by June Wright
“How can I, if you can’t? You know how close-mouthed Gerda can be on occasions.”
“You used to be pretty matey,” I said in a gruff voice, examining my finger-nails. He laughed and caught my hands to pull me to my feet.
“Maggie, you funny kid!”
“Why?” I asked, still gruffly and staring at his tie. He always wore the most original ones.
“Never mind for the moment,” he replied, dropping my hands abruptly. “Things are too serious just now. What happened at Sarah’s place to-day?”
I strolled over to the windows, not that I could see anything from there. They were always kept tightly closed on account of the air-conditioning. I told Clark about the letters Inspector Coleman had selected and the latter’s subsequent interest in Gloria Patterson.
“But she couldn’t have written them,” I pointed out. “I consider that it is just the long arm of coincidence. The same names, I mean.”
“Maybe,” he agreed briefly. “Have the police seen Patterson yet?”
“I shouldn’t think so. I have just left Sergeant Matheson, and we dropped the Inspector at Russell Street. He gave me some tea,” I added inconsequently.
“Indeed,” said Clark in a peculiar voice. “Is he falling for our Maggie?”
“Don’t talk rot,” I retorted, turning to face him. “I think that he’s just a low skunk. Do you know the real reason why he took me to tea? To pump information out of me, if you please. Luckily I saw through his game early in the piece.”
Clark laughed gleefully. “Did you tear him limb from limb, my sweet?”
“Only verbally. It was a little too public for anything else. The pair of them—Inspector Coleman and the Sergeant—think everyone is withholding something; even including Bertie. I don’t know what he can have on his mind, but I will say that during the last few weeks he has altered a great deal. I don’t consider him a well man. What is your opinion?”
Clark thrust his hands into his pockets, and walked around the room moodily. “I’m as much in the dark as you. I have noticed him ageing too. I have been at him to take his leave, but he won’t hear of it. He veers away from the subject, and says that he never felt better in his life.”
“It’s a wonder that his wife doesn’t make him take a holiday. I understand that he’s married,” I said with a sigh. I was a bit tired of all the mysteries; Bertie, Mac and even Gloria. Not that she worried me overmuch, but I had a genuine admiration for the Senior Traffic Officer, and Mac was my best friend.
“Perhaps the Exchange has got him at last. It seems to affect people after a while. Take that Gaynor woman, for instance. Forty-five if a day, and she behaves like a giggling schoolgirl. Just plain simple. Do stop fidgeting, Clark, or you’ll have me going berserk.”
He came to stand near me again. “Poor little Maggie. Things getting on your nerves?”
“Everything,” I declared emphatically. “You and I seem the only normal people mixed up in this business. Which reminds me. I must find Dulcie Gordon. I want a word with her.”
“What about?”
“There was a letter of hers amongst Sarah’s correspondence. Unsigned, but I think that she wrote it. I don’t see any connection between it and this affair,” I gesticulated to the wet carpet, “so it’s only fair to give her a chance to tell the Inspector herself.”
“I’ll let her go for tea when I go back,” promised Clark.
“You can thrash things out then. By the way, do you intend working at all to-day, or have the police claimed your services for the rest of the night?”
“I hope not,” I said in alarm. “I’d much rather work the busiest board in the trunkroom, I assure you. Hasn’t Bertie gone home yet?”
He shook his head. “He won’t until I return, so I’d better get going. You can come on after your usual tea-time. What’s the matter?” I had been staring over his shoulder at the door. It opened slowly, and a head came round the corner. It was Bertie Scott.
“There you are, Mr. Clarkson. I thought that I heard voices. Dear me, they’ve made a thorough job in here. It looks much the same as usual.”
‘What did you expect?’ I thought sarcastically. ‘Bloodstains left spattered on the walls?’ I forgot for the moment that I had made the same remark.
“Will you take over in the trunkroom now?” Bertie asked Clark. “The Inspector wants to have another talk with me. Come in, Inspector. We were just talking about you,” he called through the door.
