Murder in the Telephone Exchange

by June Wright

  “Don’t cry so much,” I begged. “There’s nothing to worry about. All your troubles seem to have ended now.” Gordon raised her face from her handkerchief and stared at me. There was a pause. I saw fear in her eyes as clearly as if the word was written.

  “Oh, I see,” I said slowly, thinking hard. Here was a motive and an opportunity. If both were presented to the police they would be almost certain to build up a sure case against Dulcie Gordon.

  “Tell me,” I asked, testing her, “do you know how Sarah was killed?”

  She bent her head, dabbing at her eyes again, “Her head was smashed in, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, that’s correct. But do you know how?” Gordon shook her head, and I looked at her thoughtfully.

  “Come along,” I said, gathering up my bag and gloves, and putting my hat anyhow on my head. “You take my advice and go straight home to bed. I’ll think over what you’ve told me, and let you know what you’d better do about telling your story to the police to-morrow.”

  She followed me obediently but made no reply. She appeared to be in a daze. The flood of weeping, followed by the sudden flash of fear in her eyes, had given place to the wide open blank stare of a child. I thought it advisable to escort her to her tram stop. Emotional unrestraint seemed to have fogged her brain and it had ceased to function. When I asked her if she felt all right she only nodded in a faraway fashion.

  “Good night,” I said as I left her on the safety zone. “Forget everything, and have a good sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.” She still didn’t reply.

  I watched her board a tram before I made my way thoughtfully towards the station. Here was another pretty kettle of fish. As far as I could see Compton must have had a finger in numerous unpleasant-looking pies. There were those known to me who would have been only too glad to have her depart to another world. How many more must still be undiscovered?

  The station clock said seven minutes to twelve. I made a sudden spurt for my train that was due to leave in two minutes. The porter was calling through the microphone in definite tones that the train at number nine platform was leaving—stand back, please—as I jumped into a crowded compartment. My fellow travellers eyed me with hostility as I climbed over knees, more often than not standing on white-shod feet. Apologizing profusely, I squeezed myself into a narrow space between a fat woman sucking sweets gustily, and a be-curled child who was sleeping with her mouth open. Luckily my journey was short. I could not have stood the competition between false teeth and toffee for long. If there is a type of person I dislike more than any other, it is the one who eats in public conveyances.

  I had made up my mind to put in several hours’ sleep before starting to cogitate on the recent discoveries that had come my way. Although having denied at first any interest in the mysteries that seemed to envelop all at the Exchange, I was beginning to be as curious as Mrs. Bates’s striped tomcat; only I sincerely hoped that I would not get into as much strife as her feline pet did through inquisitiveness. I was prepared for further brushes with the police, rebuffs from the senior staff and even facetiousness from my fellow telephonists. But I did not anticipate anything like the trouble that was to come my way.

  Lewisham Avenue was as dark as a tunnel. I found No. 15 with the practised ease gained through many years of habitation at the same boarding-house, hoping that Mac had left my latchkey in the front door. I did not want to waken her to come down and let me in. But it was not there. I tried the door to see if it had been left unlatched. It was locked. Very remiss of Mac!

  ‘Now what do I do?’ I thought to myself after glancing under the mat and in the letterbox, in case Mac had not deemed it wise to leave the key in the front door for anyone to use. I skirted the hydrangea bed, and called up to my window softly. There was no reply. Poor Mac must have been terribly tired.

  I tried throwing a handful of gravel in the endeavour to waken her. The tiny stones rattled against glass. “That’s odd!” I said aloud. “She must be sleeping with the window closed.” I called her name again.

  Presently the door on to the top veranda opened, and a voice said sternly: “Who’s there? I’ll have the police on to you, if you don’t go away.”

  “Hullo, Mrs. Bates,” I said, grinning. “Have you come out to play Shakespeare with me? ‘Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou,’ etc.”

  She peered down over the rail. “Miss Byrne, what are you doing in the garden at this time of night? And mind my hydies, please.”

  “All right, I’m not touching them. Please, I’m locked out. Hurry up and let in the poor orphan out of the cold, cold snow.” Mrs. Bates clicked her tongue several times, before she disappeared. I groped my way back to the front door.

