Murder in the Telephone Exchange

by June Wright

  ‘I’ll never hear the end of this,’ I told myself. ‘It didn’t matter so much asking him, but I should have known better than to have a dance with him.’

  The Sergeant’s voice broke in on my thoughts. “You look like royalty,” he remarked, smiling.

  “That’s very nice of you. But why?”

  “You seem to have done nothing but bow and wave since we arrived. Do you know everyone here?”

  “Practically,” I nodded, looking round his arm. “I haven’t seen Mac anywhere. I wonder if she is off duty yet?”

  “Probably she’s changing,” he suggested, as the music stopped. “Thank you, Miss Byrnes. I enjoyed that very much.” He led me down the room to where my mother was sitting and talking to Bertie. The Senior Traffic Officer rose abruptly as he saw me approach.

  “Good evening, Mr. Scott,” said the Sergeant pleasantly. “It looks like a successful night.”

  Bertie eyed him with transparent hostility, and muttering some excuse left us.

  “He’s scared of you,” I said softly to Sergeant Matheson. He followed the Senior Traffic Officer’s figure with his eyes as Bertie passed from group to group and finally went to sit with a faded-looking woman the other end of the room.

  “That must be his wife,” I remarked, directing surreptitious glances towards the Scotts. I saw Bertie offer his arm, and the pair of them went out of the room.

  “What did you think of him, Charlotte?” I asked.

  “Very nice, dear. Is he always so fidgety? He made me tired to look at him.”

  “He’s a nervy person,” I answered, turning round in answer to a touch on my bare arm. “Oh, hullo! What do you want?”

  “The next dance, please,” Dan Mitchell replied firmly. “Where have you been all night?”

  “We’ve only just arrived. Mother, this is Dan Mitchell.”

  “How do you do?” she asked gravely. I motioned to Sergeant Matheson to come nearer. “This is my friendly mechanic,” I said significantly, as the two men shook hands. The boy’s eyes gleamed as I spoke the Sergeant’s name.

  “I’m glad you’re here, sir.”

  “Not so loud,” I warned him. “Mother, did you see Mac at all?”

  “Only for a minute. She was going to the cloakroom to change.”

  “You’re a good detective,” I informed the Sergeant. “No, I am sorry, Dan, but I think that this is Mr. Clarkson’s dance. Go and find someone else.”

  The boy’s face fell. “But I thought you said—” he began. “The next one,” I promised, looking around the room. “Go and ask that girl in blue over there. She’s a good dancer, and such a nice person.”

  Dan went off grumbling a little. I seated myself one side of my mother.

  “I promised to tell him a few facts to-night,” I explained to the Sergeant across Charlotte. “Do you think that I should now?”

  “He’s the one who helped you to trace that call, isn’t he? I suppose that it’s only fair to give him some of the dope. Is he a trustworthy lad?”

  “I think so. What would you say, Charlotte?”

  “Such a nice fresh look about him,” she commented. “What did you say his name was again?”

  “Dan Mitchell. Didn’t I introduce him distinctly enough?”

  “No, it’s not that,” she answered slowly. “I wanted to make certain of his name. You said Dan, didn’t you?” I nodded impatiently. “That’s not a very common name, is it, Maggie?”

  I had been looking towards the door watching the dancers come in. “It appears as though I have been left flat,” I remarked lightly. “What did you say, Charlotte?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she replied. I was surprised to see Sergeant Matheson was staring at her thoughtfully.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Byrnes,” he said. “It might be worth going into.”

  “Probably a coincidence,” Charlotte said apologetically.

  I glanced from one to the other. “What on earth are you two talking about?” I asked, puzzled. “Here’s Clark at last. Hullo! Did you want this dance with me? If not, I’m a wallflower.”

  “I’ll spare you that humiliation,” he replied, holding out one hand. As I slid into his arms, he bent his head to whisper: “What’s bitten your friend of the Force?”

  “Why?” I asked, craning my neck. Sergeant Matheson was staring across the room. Presently I saw him say a word or two to Charlotte and get up. He wended his way around the edge of the dancers until he came to stand before a blonde girl, sparsely clad in gold satin.

  “Gloria!” I said violently.

