Читать книгу Murder in the Telephone Exchange - June Wright - Страница 10

CHAPTER III

We drove towards the east of the city in an open patrol car. Sitting in the back seat and holding my big hat safely on my knees, I received quite a thrill when a policeman on point duty saluted as we passed. How Mac would have enjoyed it; that is, if she wasn’t in her present distrait mood. We had had a lot of fun together, Mac and I. Our personalities seemed to harmonize, which was remarkable because I am not overfond of my own sex. I suppose that comes from working amongst females—a hundred of them to one male. Fortunately, chattering is strictly forbidden in the trunkroom, and after work the quicker one gets away from the place the happier one is.

I already knew where Sarah Compton lived. When I first came to town, a rather shy and awkward country girl, I’ll admit, she approached me to rent one of the furnished rooms in her East Melbourne house. Luckily someone intervened, and gave me some sound advice as to what type of woman I was up against. I was told that she made one pay “through the nose” under a legal arrangement that did not permit one to back out of the proposition if dissatisfied. I used to pass on this information to any new girl who came to the Exchange, when I saw Compton’s eyes alight on her.

I believe that it was her old home that she had turned into small flats. It was one of a terrace, overlooking the gardens. A very excellent position, but I was told that the house itself was terrible: small, poky rooms badly lit and ventilated, and smelling always of mice. She must have been doing excellent business just lately, because every room was taken. But with the present housing shortage, I should imagine that people would be only too glad of any type of dwelling.

Inspector Coleman ran his finger down the cards in the harrow hall, and we mounted the steep stairs to the first floor. Compton had kept one of the front balcony rooms for her own Use. I was agreeably surprised. Though full of hideous, old-fashioned furniture, it was neat, clean and cool. I dropped my absurd hat on to the spotless counterpane of the brass-knobbed bed, feeling a little sacrilegious. Although prying into other people’s business had been the spice of life to Sarah Compton, it did not seem quite the thing to be rummaging amongst her belongings when she was not alive to protect her own.

‘Heaven knows what they might find,’ I thought, wishing that I hadn’t come after all. But I comforted myself with the reflection that Sarah herself would have been only too glad to assist in the discovery of her assassin. I sat down in the one lounge chair that her room held to watch the two policemen at work. They were so methodical in their search that I was amazed after having observed the Inspector’s untidy desk and creased appearance.

On one side of the room Sergeant Matheson had started with the wardrobe, and was working round to a marble-topped washstand and bedside table. Inspector Coleman was tackling the dressing-table and a masculine-looking desk. The latter was locked, and he glanced around frowning. Without a word, he began to finger the contents of the pin-tray on the dressing-table. I watched him, fascinated, as he selected a good-sized hairpin and slid it carefully into the keyhole of the desk. There was a quick turn of his wrist and a click. The roll-top slid up under his hands.

“Are those the Inspector’s usual tactics?” I asked Sergeant Matheson softly. He grinned.

“The hairpin trick? He learned that from an old friend of ours, who is staying out at Pentridge for an indefinite period.”

“Nice company you keep,” I observed acidly, but he missed my remark. The Inspector had beckoned him over with a jerk of his head. Together they thumbed over a couple of packets of letters, held by rubber bands.

“On the bed, Sergeant,” said Inspector Coleman, “The light is better.”

I leaned my chin on the arm of the chair and watched. I was longing to ask them what they had found, but their business-like demeanour bade me stay quiet. They went through the letters systematically, until they were tossed in an untidy heap on Sarah’s snowy bedspread. But I could see that at least three had been separated from the rest. Inspector Coleman glanced through these again, and then stared thoughtfully out of the window. I coughed gently to remind him of my presence. His eyes came slowly round to mine. After a moment of frowning silence, he looked down at the papers in his hand. Selecting one, he passed it to me. I received it eagerly, and saw with some surprise that it was dated April 1917. What a magpie Compton must have been to keep a letter all these years! Unless, I thought suddenly, she had been using them to some financial purpose.

