Murder in the Telephone Exchange

by June Wright

  If the Inspector had received a similar shock, he concealed it admirably. I presumed in his game nothing would surprise him.

  “Are you informing us,” he demanded, after blunt facts, “that the deceased woman was your mistress?”

  I looked at Bertie immediately, but his face, like Clark’s, was enigmatic. He answered Inspector Coleman’s question in a prim voice: “Really, Inspector! Must you be quite so frank before a young unmarried woman?”

  Again I felt a surge of disgust. Must he add hypocrisy to his other misdemeanours? Why couldn’t he be quite open about it, now that I had discovered his clay feet?

  “Perhaps Miss Byrnes would like to go,” said the Inspector coldly, without taking his eyes from Bertie. But my first instinct to flee had departed.

  “No, thank you,” I replied, attempting to sound careless, “but I will if you want me to.” I hoped that he would not dismiss me. As far as I could see the case was working up to a sordid solution with Bertie as the chief figure. Although I had had some interest in the Senior Traffic Officer’s defence, my main concern had always been Mac. I could not see my loyalty to her wavering, no matter what she had done.

  Inspector Coleman had started asking questions without a glance in my direction, so I concluded that he took my presence for granted.

  “How long have you been—on such familiar terms with the deceased?” he asked presently. The delicate phrasing was on account of my maiden ears, I supposed.

  “A matter of some years,” answered Bertie promptly. “I knew her a long time ago, when we worked together as telephonists.”

  “As far back as 1917?” Inspector Coleman inquired in an odd voice. I pricked up my ears. This was definitely going to be interesting.

  “Why, yes, I suppose so,” Bertie replied in some surprise.

  “She was not a—?” began Inspector Coleman hesitantly.

  “No,” came a firm answer cutting him short. I considered it time to stop such idiocy, and interrupted them. “You needn’t spare my ears. I am twenty-five years of age; not a child, you know.”

  I think that they were both grateful, although neither looked around at me as I spoke. The Inspector continued: “Do you remember a telephonist about that time called Irene Smith?”

  “Irene Smith,” repeated Bertie slowly. “Yes, I knew her. She was a friend of Miss Compton’s for a time, before they had some sort of a quarrel.”

  “Do you know what that quarrel was about?”

  “No,” he answered promptly again. And I wondered if I should tell the police about Bill’s story. “Miss Compton had an unfortunate temperament, which was difficult for those of her own sex to tolerate. However, she seemed to be well-liked by men. I suppose that there was a little jealousy.”

  “Did you ever see Irene Smith after she left the Exchange to be married sometime in 1917?”

  There was an almost imperceptible pause before Bertie answered. “Not to my knowledge,” he said.

  The cautious reply had the effect of making the Inspector ask: “Why do you put it like that, Mr. Scott? Did you or did you not see her again?”

  “There is a possibility that I might have seen her after many years, and not recognized her,” explained Bertie in his precise manner, that his inquisitor must have found excessively irritating.

  “There is no need to be quite so accurate,” declared Inspector Coleman dryly. “A negative answer would have been sufficient. However, we will leave that for a moment and come up to the present. Are you quite certain of the time that you left the deceased last night?”

  “It was before 10.30 p.m.,” said Bertie emphatically. “I can’t tell you more exactly. I found Miss Compton waiting for me in the observation-room, and after—” he hesitated for a moment “we had talked for a while—say, about a quarter of an hour—I left, going down by the stairs. Miss Compton took the lift.”

  “Did she tell you where she was going?”

  Bertie shook his head. “I presumed that she was returning to the trunkroom.”

  The Inspector made a sign, and Sergeant Matheson put his note-book into his hand. With his eyes on the writing before him, Inspector Coleman said: “You say that you left the deceased alive between 10.20 p.m. and 10.25 p.m. Did she seem agitated or upset about anything?”

  “On the contrary, Miss Compton appeared very pleased and satisfied about something.”

  “Do you know what about?”

  Bertie stared thoughtfully into space. “No, I don’t think that I do.”

