Murder in the Telephone Exchange

by June Wright

  “You are very optimistic,” the Sergeant observed, smiling.

  “Certainly,” I replied stoutly. “As soon as we know what Mac has discovered, we’ll break the case. Then you’ll get promotion, and everything will be marvellous all round. No more mysteries and suspicions.”

  “I didn’t mean that,” he murmured, making another note with his inevitable blunt pencil.

  “I am sure that I have a better one than that,” said my mother, searching in her handbag. “Here, Sergeant.”

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Byrnes. I’m rather attached to this pencil. It was the same one I used on my first murder case.”

  “It looks like it,” I remarked tartly. “However, talking about pencils brings my wandering attention back to the matter in hand. Suppose you read on, Sergeant.”

  “I have been, Miss Byrnes. With your leave, I’ll copy one or two points for my own benefit.”

  “Go right ahead. What has taken your interest?”

  “Only that you say that Miss Patterson knew more about the murder than was printed in the Press.”

  “That is correct. She was able to tell me where Compton was found dead when she came to see me here the following morning. I jumped on to it. She got scared immediately.”

  “Did she tell you how she knew?”

  I shrugged. “Some rigmarole which I didn’t swallow about one of the girls ringing her from the Exchange. Bear it in mind until you reach a bit further on, and I bet you’ll sit up with a jerk. What comes next?”

  “ ‘The anonymous letters!’ ”

  “This is where I’ll take over again,” I said. “I hope I’m not boring you.”

  “On the contrary. What have you to say about the anonymous letters?”

  My bedroom was growing steadily darker. I leaned over to switch on the bedside light. Somehow the subdued glow did not give such an impression of heat as the ceiling lamps. The light fell on to the Sergeant’s hands as he sat near the window, but his head and shoulders remained in a shadow. Outside the north wind had dropped to a hot sigh every now and then, while crickets screeched in Mrs. Bates’s garden. I lighted another cigarette and half lay on the bed, leaning back on one elbow with my legs crossed.

  “Inspector Coleman gave me three letters to read,” I began. “The first two were written by Irene Patterson. At once I was struck by the name being the same as that of a telephonist who already seemed to be connected with the crime. There was also the similarity between those two early letters and the one that Compton received in the lift. The conclusion that we all came to was that Irene Patterson was somehow connected with the last anonymous note that Compton was to receive. Could it be that she was an employee of the Telephone Department? The writer of that note most certainly was. Working on the theory that Irene Patterson might be an employee, we ask ourselves what relation is she to the telephonist, Gloria Patterson? Is she her mother, which would seem the most likely? Or is she no relation at all? At this point, I am forced much against my inclination to inform you that Gloria has told me that her mother is dead, and her father deserted her many years ago. So that sort of wipes that out, doesn’t it? But don’t be downcast, as I have another little theory to come to.” I looked at the tip of my cigarette in silence for a few minutes, fighting an inward battle. Presently an impatient sigh from my mother penetrated my consciousness. “Go on with Thursday’s notes,” I said curtly to Sergeant Matheson.

  As he bent his head, I guessed that he had been gazing at me through the shadows. “ ‘Tea with S.M.’ ” he continued.

  “You can skip that,” I interrupted, smiling.

  He nodded gravely. “ ‘Discovered B. knew of S.C. years ago!’ Who is B., Miss Byrnes?”

  “The liftman,” I said shortly, “and a gentleman in the truest sense of the word. This is where I strongly regret ever having set eyes on you, Sergeant. But I don’t go back on a promise, so I think that it is only fair to give you some facts and ideas about Bill.”

  “Maggie is one of those persons who are almost tediously loyal,” said Charlotte, aside to the Sergeant.

  “An excellent trait,” he agreed, “but unfortunately, in a case like this, there must be nothing that cannot be unfolded and looked at from all angles. Go on, please, Miss Byrnes, I am getting interested.”

  “At last?” I queried, my reluctance making me sarcastic. I retold the story of Bill overhearing the quarrel between Sarah Compton and Irene Patterson, and the theory Mac and I had evolved silently between us that he was Gloria’s father, Dan Patterson.