The note was quite short and written in an ordinary sloping hand, It began abruptly: I know that you have been trying to set Dan against me. You had better stop, or I will do something desperate. You’re only jealous. Dan trusts me, and nothing you can do will change our plans.

The letter was signed “Irene.” I looked up at the Inspector wonderingly. He handed me another letter in silence. My eyes went to the date immediately, June 1917. It was longer than the last one, but written in the same hand on faded blue notepaper, which must have been quite expensive in its day. The name “Sunny Brae,” engraved on the top right-hand corner in a deeper shade of blue, was the only address.

My dear Sarah.

I want you to thank all the girls for the charming gift, and to tell them how much we appreciated it. The vase looks so well in our drawing-room. You must come out and see it some day. What a pity you could not come to the wedding. We missed you very much. Dan sends his regards. Many thanks to everyone again.

Irene Patterson (nee Smith).

I had seen that type of letter dozens of times in the past years. Girls who had left to be married were always made some presentation. It is the custom at the Exchange for their “thank-you” letters to be pinned to the notice board for all to see. I examined the pale-blue paper closely, but could find no pin mark. Either the letter was shown around the Exchange, or else Sarah had just passed on the thanks by word of mouth. I was inclined to consider that it was the latter. After the first note, written two months before, this one smacked of malicious triumph. Could it be possible that Compton had had a disappointing love affair? Somehow one could never connect such things with her. She seemed to have been born an old maid.

I stretched out a hand for the third note, and was jolted back to the present time. This one, undated and unsigned, was written on a slip from an inquiry pad. But in this instance the headings had not been cut away like the original anonymous letter. It was certainly printed in a disguised hand, but somehow the two letters did not seem to match. I frowned as I read:

WE WARN YOU, SARAH COMPTON, THAT IF YOU SEND THAT MEMORANDUM INTO THE DEPARTMENT, WE WILL MAKE THIS PLACE TOO HOT TO HOLD YOU!

I drew my brows even closer together in an effort at concentration. There was something about that last note that was very familiar.

I looked up. Inspector Coleman was still staring out of the window. The Sergeant had propped himself against the end of the bed, and was whistling softly. They both appeared preoccupied, so I bent my mind to the task of tracing that sense of familiarity to its source. Of one thing I was certain. It had not been written by the same hand as the one thrown into the lift. That had been a more personal note, one that could be related to the first two that I had just read; that is, if Sarah Compton had not gone around trying to break up other people’s lives a dozen times a day. My last thought seemed so feasible that I tarried with it, until I came to the conclusion that as the Inspector himself had gone through a pile of letters, he was not likely to select these three that had no bearing on the case. I would rather have seen the rest of the notes myself to make sure, but I doubted whether the Inspector would have permitted me. In fact, as I said to John later, if a few more crumbs of information had come my way, I would not have found myself where I am now.

But that is neither here nor there. My present job was to assist these two policemen in identifying anonymous mail. It was then, quite suddenly, I remembered. I knew who had written that last letter. But I felt a little dubious about informing the Inspector. As far as I could see, it had no connection whatsoever with the business in hand, and I might only stir up unnecessary unpleasantness. So I resolved to hold my tongue; at least until I had consulted its author.

The Inspector spoke at last. There was a twinkle in his eyes as he asked: “Well, Miss Byrnes? What is your opinion on the letters that I have given you to read?”

“I feel very flattered to think that you are asking for my advice.” I hedged, playing for time while I thought out my reply. As usual, I had underestimated my opponents.

“Keep to the point, please,” said the Inspector coldly. “You were not brought here for the drive, but to assist us.”

“Sorry,” I replied, with what I hoped was a disarming smile, “but until now, you have been treating me as a suspect. It is no wonder that I am not quite sure of my role.”

Inspector Coleman melted. The twinkle returned to his eyes. “We regard you with suspicion, inasmuch as you seem to have an unbreakable alibi.”