  “Where’s your key?” she demanded, opening the door as little as possible, though her big frame was draped in a thick, black dressing-gown. I nearly laughed outright when I saw that she was wearing a befrilled nightcap, such as might have been in fashion many decades ago.

  “I gave my key to Miss MacIntyre,” I explained, as she followed me up the stairs. “She wanted to stay with me to-night.”

  “I didn’t hear her come in,” Mrs. Bates declared positively, “and I’ve heard every hour strike.”

  “She must have changed her mind,” I said carelessly, trying not to feel apprehensive. Mac had seemed so definite in her desire for company, that I was at a loss to explain her sudden alteration of arrangements. I paused in the passage outside my room.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Bates, for spoiling your beauty sleep like this.”

  “I was awake,” she said indignantly. “You know that I can’t sleep until all my young ladies are safe at home.”

  “I suppose that I am the last in as usual,” I said, opening my door, “so you can go back to your couch with a free mind. Good night.”

  I stood for a moment inside the door, my fingers on the electric light switch, listening for light breathing. But there was none, and I pressed down the switch. My room was hot and airless. I went to open the window, unhooking the placket of my frock and slipping it over my head at the same time. It was then that I heard light footsteps running madly down the silent road. I leaned over the window-sill, my eyes straining against the night. The gate clicked, and a figure, that I guessed rather than recognized as Mac’s, came hurrying up the path.

  “Is that you, Maggie?” she called in a hushed tone, gazing up at my silhouette against the lighted bedroom.

  “I’ll be right there,” I said. I hurried down the stairs, unmindful of my deshabille condition. Mac’s hot little hands grasped mine as I let her in.

  “Wherever have you been?” I asked softly, not wishing to bring Mrs. Bates to the scene demanding explanations again. “I thought you would have been home and asleep by the time I came in.” She shook her head ‘and together we crept up the stairway. It creaked loudly in the annoying way stairs have when you want to be quiet.

  “Can I have a shower, Maggie?” Mac asked, as we gained the privacy of my room. “I feel so sticky.”

  “Sure. Here’s a towel. Make it snappy, will you. I want some sleep. Why are you so late?”

  Her voice was muffled as she pulled her dress over her head.

  “I came by tram, and it got held up.”

  “All right,” I said patiently. “That’ll do until the morning, anyway. I’m too tired to argue. There’s a spare toothbrush in that drawer.”

  “Thanks. What about some pyjamas?”

  I got out my best pair of apple-green Chinese silk, and handed them to her in silence.

  “Get to bed, Maggie,” Mac ordered gently. “You look fit to drop. I’ll turn out the light, so that it won’t worry you.”

  I did as I was told, and relaxed with a sigh between the cool sheets. I heard the shower running in the bathroom next door, and tried to rouse myself until Mac came back. For a tram to be held up at that time of night was the thinnest story I’d heard for a long time. But the sound of the streaming water grew fainter and fainter, and soon faded altoge
ther, Presently I saw Dulcie Gordon’s hand twisting and turning her glass, It swelled up jerkily until it obscured all other vision and then vanished. A mass of golden hair, which somehow I knew to be Patterson’s, appeared and parted like curtains to reveal a pale blood-stained face; Sarah Compton’s, jerking her head that way she had on the roof a few hours before her death. And all the time I heard voices yelling unintelligibly but with insane fury. Grotesque faces grew up before me, and threatening hands waved red-dripping buttinskys until I could stand it no longer. I sat up in bed with a jolt. The shower was still running in the next room. I stared around my brilliantly-lit bedroom in amazement.

  “That’s odd,” I said aloud, pushing my hair back with both my hands. “Mac turned the light out before she went to the bathroom. How on earth—?” I stopped and fumbled automatically for my watch. It was half-past nine and the hot morning sun was streaming through the unshaded window. Staring at the tiny hands in a bemused fashion, I realized that I must have slept for nine hours.

  “It’s my second time on earth,” I thought, putting my hands to my head again. It was aching intolerably. Then I remembered with a groan that it was Friday, and that I had an all-night shift to face.

