Murder in the Telephone Exchange

by June Wright

  ‘I wish that I’d never started this,’ I thought miserably. Then there was Bill eavesdropping at tea last night, and the indelible pencil that I had found. How easy it would have been for him to manipulate the lift from the cabin on the roof so that it stopped while he threw down his letter to Sarah. In spite of all these cogitations, I could not believe Bill had anything to do with Sarah’s death. He was too decent. I had always respected and liked him. Surely he would not let me down as Bertie and Mac had.

  Thinking about the letters brought me to Dulcie Gordon, the latest applicant for the role of the killer. She had protested, perhaps too vehemently—Shakespeare, tagged my mind—against having written to Sarah at all. Yet last night she told me that she wrote to her, making an appointment so as to talk over the matter of the rent. Had that slipped her mind, or didn’t she want it known that she had had any correspondence with Compton? If Gordon had lied there, why had she lied again about writing that seemingly harmless anonymous letter? Perhaps there was more in that last letter than met the untutored eye. Inspector Coleman had praised my perspicacity when I concluded that he had chosen those three letters from Compton’s pile for some good reason. Hitherto, I had deemed only the two written by Irene Patterson of any importance. Now I wondered if the Inspector thought so, in spite of Sergeant Matheson’s declaration to the contrary. Why waste time with a foolish threat that some infantile brain had concocted? With someone who would be a very unworthy candidate for the position of a cunning, coldblooded killer. It was thus they had described Sarah’s assassin to be. Were they giving the murderer a build-up that was not at all accurate? Perhaps it had been Inspector Coleman’s invention to scare Mac and me into telling all we knew.

  Whether Gordon had been the author of that last letter or not, I would not have cared to say. The only facts I went on when I accused her were the recency of the note and the connection between the memorandum Compton was about to send into the heads regarding Sunday work, and the one mentioned in the letter. Overshadowed by the more major events of Wednesday night, it seemed a very flimsy excuse for inventing an anonymous letter. Continuing with Gordon’s case, I recalled the definite look of fear that came into her eyes the previous night, when I comforted her with the reflection that now Sarah was dead all her own troubles were ended. I started to nibble my forefinger thoughtfully. Somehow, that quick shadow across her face was not quite in keeping with the Inspector’s conception of the killer.

  “We must not,” I declared to the buzzing flies, who had become my confidants, “disregard the fact that Gordon had both the motive and the opportunity.”

  It would be a simple task to steal Bertie’s buttinsky without anyone observing the deed. He left it lying around, and it was a thing no one would miss too soon. It would just be presumed that someone else was using it, and would return it by and by. As to hiding it until the right minute for use—“Aha,” I said slowly, and my mind went quickly back to the afternoon of the crime. Four girls were playing cards in the restroom when I entered-they were all on the 10.30 p.m. rota. We had chaffed Patterson a bit about her large wardrobe, and Dulcie Gordon had mentioned about Observation on the restroom telephone; also, that her locker had been rifled. Could it be possible that she had said that to disguise the fact that she had Bertie’s buttinsky hidden therein.

  ‘By Jove, she’s deep,’ I thought. ‘That is, if my deductions are correct.’

  I did not feel in the least frightened by the idea of having a friend of mine a murderess. Rather, I was full of admiration at that moment for the skilful planning and daring needed to carry out such a crime. Therein I made a very grave mistake, it was not until I found myself where I am now that I realized what an appalling thought had been mine. I felt so smug and pleased with myself and the plausible conclusion that I had come to, that I overlooked the warnings issued by Inspector Coleman and his shy Sergeant concerning the type of person we were up against.

  “I won’t tell the police yet,” I said aloud, almost buoyantly. “I’ll wait for definite proof. I wonder what Mac will say.”