  “You have some idea, Mr. Scott?” But he couldn’t have heard the question. Presently his eyes came wandering back. He glanced inquiringly up at the Inspector, who repeated the question. “No,” said Bertie again. Almost mechanically, I considered. “I have no idea at all.”

  He had nothing further to add. The Inspector had demanded an explanation and he had received it. Whether Bertie could have enlarged upon his meeting with Compton, or those were all the facts he could present to the police was for the Inspector to decide. The latter seemed inclined to let the matter rest for the moment. I think he was after a more exact time of the actual crime, and did not wish to press a point until that knowledge was his. I had also observed it was his system to encourage each suspect to feel confidence in his insecure position, the age-old attempt to trap them. That was what he did for Bertie.

  The Inspector turned to Ormond, the night guard, who jumped nervously as he was addressed. “You would swear in court that you saw Mr. Scott leave the building before 10.30 p.m.?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did anyone else pass you about that time?”

  “A little after the half-hour a crowd of girls came out. I heard one complain of being kept late for a minute. Then, about a quarter to eleven, one girl left by herself. That blonde one who is always losing her pass,” he added to Bertie, who said vaguely: “Ah, yes! Miss Patterson, I suppose. A rather scatter-brained young lady.”

  Inspector Coleman’s eyes met mine inquiringly, and I nodded. He got up and, unlocking the door, called out for the ubiquitous Roberts.

  “Get that Miss Patterson for me at once.”

  “I had her waiting for you this afternoon, sir,” Roberts reproached, “but you had gone.”

  “Never mind,” replied the Inspector curtly. “I want her here now.”

  “She’ll be on duty,” I warned him, “but she should be off for tea presently.”

  The Inspector hesitated for a moment, glancing at his watch. “She’d better have her meal first,” he said in a grudging tone. “You can go too, Miss Byrnes. I’ll send for you if I want you.”

  Bertie got up suddenly. His eyes had lost their absent-minded look. He was probably feeling exactly as Inspector Coleman had intended. I was surprised by his lack of perception and wanted to warn him that he was not out of the fire by a long way. Perhaps it was easy to be observant sitting on the fence as I was.

  “If you don’t mind, Inspector, I’d like to send Mr. Clarkson back to the trunkroom. There has been no one in authority for some time, which is not at all the thing.”

  “That’ll be O.K. We have finished for the time being. You may go home too, Mr. Scott.”

  ‘Crime stands still until we eat,’ I thought, rising thankfully from the lounge. I seemed to have been sitting down all day, and yet I felt utterly weary. I was not looking forward to the night’s work, as I was sure that everyone would be plying me with questions about the murder. My fears were fully justified. I entered the lunchroom with my paper bag of sandwiches Mrs. Bates had cut that morning in one hand, and was greeted by cries of:

  “Here she is now!”

  “Hullo, Byrnes. How’s the sleuthing going?”

  “Where’s your policeman boy-friend?”

  I wondered how that had got around so quickly. I stood in the doorway eyeing them, and mentally contemplated having tea in the washroom. Then I espied Mac eating her meal in one corner away from the main table where the 3.30-10.30 p.m. staff was gathered. Gloria Patterson was in
their midst. The latter was joining in the banter with a feverishness that did not escape me. She looked at me defiantly as I caught her eye.

  “Good evening,” I said briefly, as I passed the main table to Mac’s corner. “May sit with you, Mac?”

  She nodded and cleared the table a little. I noticed that her eyes were still heavily rimmed, As I went to the hot-water urn to make tea, there were some indignant remarks made behind me.

  “High and mighty, isn’t she?”

  “She’s on a special job. It’s too important to discuss with us mere telephonists.”

  I took no heed of them. Naturally they were all agog to hear the latest news. Then Patterson said spitefully: “She’s scared that someone might cut her out with her new boy-friend. Personally, I think that he looks the last gasp. But after all, Maggie is twenty-five, and no one wants to be stuck in this dump for the rest of their lives.” This was a bit too much to bear silently. I strolled to their table, tea-pot in hand.

