by June Wright
“Will you show me Country Board 14?” he requested. “Miss MacIntyre says that she was working there last night.”
Obediently, I led the way across the room, explaining the slightly different operating needed for the toll calls.
“I see,” he said, pivoting slowly to survey the distant interstate boards. “Miss MacIntyre was working more or less on a line with you, although with the space of the room between you, while Mr. Clarkson was at the Senior Traffic Officer’s table near your board.”
“That’s correct. When Mr. Clarkson saw that I was so busy, he came to help me until the all-night girls arrived.”
“Did Mr. Clarkson use the handset that you were looking for to-night?” asked the Inspector quickly.
“No, just an ordinary outfit. As a rule, he uses the buttinsky. I suppose that Mr. Scott must have put it away somewhere before he left the Exchange.”
“Is that usual?”
“Yes, I think so,” I said in some surprise. “Certainly not unusual anyway. The buttinsky is officially Mr. Scott’s, so he can do what he likes with it.”
“Has he done so before?”
“I can’t remember,” I answered hesitantly. “Mr. Clarkson may be able to tell you. Why are you so interested in it?”
“You are here to answer questions, not to ask them,” he returned coldly. “However, to satisfy your curiosity, I will tell you that we are concerned with all heavy instruments, especially ones that are missing.” He turned on his heel and left me.
I felt myself go cold, as I stood in the middle of the room staring after the two police officers. They approached Clark again, and I watched them go through the drawers of the Senior Traffic Officer’s desk with him. I had forgotten that the weapon that had killed Compton was still undiscovered. I had no doubt of the significance of the Inspector’s words. What a perfect instrument with which to batter anyone to death! Whether they found it in Bertie’s locker or not, things would look very black for him. They had only to compare the aspect of the wounds on Sarah’s head with a similar buttinsky from the power room to satisfy any doubt that they may have had as to the nature of the weapon. Around me telephonists were going off duty, and I felt vaguely annoyed as I caught their curious glances in my direction. But I stayed where I was, my mind in a whirl of confused facts and speculations, until a hand touched my arm.
John Clarkson’s voice said sharply in my ear: “Maggie, what on earth are you day-dreaming about? Get your outfit quickly, and let those 10.30 p.m. girls go.”
“Is it time already?” I asked confusedly. The night seemed to have flown. “Clark,” I whispered, “they know what was used to kill Sarah.” He nodded. His face was pale and grim as it had been last night.
“Get to work, Maggie,” he said gently, “and forget it.”
I adjusted my telephone, mechanically taking a reef in the strap that held the mouthpiece, and went blindly to the Interstate positions. I listened in a faraway fashion as the telephonists gave me last-minute instructions. They made no comment when I was compelled to ask them to repeat themselves. They seemed to sense that something important had turned up, and left quietly to sign off in the time-book near the door.
Only Dulcie Gordon whispered urgently in my car: “Maggie, I’ve got to see you. I’ll wait for you in the restroom.”
“No,” I said. “Not there. Get downstairs to the front door. I’ll be out as soon as I can.” She nodded, and I began to pick up the lights in the panel.
I worked automatically that night, my fingers fumbling with the keys awkwardly. I tried to remember later if the lines had been busy, but as no reports from irate telephonists and subscribers came to my notice the next day with “please explain” attached. I concluded that the traffic must have been easier than usual. It may have been hours or it may have been minutes before an amused voice penetrated my consciousness, and the telephonist with whom I was booking in Adelaide was cut off. One of the all-night girls had pulled my plug from the board. She handed it to me with a mock bow.
“Don’t you want to go home to-night, Maggie?” she inquired laughingly. “You can work my shift if you like.”
“What?” I said, startled. I glanced up at the clock. “Oh, am I being relieved? Sorry! I was in a trance. Thanks, Nelson.” I slipped from my chair. “I don’t know where anything is, so don’t ask me.”
The all-night telephonist gave me a shrewd look. “You must have been in the wars to-day, Maggie, You’re all in.”
“I certainly am,” I agreed fervently. “Good switching.”
“Sleep well,” she returned. I went down to the time-book and scrawled my name. Mac stood at my elbow as I was bending over the book, and I dipped the pen into the ink and gave it to her.
“Are you starting your week of all-nights to-morrow?” she asked as we climbed the stairs.
“So far. Bertie said that I was not to change with Patterson. In fact, he said that there were to be no more changes until further notice.”
“Why, I wonder,” Mac asked, pausing, with a foot on one step.
I shrugged indifferently. “Some new bee in his bonnet. He is the most inconsistent person I know.”
“Why, Maggie!” Mac exclaimed in surprise. She knew I regarded Bertie highly.
“He is,” I said fiercely, running up the stairs, “and I’d rather not talk about him, please.”
She laughed a little at my tone. “Why are you so cross, old girl?”
“I’m sick to death of all the subterfuge going on,” I said distinctly. “I don’t think you’re playing fair with me either, Mac. Why did you want to get rid of me when the Inspector spoke to you?”
“I didn’t,” she protested. “Really and truly, I didn’t.”
“Well. what did you tell him that made him look so smug?”
