Murder in the Telephone Exchange

by June Wright

  I glanced down at her. “Am I? I don’t feel fierce. Only rather sad. Listen, Mac. You know that note Inspector Coleman gave you to read this morning. Would you say that it had been written in an ordinary pencil, or—” and I held out my hand again.

  She gazed at the indelible pencil again, and then at me. I could see her dark eyes shining with excitement also.

  “Great balls of fire!” she ejaculated, borrowing from Scarlett. “You’re right, Maggie. Where did you find it?”

  “On the floor behind the cafeteria counter. When I dashed off like a madwoman at tea, I thought that I heard someone there. This,” and I held the pencil up, “proves that there must have been someone behind the counter trying to eavesdrop.”

  “Did you see anyone?” Mac asked eagerly.

  “Not inside. That cleaner-woman let me go in before she locked up. But Bill was standing just outside.”

  “Oh,” said Mac.

  “Quite,” I agreed. “Rather nasty, isn’t it? That’s the rotten part. I’d hate him to be mixed up in anything like this.”

  “What’s the full story, Maggie? I promise you that I’ll be close-mouthed.” Her lips twisted a little ironically.

  I repeated the facts I had given John Clarkson in the restroom that afternoon concerning the three notes Inspector Coleman had given me to read. Mac interrupted me once. “Those first two letters, Maggie? Were they anonymous too?”

  “No,” I replied, speaking very slowly and distinctly. “The writer’s name was Irene Patterson.”

  I heard Mac’s smothered ejaculation, and went on as she made no further comment. “The similarity between those first two notes and last night’s was not the writing, but the fact that practically the same wording was used. I want you to keep that point in mind. To continue, I came back to the Exchange and found Bill on his last trip in the lift. We got talking and I started to ask him a few questions. He remembered without hesitation this girl-friend of Compton’s. He was a mechanic at that time. One day he overheard them quarrelling violently about some man. He was able to tell me all this without once scratching his head or saying ‘um.’ ” I paused significantly.

  “Are you trying to inform me,” Mac demanded, “that Sarah and her girl-friend were both after the one man, and that you think that man was Bill!”

  I nodded wretchedly. “It fits in. He talked about Sarah as if—well, as if he had had some sort of an affair with her, and when she got too possessive, he became weary of her and turned to Irene. He is married, you know, with a son and a daughter.”

  Mac flung her cigarette high into the air. I watched its gleaming descent.

  “Silly thing to do,” she remarked. “It might start a fire.”

  “It should be pretty safe,” I answered without caring much.

  She turned to look at me quizzically. “Are you cogitating on the same thing as I am?” she asked.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Have you ever heard Bill’s surname?”

  “No, never, have you?”

  I shook my head and remarked cautiously: “It could be so. He said that he had a daughter.”

  Mac’s lip curled a little. “I can’t see her claiming a parent in a liftman, can you?”

  “No, indeed,” I agreed, “little snob!”

  Mac turned towards the sky again. “Well, it’s none of our business,” she said in an even voice. She had retired into her shell again after a brief emergence.

  “Isn’t it? Are you sure, Mac?”

  She made no reply. I sighed, “Listen, old girl,” I said earnestly. “I’m your friend. Why are you like this? Can’t you tell me what your trouble is? Surely I can help in some way.”

  She gave me a quick cold glance. “Mac,” I said miserably, and she laughed, a short and ugly sound.

  “Forget it, Maggie. I swear that there’s nothing wrong. Let’s get back to Bill again. You think he was trying to overhear our conversation at tea, and that he dropped that pencil as he crouched behind the counter?” I nodded. “It sounds a bit melodramatic. What about the cleaner-woman? Wasn’t she there, too?”

  “She was on her rounds, locking up the building. She wouldn’t have seen him. Why was he so long leaving the Exchange if he told me some time previously that he was going home?”

  Mac digested this in silence. “You’re probably right,” she admitted presently. “But what are you going to do about it? Tell Inspector Coleman?”