  Clark glanced down at me quickly. “What’s the matter, my sweet?”

  “Take me down to the band end of the room,” I ordered. “Sergeant Matheson is starting to dance with Patterson. I want to hear what they are saying.”

  “You can’t do that, Maggie,” Clark protested.

  “Oh, can’t I? If that girl is going to start telling lies about me again, I’ll slap her face.”

  “You’re jealous,” he said, with amusement.

  “Indeed I’m not,” I said indignantly, looking straight up into his face. His eyes held mine for a moment searchingly. Then he gave a short laugh and whirled me round as the Sergeant had done.

  “Stop, Clark,” I begged, laughing. “I’ve got to work soon, and I won’t have any breath left with which to talk.”

  “Poor Maggie,” he said, easing into a slow waltz. “It’s a damn shame we’re on duty. I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll get one of the boys to transmit the music to the trunkroom. We won’t feel completely deprived of the party.”

  “With Bertie and the others here!” I exclaimed. “We wouldn’t have a chance.”

  “I can get them to put it on a line,” Clark explained. “How would that be? At least we could listen in.”

  “Can it be done?” I asked doubtfully.

  “Of course. You wait here and I’ll dash downstairs. I won’t be long.”

  “I’ll go and sit with Charlotte,” I called after him. He nodded before disappearing into the crowd.

  “Bored, darling?” I asked my mother.

  “Not at all. I have just finished a dance with such a nice man. Poor fellow! He only had one arm, but it didn’t seem to embarrass him a bit.”

  “That would be Bill,” I remarked, holding a hairpin between my teeth as I adjusted the bow I had been wearing.

  “I thought it might be,” she nodded calmly. “Who is that beautiful girl Sergeant Matheson is dancing with?”

  “Gloria Patterson. I thought you said that she was nasty and spiteful.”

  “She looks as if she could be,” commented my mother. “Such a pity with that face and figure. Where are you going, Maggie?”

  “I thought that I’d have a hunt for Mac now. Clark has gone downstairs to fix something up for me, but I’ll be back before he returns. Will you be all right for a while?” Even as I spoke, Mr. Stornham from the Engineers’ Branch came up to ask her for a dance.

  ‘I suppose that some of these old codgers aren’t game to ask the younger girls,’ I thought. ‘Charlotte is being rushed. Good for her, anyway.’

  I watched her for a while, and waved cheerily from the doorway before making my way along the passage to the cloakroom. As I opened the door the noise that issued forth was like the monkey cage at the zoo.

  “Is Gerda MacIntyre there?” I yelled above the din. The abrupt silence that fell was almost ludicrous. But Mac was not there. The chattering and giggling started again as I withdrew. The corridor was almost empty, and I returned to the danceroom to rake the dancers for Mac. There was still no sign of Clark, and the waltz the band was playing was nearing an end. My mother’s partner was bowing her to her seat. I saw, with some amusement, Sergeant Matheson remove himself gently from Gloria’s clinging hands. He must have had two dances in succession with her, and I wondered what he had discovered to be brave enough to do that. As I stood there in the doorway, girls rushed by me to the cloakroom to attend to that ever-important and all-abso
rbing matter, one’s make-up. I caught one or two by the hand, but none of them had seen Mac for some time. The only information that I gleaned was that she had been in street clothes when she came off duty, and the suggestion that she was probably somewhere changing.

  “Did you look in the cloakroom?” I was asked. “She left a case there earlier. It had her evening dress in it.” That reminded me of my own bag. I retraced my steps.

  “Hullo, Maggie,” the girl Hemingway said. “Is my hair right at the back?”

  “Marvellous! Do you mind moving over while I pull my case out?”

  “I believe you’re staying the night here,” she remarked, sitting on the edge of a table.

  “By compulsion, and not of my own desire,” I replied, getting down on my knees. “Of all the nights that there should be a dance, I would be on the dog-watch. Hullo, what’s this?”

  “What’s which?” Hemingway asked inanely. It was amazing how a simple dance went to some people’s heads.

  “That is Gerda’s case you’ve got,” she informed me. “Now we know who has the taking ways around here. What do you think you’re doing?”