  “I was very surprised to learn that he was married and had two children, a boy and,” I paused for a moment, “a girl.” The Sergeant made no comment, so I continued. “Not long afterwards it occurred to me that although we had seen our liftman day after day for many years, not once had I heard his surname. I asked Mac, but she, too, was in ignorance. In fact, I doubt if a dozen persons in the Department would be able to say what it was. He is Bill to all and sundry. Was the daughter he had owned to switching side by side with us? In fact, Gloria? Working on that assumption and knowing what a ghastly little snob she can be, we realized that her obvious disinclination to come into contact with Compton was due to the fact that the latter knew of the relationship. Perhaps Compton was becoming nasty about it, though I fail to see what difference having a liftman as a father would make to the normal person. But Gloria is not normal. She lives in a rosy mist of fabrication. If the identity of her father got around the Exchange, the fact would be too real and prosaic for her to continue her romancings. Perhaps she was afraid of being laughed at. Believe me, Gloria would hate that. She has little or no sense of humour. My theory is that she appealed to Bill to stop Sarah and that he tried to do so through the medium of an anonymous letter. That is, the one thrown down into the lift on Wednesday night.

  “Now we come to the matter of yet another anonymous letter. This time it was sent to me, and I took it to the police at once. It was a most unoriginal note. The only interesting thing about it was that it was written in an ordinary pencil, not an indelible one. You remember me asking you that, Sergeant?”

  “As a matter of fact, we wondered what you had in mind,” he confessed. “Even Inspector Coleman hadn’t observed that the first letter was in indelible writing.”

  “This is what I was getting at. That note must have been written and put in my locker between the time I found that pencil during tea on Thursday, and when I came down from the roof to collect my headset prior to going on duty. I discovered Bill eavesdropping on my conversation with Dulcie Gordon about the practice of writing unsigned letters. He knew I was becoming curious and wanted to stop me before I learned too much Having lost his indelible pencil crawling under the kitchen counter to hear what I was saying he had to use an ordinary one. I showed it to Bill yesterday, but he disclaimed all ownership, his manner abrupt and totally different from usual. I let the matter drop as I considered then that it was pretty conclusive that Dulcie Gordon was guilty. Either she had written the anonymous letters or else they had nothing whatsoever to do with the case. Whichever way suited me as I was fast losing interest until, as I have said, I overheard something,” I paused to press out my cigarette.

  My mother remarked with the air of one making a great discovery: “Darling, I have never known you to speak at such length before.”

  I laughed. “Sorry if I’ve been holding forth too much. Shall I shut up, Sergeant? Those notes of mine should be fairly explicit. “

  “No, please go on, Miss Byrnes. I find your impressions most interesting.”

  “All right. Tell me when you’re getting bored. Where was I?”

  “Eavesdropping,” said Charlotte.

  “Indeed I wasn’t,” I protested indignantly. “The remark was made for my ears but the speaker, one Gloria Patterson, lacked the guts to accuse me face to face. Perhaps you can guess what it was.”

  “What a nasty, spiteful girl!” said my mother sharply.

  “I see that you’ve caught on,” I obs
erved, shrugging. “Yes, she gave out the opinion that I had forced Dulcie Gordon to her death. If I had known then of the threatening letter that Dulcie had sent to Compton, I wouldn’t have worried, I would have put the remark down to sheer spite. It is just as well that I didn’t know, otherwise this little meeting wouldn’t be taking place.”

  “I don’t think that you would have stayed satisfied with our decision,” Sergeant Matheson said.

  “Perhaps not,” I agreed. “If you don’t mind me saying so, it was a wobbly sort of solution. There seemed to be a lot of gaps; those letters, Bertie, and—Mac. It would have been better if those had been cleared up too. On the other hand, I doubt if my entry in this case will make much difference. You too were not satisfied, and I know of another.”

  “Who is that, Miss Byrnes?”

  “Mr. Clarkson,” I replied, busying myself with a hand mirror and comb. “Though he didn’t admit it in so many words.”

  “How on earth—” began the Sergeant.

  “Maggie just knows,” interrupted my mother. “Haven’t you ever heard of a woman’s instinct, Sergeant?”

  “I have,” he replied grimly.