  “I’ll have to, I suppose. By the way, he is interviewing young Gloria now. There’s a chance he might be learning all this from her. I hope so. Bill is a nice person. I’d hate to have to tell the Inspector what I think. But you remember what he said this morning about telling everything we know.”

  Mac faced me quickly. I waited for her to speak but she didn’t. She only gave that horrid little laugh again. It hurt me to the heart. And in my heart I knew Mac’s friendship meant a great deal to me. I spoke lightly trying to disguise that hurt.

  “Is it time that we went back to work, or rather that I commenced? I feel like Jekyll and Hyde. Two personalities. Only mine are not quite so sinister; one a detective, and the other a hardworking telephonist.”

  “Where does Gordon come in?” Mac asked abruptly. We moved off, skirting the lift cabin, where I had overheard Compton the previous night having fun and games.

  “Again, I don’t know. Did you consider that she was telling the truth when she denied all knowledge of yet another anonymous letter? As far as I can see, this crime has been conducted by correspondence. It’s all most confusing.”

  “I wouldn’t care to give an opinion,” Mac said slowly, knitting her straight brows. “I haven’t had many dealings with Gordon. I should say that she was a straightforward type of girl.”

  “I thought so of most of my fellow-men, once,” I remarked with a sidelong glance. “Now, I am even beginning to doubt my own veracity. To bear that out, our friends in the Force have both more or less called me a liar.”

  “You’re becoming very cynical, Maggie,” Mac reproved. “Too much does not suit you.”

  “That’s what my mother would say,” I agreed absently. “Which reminds me, I haven’t read her letter yet. One came from home this morning, but in the excitement of having Gloria for lunch, I forgot it.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t get away from the point,” Mac complained, as we ignored the lift in an unspoken agreement, and went down by the stairs.

  “You should talk,” I exclaimed. “You mean my little warning to Gordon? She’s a silly fool if she’s keeping something back. I don’t mind her not telling me, but she forgets that this is a very serious affair, and that she’s up against trained minds which doubt every word you utter. Damn!” I stopped on the stairs.

  “What’s the matter now?” asked Mac patiently.

  “I haven’t got my outfit. A telephonist can’t work without a telephone, you know. Didn’t I leave it in the lunchroom?”

  “I didn’t notice it.”

  “I couldn’t have taken it out of my locker after all. That means that I’ll have to go back. You needn’t wait for me. Tell Clark that I’ll only be a minute.”

  * * * * *

  I retraced my steps, leaving Mac at the trunkroom door. ‘Silly ass!’ I muttered to myself, taking the stairs two at a time. ‘I remember now. I was just getting it out when Clark gave me that hearty fright. Then Bertie and the Inspector rolled along. I’ll be glad when I settle down to some nice quiet switching, and stop all this rushing about.’

  The corridor was now deserted and appeared extra gloomy and silent to my sharpened senses. When I neared the cloakroom door I heard a comforting murmur of voices from the police officers’ temporary office, and bars of light shone through the corrugated panel at the top of their door.

  ‘If that blasted restroom door has been locked again,’ I thought grimly, ‘people would be quite correct in suspecting me.’ However it was still standing ajar as we had left it before tea. Beyond giving it a cursory glance I took no further notice as I hu
nted for my locker key, holding my bag up to the dim light.

  Some sixth sense told me something had happened as soon as I put the key in the lock. I hesitated a brief moment before I swung open the door. A sheet of paper, which had been pushed under it, slipped to the floor. Bending to retrieve it, I saw my name printed in block letters. With my telephone held dangling from one hand, I glanced through it thoughtfully, and on impulse walked straight out of the cloakroom to knock at the Inspector’s door.

  The murmur ceased abruptly, and the ensuing silence was broken by the scraping of a chair. Sergeant Matheson opened the door, the look of surprise on his face changing quickly to one of eagerness.

  “The bad penny again,” I said coldly. “See what you can make of this.”

  He stood aside to let me enter. Inspector Coleman raised a frowning face from his papers. On the opposite side of the desk Gloria Patterson sat, her cheeks flushed defiantly. Her eyes looked like those of a trapped animal. I don’t mean a caged tiger; more like a sheep which had caught its wool in barbed wire.

