Murder in the Telephone Exchange

by June Wright

  How long I stayed there, I couldn’t say. But I do know that not a single sound passed my lips. I was beyond screaming, and that faraway voice bade me not to make a scene. Gradually I turned around, my teeth biting into the back of one hand as I tried to absorb the realization of what had happened. Horror shook me from head to foot as I knelt down beside that quiet figure. Such a small, helpless, huddled bundle, lying face down with one arm, clad in a short lemon-coloured sleeve, bent across her back. I mouthed Mac’s name but still no sound came. I put out one finger to touch the curled hand. It was slightly warm, but stiff to feel. The pencil that was held between the first and third fingers did not move.

  The sound of clapping penetrated my consciousness, and made me start up quickly. Any minute now, the dancers would be trooping up the stairs and along the corridor past the cloakroom door. I didn’t touch Mac again. There was nothing I could do. I longed to look into her face, but knew that I must not move her. Leaving the door ajar as I had found it, but with the light still on, I ran through the cloakroom, and pulling the key from the inner side, locked the door behind me. I had some confused remembrance of Mrs. Smith’s complaining voice addressing me, but I took no notice. I fled down the stairs, nearly tripping in my long skirt, the key to the cloakroom held tightly in my fist.

  The third encore of the supper-dance had begun. I realized that I could only have been away a few minutes. It seemed an age had passed. The music swelled as I ran down the last steps, and laughter, gay and unconcerned, came to my astounded ears, Here there was light and gaiety, while only one floor above—I shook my head violently, and nearly collided with a couple coming out of the danceroom. They called to me good naturedly, but still I took no notice. John Clarkson’s tall head appeared in the middle of the room. I brushed aside the dancers as I made for him.

  He was demonstrating an intricate step to a blonde girl, dressed in gold satin, when I pushed her roughly aside and put his arm around my waist.

  “Well, really!” I heard Gloria exclaim angrily. Clark looked down at me in astonishment.

  “Dance with me,” I ordered quietly. He guided me down the room mechanically, my fist, still firmly holding the key, a ball in his hand. I felt his fingers gently prising mine open, and spoke urgently. “Something terrible has happened. No, let go my fingers, Clark. Mac has been killed.”

  I heard the quick intake of his breath, and a tremor passed through his body. His face was white, but the line about his lips was even more so. His eyes, that stared down into mine, must have mirrored the horror that still held me in its grip.

  “Keep dancing,” I insisted, as I felt his steps faltering, “until we work out something. There’s such a crowd here. We don’t want a scene.”

  I heard him breathe “Gerda” over and over. Presently he asked abruptly: “What have you got in your hand?”

  “The cloakroom key.” I saw a fresh gleam of horror in his eyes.

  “Not—” he began in a low tone.

  “The restroom,” I replied. “I didn’t want to touch the door in case of fingerprints, so I locked the outer one.”

  Clark nodded approvingly. “Good work!”

  “Clark!” I said and my voice quivered. “What will we do? Bertie?”

  “No. Sergeant Matheson is here. I’ll tell him right away.”

  I had forgotten all about him. Clark stopped near the dais where the band was playing, and bent down to my ear. “Tell them to keep going,” he ordered, “while I find the Sergeant. Make any excuse you can to keep this mob from going up to the eighth floor.”

  I nodded and tried to steady my knees, as I approached the pianist. “Supper has been delayed,” I called up to him. “Will you give another encore?”

  He nodded in time to his music, and I turned aside to follow Clark’s dark head with my eyes as he wended his way round the edge of the crowd. A hand caught my arm roughly, dragging me into a corner. Gloria Patterson faced me, her eyes ablaze and her perfect skin slightly mottled.

  “How dare you humiliate me so!” She was choked with rage. I watched her in a dazed fashion, wondering what she was driving at. “I could kill you,” she breathed in a venomous voice. But still I stared at her, bemused. I felt so tired all of a sudden, and now Gloria was worrying me about some trivial business. What else mattered except that Mac lay dead above my head.