  “Thank you, Patterson, for your kindly interest in my matrimonial aspirations,” I said coldly. “If you dare to pass such a remark again, I shall be forced—forced, mind you—to indulge in a little blackmail.”

  Her eyes were frightened, but she said brazenly: “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Don’t you?” I queried politely. “I think you understand me very well. By the way, Inspector Coleman wishes to see you as soon as you have finished your tea.”

  Gloria gave a little affected laugh. “I know that already. Just imagine, girls, he wanted to see me this afternoon to find out if I could help him at all. As you know, I was a little later off than all you were last night.”

  “Just how late,” I remarked, drawing out a chair, “Inspector Coleman will be most intrigued to learn.”

  “You mind your own business, Byrnes,” she flashed angrily. “You always have thought yourself too superior for words.”

  The other girls looked at each other in uneasy silence. Their good-natured banter, that I would have countered under normal conditions, had developed an undercurrent of animosity. It was beyond their ken. There was nothing more to be said without sounding petty and malicious. The group began to break up quietly. I sat with my back to them, and started to eat lamb and pickle sandwiches.

  “Do you know if we can use the restroom, Maggie?” Gordon asked me presently.

  “Yes, I think so. The police have gone out to get something to eat. Don’t go, Dulcie.” I detained her by touching her arm, and she glanced down at me in surprise.

  “What’s the matter with you, Maggie? You look quite serious!”

  “It’s a change, is it?” I asked smiling, “Could I have a few words with you? Mac, do you mind moving over a little? Sit down, Gordon, opposite to me.” I waited until the others had filed out, Patterson the last.

  “We’ll have the door quite shut, thank you, Gloria,” I called over my shoulder. Mac and Gordon grinned slightly.

  “You’re psychic, Maggie,” said Mac.

  “No,” I contradicted, exploring some dry-looking fruit-cake, “just experienced. Now then, Dulcie, Mac doesn’t know anything about what I’m going to tell you. When she does you can trust her not to say anything. She can be very close-mouthed when she wants to be,” I added, glancing at Mac significantly. But her eyes were quite expressionless as they met mine.

  “What are you talking about, Maggie?” asked Gordon uneasily.

  I looked around the room again, to make certain that we were alone. “The police found a letter of yours in Sarah’s room this afternoon,” I said, watching closely for her reaction. She stared at me in puzzled inquiry.

  “I’ve never written to Compton in my life,” she replied. “I loathed the woman, so why should I send her a letter?”

  I leaned across the table to speak more softly. “This was an anonymous letter.” She flushed a little.

  “And you think that I wrote it,” she began in an annoyed voice.

  “Hush, not so loud! I am not supposed to be telling you anything about this. Don’t you remember a few months ago, when Sarah tried to stop days off, the stink she raised. You told me then that you were thinking of writing an unsigned petition to her to stop it.”

  “Only thinking,” Dulcie said nervously. “I didn’t actually write one at all, after what you said.”

  “I know, I told you that it was a silly thing to do, and that she’d be certain to trace it home to you. But are you sure that you didn’t disregard my advice and write an anonymous letter?”

  “Of course I didn’t,” she repeated in an indignant voice.

  I did not know whether to believe her or not. I was losing all judgment of sincerity and prevarication.

  “Very well.” I leaned back and started to peel an orange. “I thought that you’d like to know first, before I told the police. Tell me,” I added, changing the subject. “How are the tickets going’!” Dulcie Gordon was one of the ticket secretaries for our charity dance on the following Saturday night.

  “They’ve nearly gone,” she replied. “See here, Maggie, you say that the police have this letter. What was in it?”

  “If you know nothing about it,” I said between sucks at my orange, “then I am afraid that I must not tell you. All very hush-hush, you know.”

  “Supposing I admit that I have written anonymously at one time or another,” Gordon began cautiously, but I waved her aside.

  “It’s nothing to do with me,” I said in a firm voice. “I’ve given you a warning and there’s no more to be said. Have you finished, Mac? Wait for me. We’ll go up on the roof for a cigarette.”