  At the sound of her name the satisfied smile faded from my face. ‘Oh well.’ I shrugged. ‘I can’t see how this will hurt her at all. Maybe Mac is doing the same as me—playing amateur detective. That might account for her fit of temperament.’ I hoped that she wouldn’t be sore with me for making the great discovery first. As I was in the middle of a pleasant daydream, where the Chief Commissioner of Police was presenting me with a Royal Humane medal or whatever would be its equivalent in the world of crime, the front door bell rang far away. One half of my mind listened casually to Mrs. Bates’s lumbering steps down the hall, while the other was busy rehearsing a modest, declamatory speech of thanks. Voices sounded, coming up the stairs. I brushed away the Commissioner’s congratulatory hand and leaped out of bed.

  “Charlotte!” I yelled, dragging on the dressing-gown that Mac had left lying over a chair for Mrs. Bates’s sake.

  “Hullo, darling,” said my mother, opening the door gingerly. “Aren’t you up yet?”

  “No. I was fearfully late last night, and I’ve got the dogwatch to-day. What are you doing in town? Come and sit down.” I closed the door in Mrs. Bates’s face and heard an indignant sniff.

  “Didn’t I write and tell you?” asked my mother, looking around her vaguely as she peeled off her gloves. “I am sure I did.”

  “As a matter of fact,” I admitted, “a letter came yesterday, but I didn’t have time to read it. So many things have been happening.”

  “So I heard,” she returned calmly. She was surveying me critically from every angle. “Darling, you’re getting terribly thin. I’m sure you’re smoking too much.”

  “Correct,” I grinned. “That and work keep my figure. You rarely see a fat telephonist. Do you remember Sarah Compton when she came to Keramgatta on a supervising trip?”

  Charlotte began to strip my bed and turn the mattress. My mother was that type of woman who could never sit still when there was work to do. Even if it was someone else’s work.

  “The woman with the nose?” she queried.

  “What was the matter with her nose?”

  “It preeked. Didn’t you ever notice?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry, but I’ve never even heard of the word. But I can guess your meaning. You know she’s been murdered?”

  Charlotte had started to make my bed, so I went to the opposite side to assist.

  “So I read in the papers. Your father was in a great state when he saw your photograph.”

  “I didn’t give it to them,” I protested, folding back the sheet. “If I had had any say in the matter, I certainly wouldn’t have let them print that one. Did you observe the Byrnes profile?”

  My mother laughed a little. “It jutted. Tell me,” she asked abruptly in her customary manner, “how’s your friend, Gilda?”

  “Gerda,” I corrected. “You’re thinking of Rigoletto. What about her?”

  “She actually found the body, didn’t she?”

  I grimaced. “What an abominable word! Yes, she was the first that ever burst, etc. But I was close on her heels. Did you know I fainted?”

  Charlotte looked round horror-stricken. “Darling! Dear me, you’ve not done that since you were twelve.”

  I nodded. We spread the disguising day-cover over the bed. “Running to school,” I confirmed. “I told the Sergeant. Do you recall meeting a policeman up our way called Matheson?”

  Was that his name?” asked my mother doubtfully. “A shy boy with freckles? He found some shorthorn cattle in one of our own paddocks, after your father had reported them stolen.”

  “How very embarrassing for them both. I don’t vouch for the freckles, but he certainly seems bashful. He’s assisting on the case.” I was hunting about for my soap and bath powder, and heard Charlotte say “Oh,” in a certain tone behind me.

  I laughed. “No, Charlotte.”

  “Darling, I didn’t say a thing,” she protested mildly.

  “
But you were thinking,” I accused her. “How are the boys? They haven’t written to me for an age.”

  “They’re both fit. Tony thought he’d save postage and send a letter by me. Are you going to have a bath?”

  “A shower. I won’t be long. Read the daily news, and let me know the latest about the Exchange murder.”

  My mother glanced at me shrewdly. “I should have thought that you knew more than the papers.”

  “Maybe,” I answered briefly over my shoulder.

  I came back from the bathroom feeling fresh and cool to find my mother tidying up my room.

  “Sit down and relax,” I begged. “You give me the fidgets. You haven’t told me yet why you’re in town.”

  “I thought I’d like a hat,” she replied, continuing to dust the wardrobe. “Only a garden hat. One of those straw things you used to be able to get in a nothing over two-and-six pence store.”