  The door opened and Mac came in. She was in my dressing gown and had a towel around her neck.

  “Have you been having a shower all this time?” I demanded. She glanced at me in a puzzled manner, and went to the window to draw the blind.

  “Thanks,” I murmured, lying back against the pillows. “My head is fit to split. What did I do last night to deserve this hangover?”

  “Have you any aspirin?” Mac asked, looking about her.

  “Top left-hand drawer of the chest of drawers,” I directed, closing my eyes and trying to marshal my brain into working lines. I remembered there were several questions I wanted to ask Mac.

  “Drink this down, Maggie,” said Mac’s voice. “Then you’d better try to have some more sleep. You’ve got the dog-watch to-night.”

  “Hell!” I groaned. “I’ll never do it. Have I got any sick leave owing?”

  “Scurvy trick,” she answered, starting to dress rapidly. “You’ll be all right presently. Didn’t you sleep well’?”

  I shifted to a sitting position and jammed a pillow against the small of my back.

  “Too well!” I exclaimed. “It seemed like five minutes, and during that time Bertie was throwing buttinskys at me in a lively fashion. I guess one of them must have contacted to give me such a head. Have you had breakfast?”

  “Yes, thanks,” Mac answered, applying lipstick skilfully. “I’ll fix everything up with Mrs. Bates as I go.”

  “Are you leaving already?” She met my eyes in the pink-tinted mirror. I thought that she couldn’t have slept too well herself in spite of her fresh appearance, Mac’s eyes are the most tell-tale that I have ever looked into.

  “I’ve got some shopping to do,” she declared, looking around for her hat.

  “On top of the wardrobe. Before you go, Mac,” I continued slowly, “I’d like to know what made you so late last night.”

  “I’ve told you,” she said, tilting her Breton over her eyes. “The tram got held up.”

  I watched the back of her head grimly. “That was last night’s story. Now give me the true one in the sober light of morning.”

  “Don’t be silly, Maggie,” she said coolly. I longed for the energy to get out of bed and shake her. “I’m telling you the truth.”

  “Mac,” I declared firmly, “let’s face things clearly. You haven’t been straight with me since Wednesday night, and you know it.”

  She turned around from the mirror slowly. Her eyes were those of a stranger. They looked through me with a hauteur of which I had not thought Mac capable.

  “Good heavens, girl,” I yelled in exasperation, “don’t you think that I’m entitled to some sort of explanation. Last night you came to me trembling with fear, begging to stay the night and now—Mac, if you’re tired of me, if my friendship means no more to you, say so. I am so weary of this everlasting hedging. It’s driving me mad. I can’t understand what you’re worrying about. You saw Sarah Compton on Wednesday night going down in the lift-right! Can’t you take it in that at least two other people saw her after that? You are as far out of the picture as Clark and I are.”

  Mac came over to the bed and looked down at me wistfully. “Last night, Maggie,” she said in a low voice, “you promised that you would not worry me with questions. Won’t you be very much—my friend and keep that promise?” I dropped my eyes from her appealing look and wriggled about.

  “I’d like to know what your game is,” I grunted. “However, I’ll be mum. Sorry for the dramatic outburst.”

  She went to the door and paused, one hand on the knob. “Shall I tell Mrs. Bates to send up some breakfast?”

  “No, don’t bother, I rarely have any. I probably won’t see you until Saturday now. Are you going to the dance?”

  “I’ll be on duty for part of the evening, but I’ll have a look in after work. Good-bye, Maggie.”

  “So long,” I returned. “Mac!”

  She put her head round the door. “Yes?”

  “Be careful with whatever you’re doing, won’t you, old girl?”

  I lay back against my pillows and closed my eyes, but not to court sleep. I had no desire to conjure up weird visions again. Mrs. Bates’s voice floated up to my room as she saw Mac off the premises. I heard footsteps below my window, and then the creak of the gate.

  “She’s gone,” I said aloud, and wondered why I had spoken so uneasily. “Now,” I continued to talk aloud in an absurd fashion, addressing two flies buzzing around on the ceiling, “let’s get down to business.”