As we turned into the cloakroom, Mac answered in a low voice: “Only that I saw Sarah Compton when I was on relief last night.”
I jammed my key into my locker with unnecessary force. “Is that all,” I remarked with exasperation. “I thought you wanted to keep it a dark secret.”
“I might retaliate,” said Mac’s calm voice from the other side of the lockers. “Where did you get to to-night? You said that you were only going back for your telephone, and it was after 8.30 p.m. by the time you entered the trunkroom.”
“I was talking to Inspector Coleman,” I answered shortly, making up my mind to say no more.
Mac came round to my side and gently put a hand on my arm. “Maggie,” she said. I continued to rummage in my locker with unnecessary vigour. “We sound like a couple of cats spitting at each other,” she remarked whimsically.
I looked down into her fine eyes. They were shadowed still, and so full of sadness that my heart smote me. “Sorry,” I apologized gruffly. “I don’t know what’s got into me to-night. So many things have been happening. Forget it, please.”
She hesitated, and then said: “Will you do me a favour, Maggie?”
“Certainly,” I replied in amazement. Mac was a most independent person as a rule.
“May I spend the night with you?”
“Why, of course. That’s no favour.”
“Isn’t it?” she queried with a twist of her lips that was no smile. She looked me straight in the eyes again. “Maggie, I—I’m scared stiff.” I could feel her trembling, and put out a hand to steady her for a minute.
“Come on, Mac,” I said quickly. “Let’s get out of here. I promise you that I won’t worry you with questions.”
“Thanks,” she returned, and I fancied that her voice too was not quite steady. Not having seen Mac in such a state of jitters before, I felt all the more concerned. She was not merely shaken as were we all as a direct result of the staggering event that had taken place, namely the murder of a monitor in the restroom of the Telephone Exchange; she was terrified to the very core of her being. Some fearful thing was preying on her mind. Unless that something was removed and removed immediately, I felt afraid that her whole mental balance
would be affected.
I forgot my own sensibilities as we went down in the lift, so urgent was my desire to hurry her away from the Exchange and its new and sinister atmosphere.
But I couldn’t resist telling her about the missing telephone.
“I think the police have found the weapon that killed Sarah. Or at least that they know what was used. Bertie’s buttinsky!”
Mac’s dark eyes kindled with fresh horror. She raised both hands to press against her cheeks.
“No, no,” she whispered. “How horrible! Poor Sarah.”
It was the first regretful remark I had heard uttered since Compton was murdered. For once I forbore any comment that I might have made about Sarah having had it coming to her for a long time in order to spare Mac’s feelings.
“Do they think Bertie—” she began in a low voice.
“Yes,” I cut in hardly. “He’ll have to do a lot of explaining to-morrow. Think well, Mac; do you recall seeing his buttinsky at all yesterday?”
She drew her brows together. “I couldn’t be certain. It’s the sort of thing one sees lying around, but does not take in. Consciously, I mean. But I am sure that he used it yesterday afternoon. Since when has it been missing?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, as I slid open the lift doors and got out as quickly as I could. “I remember that Clark used a spare telephone set when he was helping me last night. It must have been missing before that. Don’t worry about it now. We’ll hear all about it in the morning. Anyway, that’s Bertie’s pigeon. Let’s run, and we’ll catch that earlier train.”
We set off at a jog-trot down the passage to the Exchange entrance. My unintelligent friend, Ormond, was on duty again, a cup of tea and a doorstep of a sandwich in either hand. We bade him a brief “Good night” and went down the stone steps carefully, as the light was practically nil.
“Maggie,” called a voice out of the darkness.
“Oh blast!” I muttered, “I’d forgotten all about you.” It was Dulcie Gordon. She had waited for half an hour to see me.
“Yes, what is it?” I asked impatiently. “If you’re coming with us, you’ll have to run because we’re after an earlier train.”
Under the shaded corner light, I saw Gordon’s face was as pale as paper. I thought quickly. She was only a kid and she too was terrified. She must have wanted to see me particularly to wait all that time.
“Here, Mac,” I said, opening my scarlet leather handbag, “take the front door key, and get home to bed. I’ll catch a later train.”
Mac took the key without comment. I watched her slight figure disappear down the street.
“I’m on all-night to-morrow,” I said resignedly, “so this may as well be a dress rehearsal. Can you swallow a milk shake, Gordon?”
She nodded and shrank close to my side as we proceeded down the dark street. Half-way down town I led her to a neat little milk-bar, a regular haunt for telephonists because of its proximity to the railway station.
“Now,” I said briskly, having found a secluded corner and ordered two drinks. “What’s the worry, Gordon?”
She glanced around the brilliantly-lit room with what I considered unnecessary nervousness.
“Maggie,” she whispered, leaning forward over the table between us, “I didn’t write that letter.”
“So you’ve told me before,” I observed irritably, lighting a cigarette. “Try not to repeat yourself. It wastes time. Or is that all you want to say?”
She shook her head, and made no other answer as the attendant planked two foaming glasses on the table with that scornful air which seems part and parcel of most waitresses. I caught the straw in my mouth and drank eagerly. Gordon watched the froth of her milk-shake blow out in tiny bubbles, as though fascinated by the procedure.