  “Don’t tell me that you’ve travelled over two hundred miles just to get a garden hat!” I said in astonishment, “Come on, own up.”

  She began to fiddle with the ornaments as Mac had done the previous day. I almost expected to hear the pin-tray crash again. “I suppose that l came to see how you were.”

  “That’s better,” I grinned, “but what for?”

  My mother went off at a tangent. “How’s work? Are you still as busy as ever?”

  “Pretty hectic,” I agreed, waiting patiently.

  “Do you still see that John Clarkson you wrote about?”

  “Now and then,” I answered carelessly, knowing that the point had now been reached. “We play golf together as often as duty allows. As a matter of fact, I am to have a game with him on Sunday, but I’ll cut it now that you’re down.”

  “Don’t do that. Is he a good player?”

  “Very. Come along with us. I’d like you to meet him.”

  Charlotte looked dubious. “Won’t Mr. Clarkson mind?”

  I laughed. “I don’t think so. You’d better get to know him sometime.”

  An expression of resignation came into her face. “I thought so,” she announced. “Goodness knows what your father will say.”

  “I don’t think it will matter,” I said lightly.

  “A warning, Maggie?” asked my mother gravely.

  I laughed again and put an arm through hers. “Most uncalled for,” I confessed, “and quite unnecessary.”

  “Well, I hope he’s nice,” she remarked inadequately, going to the wardrobe. “What dress do you want? It’s very hot out.”

  “It should change soon,” I said, I glanced out the window trying to read the sky. “Give me the navy horror I wore yesterday, and I’ll take a coat. But we are not going out yet, are we? Don’t forget that I’m not on duty until eleven to-night!”

  “We’ll have lunch here,” promised my mother. “Can Mrs. Bates squeeze me in somewhere for the weekend?”

  “I think so. Are you only staying until Monday? That won’t give you much time to find that hat.”

  “What hat? Oh, you mean my garden one. Perhaps you could keep a watch out for one, Maggie, and send it home to me. I’m not in any violent hurry for it.”

  “Charlotte,” I said, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her gently, “you’re an old fraud.”

  “Why, darling?” she asked with a surprised look.

  “You know what I mean,” I said, opening the door. “Come down to the lounge. It’s cooler.”

  * * * * *

  We chatted companionably for some time about home. I read Tony’s letter while Mrs. Bates fixed up a room near mine and Charlotte unpacked. The Exchange and everything connected with it went out of my mind until half-way through lunch. I got up suddenly from the sweet course.

  “Where are you going, Maggie?” Charlotte asked. “Come back and finish your pudding.”

  “I’ll only be a second, I want to make a ’phone call.” I closed the door on her mild protestation, and made for the telephone. it took a little time to trace my number. I found what I wanted by making a few inquiries with the Personnel Branch of the Telephone Department. “Is Miss Gordon there?” I asked, as a male voice answered.

  “Who is speaking, please?”

  “Miss Byrnes,” I replied haughtily. What business was it of his? I glanced down at the receiver, puzzled at the sound of muffled conversation, as the man at the other end put a hand over the mouthpiece. Presently the hand was removed. l heard someone say: “I’ll speak to her.” A voice asked me crisply: “Miss Byrnes? This is Sergeant Matheson.”

  I knew that something had happened as soon as he spoke. A fearful excitement shook me. “I wanted to speak to Dulcie Gordon,” I said hesitantly. “What are you doing at her boardinghouse?” The police had got on to her tracks quicker than l had expected. Poor Gordon! Poor little kid!

  “I’ve got some bad news for you,” the Sergeant’s voice said gravely. I gripped the receiver hard. I thought I knew what was coming. “Miss Gordon was found dead early this morning.”

  I could neither speak nor move. The shock was almost overwhelming. Somewhere in the distance, through the drumming in my ears, I could hear the Sergeant’s voice saying urgently: “Miss Byrnes. Are you there, Miss Byrnes?”

  “Yes, I’m still here,” I replied, leaning against the wall to support my weak legs. “It’s just the shock. When you say dead, what—”

  “She was found gassed.”

