by June Wright
Inspector Coleman did not say a word until Roberts, solemn-faced as ever, came in with a tin tray from the cafeteria. On it were two cups, a jug of coffee and a plate of tired-looking sandwiches. I looked inquiringly at Sergeant Matheson. The Inspector still wrote on, despite the interruption of Roberts, whose movements were not as quiet as his tongue.
“Not for me, thank you, Miss Byrnes,” he said in his deep voice, without raising his head. “But you help yourself, Matheson.”
“Thank you, sir. I could do with it.”
I poured out, watching my shaking hand with interest. It was funny what your nerves did to you. The Sergeant got up as I handed him his cup, and took two sandwiches at once. The coffee was stale, and had evidently been re-heated, but I felt better after I had drunk it. I had only to use one hand to hold my second cup, and felt vaguely triumphant.
“A cigarette, Miss Byrnes?” asked the Inspector.
“Thank you,” I said gratefully.
“I haven’t got any. But perhaps Sergeant Matheson can oblige.” The Sergeant arose hurriedly, setting his cup on the tray with a clatter.
“Thanks,” I said. “I hope that you’re keeping an account of how many of yours I’ve taken. I’ll pay them back one day.” I had nearly finished my cigarette before the Inspector spoke. I was starting to become slightly irritated. Did he, or did he not want to see me?
He leaned back in his chair, which creaked protestingly, and surveyed me critically.
“You’re looking better,” he observed. I recognized his forethought in letting me have a breathing space in which to pull myself together.
“Now, Miss Byrnes!” he began and I put my brain into concentration order. “I want you to tell me in your own words just how you came to find your friend, Miss MacIntyre. I realize that this is going to be very painful for you, but you are a sensible girl and must know that the sooner we get it over the better.”
“I can stand it,” I answered in a tight voice, “if it will lead to finding out who killed Mac.”
“It will, I promise you,” he said grimly. “This time there will be no forced decision if I can help it. Please begin.”
I pressed out my cigarette, prodding it with a dead match while I thought.
“Two days ago,” I began, “in this room, you issued a warning to the effect that those who kept any useful information from the police were placing themselves in a very dangerous position. At that time, I must confess I did not take your warning seriously, thinking how clever I was in withholding facts from you. I might still have been doing so, if something had not happened. Sergeant Matheson can tell you about that later.” I looked at him for a moment, and he nodded.
“Had I known that you were speaking from the depths of your experience, I would not have hesitated one minute. I realize now, through bitter experience”—here I paused remembering what experience it was—“how very foolish I was. This evening I asked Sergeant Matheson to call, in order to put before him certain facts that entirely disagreed with the decision that you published about the murder of the monitor, Sarah Compton. Amongst other things, I told him that Miss MacIntyre’s behaviour, which you had also observed as mysterious, had not altered since Dulcie Gordon was convicted posthumously of Compton’s murder. I laid it down to the fact that she was jealous of me, and the notice that you had paid to my deductions. I thought that she was setting herself up as the opposition, so to speak, and was endeavouring to find out the truth before me. I also mentioned to Sergeant Matheson that during this afternoon Miss MacIntyre called to see me while I was asleep, and the reason I gave was that she intended to enter into a partnership with me, so that we could work together.”
The Inspector stirred irritably, and I glanced up meekly. “When I learned that she wanted to see me,” I went on, “I went round to her boarding-house. She was out, but her room was in terrible disorder. At first I thought that it must have been the work of a burglar, but no burglar leaves jewellery untouched. There was a brooch of Mac’s pinned into her dressing-table runner. The only conclusion, therefore, is that her room had been ransacked by someone to whom money or its equivalent had no value; someone who wanted to satisfy himself or herself that Mac was not on the right trail, or, what is more probable, to destroy any evidence that she might have had in her possession. It is quite likely that Mac made notes as I did, and perhaps the killer learned of their existence.”
Inspector Coleman looked at me sharply. “What have you done with your own?” he demanded.
“I have them here, sir,” said the Sergeant, drawing out my little red diary, and putting it on the table in front of his superior. The Inspector picked it up idly, but made no attempt to read the notes. Evidently he was satisfied, now that they were out of my hands.
“I was very eager to see Miss MacIntyre,” I went on, “especially after finding her room in the state it was, so I came into the Exchange, hoping to find her assisting at the decorating of the danceroom. I learned that she had been in, but had left some time previously. I had a look in the trunkroom. One of the girls on duty, who worked late on Wednesday night, told me that Mac had asked her about her movements on that night. It appears that she had been questioning all the 10.30 p.m. girls, and the excuse that she gave was that she wanted to include the story of Compton’s death in her memoirs. That did not seem plausible to me, and further enhanced my conviction that Mac was up to the same game as myself.”
I paused for a moment to give the Inspector an opportunity to ask questions. He nodded for me to continue.
“When I got home,” I said slowly, “my mother told me that Mac had called again and, finding me out, promised to come back later to dinner. When she did not arrive, I phoned to see if she was coming, but she put me off with the excuse that she was feeling ill, but would probably see me later at the dance. After dinner, I gave Sergeant Matheson the notes I had made that afternoon, and told him exactly everything I knew. Mac completely left my mind until the Sergeant expressed anxiety about her. I became uneasy. But when we arrived at the dance the atmosphere was so normal and cheerful that gradually I lost my fears. I thought nothing could possibly happen to her with such a crowd of people in the Exchange building.”
Inspector Coleman said in an exasperated way: “It is usually the ideal place in which to commit murder. The more people around the better. It takes time to account for everyone’s movements, and that gives the killer ample opportunity to cover his tracks. I’m surprised at you, Sergeant.”