‘Just as we were when you came in,’ I thought inwardly, wondering if he had heard me call him by his nickname.
Inspector Coleman entered with his light tread. His eyes, that passed from one to another of us, were still expressionless. Over his shoulder I could see the plain face of Sergeant Matheson, looking distinctly worried. I wondered if he had told his superior about our brush over afternoon tea, and his ultimate failure to discover the information the Inspector wanted. In my perverse habit, I felt a little sorry that I had used him so roughly. Inspector Coleman looked the type of man who would brook no mistake from his subordinates.
He motioned us to seat ourselves, saying casually: “This is a cooler room than the other. May we stay here, Mr. Scott?”
“Certainly, certainly,” answered Bertie, rising a little from his chair, and then reseating himself. He looked like a little grey rabbit, lost as he was in the depths of one of the gay chintz-covered lounge chairs. “Perhaps if you lock the door, we will be quite undisturbed,” was his suggestion.
“One moment,” said the Inspector, taking a bunch of keys from his pocket. He selected one and put it in the inside lock. I was very glad to see that he had charge of that damned key.
“Mr. Ormond,” he called out. I recognized our night guard as a burly individual entered. He had not discarded his leather holster. The hilt of his revolver peeped from his unbuttoned coat.
“This is Ormond, the night guard at the Exchange door,” introduced the Inspector unnecessarily. “You may sit down, Ormond.” He did so, facing our circle.
“Mr. Scott,” began Inspector Coleman. Bertie jumped. “I regret to inform you that we have come to the conclusion that the crime was committed by someone who has access to this building; that is, by a telephone employee.”
“Surely—” began Bertie, but Inspector Coleman cut him short.
“There is absolutely no doubt,” he said curtly. “Now Ormond, I want you to tell me as far as you can remember those persons who entered and went out of the Exchange between the hours of ten and eleven.”
The night guard twisted his cap nervously in his hands. He kept glancing at our Senior Traffic Officer timidly.
“Well, sir, I had just relieved Mr. Parker a few minutes before ten, and we were chatting for a while before he went home, when a man came in, showed me his pass and continued on through the old power-room passage to this building.”
“Did you recognize that man?” Ormond hesitated. “Come on, man, who was it?” asked the Inspector impatiently.
“He had his hat pulled low over his face,” continued Ormond, “but I could swear that it was Mr. Scott, here.”
I gasped with surprise. I hadn’t remembered seeing Bertie in the trunkroom the previous night.
“Is that correct?” asked the Inspector, turning to Bertie who was sitting fidgeting in his chair, with his head bent forward. Presently he raised it, and his face and bearing seemed oddly dignified and assured.
“Really, Inspector, is there anything so unusual in my entering the Exchange?”
“I think that there is, at that hour,” replied Inspector Coleman grimly. “Especially as you have so far omitted to inform us of your presence here last night.”
Bertie sat up very straight and stiff. I could see that he was longing to get up and pace around the room. Such vitality as he possessed must have been hard to curb.
“Have you ever returned to the building after your usual office hours before?” asked the Inspector, motioning to Sergeant Matheson, who took out the e
ternal note-book and pencil.
“Er—no.”
“Yes, you have,” I interrupted so unexpectedly that I was surprised to hear my own voice. I wasn’t going to sit by and let those two men have their way all the time. The Inspector directed a very cold glance in my direction, as I continued: “You were here late that night of the bush-fires a few years ago, and then that Sunday when war was declared. I should imagine,” I declared airily to Inspector Coleman, “that Mr. Scott would have every right to return if anything untoward had occurred.”
As soon as I had said this, I knew that I had done wrong. The Inspector leaped on to my faux pas immediately.
“Quite so, Miss Byrnes,” he agreed ironically. “According to last evening’s papers, the world and local news were both entirely satisfactory. So much so, that the untoward occurrence, as you so lightly term it, has almost stolen the headlines. I should like to suggest, in complete corroboration with you of course,” and he bowed slightly before my indignant gaze, “that that is just the reason for Mr. Scott’s presence here last night.”