  “Where did you find this letter?” asked Sergeant Matheson, as I seated myself calmly. I was getting used to this office and its occupants.

  “In my locker,” I replied, giving Gloria another appraising glance. She appeared as though she had been having a bad time, and I almost felt sorry for her now that she had realized just what an actual rencontre with the police meant. They would stand no nonsense, and one couldn’t expect them to.

  “Do you see, sir?” asked the Sergeant eagerly, “exactly the same type of printing.”

  “And the same paper,” I added. “Tell me, would you say that it had been written in indelible pencil. The light was bad outside.”

  Inspector Coleman moistened his forefinger and rubbed. “No, it isn’t,” he replied, turning his keen gaze on me. “Why do you ask?”

  “I just wondered,” I said airily. That meant that the note had been written and put into my locker during the short time when Mac and I had been on the roof; the author, on discovering the loss of the indelible pencil, had used an ordinary one. However, that did not prove that Bill had written it, because there were Gordon and Patterson to remember. By the former’s attitude, I was convinced that she knew something about the little practice of anonymous letters, though it hardly seemed likely that she would go straight from my warning at tea to repeat her performance. On the other hand, she would have had ample opportunity, just as my young friend who was sitting in the same room had.

  Inspector Coleman had been searching through his brief-case. He brought to light a grimy slip of paper. He submitted this to the same experiment of rubbing with a wet finger. He looked up and said with a curtness that smacked of chagrin, “An indelible pencil was used on Miss Compton’s letter. But how did you guess?”

  “It came before my mind’s eye some time ago,” I had no intention of telling them about my discovery behind the cafeteria counter. I had absolutely nothing to go on in thinking that Bill was the culprit, and to drag him into this affair without proof was unjust and foolish. ‘Let the police ferret things out for themselves,’ I thought obstinately.

  “May I read my correspondence again?” I asked. “I only gave it a brief glance and then came straight to you. Thanks.” It was such a typical example of an anonymous letter that I was almost bored. I was warned against prying into affairs which did not concern me, and the note concluded with a dark threat to my general health and well-being. I felt rather flattered by the writer’s confidence in my perspicacity. Whoever wrote it did not understand that whatever knowledge I held had been thrust upon my unwilling attention.

  “I suppose that you will want to keep it,” I said, relinquishing it with a sigh as I thought what an interesting relic it would be to show my grandchildren.

  “If you don’t mind,” said Inspector Coleman gravely. I was amazed at his sudden courtesy.

  ‘Don’t tell me that he is starting to respect my powers of deduction,’ I thought.

  A tap came at the door, and Sergeant Matheson opened it. Part of his work seemed to be the opening and shutting of doors. John Clarkson’s anxious face appeared.

  “Excuse me, Inspector, but do you know where— Oh, you’re here, Maggie. Just when are you going to do some work?” he asked in an exasperated voice.

  “They’re after me, Clark,” I said in a flippant manner. “I’ve been showing Inspector Coleman my last warning.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked almost irritably. “See here, Inspector, if you don’t want Miss Byrnes, we are terribly short-staffed tonight. As a matter of fact, I want her to do some monitoring.”

  “Am I to step into the dead woman’s shoes?” I demanded.

  “Please be quiet, Miss Byrnes,” ordered the Inspector sternly. “Your sense of humour is extremely ill-timed at this moment. I am very sorry, Mr. Clarkson, I’ll let Miss Byrnes go as soon as possible. Perhaps if Miss Patterson is of any use, we can dispense with her for the time being.”

  Clark gave a noncommittal grunt, and held the door wider for Gloria, who made her exit with unflattering haste. We listened to their footsteps receding down the corridor before Inspector Coleman spoke.

  “Now, Miss Byrnes,” he said in a persuasive way that fitted him as badly as his suit. “bringing this letter straight to us is the first sensible thing that you have done.” I eyed him apprehensively, wondering what his game was. “I admit that you have been of great material assistance to us. For an amateur, you show remarkable shrewdness. I am sure,” he continued, laying on the blarney with an O.S. in trowels, “that if you could be completely frank with us, you would help us solve the case in no time. Sergeant Matheson tells me that you know the name of at least one anonymous letter-writer amongst your fellow-telephonists. I consider the first step to clearing up this horrible affair is to learn the identity of that person. Now, will you help us?”