  I got up to push my cafeteria cup and saucer through the grille. There was no one on duty in the kitchen after five, when the cafeteria service finished for the day. In doing so, I thought I heard a slight noise behind the high counter, and stiffened suddenly, my ears alert. I motioned to the others to keep on talking, but there was no repetition of that tiny sound, and I thought I must be imagining things. Why should anyone want to overhear the conversation between three telephonists having their tea? I was becoming hyper-sensitive and making a fool of myself.

  Gordon was staring at me in such open-mouthed wonder that I couldn’t help grinning. I supposed I must have appeared rather asinine. On the other hand, Mac was calmly clearing the table of crumbs and fruit peel as if I behaved like a pointer dog in the field five times a day. Somehow her attitude encouraged me and whetted my curiosity.

  “I’ll be back in a minute. Stay here,” I murmured, as I slid past them to the door. Once in the corridor, I sped softly along to the cafeteria entrance at the top end. Someone was locking the grille gate noisily. I rounded the corner, and nearly fell into old Bill the liftman. He had been talking to one of the cleaners.

  “Hullo,” I remarked in astonishment. “I thought you’d be gone long ago, Bill. Just a minute, Mrs. Smith, before you lock up. Can I go in there?”

  It was their turn to look surprised. I thought quickly.

  “I dropped a teaspoon over the counter,” I invented in a hurry.

  “I can get it in the morning,” she suggested, eyeing me curiously.

  “But it belongs to me—sort of family heirloom, you know. Truly, I’ll only be a second.”

  She unlocked the gate in silence, and I crawled under the swing-down counter into the cafeteria kitchen. It was empty. My cup and saucer were still where I had left them, and I dropped on to one knee immediately opposite. But there were only biscuit tins on the inner side of the counter. I moved one or two aside, and a tiny mouse ran out.

  “Perhaps you were the culprit,” I addressed him. I got to my feet and called softly through the grille to Mac.

  “Come over here just where I put my cup. That’s right. Now tell me if you can see me.” As I got down on the floor again, a small object caught my attention. An insignificant item, almost unworthy of notice to the idle observer, but to me it was highly important.

  I heard Mac’s amused voice. “Maggie, what in He
aven’s name are you playing at? No, I can’t see you.” But I took no notice of her reply as my hand closed over a small stub of a pencil. I glanced at it briefly, and got up.

  “Thanks, old girl,” I called, keeping my fist closed. “I’ll be with you in one second.”

  Mrs. Smith’s aggrieved voice said from behind me, “Will you be long, Miss? I want to lock up, and get away.”

  “I am coming now,” I answered hastily.

  “Did you find it?” she asked.

  “What’s that?” I asked in a startled voice. “Oh, my teaspoon. No, I didn’t. Will you have another look for it in the morning?”

  “Very well,” she replied in an unbelieving tone. Her eyes wandered curiously down to my clenched hand. Bill must have gone at last. There was no sign of him.

  I stood there in the corridor wondering what to do next when Mac came strolling down the passage to meet me.

  “Here’s your handbag,” she said, holding it out.

  “Thanks. I suppose Gordon has gone back to the trunkroom.”

  We climbed up the stairs to the roof. I had been doing exactly the same thing only twenty-four hours ago. It seemed as though a lifetime had passed since we discovered Compton’s battered body.

  “What’s it all about, Maggie?” Mac asked, as we leaned over the rail towards the sunset sky.

  “I don’t know,” I replied unhappily. “I don’t know at all. Everything and everyone are out of perspective to me. First you,” and she turned her profile to the red sky, “then Gloria, Bertie, Gordon, and now Bill.”

  “Bill!” Mac exclaimed in amazement. “You mean the liftman. What’s he done?”

  “Look,” I said, opening my hand. She bent over it.

  “An indelible pencil. Where did you find it?”

  In some surprise, I saw the purple mark on my damp hand, “I wonder!” I cried excitedly. The note that Sarah had received so precipitately in the lift came before my mental vision. I could swear that it had been written in an indelible pencil. That meant my mind leaped on and upwards until Mac’s laughing voice called me down to earth.

  “Maggie, Maggie, what’s the matter with you? Why are you looking so fierce?”