“I guessed that. It stands to reason. However, the letters!”

“Yes, Miss Byrnes. Try to be brief and to the point. Time is an important factor in this sort of case.”

‘And me a telephonist,’ I thought, casting him an indignant look. ‘You can’t know much about our game, my man.’

“The first two,” I began briskly, “are most obviously written by the same person. You consider there is a possibility that the person who sent that note down into the lift last night might be connected with them; otherwise, why pick them out? Am I right?”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re very shrewd, Miss Byrnes. You are correct in your supposition.”

“Nonsense,” I complimented in my turn. “It is you who are acute. However, I don’t want to dampen your idea, but it is quite on the cards that our late monitor tried to break up many a life.”

“I have taken that into consideration,” he announced calmly. “Of all that rubbish that we went through,” pointing to the bed, “these two seemed best to suit our book.”

“You’re probably right,” I agreed reluctantly. “Judging by the second letter, I should say that this Irene person was a fellow-telephonist of Compton’s. She herself was one originally, you know, before she passed the monitor’s examination. At least, I presume so. She had been a monitor for as long as I can remember, but we all start from scratch. Sorry,” I added, taking a deep breath. “I’m wasting time.”

Inspector Coleman shook his head. “No, go on.”

“There’s the name, of course,” I said slowly. “That gives you something to go on.”

The Inspector perched himself on the edge of the bedside table. It creaked ominously. “This morning,” he remarked, examining one huge hand in a casual manner, “you mentioned a Miss Patterson.”

“Her Christian name is Gloria,” I said quickly. “Patterson is quite a common name. Anyway, she couldn’t have written those letters. She is only in her twenties. You’ll have to look among the monitors and supervisors to find anyone near the fifty mark.”

“An odd coincidence,” observed Inspector Coleman. “Is there anyone else by that name working in the Exchange?”

“There is another girl, but I believe that she spells her name differently from Gloria.” I don’t blame her for wanting to differentiate, I added to myself.

“How old would she be?” asked the Inspector.

“About forty or so. It is hard to say. But she has been at the Exchange for years. You could find out easily enough through the Personnel Branch. They know all our most guarded secrets.” I caught Sergeant Matheson grinning like an ape, and longed to tell him that I was only twenty-five.

“Do you think,” I asked Inspector Coleman, “that Irene Patterson murdered Compton?”

“It is a possibility,” he admitted cautiously, “but don’t bank on it.” I had no intention of doing so. “You must remember,” he went on, “that it is almost certain that this crime was committed by someone on the inside.”

“You mean someone who works at the Exchange?” I asked. He nodded. “Well, all you’ve got to do is to find out under what name Irene Patterson is working, and there you are.”

The twinkle grew into a smile. “It all sounds perfectly simple to you, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” I agreed candidly.

“It is amazing,” he declared to the room at large, “how tenacious people are when it comes to giving away information,” I felt myself reddening guiltily, and began to put on my hat to hide my embarrassment. He looked down at me a little grimly. “Everyone I have interviewed since the beginning of this case has been withholding some information, from your Senior Traffic Officer down. I can tell when people are not giving me the whole truth; read it in their faces. Usually I find that if they had told me everything they knew, the mystery would have been cleared up sooner. Am I not right, Sergeant?”

“That is certainly our experience, sir.”

There was silence. I sought for something to say.

“It rather appears to me,” I remarked presently, “that Irene Patterson and Sarah were both after the one man, and that when the former succeeded in hooking him, she wrote a very nasty letter to Compton to rub salt into the wound, so to speak.”

“Quite so,” said the Inspector. “We’ll leave that for the moment however, and concentrate on the last letter that I gave you to read. Compared with the others, it seems to have been the most recently written.”

I tried to put on my most guileless expression. “That’s just what I was going to say,” I declared. I knew that he was gazing at me searchingly, and attempted to meet his eyes.

