. YOU TRIED TO BREAK UP MY LIFE ONCE, BUT I WON’T LET YOU DO IT AGAIN.

There was no signature of course, but the tone in which the letter was written gave no doubt that Compton would have recognized its author. I re-read that grimy sheet several times, until the Inspector held out his hand impatiently. As I gave it back, I saw Mac looking at me curiously; I had forgotten to tell her of my adventure in the lift. It was her own mysterious behaviour that had made it slip my mind, and this morning there had been Patterson to deal with. I dropped my sodden handkerchief to the ground, and bending near her to retrieve it, breathed: “Later.”

Again I saw Sergeant Matheson’s keen scrutiny, and smiled gently at him. Much to my annoyance, he grinned back.

“Well?” asked the Inspector.

I replied cautiously: “I should say that it was the letter I told the Sergeant about. The two words I noticed, ‘spying’ and ‘Compton” are there, so that makes it rather conclusive.”

The Inspector smiled a little. It was amazing how it changed his big, rugged face. “Again we will rely on your judgment. Will you give us your opinion on the matter?”

“The letter?” I queried, pleased, though rather surprised. It was very flattering for a Russell Street Police Inspector to ask my advice, but I went carefully, fearful of some trap that might lurk behind the Inspector’s expressionless eyes.

“I haven’t any idea who wrote it, if that’s what you are getting at.” He did not seem disappointed and waited for me to continue. I began to feel helpless, not knowing exactly what to say.

“Let me see it again,” I requested. After gazing at it closely and turning it over in my hand, I observed: “I should say that it was written by a well-educated person. I mean the grammar and all that sort of thing. The paper itself—the paper,” I repeated slowly with growing excitement and raising my eyes to look at the two men. I saw their faces alight with eagerness. “It is a sheet from an inquiry pad. Look! You can see that a piece has been cut off the side. As a rule there are headings there to facilitate inquiries—number required, calling number, and so on.”

Inspector Coleman studied it carefully, holding it up to the light. Presently he gave it to the Sergeant, who perused it in his turn.

“Look, sir,” he said. “There’s a watermark. It should be easy enough to trace.”

“It is from an inquiry pad,” I assured him with asperity. “I have seen those forms many times in the past few years, haven’t I, Mac?”

She nodded. Her eyes were candid and bright once more. I told myself: “Mac doesn’t know anything about this, anyway.”

The Inspector put the paper carefully into an envelope. “Who would have access to these pads?”

“Anyone and everyone,” I answered, gesturing broadly with one hand. “First of all the printing people who send them to the Stores Department down town, who in their turn send certain supplies up here. A limited amount of stationery arrives at a time, in the hope to make us economize with it.”

The Inspector observed: “I consider it more likely that it was used by someone here on the spot.”

“That’s true,” I remarked thoughtfully. “After all, it was someone in the building who threw it down into the lift.”

“Miss Byrnes, and you, too, Miss MacIntyre, can you tell us of anyone who might, in your opinion, write such a note to the deceased?”

Mac and I exchanged hopeless glances. But contrary to her former remoteness, Mac seemed eager with suggestions.

“That’s very difficult to say, Inspector,” she said in the frank manner that became her best. “Miss Compton was a very trying woman, to say the least. Numerous people might have written that letter, which, by the way, I have not yet seen. I am just presuming that it held come sort of spite.”

Inspector Coleman took it out of its envelope, and passed it to her. Mac’s tiny hands were quite steady as she held it. I felt a surge of relief.

“Thank you,” she said calmly, placing the note on the desk in front of the Inspector. “I agree with Miss Byrnes who suggested that it was written by a well-educated person, but I think also that it is someone who had known Miss Compton for a long time.”

“Quite so, Miss MacIntyre. The mention of a previous brush with Miss Compton manifests that, but have you any idea at all—”

“Not the slightest,” interrupted Mac with a faint smile. “We all had some sort of grudge against Miss Compton, but I know of no one whose life she had once tried to break up. Our differences with her were minor affairs. She tried to stop smoking being allowed in the restroom, and—a criminal offence in the eyes of a telephonist—never permitted anyone to leave work before time, even if there was no traffic on hand.”

“They are certainly small grudges,” agreed the Inspector, ‘but with a certain type of character, those petty annoyances might assume alarming proportions. Have there ever been any other anonymous letters written in the Exchange?”

“Hundreds,” I cut in promptly. “Some weak-kneed person is always trying to make a sensation.”

The Inspector looked very interested. “When you say hundreds, Miss Byrnes,” he asked, “just how many do you mean, exactly?”

“Sorry,” I replied, grinning. “Feminine hyperbole! On and off, someone gets the bright idea. I should say about two or three a year; when it was the fashion, it used to be that many a day.”

“Do you know if Miss Compton received any of those letters?”

“Her mail was the largest. She must have quite a collection, if she kept them all.”

“She probably did,” remarked the Inspector surprisingly. “It sounds entirely in keeping with her character. If she has,” and here he tapped the envelope in front of him significantly, “that collection may throw some light on this. By the way, I can trust you two girls not to say too much about all this.”

“Don’t worry,” I assured him. “We won’t. I must confess, however, that I told John Clarkson about the lift business. You know that,” I added to the Sergeant.

“The traffic officer on duty last night?” queried the Inspector, turning over papers. “He is a man of authority, so that will not matter.”

“Men are usually very discreet,” I conceded honestly. His eyes twinkled for a moment.

The phlegmatic Roberts appeared once more. “Mr. Scott wants to know if you’re ready for him yet?”

I felt amused at Bertie’s humility; as a rule, he was a most independent person. He peeped around the door like a frightened rabbit.

The Inspector arose. “Come in, Mr. Scott. You have arrived at a very good time.” Bertie handed him a docket, and he glanced at it, puzzled. “Oh, yes, many thanks. We will go into that matter a little later on. Just now, I want to know if I can borrow one of these young ladies?” I looked from Mac to the Inspector in amazement. “I’d like one of them to accompany us to the home of the deceased; a little matter of identifying some correspondence. Now which one can you spare?”

“Neither,” answered Bertie promptly, who imagined that he was always short of staff, “but I suppose that it is a command.”

“That’s quite correct,” said the Inspector firmly.

“You go, Mac,” I urged, rather reluctantly. I wasn’t anxious to miss anything that might happen. I felt jubilant when she shook her head, frowning.

“No, I’d much rather not, Maggie,” she replied with sincerity.

“You’d better make it urgent leave,” Bertie declared in a resigned fashion. “Make out an application, and I’ll see if you can get it with pay.”

‘I should think so,’ I thought indignantly, as I thanked him.

“We’ll have those rooms cleared for you by to-night,” Inspector Coleman told Bertie. I presumed that he meant the rest- and cloakrooms. “We’ve done all the work we wanted on them. But if we might keep the use of this office for a while, I should be glad.”

“That’ll be quite all right, Inspector. I’ll fix it up with the Department. We are only too glad to be of any assistance. The sooner that this horrible business is cleared up, the better. The traffic is worse than usual to-day, busybodies ringing up and trying to find out details.”

“The general public has the mind of an insect,” agreed the Inspector. “Are you ready, Matheson? Just leave those papers; we can lock the door.”

“Are you sure that you don’t mind going?” whispered Mac, as we went into the corridor.

“No fear!” I said stoutly, “I think that it’s all rather fun.”

As she shuddered a little and turned away, it occurred to me with amazement that Mac was developing sensibilities.