John Clarkson got up angrily. “What are you hinting at?” he demanded. He was the same height as Inspector Coleman. Perhaps it was the Inspector’s bulk that made him appear the bigger of the two.
“Mr. Scott,” Clark continued, indicating Bertie who was still sitting as straight as an arrow, “is a well-known man, and one highly respected by all who come in contact with him. Such an accusation as you are making is completely ludicrous. I am sure that he had some perfectly good reason to come here last night.”
Inspector Coleman had transferred his cold look to Clark. “Perhaps you will sit down, Mr. Clarkson, and permit Mr. Scott to give us that reason.”
Clark came over to share my lounge, muttering in a way that would not have disgraced Bertie at his best. I was slightly astonished at his swift championship. I had not realized before that he held the Senior Traffic Officer in such high esteem.
Bertie had not moved at all during the tirade, although a shadow of a smile had crossed his lips, loosening the tight lines from nose to mouth. It was only a movement of the facial muscles, I thought, trying to analyse it; almost a grimace, but definitely without mirth.
“Thank you, John,” he said. It was the first time that I had heard him call Clark by his Christian name. “Well, Inspector?”
“Really, Mr. Scott!” said the Inspector with an impatient gesture of his huge hands. “Haven’t you understood the meaning of all this? We are waiting for your statement.”
Bertie shot him a wary look. “And if I refuse?” he asked quietly.
Again Inspector Coleman moved his hands in aggravation. “If you refuse, my dear sir, you leave us with but one thing to do. But I hope that you will not be so foolish.”
Bertie turned to Ormond, who had been staring stupidly from one face to another.
‘A dozen murderers could have got by you,’ I thought savagely.
“What time did you see me go out?” asked Bertie. Ormond thought for a minute or two. I could have sworn that I could hear his brain ticking over. The dolt!
“Cup of tea at 10.15 p.m.,” he murmured to himself. “Then a smoke—about 10.25 p.m., sir,” he declared suddenly. “I could swear to that, Inspector. Mr. Scott was carrying his hat in his hand, and the light fell right on to his face.”
Bertie turned towards the two policemen. “What time do you say that the crime was committed?”
“Between 10 p.m. and 11 p.m. is the nearest the doctor will give us,” answered Inspector Coleman. “But you don’t seem to understand your extremely serious position, Mr. Scott. Unless you can give us some explanation of your movements during that hour, we shall be forced to detain you. Now, sir! Why did you come back to the Exchange after hours, when it was not your wont?” The Inspector had evidently ignored my futile interruption.
Then Bertie dropped his bombshell. I could see that the scene was working up to a climax and gripped my hands together.
“I returned,” he said quietly, looking Inspector Coleman straight between the eyes. “I returned to keep an appointment with Sarah Compton.”
“Get this down accurately,” flashed the Inspector to Sergeant Matheson. “Go on, Mr. Scott.”
Bertie threw out his hands. “That’s all,” he said simply. The two men stared at him blankly. At any other time I would have laughed at the frustrated expression on their faces, but just now I was concerned about Bertie. He seemed to be sailing too close to the wind for my liking.
I was certain that I saw the Inspector swallow hard. “What do you mean-that’s all? What happened? Did you see Miss Compton? And, if so, at what time?”
“Certainly I saw her,” Bertie said in a dignified voice. “I told you I had an appointment. It must have been about three or four minutes after ten. She was waiting for me.”
“May I be permitted,” asked Inspector Coleman, heavily sarcastic, “to ask where this meeting took place?” But this sarcasm went over Bertie’s head. Years in the Exchange made one immune to such a figure of speech.
“Certainly,” he repeated. “Miss Compton asked me to meet her in the observation room on the third floor.”
I closed my eyes as an overwhelming surge of relief passed over me. This removed Mac even farther away from the setting. Sarah must have been on her way down to the observation room to keep her appointment with Bertie when Mac saw her.