“I think you know who was responsible for it,” he said.

I fell to playing with the ribbon on my hat. “When I saw it first, it certainly seemed familiar,” I admitted truthfully, “because of the word ‘memorandum.’ ”

“And why is that, Miss Byrnes?”

I explained, glancing from one man to the other in the hope that they would swallow my half-truths, and not press for more.

“Although sending memorandums to the Departmental heads was one of Compton’s favourite pastimes, I fancy that I know what this one was about. It created a bit of a stir at the time, more so than usual. The staff felt very hostile towards her. A few months ago—October, I think—Sarah Compton brought forward the suggestion that telephonists on duty on Sundays should not have their day off during the week. That meant, of course, that we would work two or even three weeks without a break. Quite often we are down on the sheet for alternate Sundays. Our higher Departmental officials,” I added bitterly, “have no idea of what that would have meant to us, and would quite likely have favoured her idea. The part that made us mad was that it was to be limited to telephonists only, not monitors. You can understand the reason for our hostility. That was not the only anonymous letter that Compton received about the matter.”

“Did you have any hand in them yourself?”

“Certainly not,” I said indignantly. “I don’t like that method of attack at all. As soon as I heard what was in the wind, I went straight to the woman and told her in no uncertain terms what I thought of her notion. She reported me to Bertie—Mr. Scott, that is—for rudeness. But it didn’t cut any ice with him.”

“Why, Miss Byrnes?” asked the Inspector, interested.

“He’s a sport,” I replied, “He is always fighting for us over different matters. That’s why the staff work so well for him. Psychology!” I added vaguely.

There was another pause. I was congratulating myself on diverting them from the subject in hand, when I was jolted out of my complacency by the question I had most feared.

“Can you tell us, Miss Byrnes, who wrote that last letter?”

“No,” I said promptly, and waited for the worst to happen.

But the Inspector turned away without a word, and started to clear up the papers on the bed. The three letters that he had selected were put carefully away in his pocket. I could see that they were getting ready to depart so I arranged my hat at the dressing-table mirror. It was sheer waste of time as the north wind which was threatening the previous day had started blowing its hot dusty breath from the desert. I would not be able to keep it on for five minutes.

‘If it changes to-night,’ I told my reflection gloomily, ‘my hat will be ruined—not that I care much.’ It was a ridiculous creation that I had got some seasons ago, when Clark took me to Henley. In a detached fashion I saw my eyes soften as his name entered my head. It is always difficult while looking in a mirror to reconcile that reflected person with oneself. Often I feel as if I shouldn’t appear like that at all. Somehow my spirit does not blend with the rather square-faced fair girl that I see. My eyes met the amused stare of Sergeant Matheson. I spun around feeling annoyed and more than a little foolish. Goodness knows what he thought I was doing. Blast him, anyway.

As the Inspector locked Compton’s door carefully, he asked: “Last night, you mentioned to the Sergeant about another letter that you saw the deceased reading.”

I looked at him blankly for a moment before I remembered. “You mean on the roof?” I queried. “I don’t think that was a letter. It might have been, of course, but it didn’t strike me that way. It was too small.”

We started down the narrow stairs. “Didn’t you tell Sergeant Matheson that you saw Miss Compton put it into her handbag?” he asked from behind me.

I felt for the banister and glanced over my shoulder. “That is what I saw. Didn’t you find the paper?”

“No,” he said, opening the front door and standing aside.

“That’s odd. I am sure that she put it into her bag. Someone must have stolen it.” I added brightly.

“That is highly probable, Miss Byrnes.” His voice was stern.

“Do you think,” I asked, “that the murderer wanted that bit of paper?”

“More than likely,” he agreed. I nearly stamped my foot with impatience. His continual noncommittal replies were getting on my nerves. However, I didn’t dare voice my annoyance. We got into the patrol-car again.

