by June Wright
‘When Sergeant Matheson rings me next week,’ I promised myself, ‘I’ll tell him about it; just as a point of interest. I wonder how many people know of this exit.’ I started to retrace my steps, intending to go round by the right-of-way and have a look at the door from the outside.
One of the doors, now on my right, opened suddenly, and a girl crashed straight into me. I caught her by the arms as she stumbled, turning her face up to the light. It was Mac.
“Hullo,” I said uneasily, mindful of the coldness between us. “Don’t tell me that you’ve been making the big discovery too!”
She looked very pale, and was panting a little. I noticed a smudge of dirt on one cheekbone, and glanced down instinctively to her hands. They were filthy.
“What do you mean?” Mac asked quickly. Her eyes were raking my face.
“The hidden door,” I answered, pointing down the passage. I thought I heard her breath quickly indrawn in a sigh.
“Oh, that!” she said, following my finger. “It’s been locked for years. Haven’t you ever seen it before?”
“Nor heard of it. I fancy that there are not too many people in the Exchange who have.”
“I have to come down here after dockets,” Mac explained carelessly.
“Indeed! Perhaps you can tell me if those boxes have been disturbed lately.”
Mac walked on ahead hurriedly. “I haven’t been down here for some time now. Anyway, I doubt whether I would have noticed.”
“Precisely,” I nodded, satisfied. We climbed the stairs in silence.
“What have you been crawling around in the dirt for?” I asked curiously.
“Looking for some dockets. What are you doing here at this hour? I thought you were on all night.”
“So I am. I was snooping. I say, isn’t it foul about Dulcie?”
“Awful,” Mac agreed in a precise little voice. I frowned. Somehow, for the first time since I had known her, Mac had sounded insincere.
“The mater is in town,” I informed her. Her face brightened.
“When did she come down? Give her my love.”
“Only this morning. Don’t you remember that I told you that I had forgotten to read her letter in all the excitement. It was rather a surprise when she arrived. She wanted to—buy a garden hat,” I finished hurriedly.
“Buy a garden hat?” Mac echoed, and then laughed gaily. “How like her. She’s a darling! Will I see her at all?”
“She might be coming to-morrow night, if I can manage to cadge a leave-pass from Bertie. How is he to-day, by the way?”
Mac shrugged a little. “As moody as ever. I think the suicide rattled him.”
“You can’t blame him. It is rather grim. I’d better go up and see him at once. Is Clark on duty yet?”
“He changed over to the all night with Bancroft,” answered Mac coolly. “Didn’t you know?” I felt elated and tried not to show it. I turned away to press the lift bell.
“He didn’t tell me,” I said lightly. “He’ll be a good boss to have for the dog-watch. I’ll be able to catch up on a few hours sleep.”
The lift came down to the ground floor. I bade Bill “good day” as we entered. He answered my greeting quietly. As we ascended I made another search in my handbag.
“I can’t find my pass anywhere,” I explained to Mac, as she watched my fumblings casually. “Wait a bit, this looks like it.” I separated a little red engagement book and a letter to retrieve it. The pass had been caught between them. As I moved it to a more conspicuous place, my eyes fell on a small stub of a pencil. I brought it out thoughtfully, and tapped Bill on the shoulder on impulse.
“I think you dropped this,” I suggested, watching him closely.
He looked down at my hand, and then straight up into my eyes. “It doesn’t look like one of mine,” he said, bringing the lift to a standstill. “Indelible, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. Are you sure that it doesn’t belong to you?”
Bill opened the doors, and Mac stepped out. “Quite,” he answered curtly. I did not press him further, and put the pencil back into my bag. After all, it did not matter much, now.
Mac had gone through the glass doors to the trunkroom without a backward glance. I could see her straight little figure walking down the room to the sortagraph as I waited by the Senior Traffic Officer’s table for Bertie. He was over at the Sydney boards. When he saw me the frown deepened between his eyes. He came hurrying back to his desk.