  “Don’t deride it,” I warned him, wondering if his wife possessed one. “I am working purely on intuition.”

  “Gloria!” said my mother patiently. I glanced at her in surprise.

  “Oh, I see,” I said, light dawning. “It’s your fault anyway—sidetracking. But we’ll leave Gloria for the moment as I have a little piece to work in about her and I want to achieve a dramatic effect. What else have I got down under Thursday?”

  “ ‘Night guard sees Bertie enter Exchange about 10 p.m.’

  I turned to my mother, grinning. “Forget your sensibilities, Charlotte. Your daughter is about to deal with some sordid facts.”

  “I don’t like it, Maggie,” she said plaintively.

  “I’ll be quick,” I promised, turning back to Sergeant Matheson. “We had it most reluctantly from Mr. Scott’s own lips that Sarah Compton was his mistress, and that she had phoned him earlier on Wednesday night to meet her in the observation room on the third floor. Ormond, our stolid guard, who vouchsafed the opinion that Bertie entered the building about 10 p.m. and left before the half-hour, let drop, most accidentally I am sure, an important point. At 10 p.m. Bertie creeps into the building with his hat over his eyes, trying to make himself inconspicuous, but when he leaves at 10.25 p.m. his demeanour does not arouse any comment from our observant friend, Mr. Ormond. In other words, he enters surreptitiously, but leaves in such a manner that Ormond cannot fail to recognize him. In fact, I’m willing to bet that he didn’t know Bertie at 10 p.m., but presumed that it was he when he saw him leave half an hour later. Do you follow what I mean?”

  “Very subtle,” remarked the Sergeant, nodding. “What are you leading to?”

  “I hold the theory that if Bertie entered the Exchange once without being spotted, but let the night guard get a good look at him as he left, he could re-enter unobserved. He made his exit so blatantly that Ormond would hardly expect to see him again. If a hunched-up figure entered the building flashing a pass some minutes later, I am willing to bet you yet again that it was Bertie, and that Ormond presumed that he was just another mechanic coming on duty.”

  There was a pause. I looked over at the Sergeant’s shadowy outline. “Well?” I asked.

  He stirred restlessly. “Quite possible, but—”

  “I’m ready for you,” I interrupted. “You think that my theory is rotten. That’s all right by me, but just you listen to this one. While working on the idea yesterday, I was struck by a brainwave that sent me down to the basement to explore. There, more than half-hidden by boxes, I came across a door leading into the lane on the west side of the building.”

  I saw the Sergeant sit up with a jerk. “How many people know of it?” he asked swiftly.

  “I’m afraid I couldn’t say. It came as a great surprise to me, if that is anything to go by. But Mac knew of it. She had been rummaging around the storeroom for a docket when I met her. I am of the opinion that very few people know of it, and that those few would only be the Heads.”

  “The Heads? Is Mr. Scott one?”

  “Sure,” I replied, noting his sudden excitement. “He comes under that category. Would you like me to stop while you have a think?”

  “No,” he said like a cross child. I leaned back, smiling in the darkness. Even on duty the Sergeant was not without a chink in his armour.

  “Now we’ve found a secret entrance for Bertie,” I continued, “though I am still attached to my first theory, we will get down to the subject of motives, opportunities, and last but by no means least, the weapon. If there had been any doubt as to whether the murder was an inside job or not, I think the buttinsky that bashed Compton’s head in settled the question. It was a premeditated crime, with the weapon chosen well in advance. Only one conversant with Exchange ways would be able to select such an instrument to kill somebody. You could rely on a buttinsky to do the job thoroughly. No murderer could have chosen a more suitable weapon.”

  I felt my mother shiver a little in spite of the heat. “Don’t, Maggie,” she said in a quiet voice.

  “Sorry, Mother,” I answered contritely.

  “It certainly looks bad,” nodded the Sergeant. “Mr. Scott owned that the buttinsky was his. We presumed at the time that Miss Gordon had stolen it for her own use.”

  “Bertie couldn’t say when he first missed it?” I asked hopefully. He shook his head. “He’s appallingly absentminded. I must introduce him to you to-night, Charlotte. It should be rather good value to bring you two together.”