“I want to go to Headquarters, Matheson,” said Inspector Coleman, as we drew away from the kerb. “Will you take Miss Byrnes back to the Exchange? Stay there until I come. I want to question that guard who was on duty at the door last night. Make arrangements to have him relieved and ready for me.”

“Very well, sir.”

The car stopped at Russell Street, and the Inspector got out. We watched him disappear into the tall modern building before the Sergeant headed the car down town. Waiting for the traffic signals to change, he said: “What about a cup of tea?”

“I’d love one,” I answered with real gratitude. “This detecting business has given me a thirst.”

He glanced at me uneasily in the driver’s mirror, “Would you rather have a spot?”

“I would not,” I said firmly, and then hesitated. “Will it be all right for you to take me—I mean—”

He was staring at the car in front of us, but I could see that he was smiling. “Quite. Anyway, I know of a nice quiet place, where it is unlikely that anyone will know us.”

“Don’t you believe it,” I declared emphatically. “I’ve yet to go anywhere that I don’t see someone from the Exchange. I went on a trip to Port Moresby some years ago, and sure enough I met a girl from the Central the first night out.”

He laughed as he ran the car into a park. “Come along,” he ordered, holding out his hand. “I can guarantee this place to be private.” He lead me through an arcade that opened into a right-of-way. A few yards along, an enchanting bow-window set with small lead-rimmed panes bulged out.

“And I thought that I knew all the tea-shops in Melbourne!” I declared, as we entered a tiny black-beamed room. “I’ve never even heard of this one.”

“It’s most exclusive,” answered Sergeant Matheson, pulling out a chair. “It is run by two very genteel ladies of the old school. They are rather characters. One of them does the cooking. The other does the books. Gentlewomen fallen on hard times, I should say.”

“It’s charming,” I said, looking around me appreciatively as I stripped off my gloves. The room reminded me of a painting of a Dutch interior. Although the furnishings were only imitations, they were not aggressively so. A black and white squared linoleum covered the floors, while the curtains that hung in the bow-window were of crisply starched muslin. A row of brightly coloured pottery stood on the low sill, filled with different specimens of geranium. Even the hard-wood chairs and tables were unusual in design, with slim twisted legs. Red checked cloths covered the tables set with simple white tea things. There was no raucous radio to spoil the digestion. The atmosphere was quiet and peaceful, while from one corner of the room a canary whistled cheerily. The single waitress, who had approached us as soon as we entered, wore a lavender-blue dress with a snowy lace collar. She was a comparatively middle-aged woman with a sweet, serene face.

“Tea and—?” Sergeant Matheson looked at me with brows raised.

“What is there?” I asked practically.

“Make it the usual,” he said to the waitress. “I promise you will not be disappointed,” he added across the table.

“They know you here?” I asked, leaning my chin on my hands.

“Yes, I’m an old customer. That woman who attended us is some sort of cousin to the two old ladies.”

“She looks terribly nice. May I have a cigarette?”

He drew out his case and sprung it open. “She is,” he agreed, striking a match. I glanced at him inquiringly over the flame.

“It sounds like a story. Am I right?”

He put the match to his own cigarette. Blue smoke made a veil between us. “I don’t think that you’d be interested,” he said, and I felt snubbed.

The light repast, which arrived with lightning service, was as delightful as the room in which we sat. From the steaming tea-pot I could detect the fragrant odour of a china blend. I was interested to see what “the usual” was; golden balls of butter nestled in gleaming lettuce leaves to be used on crescent-shaped bread rolls. At least they looked like bread, until I took a bite, and discovered that they had more the consistency of a scone. Whichever they were, they were delicious when spread with butter and creamed honey.

“Nice?” asked Sergeant Matheson with a smile.

“Very,” I answered politely, trying to revenge the snub. He looked a shade disappointed, and perversely I felt mean.

The tea-shop was cool and dim, and almost empty of customers. It was past the afternoon tea hour. Soon we had the room to ourselves.