  On impulse I had snapped open the lid. The first thing that met my eyes was a pair of tiny gold sandals. I sat back on my heels, frowning.

  “That’s funny,” observed Hemingway. “Mac can’t have changed after all. I thought she finished at 9.30 p.m.”

  “Haven’t you seen her since?” I asked swiftly.

  “I haven’t,” she replied, “but I believe that she looked into the dance-room for a moment. I wonder—”

  “Don’t,” I said shortly, closing the case and shoving it back into place. I got up slowly. “Don’t say anything about this, Mavis, will you? Not until I tell you.”

  “All right,” she agreed in surprise. “What are you looking so serious about, Maggie?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” I said over my shoulder.

  I hurried down the corridor, encountering severe looks as I bumped from one person to another in my desire for speed, and into the dance-room. There I was compelled to go slowly. The floor was packed. Gradually I worked round to where my mother was sitting, my eyes ever searching the shifting couples.

  “Hullo, darling,” she called, patting the seat beside her. “Will you be able to wait for supper? They are calling the supper-dance next.”

  “Charlotte, where’s Sergeant Matheson?” I demanded, ignoring her question.

  She looked at me sharply. “I haven’t seen him for some time. Maggie, has anything—”

  “Never mind,” I cut in. “Did Clark come back?”

  “No, not yet. Maggie, where are you going?” she asked, half rising.

  “Stay here,” I commanded her abruptly.

  ‘I knew it,’ I repeated over and over, running as quickly as my long skirt would allow me down the corridor to the stairs. I took them two at a time, pulling my dress up to my knees. How quiet the sixth floor seemed after the row taking place only one floor above me. No more than half a dozen girls were on duty in the trunkroom. There was a monitor in charge. She looked up sternly at my whirlwind entry.

  “I thought that Mr. Scott gave instructions that no one was to come into the trunkroom if they were not on duty.”

  “Never mind,” I said peremptorily, my anxiety gaining the upper hand over my manners. Her mouth fell open in amazement at such insubordination. “When did you last see Miss MacIntyre?”

  The monitor still stared at me stupidly. Out of one corner of my eye I could see the telephonist on Sydney one position watching the scene curiously. I repeated my question sharply. The tone of my voice galvanized the monitor into action.

  “She went off duty at 9.30 p.m. Just what do you mean by this behaviour? I’ll report you to Mr. Scott.”

  “I give you my permission to do what you like later, but please answer my questions now. Do you know if Miss MacIntyre was going to the dance on the floor above?”

  “I couldn’t say,” said the monitor crossly. I turned to the room at large.

  “Girls,” I said clearly. “Do you know if Gerda MacIntyre was going to the dance to-night?”

  They looked at their monitor doubtfully. The girl on the Sydney position nodded. “She’d put her evening clothes in the cloakroom.”

  “I know that,” I said impatiently, “but she hadn’t changed her mind at the last minute about going?”

  “No, because she told me quite definitely that she intended making Bertie—that is, Mr. Scott—dance with her.”

  I smiled involuntarily. That sounded like the old Mac.

  “Thanks,” I said, turning back to the monitor. “Sorry to have troubled you, Miss Howden.”

  She swallowed hard. “You’ll hear more of this,” she promised in an ominous tone.

  “I suppose I shall,” I agreed pleasantly. “By the way, did Mr. Clarkson come in here during the past half-hour?”

  “He was here a few minutes ago. What a shame you just missed him!” There was a nasty meaning in her voice. I merely shrugged and left without making any comment. What was the use of wasting important time on a dolt like Howden.

  I stood there on the sixth-floor landing, chewing absently at one finger while I thought. But my brain seemed as heavy as lead and refused to budge. Above, the sound of the Master of Ceremonies’ voice calling for supper partners came to my ears. It penetrated my consciousness and made me start up quickly. I almost laughed with sheer relief. What a fool I was! Supper! That was it. I remembered now. When this social was being organized, the committee had been divided into different sections, each one with a special job to look after. I was appointed to the decorating, while Mac had been given the supper arrangements. Small wonder that she hadn’t changed if she was cutting up greasy sandwiches. I walked lightly up the stairs. I knew where I would be able to find Mac: where she had probably been that afternoon, and I hadn’t realized how near she was. How we’d laugh together over the way in which I had burst in on Howden, more or less telling her to shut up.