“Where have you been?” he demanded. “You should have been on an hour ago.”
I stared at him uncomprehendingly for a minute. “But I am on all night, Mr. Scott.” He slapped papers about on his desk. I moved aside out of range.
“You changed with Miss Patterson,” he barked.
“No, I did not,” I contradicted. “l wanted to, but you wouldn’t let me. Didn’t she turn up to-day?”
“She’s not here. She’s not on the sick-sheet, and your change is in the book.”
“I know nothing about it, and I certainly didn’t sign the change.”
Bertie gave me a sharp glance under his bushy brows. He pulled out the book, and flipped over the pages. “You see?” I pointed out gently. He stared at the page.
“Well, where is Miss Patterson?” he demanded. Some of the edge had gone out of his bark.
“I couldn’t tell you. I suppose she’ll turn up to work all night.”
He banged the book back, and started to open and shut drawers fiercely. “It’s disgraceful!” he remarked vehemently. “Too many mistakes like this are occurring. There’s to be no more changing until further notice, do you hear?”
‘They could hear you out in the street,’ I thought acidly, not game to tell him that he had given the same order two days ago, and hence the mix-up. I had come up to see him to beg a favour. I put on what I hoped was a winning smile, and asked prettily: “Mr. Scott, my mother is in town for the week-end. Could it be possible for her to come to the dance?”
“The dance,” he repeated blankly. “What dance?”
“The charity social to-morrow night,” I replied patiently. The telephones were ringing on his desk. I hoped he would give me the leave-pass before he got off the track again.
“That’ll be all right,” he grunted. “I’ll write out permission, and leave it here on my table. You can pick it up to-night.”
“Thanks, awfully,” l said gratefully. “If Miss Patterson comes in tonight, what will we do?”
“You’d both better work all night, I suppose,” he replied irritably, picking up a receiver. “Don’t worry me now.”
I had got what I wanted, so I left without a word. It was obvious that he was in a foul mood, perhaps because of the knowledge he knew I held about him; not that he had any need to worry. I had no wish to spread his story around the Exchange. Bertie was a good man to work for, and as such he would remain to me. After all, his private affairs were none of my business. I would never be able to treat him with that respect and admiration, as had been my wont. I longed to tell him about my discovery in the basement in order to observe his reaction. As I had thought with the pencil that Bill had dropped, what did it matter now? Compton and her murderess were both dead. The mystery of the anonymous letters and other troubles that she had left in her wake would remain. But there was no need to stir up the murky depths that Sarah’s death had left to lie stagnant. They might evaporate in time.
I found Charlotte crossing from one corner to another with the traffic lights, and laughed.
“I couldn’t remember which one you said,” she excused herself. “People must have thought l was mad, but I didn’t want to miss you. Did you get what you wanted?”
“Yes, thanks. What about the garden hat?”
“I forgot to look for it,” she confessed. I guided her up town to a little continental café where the fish course is always superb. My mother insisted on “something to bring the colour to your cheeks,” so we shared a half-bottle of Sauterne. I certainly felt bette
r after dinner, and lighting a cigarette over coffee, began to tell her of Bertie’s misdoings. She made a little moue of distaste, but let me go on uninterrupted until I concluded with the discovery of the door in the basement.
“All very interesting, Maggie, but to where does it lead you?”
“To the right-of-way on the west side of the building,” I answered literally. “Although the door was bolted and barricaded, it would have been just too easy if anyone had really wanted to use it. Furthermore, in spite of Mac’s assurance that most people knew of its existence, I didn’t. And I’ve been at the Exchange for a good many years now.”
“But everything’s finished,” protested my mother. “The case has been solved. Why are you worrying about out-of-the-way doors?”
“I don’t know,” I replied slowly. “There are a few matters that I’d like explained. But I suppose you are right. Everything’s finished—including my coffee. Shall we go?”