“Would you like more to eat?” asked the Sergeant, as I poured out a second cup of tea.

“I don’t think that I’d better. Otherwise I won’t be able to eat the three-course dinner that I left at the Exchange.” He seemed puzzled. I went on to explain: “Sandwiches, cake and fruit served in a brown paper bag. Most palatable!”

Sergeant Matheson laughed. He seemed so like an ordinary man, and not the representative of the law who had taken my statement the previous night, that I asked coaxingly: “Tell me, how is our murder going? Is the inspector anywhere near solving the mystery, or shouldn’t I ask?”

“You shouldn’t,” he answered, relighting the half-smoked cigarette that he had butted economically before tea. “He has his own ideas, but there is a lot of spade-work yet to do.”

“You being the spade,” I pointed out.

“I suppose so. But after all he is directing the case. He has all the responsibility.”

“The Inspector seems to be an able man,” I said disinterestedly and the subject was dropped.

“Do you play golf?” I asked suddenly.

“No, I’m afraid not. Are you a golfer?”

“A very humble one. What about tennis?”

He shook his head. I stared at him in surprise.

“Don’t you play anything with a bat and ball? Cricket?”

His mouth was quirking up at the corners. “I am afraid that I don’t play anything with a bat, but I am rather keen on basketball.”

“I beg your pardon?” I asked faintly. I had always imagined that that was a game relegated to one’s schooldays. I had memories of myself, clad in a short tunic, with the knee out of one black stocking, tearing around after a leather ball. The Sergeant looked quite enthusiastic.

“Best game in the world,” he declared. “Fast and interesting. I used to play for the University team.”

“Are there actually teams?” I asked, awed.

“Certainly,” he replied, looking puzzled again. “You’re not thinking that I play that tame pat-ball as kids do at school? You were, I can tell. Just let me take you to see the real thing, and you’ll soon make up your mind as to whether it’s a good game or not.

“Thanks, I’d love to,” I lied politely. I couldn’t see myself going out with a policeman, let alone to a basketball match.

“You haven’t been quite frank with Inspector Coleman, have you, Miss Byrnes?” he asked abruptly. I wondered whether he had hoped to catch me unawares.

“Why do you ask that?” I parried, pulling on my gloves.

“You know who wrote that last letter. Are you protecting someone?”

I avoided his eyes, and answered lightly: “Yes and no. Is all this out of office hours, or will you use it in evidence against me?”

“I’ll use your confidence with discretion, and to the best advantage,” he said gravely.

I hesitated, playing with the clasp of my handbag. “Did the Inspector choose that letter as a sample of the latest of its kind, or does he think that it has some bearing on the case’?” I was trying to steer a straight course. When I heard him laughing, I looked up suspiciously.

“You are to be congratulated, Miss Byrnes, on your shrewdness. Although he has not said anything definite to me, I think that he considers that it has not the slightest connection with the crime. A sample, as you observed, for there must have been a dozen others like it written about the same matter. I might add that they all showed distinct unoriginality. The letters could have been written by one person.”

“If it has no significance, why are you so anxious to find out who wrote it?”

The Sergeant looked a little sheepish. “The Inspector told me to.”

I felt indignation rising up inside me. “So that’s the meaning of this tête-à-tête,” I declared scornfully. “You brought me here so that we could get all confidential and matey, and you could weed information out of me. Well, you’re wrong, Sergeant whatever your name is. It’s nearly ten years now since I came to town, and that is the lowest trick that has been played on me.” I leaned forward, and said softly: “If you had been a shade more patient, and not given your game away, I would have told you what I know; but now I won’t. That is, not until I have consulted the writer of that letter. Then it depends on that person whether I do or not. So you can go back to your superior officer, and tell him that his little idea did not go over so well.”

He sat unmoved by my abuse, though his eyes seemed troubled. “Look here, Miss Byrnes,” he said with a frank air. “I admit that it was a cad’s trick, and I’m sorry that I was so clumsy. Apart from my job I really did want to take you to tea.” I snorted, and pushed back my chair to get up.