  It had been arranged that the cafeteria on the eighth floor would be given over to supper. I continued up the last flight of stairs, whistling the tune that the band was playing below and wondering if Clark would be annoyed to find me gone. I hesitated on the last step at this thought. It wasn’t very kind leaving him flat, especially as he was doing me a favour. I shrugged, and turned the corner to the lift landing. The grille door of the cafeteria was open opposite. I could see a woman in a white overall bending down to the oven. I sniffed the odour of sausage rolls as I stepped over the bar into the counter space.

  “Hullo,” I said, full of party spirit. “Nice way to be spending your time at a dance!”

  The woman swung around startled, an oven cloth in her hand. I raised my brows in surprise. “I didn’t know cooking was in your line, Mrs. Smith,” I remarked. She stared at me in silence.

  “Don’t mind about me,” I went on testily, becoming restless under that opaque gaze. “Get going with what you want to do.”

  “Supper is not ready yet,” she said.

  I was annoyed at the impertinent way in which she spoke. “I haven’t come up here to eat. Not yet, anyway. Has anyone been helping you?”

  “One or two,” she replied grudgingly, placing sandwiches on the thick Departmental china. “They were more in the way than anything.”

  “A small dark-haired girl hasn’t been here, has she?” I suggested. “She was in ordinary clothes.”

  Once more I bore the full brunt of her uncanny eyes. “She was here. You mean Miss MacIntyre, don’t you?”

  I nodded. “I’ll go into the lunchroom and have a word with her. That is, if I’m not in the way.”

  “She’s not there,” said the woman shortly, turning her back to me. “She only came in for a minute.”

  “How long ago?” I asked. “About 10 p.m.?”

  “I couldn’t say. If you don’t mind, I have to put these sandwiches on the tables.”

  “Go right ahead,” I watched her pu
sh the plates through the grille on the opposite counter. “Leave them there,” I called across the kitchen. “I’ll slip round to the lunchroom and fix them up for you.”

  She gave a grunt, which I took as a sound of appreciation.

  ‘This is Mac’s work,’ I thought peevishly. ‘I did my bit by standing on that damn ladder this afternoon.’

  It was odd that I should have thought of it just then. Perhaps I should say that it was a coincidence. The one or two dances that I had had in the festive atmosphere on the floor below had completely removed all remembrance of the notes that I had given to Sergeant Matheson earlier. There I was, face to face with my new figure in the case, and it hadn’t even occurred to me to ask her any leading questions.

  ‘I haven’t any time now,’ I thought. I heard the first part of the supper-dance finish, and the clapping of the pausing dancers. I decided to leave it until later. Perhaps, after supper, I could sneak a few minutes from the trunkroom, and come back to the kitchen to help Mrs. Smith clear up. That would put her into a good mood. It was amazing what you could learn from people while you worked side by side; especially washing dishes, when you would talk about anything to relieve the monotony. I walked down the corridor, thinking out the best plan of attack. A direct approach or maybe the tactful method I had used with Gloria? I was going to enjoy my encounter with Mrs. Smith. She was my own pet discovery. I stopped short outside the telephonists’ cloakroom.

  The door was closed, but a faint bar of light was on the floor at my feet. I turned the handle quickly, and put my head in, calling: “Hullo! Are you there, Mac?” There was no reply. I switched off the light and reclosed the door.

  I don’t own to psychic powers, in spite of what my mother told Sergeant Matheson about Grandmother MacPherson, but I could have sworn that some inner voice told me to act, and act quickly as all was not well. I threw open the cloakroom door, and ran my hand down the row of lights, switching them on one by one until every nook and cranny of that room was ablaze with light. Without a second’s hesitation, I hurried around the lockers to the inner door of the restroom. It was half-open. When I tried to push it to the limit, a heavy object blocked its advance. My face and hands became wet all at once, and my heart pounded at a suffocating speed, but still I did not pause. I slipped through the narrow opening, my fingers feeling for the switch. The light shone down full on that second terrible scene. I turned my face to the wall, resting my forehead against the cool plaster, and fighting for self-control.