  Sergeant Matheson was continuing his own line of thought. “There is certainly a motive in Mr. Scott’s case.”

  “We all know what it is,” I said hastily. “Don’t bring up the subject again. Mother doesn’t like it, do you, darling?”

  “I am sure your father would have done the same in Mr. Scott’s position,” Charlotte declared vaguely.

  “Mrs. Byrnes!” I exclaimed in a scandalized voice.

  “What’s wrong, dear? What have I said?”

  “Only that father would have—er—a friend,” I said solemnly.

  “I didn’t mean that. I am sure he wouldn’t think of such a thing.”

  “Well, what did you mean?” I demanded.

  “If someone was trying to break up his domestic life, I am sure that your father would take steps to remove that person,” she explained, not very lucidly.

  “That’s almost as bad,” I pointed out. “You’re making the Old Man out a potential murderer. Let’s drop the subject, Charlotte, before you become more involved. Keep it for Bertie to-night.”

  “I will,” she promised. I laughed, not taking her seriously. I thought that I knew my mother, but therein I made yet another mistake.

  “Miss Byrnes,” Sergeant Matheson addressed me so abruptly that I jumped. “Could anyone have taken that buttinsky from Mr. Scott’s desk?”

  “Anyone,” I replied promptly.

  “Miss Patterson could have taken it then?”

  “She could. But I can’t see Gloria wielding it with such a terrible effect as it was used. I don’t hold much brief for Gloria, and although she knows quite a bit about what has been going on during the last few days, she is no murderess. But her part may have been to provide the instrument,” I suggested.

  “H’m,” said the Sergeant thoughtfully, and I waited for him to speak. Presently he looked towards me. I thought he was smiling.

  “Where’s your bombshell?” he asked. “I thought you said you were leading up to a climax.”

  “I was waiting for my cue,” I replied with a mock bow. “There is yet another figure to be introduced on the stage of this drama. So far, that person has remained discreetly in the background, probably for reasons best known to-herself. To be strictly honest, the same person only came to my notice this afternoon. But on thinking back, I am astounded at my lack of perspicacit
y, as she has been somewhere on the stage during each scene.”

  “Her!” exclaimed the Sergeant. “One of the telephonists?”

  “Let me tell my own story,” I begged. “Yesterday, as you know, I was on the all-night shift. By a lucky chance, Gloria Patterson was also on duty. It gave me the opportunity to ask her some leading questions.”

  I sat up from my reclining position, and bent forward so as to be able to see the Sergeant’s face. It did not seem natural to be addressing one’s remarks to a dark object presumed to be one’s audience.

  “At that time,” I continued with a sigh, “my mind was in a sad muddle. I don’t know whether it was the heat or the readjustment to different hours, but I thought it advisable to go right back to the beginning and ask Gloria her movements on Wednesday evening. It had to be done very tactfully, because I knew that she would be on the alert. However, I learned that although the girls on her rota saw her arrive on the eighth floor as they were going down the stairs to the trunkroom, she did not appear there until some time later. When I faced her with the question as to whether she had seen anyone in that time she shut up like an oyster, but not before she let slip a few unguarded words. Those words were ‘only one of—’ and there, as I have just told you, she stopped.”

  Sergeant Matheson leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees. The light fell on both our faces.

  “I repeated that phrase over and over again,” I went on, “but I could not complete it until this afternoon. Gloria had become suspicious, so I sent her out on relief in the hope that her wariness would evaporate if I let her alone for a while. Presently she came dashing back in what can only be termed as a ‘state.’ She had been in the restroom and had seen Sarah Compton’s ghost. I offered to go and allay her fears. Needless to say, they were quite unfounded. But they only went to manifest further that the murder was on her mind.”

  Sergeant Matheson had taken out his notebook once more and was transcribing my words. I continued: “Rather meanly, I admit, I caught her on the hop and made her stay in the restroom while I asked a few more questions. I won’t say how I compelled her, as it may shock the Sergeant. I finally got it out of her that the person to whom she had been talking that Wednesday night was Bill the liftman. That clinched the matter as far as I was concerned. Had I not overheard a chance remark this afternoon, I was going to present you with a cast-iron case against our liftman.”