  “Go away,” I begged her wearily. “Tell me about it to-morrow.”

  “I’ll get even with you, Byrnes, if it’s the last thing I do. I could kill you,” she repeated on a rising note.

  I looked about me nervously. “Oh, hush!” I said. “Don’t say that. You don’t know who might be listening.”

  She stared at me in amazement. “What’s the matter with you?” she demanded. “You look queer. What has happened?”

  “What has happened?” I repeated. I heard myself laugh, even though I hadn’t meant to. It needed a stupendous effort on my part to pull myself together and avoid the threatening hysteria.

  ‘Quiet,’ I told myself. ‘You must be quiet and think.’ But how could I, when all I could see before my eyes was the pathetic figure on the restroom floor. The years rolled back as I closed my eyes, leaning against the dais, and though the music was loud in my ears, I could still hear the ping of the ball off the tee, and Mac’s joyous laugh sounding hollow in the open air, and see her small hands moving across the switching keys, and remember all the fun that we had had together . . .

  The music slowed to an end, and I jerked myself into the present hideous nightmare. I had a job to do. I must keep all these people from going upstairs and finding Mac. I must not allow a panic to begin. But even as I hurried forward, someone pulled me gently aside, and I felt a strong arm around my shoulders.

  “The key, Miss Byrnes. Give it to me,” said Sergeant Matheson. Although his voice was kind, the note of authority in it made me unclose my fist. He took it out of my hand and left me standing there, staring at the red mark it had made on my palm.

  The music stopped, and the pianist played the final chords, indicating the definite end of the number. I made as if to go forward, but stopped suddenly as I saw John Clarkson standing on the edge of the dais near the microphone. The dancers crowded up towards the platform, and I edged as near as I could. As I looked up into Clark’s face I saw that he was smiling, a ghastly imitation of his usual grin, and wondered what he was about to do. He held up one hand for silence, the other gripping the stem of the microphone until the knuckles showed white.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, speaking quietly yet distinctly. “Owing to an—unforeseen occurrence, supper has been delayed.” There was a slight stir amongst the crowd, and one or two called out at him in a mock-annoyed fashion. Clark raised his hand again. “I know, I know,” he said. “You’re hungry. So am I, but I have been commissioned by the organizers of this dance to amuse you for a few minutes, so let’s see what I can do on an empty stomach.”

  The crowd laughed gaily. I stood very still, watching him tensely. How long was this hideous parody to go on?

  ‘Tell them,’ my brain shrieked. ‘Tell them what has happened in the restroom above their silly, empty heads. That will stop their laughter and their inane remarks.’

  “I have a little game for you all to play,” Clark continued, and a groan went up. “I want you to get as near as you can to the partners you danced with to-night. Come on now, boys. Find that girl you were kissing on the roof a few minutes ago.”

  There was a scramble as the crowd broke and formed into groups, giggling and throwing silly remarks at each other. Someone protested that he had not been dancing. I think that it was Miles Dunn, one of the Heads from the Department. Clark bent down to call over the noise: “Get near the people you were talking to, then.”

  The chattering abated, and they looked towards the dais, awaiting instructions.

  “Just a minute,” Clark said. “I’m in on this, too.” He looked round the crowd, until his eyes met mine. For a second he held my gaze, and I saw on
e finger brush his lips.

  “Come on, Maggie,” he called. “You were with me a while back, and Gloria. Where’s Gloria Patterson?”

  “I’m here, Clark,” she said, coming forward.

  “Right you are! You two girls come nearer to the microphone. I could swear that there were some others. Step forward, the girls I honoured to-night,” and one or two joined us at the foot of the dais, bringing with them other swains. Clark grinned down on us cheerfully. He was throwing everything that he had into this absurd game, and only I knew the effort that it must be taking.

  “Are we all ready?” he asked, and an assenting murmur went up. “Now this is the game. Don’t delude yourselves that I have made it up on the spur of the moment. I have a name for it. It is called ‘Alibis’.”

  I guessed then what he was up to. I stole a glance behind me to see how the crowd was taking it. Some looked surprised, while others seemed frankly puzzled.