  ‘Poor Dulcie,’ I thought. ‘I can’t see you in the role of murderess, but here goes.’

  “I told Sergeant Matheson this afternoon,” I said distinctly, “that I would not give him the required information until I had, in fairness, consulted with that person concerned, and given her the chance to tell you herself.”

  “Her!” exclaimed the Inspector. “Then it is one of the telephonists.”

  I nodded. “However,” I continued, “she disclaims all knowledge of the particular letter to which you are referring. As I am inclined to believe her, seconded by another opinion, do you still want to know her name?”

  “Whilst admiring your loyalty,” observed the Inspector gravely, “I think that it would be wisest.”

  I took a deep breath. “Dulcie Gordon. She is working from 3.30 p.m. until 10.30 p.m. to-day, if you want her.”

  “Gordon?” queried Inspector Coleman, frowning.

  “Miss Patterson mentioned her name,” reminded the Sergeant and his superior officer’s brow cleared.

  “That’s right. Her opinion of Miss Gordon’s character was not very high. Sly and deceitful, I think Miss Patterson said.”

  “Dulcie is not a bit like that,” I assured the Inspector. “You never want to take much notice of Gloria Patterson. In any dealings that I have had with Miss Gordon, I should say that she was a very honest type of girl, and extremely conscientious at her work. You can learn a lot about a person’s character by working with them, you know.”

  “Quite true,” he agreed. “Tell me, then, your reading of Mr. Scott’s.”

  I glanced down at my hands as I felt myself flushing a little. “My opinion of Mr. Scott,” I said slowly, “is wholly at variance with the facts he gave you before tea. He is a splendid boss to work for, and one who knows how to get the best from his staff by his fair dealings with us. However, I must be wrong in my former beliefs.”

  “Why, Miss Byrnes?”

  I looked up straight into those keen eyes. “Because it seems impossible that a man with a private life such as his can be so respected by his employees.”

  Ins
pector Coleman shrugged ever so slightly. “You are what is known as straitlaced, Miss Byrnes. I confess I am inclined to agree with you. In furtherance of our duty, we come up against some very sordid details. Although I most certainly do not condone murder, I should say Sarah Compton was a thoroughly bad woman.”

  “I am not too sure,” I disagreed, though not out of my usual perverseness. “At one stage last night, when I was talking to her on the roof—you remember that in my statement—she made me feel almost humble. It was nothing that she said,” I assured him hastily, “but her face changed as if she forgot that I was there. It’s absurd to describe it so, but she looked—noble; rather like a tragedy queen, but not a scrap histrionic. I’m sorry to be wasting your time like this giving you my impressions. I don’t suppose that they are of any use.”

  “Not at all,” he answered politely, but I could see that he was bored stiff. “An accurate insight into the murdered person’s character is often a leading clue to discovering the identity of the killer. Will you tell us again, in your own words, the facts of that meeting with the deceased on the roof of the Exchange building?”

  I sighed inaudibly. I had gone over and over every detail connected with Compton in my mind, until I was utterly disheartened and weary. But I repeated my story obediently, and the Inspector listened attentively, now and then interrupting to ask me a question.

  “The last time you saw the deceased was at about 9.45 p.m.?”

  “I didn’t see her,” I corrected yet again.

  “No, that’s right,” he said hastily, “you heard her; we have the docket that she queried you about, from Mr. Scott. Is that the one?” He handed me a white out-docket. I took it without interest, and returned it to the Inspector after a casual glance.

  “That’s the one,” I confirmed. “On the back, you will see her numerical signature after the précis of the inquiry. Some stupid woman rang up to find out why her call hadn’t come through. Although I had told her myself, five minutes previously, that the particular person whom she wanted was out, she needed a monitor to impress it on her. You’d be surprised the number of subscribers who doubt a telephonist’s word.”