We had decided on the good film at the second-rate theatre. But I did not see much of it. My brain was going around and around; turning over first this fact and then that. I should have felt satisfied. I kept repeating to myself: “Everything is finished, everything is finished,” but my mind was restless and alert as though still awaiting a climax. Dulcie’s suicide did not seem like the end of the story to me. Instead it seemed bizarre, extraordinary; even an anticlimax.
“It is because there was no letter found,” I told myself, wondering what the simpering blonde on the screen had to do with the picture. She reminded me of Gloria, and that made my brain tick over again.
What part had she played in the murder? Was she too the innocent victim of our late unlamented monitor? And Bill! He knew something about that pencil I had offered him, I could swear. His manner was just a shade too off-hand and casual. I stirred restlessly, and Charlotte sh-h-d me to be quiet.
To hell with the Exchange and everyone it contained! Let them keep their guilty secrets! It was none of my business, thank Heaven. I tried to wipe all those nagging little thoughts from my mind and to concentrate on the screen.
“Very clever, don’t you think?” my mother asked, as we came out.
“Excellent,” I agreed mendaciously. I walked on to the road to compare the Town Hall time with my own watch. “I’ll have to fly, Charlotte. It’s ten to eleven. Will you be all right going home? Catch the No. 16 tram.”
“I hate you going to work at this hour,” Charlotte remarked plaintively. “It’s not natural. Be very careful going up that dark street.”
“I’ll take the bus,” I promised. “It’ll drop me right outside the door. See you in the morning. Sleep well.”
CHAPTER VI
I darted through the after-theatre crowd, thinking of them enviously. They would all be going home to bed, while I had to keep awake to serve them. The ungrateful cattle!
A telephonist’s lot is a hard one, especially the all-nighter. I had started to yawn already. It is very difficult at the beginning to switch your working hours around to night-time. Once the first couple of nights are over, you become more or less accustomed to it. I always hated the first night of the dog-watch; you were relieved in the morning by fresh, clear-eyed girls, while you yourself were looking and feeling like death warmed up, Thank goodness, the all-night shift only occurred once every three months.
I caught the bus, and fell inevitably into the company of a couple of other all-nighters. They had brought books and knitting to while away the more tedious hours when traffic would be infrequent. I cursed my lack of foresight in not arming myself with similar weapons to keep me from further jumbled speculations about Bertie Scott and Bill.
“Have you seen Patterson?” I asked them, as we got ready for work in the dormitory on the seventh floor. It was a long room with curtained cubicles that more than adequately supplied accommodation for all-night operators. The following day it would be cleared and decorated for our charity social. I intended to help during the afternoon.
“Patterson? Patterson?” repeated one girl in mock concentration. “Who’s she?”
“The girl with ‘it,’ ” put in another.
“Oomph,” I corrected. “Don’t be out of date.”
“Were you talking about me, Maggie?” asked an icy voice behind me. I swung round, adjusting the neckband of my outfit. Gloria stood in the doorway, a picture of dignified disdain.
“Well, well,” I said brightly. “Look who’s blown in. Yes, sweetheart, I was talking about you. And you can just take that nasty expression from your face. As a sneer, it is very feeble. What do you mean by putting a change in the book without telling me?”
She shrugged lightly, slipping the silver fox stole from her shoulders. “You said that I owed you a pay-back, and Bertie signed it.”
“Well, next time, please let me know. As we are going to be overstaffed to-night, I intend to get in as much sleep as I can. I am just as glad that you made the mistake. But don’t think that I am thanking you,” I added hastily.
“You’re a cat, Byrnes,” Patterson burst out, losing her nonchalance. “One of these days, I’ll get even with you.”
“Try it,” I advised. “You’ve already made one attempt and failed. Your first endeavour in telling lies about me to the police didn’t get you very far.”
“Getting an opinion of yourself after the notice they took of you, aren’t you?” she sneered, this time more successfully. “No wonder Gerda is getting fed up.” I stiffened suddenly. As she observed me wince, Patterson pressed home her attack. “I suppose that you know that your policeman is married, and has a couple of children.”