  Clark continued: “I am giving you boys and girls a chance to check up on each other. For instance, you, George,” he turned towards the left, “will be able to discover if Joan has been behaving herself to-night, and not been flirting with anyone else. Let us hope that Mrs. Scott will be able to give an account of her actions without raising the suspicions of our Senior Traffic Officer. Where are you, Mr. Scott, by the way?”

  “Right here,” he replied. Everyone turned their heads to the doorway where Bertie stood beside his wife. I thought that he looked slightly annoyed; small wonder in the face of Clark’s audacious remark.

  “Now, good people,” John Clarkson continued. “The instructions are as follows. You are to question each other as to your respective movements. Those who can prove that they have been on this floor of the Exchange building all night, please step aside. The others, who stole a few minutes on the roof or elsewhere, give their reasons why. I, myself, will conduct my inquiry with these charming ladies, who are at my feet; literally, not metaphorically, of course.”

  A buzz of talk broke out. As Clark leaped lightly down from the dais, the greater portion of the crowd stood aside.

  “Where’s Sergeant Matheson, Clark?” asked Gloria plaintively. “l had two dances with him.”

  “Just one moment,” he returned, and raised his voice over our heads. “It appears as if the sheep have separated themselves from the wolves. Will the sheep please proceed to the supper-room on the eighth floor, and start eating.”

  An indignant murmur arose from the small group left standing on the floor as the “sheep” filed out, jostling one another.

  “Don’t worry,” Clark went on. “There’s an—interesting outcome to this game, that they’ll miss more than you will your supper. Get going, folks.”

  As the last wave of the crowd swamped through the door, I saw Bertie still standing with his wife. His eyes had never left Clark’s face since that first remark.

  “I can’t see Sergeant Matheson anywhere,” Gloria declared.

  “Perhaps he’s one of the sheep,” suggested Mavis Hemingway. Gloria shook her head. “He’s telling fibs if he’s gone with the others,” she asserted, “because I saw him going downstairs a while back.”

  “Never mind about him,” Clark said. “We’ll concentrate on you first, Gloria. Can you tell us your movements to-night, without making me jealous?”

  “Oh, Clark!” Gloria exclaimed, in what I can only describe as a simpering voice. How canny Clark was! Such a remark put Gloria into a good mood, when she would be neither suspicious nor apprehensive, and would reply with truth.

  “Well, go on,” he said, and I could detect an underlying anxiety in his voice, “What time did you arrive?”

  “It was about 9 p.m.,” Gloria replied. “I was held up in town by a friend of mine. In fact I thought that I would be the last to arrive,” and she cast a malevolent glance in my direction. I smiled slightly; we must have spoilt her entrance.

  “Let me see,” Gloria went on. “With whom did I dance first? There were so many—oh, it was you, Jim, wasn’t it?” she added, turning to Mavis Hemingway’s partner. He nodded without enthusiasm. It was obvious that Gloria’s glamour meant nothing to him.

  She went on to name a couple of other lads, trying to express by direct innuendo how much in demand she had been all the evening. “I finally escaped,” she said, with an artificial laugh, “and ran upstairs.”

  “What time was that?” asked Clark in a bantering tone. “Were you with anyone?”

  “It was about 9.30 p.m. I told the boys I was skipping that dance, as I wanted to—” She paused, and remained with her mouth open slightly, gazing from Clark to me.

  “Go on,” he said encouragingly.

  “I wanted to see if the supper arrangements were all right,” she finished slowly.

  I stared at her profile. “That’s funny,” I remarked. “I thought that you were one of the ticket secretaries.”

  “Why is it funny?” Gloria snapped, turning towards me. “There is no reason why I should be interested in only one thing. I may have been able to help.”

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ I thought. ‘As if you’d do more than your share in anything.’

  “Did you see anyone?” asked Clark quickly. “Didn’t any of the boys follow you upstairs?”