I glanced at my watch, and sighed ostentatiously.
“Maggie,” she began, and I wished that she wouldn’t call me by name quite so frequently. I was the only one with her, so that too seemed unnecessary.
“Dulcie!” I aped her. She appeared to take no notice, and turned her glass round and round on the table.
“Choke it down,” I advised, taking a strong line, “and get on with your story.”
CHAPTER V
It was a tragic enough little story, and one that in no way impaired my original animosity towards Sarah Compton. Rather than manufacturing some respect for Compton now that she was dead, I found myself disliking her the more.
A few years previously Dulcie Gordon had been the telephonist at one of our smaller country towns, when Sarah Compton had come into contact with her. The latter was then acting in a temporary capacity as a travelling supervisor—special officers of the Department who moved all over the state for the purpose of checking up on the local switching and handing out up-to-date operational instructions. She took a fancy to Dulcie and suggested her coming to town.
Gordon’s people were pleased with the idea. They thought what a charming woman Compton was to take such an interest in their girl. Furthermore, Sarah had promised to take Dulcie under her wing, and to find her a nice home where she could board. Finally Dulcie was persuaded against her will, because she was quite content to stay where she was, to put in an application for employment at Trunks. With a supervisor’s influence and recommendation, it didn’t take long for her transfer to be effected. After several bucolic farewell parties, Gordon came to the big city, metaphorically holding her benefactress’s hand.
It was then that she received a rude shock. But not until Compton had let her one of the rooms in her dismal house, and made her sign a long term lease. It did not take her long to realize what type of woman the charming travelling supervisor was.
“She even used to read my mail,” Dulcie said, “saying as an excuse that she had promised my mother that she would be very careful of the company I kept.”
“Why didn’t you write and tell your people?”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” she replied pitifully. “You see, they thought that everything was just right for me, and what a lucky girl I was. I didn’t want to worry them; especially as the crops had been so bad and they were having a hard struggle.”
At last Gordon decided that she could stand it no longer’ Matters finally came to a head when Compton discovered that one of the boys at the Exchange had been taking Dulcie out. She got hold of this lad’s letters, and magnified the perfectly innocent friendship into a sordid affaire, upbraiding Dulcie in a most filthy fashion, and thus spoiling the latter’s simple ideas for ever.
“The dirty, dried-up old maid,” I muttered to myself.
Compton threatened to write to Gordon’s people, and tell them their daughter was behaving no better than a woman on the streets. Poor Dulcie, though not fully grasping her meaning, begged and implored her not to write, promising to give up her nice lad and to be mindful of Sarah’s advice in the future.
But that night, while Compton was on duty at the Exchange, she packed her few possessions again and left. She took a room in a house the other side of the city, as far away from Sarah as she could. She was compelled to meet her at the Exchange, but that was unavoidable. She was not in a position to throw in a good job at Trunks. She had been a telephonist ever since she left school and was untrained for anything else but switching.
Compton’s attitude puzzled her. She behaved as though nothing had happened. Dulcie was forgetting her nasty innuendoes and starting to enjoy her freedom when letters began to arrive at her new lodgings. Every week Sarah would send in a bill for the rent of her room. Gordon ignored them at first, but at the end of a quarter she became frightened, as a letter from Sarah came threatening to start legal proceedings if she did not pay her rent. Dulcie wrote and told her that she couldn’t meet the account, and saw no reason why she should as she had long since left Compton’s roof. She received an answer in the next mail in the form of a copy of the lease she had signed together with a short note from Sarah stating that if the account was not paid, she would apply to Gordon’s people fo
r remuneration.
“I couldn’t let her do that,” Dulcie told me. “Dad had been ill, and Mother and my young brother had been trying to run the farm on their own. So I went to see Miss Compton, to beg her to wait until I could save up enough money, She was quite agreeable, and arranged that I pay her so much a week until the lease expired.”
“How long has this been going on?” I demanded of the poor girl.
“Nearly two years,” she confessed. “You see, I didn’t give her the full rental each week. I couldn’t, as I had to pay for where I am now.”
“You silly, silly child,” I said stormily. “Why didn’t you tell someone about it. Don’t you know that Sarah was only playing a low-down trick on you, and that she had no more right to that rent than I have? She would never have dared to have taken your case to court.”
Gordon’s eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t have anyone to confide in,” she answered, her voice trembling a little, “and I thought that if Compton knew, she might start telling people about—about that boy I used to go with.”
She should never have left her home town. She was too young and sensitive to be able to break away for herself. As a small-town telephonist, where everyone knew and liked her, she was excellent at her job. But at Trunks thousands of subscribers are handled. You are not regarded as an individual. City work was not for such. She was crying quietly but unrestrainedly. Two years of disappointment, disillusionment and misery were all she had to show for her high hopes to make good in town.
“Cheer up,” I said, awkwardly patting her hand. There were times when I wished the maternal instinct was stronger within me. The proper thing would have been to support Dulcie with one arm and let her cry her heart out on my shoulder, at the same time cooing words of sympathy. Her complete relaxation in her grief embarrassed me, and I did not feel like having my frock ruined.