‘Exactly where I said she was going,’ I thought triumphantly, closing my mind to the fact that at the time it had only been a wild guess. I felt Clark’s shoulder press mine for a minute, and knew that he was thinking the same as I.
Inspector Coleman continued with his questioning. “You say that Miss Compton was waiting for you on the third floor. Was she alone?”
“The observation position closed at 9.45 p.m., so that it was a good place to talk undisturbed.”
“Did Miss Compton arrange this meeting?”
Bertie seemed to hesitate a minute before he nodded. “She rang my home earlier that evening, and asked me to come to it. She wanted to see me about something of the utmost importance, she said.”
“Was this an unusual request, Mr. Scott?”
That peculiar smile flickered on his face again. This time I thought that he appeared a little amused. “No, I’m afraid Miss Compton was always imagining that she had matters of great moment to divulge. In fact, had she not almost implored me to come, I would have let the matter rest until the morning.”
“So you sneaked into the Exchange, hoping that you would not be recognized. Why, Mr. Scott?”
“I’ve just told you,” replied Bertie, a little irritably. He had not liked Inspector Coleman’s phrasing. “I came in answer to Miss Compton’s request.”
“Don’t quibble,” said the Inspector in an icy voice. “I am asking you for the reason for this meeting.”
“Miss Compton wouldn’t tell me her reason over the phone,” Bertie began hopefully. The Inspector cut him short, looking rather angry.
“Mr. Scott, you are wasting our time. Unless you can give us a satisfactory explanation of your conduct and at once, I must ask you to accompany us to Russell Street Headquarters.”
There was dead silence after this ultimatum. Presently Inspector Coleman, rather red in the face, glanced at his watch, saying: “I’ll give you thirty seconds in which to think the matter over. Then we must act.”
I could guess that Bertie was already thinking furiously, and wondered what was happening behind his expressionless face. He got up from his lounge chair to take a turn about the room. I noticed the Sergeant move nearer the door; an instinctive, almost imperceptible movement. ‘Quite unnecessary,’ I thought scornfully.
Stealing a glance at Clark, I saw him watching Bertie’s pacings with a puzzled look on his face. He felt my eyes on him, because he turned his head and frowned warningly. He must have thought that I was going to burst out with another faux pas. He need not have worried. I had cut my dash, and was quite willing to be a passive onlook
er from now on.
Finally, Bertie came to stand directly in front of the Inspector; an absurd little figure beside all that bulk.
“How much information are you giving the Press?” he demanded.
“That depends,” was the cautious answer. “So far the papers have only the bare outline of the crime. With such a well-known place as the Exchange, the utmost discretion is being used to protect the good name of the Department.”
Bertie looked grimly amused. “If I tell you my story, there will be more good names than the Department’s to save.”
“I will treat your information with as much confidence as I am able,” promised the Inspector.
Bertie looked round to the lounge that Clark and I shared. I thought he appeared more embarrassed than anything else. “I suppose that I can rely on the members of my staff to say nothing about what I am going to tell the Inspector?”
“Certainly, Mr. Scott,” said Clark promptly, and I inclined my head without speaking.
Bertie gazed at Inspector Coleman, as if he was sizing up his opponent before he struck.
“Well, Mr. Scott?” asked the latter, with scarcely curbed annoyance. My sympathy was partly with him. Bertie could be very trying at times.
“I told you that I came here to keep an appointment with Sarah Compton,” he declared slowly. “It was not the first time. We have been meeting for several years now—clandestinely.”
CHAPTER IV
I closed my eyes as the room reeled a little before my gaze. I doubted my own ears for a moment, so amazing was the confession that the Senior Traffic Officer had made. The mere idea of middle-aged and seemingly respectable Bertie carrying on a love affair with a faded spinster like Sarah Compton was appalling. Having held him in such high regard for so many years, I felt shocked and more than a little disgusted. It is all very well reading about such things and feeling broad-minded, but on coming into such close contact with an affaire my only reaction was a strong desire to be violently ill. I fancied that Clark must have shared my emotions, because his face was blank as was its wont when his contempt was aroused.