“How interesting!” l said coldly, trying to bring the subject away from Mac. “And just where did you get this information which you have told me so thoughtfully?”
“That’s my business,” she drawled.
“Stop squabbling, you two,” interrupted one of the others. “It’s well after eleven, so hurry up.”
So Mac was getting fed up with me! How did Gloria know that we had quarrelled—no, not exactly quarrelled. A shadow had grown up between us; a wall that had begun from withheld confidences and half-truths and had grown into indifference. It did not sound like Mac to go talking about our dissensions, especially to Gloria of all people. I pondered over it, puzzled and uncomprehending.
Mr. Bancroft was on duty as traffic officer. We were sternly rebuked for being late. He was a tall man, painfully thin, and suffered from diabetes, though I doubted whether that was the excuse for his continual tea-drinking. Every half-hour or so he would slip out of the trunkroom and brew a pot of tea. Almost everyone who worked in the Exchange developed some pet peculiarity. That was why I found my colleagues not uninteresting. We might be regarded like so many cogs in the wheel, but we retained some individuality above our work.
The late telephonists were all a trifle terse. The usual custom was to relieve a few minutes early; even if one was kept working until the stroke of eleven, which was the exact time that the late telephonists’ duty ends, one felt hardly done by.
I took over the country boards, far from the rest of the staff. As an interstate telephonist, I thought the slight change in operating might make up for the lack of other amusement. I regretted my decision immediately. I knew that once I got by myself the old doubts would start running around in my brain again, and I would have no peace unless some hard switching demanded my full attention. That would be unlikely to happen after an hour or two when the lines became slack, and if the traffic officer on duty was a decent fellow we could go off for some sleep, or knit and read.
Clark came in a few minutes before the half-hour. He talked for a while with Mr. Bancroft to learn the state of the traffic, and if any of the lines were out of order. Presently, he passed me on his way to dismantle the delay-board. The room grew quieter as the power fell to half-pressure, and calls became more and more infrequent. The chatter of the girls the other side of the room echoed hollowly. I half-listened, casually drawing faces on the back of a docket f
or want of something better to do. When their voices fell to a murmur I realized that I was the subject of the conversation. It didn’t worry me much. After all, my position during the last few days must have been the subject of a lot of discussion.
Suddenly Patterson’s voice arose, shrilly, “Personally, I think that she was to blame for poor Dulcie’s suicide.”
There was no doubt as to her meaning. A dead silence fell. I stared for a moment at the absurd faces that I had sketched, and then swung round in my chair filled with an indescribable mixture of emotions. Anger, there certainly was. Who would be able to keep calm in the face of such an accusation? But there was also a dread, cold feeling of horror. Could it be that Patterson’s word spoken with malicious intent held some degree of accuracy? Had I killed Dulcie? Had I forced her to commit the terrible crime of taking her own life by my untimely intervention in her affairs? It had occurred to me before, but not quite like that. I had been blaming myself for leaving something unsaid; a few comforting words that might have coaxed Gordon out of her despair. Had my clumsy advice only deepened her sense of hopelessness? In those few minutes as I stared across the room to where Patterson faced me defiantly, I went through an age of torturing fear and self-condemnation. I could not utter a word to defend myself, but continued to gaze horror-stricken at my tormentor.
John Clarkson came striding briskly down the room. “Now then, you girls, what are those lights doing in the panel? Get going.” He must have heard Patterson. No one in the room could have missed her raised voice. He continued on his way towards me. I watched his approach miserably, my eyes altering their focus as he came nearer. He turned my chair around gently so that I faced my position again. I felt the firm pressure of his hand on my shoulder before he walked round to the back of the boards, and leaned over the low top opposite me. I looked at him beseechingly for a minute in silence. I was forced to whisper as my throat felt parched and tight.