  “That means suicide, doesn’t it? Did she leave a note?”

  “None has been found,” he replied, and a dreadful tremor passed through my body.

  “The Inspector,” I whispered. “Does he think-is it another murder?”

  “We don’t know yet. Can I trust you to keep this quiet?”

  “You may,” I replied, reviving a little. “I suppose that I’d better own up to the fact that I was probably the last person to see Gordon alive; that is, if you disregard tram conductors and the like.”

  His exclamation nearly deafened my eardrum. “Don’t speak so loud,” I ordered acidly. “Well?”

  “We can’t talk over the ’phone. Someone might be listening in. Where are you now?”

  “At my boarding-house,” I informed him, overlooking the slur aimed at the telephonic escutcheon, “in the middle of lunch.”

  “I’ll be right over,” Sergeant Matheson said. “Don’t go out, will you?” But he hung up before I had time to reply.

  I didn’t go back to the dining-room at once, but stood against the wall staring stupidly at the ’phone in my hand. “Poor Dulcie!” I repeated to myself. “She must have got the wind up properly last night when she left me, and felt that she couldn’t face it.”

  But perhaps it was murder, though it seemed a difficult way to get rid of anyone by gassing them. There would sure to be marks of a struggle. No one in their right senses would put their head into a gas oven without making some protest if they were being forced to. Gradually the sick feeling left me. I walked slowly back to the dining-room.

  “Hullo,” I said to myself, in a disinterested way, “Mrs. Bates is trying to convert Charlotte.”

  My mother was saying in her gentle way: “That’s all very well, Mrs. Bates, but one can’t possibly speak the truth always. Dear me, you wouldn’t have a friend in the world. Maggie, dear, what’s the matter with you? You’re as white as a sheet.”

  “Come and have your tea in the lounge,” I ordered. “Will you please excuse us, Mrs. Bates?”

  “But Maggie, what about your sweet?” I glanced at the caramel custard without enthusiasm.

  “No more, thanks. Very nice though, Mrs. Bates,” I added hurriedly, as she presented an offended back towards us and poured out two cups of tea. I carried them carefully up the hall. My hands were shaking. I closed the lounge room door and wandered restlessly over to the window. Charlotte waited in silence.

  “Dulcie Gordon has committed suicide,” I blurted out without turning my head. I couldn’t trust myself not to give way if I met my mother’s eyes.

>   “Did you put sugar in mine?” asked my mother, stirring her tea. “Who’s Dulcie Gordon, dear?”

  “One of the girls,” I replied, pulling the curtain aside to watch the gate. “She may have been murdered. The police wouldn’t commit themselves, but I don’t know. You see, I was speaking to her last night.”

  “It’s all rather dreadful,” my mother said quietly. I talked about our conversation in the milk bar the previous night, and my own speculations that morning, until Sergeant Matheson arrived. I couldn’t stop chattering. Charlotte’s matter-of-fact attitude calmed me down greatly.

  “You’ve lost your freckles,” Charlotte remarked as I introduced the Sergeant. He reddened uncomfortably, and laughed.

  “Don’t be personal, Charlotte,” I rebuked her. “Well, Sergeant?”

  “Well, Miss Byrnes?”

  I made a gesture of impatience. “Was it murder or suicide? I don’t think you need go,” I added to my mother, as I saw her making a half-hearted attempt to leave the room.

  “We are inclined to consider that it was suicide,” answered the Sergeant with habitual caution. “There is no evidence of death from any other cause than gas, and no marks of a struggle. There is always the possibility of the unfortunate person having been stunned first, and then the mouth placed over a gas jet in order to give the impression of suicide. The only strange feature of this case is the lack of any farewell note, explaining the reason for taking life.”

  “Did you look underneath everything?” my mother chipped in. “Men never seem to.”

  “We made a very thorough search,” he assured her, smiling.

  “Perhaps Gordon thought there were already enough letters in this business, and that she would not add to the confusion,” I remarked flippantly.

  The Sergeant gave me a direct look. “You don’t seem very upset by your friend’s death.”