  The aspirin seemed to have lived up to all its makers advertised. My brain became keen and alert as I separated and lined up facts into their chronological order. Firstly, there was the central figure of the whole case to be considered—Sarah Compton. Inspector Coleman said a ‘thoroughly bad woman.’ I cocked my head on one side, considering the phrase. Well, yes, I thought I agreed with him, but somehow the description seemed a little too conclusive. True, she was a blackmailer, an adulteress and a despoiler of youth’s innocence—poor Dulcie, for example. Wait a moment, one half of my mind said to the other, we’ll deal with Gordon presently. To continue with Compton. She was inquisitive; too inquisitive, that was obvious. An eavesdropper and a backbiter. Surely, there must have been some good in her somewhere! She certainly had the welfare of the Exchange at heart. That devout instinct in any woman was diverted from the usual things in life, such as home, husband and family, to an abstract thing, Central. Perhaps she was murdered for gain. She could have been quite comfortably off, from what I knew of her shady dealings. I promised myself to suggest it to the Inspector, although, no doubt, he had gone into the matter long ago.

  The fact remained that Compton was murdered; beaten to death in the Exchange restroom with the buttinsky belonging to the Senior Traffic Officer. That hadn’t been definitely proved, but I was working on the supposition that it was true. She was killed between 10.40 p.m. and 11.10 p.m. on Wednesday night, shortly after a clandestine meeting with Bertie, who had owned to intimate relations with her.

  Bertie—he had known Sarah Compton for a long time. Perhaps she was putting the screws on him; trying to make him divorce his wife or something similar. Still, he said that he left about 10.30 p.m. and the guard corroborated his statement. Ormond, stupid though he appeared, would not be likely to mistake someone else for the Senior Traffic Officer. Or mightn’t he? Supposing Bertie walked out of the Exchange, and then turned round and came in again a few minutes later. Poor Ormond would be so confused at the continual comings and goings, that he would not be able to tell exactly what the Senior Traffic Officer’s movements were. A decided possibility! Disregarding that theory, there might be another entrance to the Exchange; one known only to a few.

  ‘I’ll have a look-see to-day,’ I promised myself again. ‘On
e cannot overlook the fact that Bertie’s buttinsky was the weapon used.’

  I came to Patterson, and considered her thoughtfully. A fool of a girl or a splendid actress? Without any doubt an unmitigated liar, and Mrs. Bates didn’t like her. Still, she’s no judge. Compton had had her claws on Gloria in some way, but I didn’t see quite how. There were those letters written by someone called Patterson, but that could not possibly be Gloria. I shelved the letters affair into one corner of my mind. Gloria had had something worrying her that Compton had learned about. Hence her desire to keep out of the latter’s way. She was the last to see the monitor, except for the murderer, unless she committed the crime herself. But somehow, the idea of Gloria, with her blonde prettiness, stealing the Senior Traffic Officer’s buttinsky in a premeditated fashion and bashing Compton’s face in, did not seem right. But it was another possibility.

  Then there was Bill the liftman. I rather shrank from analyzing his part in the tragedy. He could have stayed back on Wednesday night without the slightest fear of discovery. My opinion of the night-guard was so low, that I considered that there was a strong chance to slip by him without attracting his notice. He would merely think that it was one of the many mechanics who buzzed in and out of the Exchange like flies. There was no reason why Bertie could not have passed as one, if he re-entered the Exchange. A mechanic’s bag would be a very useful receptacle for a bloodstained buttinsky. Where could he beg, borrow or steal one? Nothing had come out about a bag being missing. But I was contemplating the liftman’s movements. He, too, had known Sarah many years before. Could he be a disappointed lover? Or, better still, as Mac and I had speculated without voicing our thoughts, the husband of Compton’s friend, Irene? To further that, if he was Dan Patterson, what relation to him was Gloria? Was she the daughter that he owned to having, or was the same name just a matter of coincidence? Working on the supposition that Irene was his wife, it would be quite probable that he knew the strength of the quarrel she had had with Sarah. The fact that he had overheard the quarrel seemed a bit too plausible. I didn’t like the way he could remember things that happened years before quite so clearly.