“No, wait a minute,” he commanded. “Do you remember what Inspector Coleman said to you this morning? To you and Miss MacIntyre? This is a dangerous business. Whether you disliked Miss Compton or not, it is up to you to help us find that person who battered her to death.”

I rose to my feet in contemptuous silence.

“Please,” he said, and I caught an urgent note in his voice. “This is not another act. Good Heavens, girl! Do you think that I want to investigate another death at the Exchange? Yours, perhaps? It could happen, you know.”

I shivered at his words, but kept my face passive. He came round the table to my side.

“You fool, you hopeless little fool,” he continued, gripping my arm. “Don’t you realize that you may be holding in that silly brain of yours some half-forgotten fact that may make your life a danger to this inhuman creature?”

My eyes swept his face. Some half-forgotten fact! Last night I had been trying to remember something when I was switching at the boards, and I couldn’t. Was the Sergeant right? Was that semi-conscious thought a necessary thread of evidence? Then I remembered Mac and her big tragic eyes. I couldn’t speak. I wouldn’t, not until she had given me my cue. Mac knew something; of that I was certain.

“You’re hurting my arm,” I said coldly. “Can we go back to the Exchange now? Thanks for the tea.”

Sergeant Matheson removed his hand. He looked at me in a helpless way. “I could shake you,” I heard him say breathlessly, as I led the way between the tables to the door.

* * * * *

He appeared so stern as we drove up town, that I began to think that I had behaved idiotically. I felt almost frightened of him. “After all, he is an officer of the law, not a shy boy,” I argued with myself. “I suppose that I should tell him.” But some instinct made me hold my tongue. “I’ll wait until I have seen Dulcie.” I thought.

Sergeant Matheson parked the car without a word, and took my arm as we crossed the street to the Exchange door. “Please tell me everything you know soon, Miss Byrnes,” he begged. His voice sounded anxious. I shook my head wretchedly. What a nuisance one’s loyalties could be!

The Sergeant stopped at the door to speak to the guard, but I continued on my way. A different knot of telephonists was gathered in the hall, but they gazed at me with the same curiosity as the others had that morning. I felt a strong temptation to put my tongue out at them, and was compelled to use all my will-power to pass them in silence. It had more effect than any vulgar gesture I could have made, and they dispersed rapidly. I found old Bill making his last trip for the night before switching the lift over to the automatic, and felt inexpressibly relieved. I hadn’t fancied a walk up eight flights of stairs. I would never have ridden in that lift alone.

“Well, little lady?” he asked in his kindly way. “Have you had a trying day?”

“Not so little,” I retorted. “Yes, I’m worn out even before I start work.”

“Terrible business,” he said abruptly, banging one of the indicators shut.

“Very,” I agreed. Then a thought struck me. “Look here, Bill, you must know a lot about this place one way and another, driving this box up and down all day. What did you think of Miss Compton? What sort of woman would you say she was?”

He ignored a signal from the third floor and I could hear someone calling out indignantly.

“I knew her when she first came here to work,” he said slowly. “I was a mechanic in the old power room at Central; before this happened, of course,” and he took his hand from the lever to indicate his empty sleeve. I felt touched. He was probably an excellent mechanic; the way in which he looked after the lift proved that. Now, because of that bloody debacle of over a quarter of a century ago, he was reduced to the inanity of his present job.

Bill glanced at me smiling, as though sensing my sympathy. “You mightn’t believe me,” he declared, “but Sarah Compton was quite a good-looking girl when she was young. Not unlike yourself, as a matter of fact. Tall and fair.”

“Good lord,” I said blankly. “Will I look like her when I reach middle age?”

“Quite likely. I see ’em all fade as the years go by.”

I gazed at him curiously, as we stopped at the eighth floor. “You’ve been with the Department for a long time, haven’t you?”