  Gloria smiled at him meltingly. Silently I congratulated Clark on his tact. “I would have told them off properly, if they had. I didn’t see anyone around on the eighth floor, only one—” Again she stopped, and I saw her face whiten a little.

  “Only one of the cleaners,” I finished for her. She didn’t turn towards me this time, though I continued to gaze at her half-averted head.

  “I had a dance with you about 10.30 p.m.,” said Clark teasingly. “So there is a whole hour for you to account for. Are you sure you were unaccompanied?”

  “I was only away for a few minutes. Then I came back here and danced. Sergeant Matheson insisted on having two running. I thought you’d brought him along, Maggie,” she finished in a patronizing voice.

  “He only wanted to see you,” I told her gravely. “I was the means to the end.” I felt Clark’s foot touch mine, as Gloria swallowed this with a self-satisfied expression on her face. It made me nearly laugh outright. Mavis was less controlled than I, and was compelled to turn a giggle into a cough. Gloria appeared to take no notice.

  “Then there was that one with you,” she said to Clark, her eyes darkening, “which I was enjoying very much until Maggie came along. Did you think that it was an Excuse-me, darling?” she asked me very sweetly.

  “I have to get partners somehow, Gloria dear,” I answered confidentially, and to my amazement I believe that she actually swallowed that too.

  “I am sure Clark would have danced with you some time during the evening, wouldn’t you, Clark?” Her tone conveyed that perhaps out of the kindness of his heart, he would have spared me one.

  “Well,” Clark said heartily. “That’s fixed you up. Between 9.30 p.m. and 10 p.m. you were somewhere on the eighth floor, but you refuse to say with whom.”

  “I wasn’t with anyone,” Gloria declared, becoming a little annoyed.

  Clark raised one finger. “Now, now,” he said idiotically. “You can’t expect us to believe that; not a pretty girl like you!” But Gloria did not react to the treatment as she had done before. I shook my head at Clark. With a slight shrug, he turned to Mavis Hemingway.

  “And what have you been up to?” he asked brightly.

  Mavis looked at her partner, and they smiled self-consciously at each other. Light broke on Clark, but I was frankly puzzled at the idiotic expression on their faces.

  “Not really!” he exclaimed, holding out his hand to Jim. “Do the boys in the power-room know about this yet? Or are we the first?”

  “Are you just engaged, Mavis?” drawled Gloria. “My best wishes. But fancy being proposed to in a place where you both work! How extraordinary!”

  I shook hands warmly with Jim. He was a nice lad, and a promising engineer. “All the best, Mavis. Don�
�t make us wait too long, will you?”

  “I gather that you were in some quiet secluded spot,” said Clark, grinning naturally for the first time. “If it isn’t too indiscreet—”

  “On the roof,” Jim replied bashfully. “We took the lift up.”

  “That rules you two out,” remarked Clark absently, I nudged him warningly as Gloria looked up. She made as if to speak, but I got in first, saying with a forced laugh: “I think it’s your turn, Clark. Stand quietly, while we fire questions at you.”

  “I got here about 8.30 p.m.,” he began, “but I was in the trunkroom for about half-an-hour before I came upstairs to the dance; some time before your party arrived, Maggie. I had a dance with Joyce Mettiam—where is she, by the way?”

  “A sheep,” I told him, “She’s gone to supper.”

  “Has she? Then you arrived. I thought that I’d give you a break, but you were booked with Sergeant Matheson. I sighed with relief, until you insisted on having the next. So I danced with Mavis here; I know now why you trembled in my arms, Mavis. At the time I thought it was for love of me.”

  “I am so sorry to disappoint you,” she returned with a mock curtsey.

  “Not at all, but Jim’s a lucky fellow. After that dance, my fair interrogators, Maggie grabbed me—”

  “You’re a brute,” I interrupted heatedly. I could see that Gloria was taking all his nonsense at its face value. Heaven knew what stories she would spread around the trunkroom at the first available opportunity.

  “During the course of the gyration, which, with any other but Maggie, would have been a dance, she ordered me to put up a line in the trunkroom to amplify the music downstairs, in order to while away the tedium of working.”