Sergeant Matheson remained calm under the rebuke. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid that I shared Miss Byrnes’s idea that Miss MacIntyre would be all right if she kept with the crowd. There were other matters that I wanted to attend to first.”
“Mac had an odd temperament,” I tried to explain. “Hitherto at every move I had to force her confidence; she shut up like an oyster. I thought that it would be better if she came to me, instead of rushing to find her and asking what it was she wanted to see me about. She could be very obstinate when she liked. If she had seen Sergeant Matheson, I doubt very much whether she would still have wanted to confide in me. His presence at dinner to-night was the cause of her suddenly becoming indisposed.”
Inspector Coleman moved the papers about on his desk restlessly, “It is obvious that Miss MacIntyre knew something important,” he remarked, “and yet she was afraid to tell us until the last minute.”
“What do you mean?” I asked eagerly.
“The receiver of the telephone in the restroom was off its hook, and although certain circumstances existed, we thought it was worth while investigating. The credit goes to Sergeant Matheson for the idea.”
“To Miss Byrnes, rather, sir,” he interpolated quickly, and turned to me. “I remembered the way you told me you traced a call, so I found that young mechanic friend of yours. He caught on to what I wanted immediately. The first three numbers, including the Exchange alphabetical number of Russell Street Police Station, had been dialled.”
“Miss MacIntyre mu
st have been calling us,” carried on the Inspector, “when the killer struck.”
I shuddered at the frightful scene that his words conjured up. I could see Mac spinning the dial in desperate haste, while from behind crept her assassin. Did she know what was going to happen? Did her heart leap with a suffocating terror, as she turned around to look into the murderer’s eyes and read her fate? Did she utter a last helpless cry, before she fell to the floor in that pitiful heap? I knew that I was mad to start thinking along those lines, but a part of my mind had caught on to a phrase that the Inspector had used.
“You said the receiver was off its hook,” I began hesitantly, steeling myself. I had half-realized the significance his words had held.
He looked at me kindly. “I think that you can deduce what I meant when I spoke about certain circumstances.”
“Please explain,” I begged in a low voice. “I’d rather hear it from you correctly, not from rumours around the Exchange; or even be left to imagine.”
Inspector Coleman paused as if to gauge my control. Presently he spoke, and his voice was hard. “The telephone, in what is known as the telephonists’ restroom, is a pedestal type. The flex had been tugged from its socket in the wall, near the table on which it stood, by some tremendous force. The killer picked up the telephone by its stem and struck Miss MacIntyre down with it.”
I closed my eyes and felt myself swaying slightly in my chair. Someone—I supposed that it was the Sergeant, since he was the nearer—thrust my head down to my knees. I stayed there obediently under a firm hand on the nape of my neck.
“I’m all right now,” I said presently. “Sorry to give way like that. It doesn’t help any.”
“Take your time,” said the Inspector.
“No,” I said fiercely. “Get going with your questions, I’ll stay here all night if it will help you to find who killed her. My poor Mac,” I added brokenly. “Do you think that she called out?”
“Most unlikely,” he replied swiftly. “The first blow from the heavy base of the telephone would kill her immediately. Don’t worry yourself into thinking of her last agonies. She probably knew nothing about it.”
“But she must have known what was coming,” I insisted. “It was her face that was struck, wasn’t it? I realize that, because when I saw the back of her head, there was no mark visible. Therefore she must have seen the murderer coming towards her with the intention to kill in his eyes.”
“Stop thinking about it,” ordered the Inspector sternly. “If you keep on like that, you’ll be no good to me. Just treat it as you did before, and answer my questions.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again. “What do you want to know?”
“Did you see Miss MacIntyre at all to-night?”
“No. But I know of several persons who did. My mother was one. Mac spoke to her for a moment when she came off duty. She said that she was going to change into evening dress.”
“She was found in ordinary clothes.”
“I know. When I went to find her later, I saw the case containing her frock in the cloakroom near the danceroom. It gave me a fright until I thought that there was a possibility of Mac helping upstairs with the supper. That was how I came to go up to the eighth floor.”
“What time was that?” asked the Inspector.
“About 10.30 p.m.,” I replied, after giving the matter some thought. “Supper was timed for a quarter to eleven. The supper-dance had begun as I walked up the stairs, so it may have been a few minutes after the half-hour.”
Inspector Coleman stopped me with one raised hand. “I want you to take this down, Sergeant.”
“Very well, sir.” He brought out a sheaf of papers from his inner pocket, and turned them over to select his notebook.
“Go on, Miss Byrnes. Try to remember every detail.”
I knew what I was about to tell him would be a severe strain on my nerves, and gripped the sides of my chair, uncrossing my legs.
“I had a look in the cafeteria kitchen, first. Mrs. Smith, one of the cleaner-women, had come in to do whatever cooking was necessary. She told me that Mac had been in, but there was no sign of her in the supper-room. I concluded that she must have gone down again by the back stairs, which was probably the reason why I had missed her. I didn’t worry unduly, and offered to set the tables, As you know, the cafeteria and kitchen is one room, though they are separated by a counter with an iron grille reaching down from the roof. The only way to get from the kitchen to the lunchroom is by the corridor.” I paused again, re-living that awful feeling of apprehension as I saw the light glowing from the telephonists’ cloakroom.
“I don’t know what made me go in, but somehow that light didn’t look right. There was a special cloakroom fixed up on the seventh floor for the dance. Why should anyone have gone into the telephonists’ cloakroom up here? There was no one in the room, but I saw that the restroom door was half-open. The situation was so horribly reminiscent of last Wednesday night that I ran across and tried to push it open. But it wouldn’t move,” I continued, my mouth becoming dry once more. “I think that I knew then what had happened. I switched on the restroom light. You know what I found.” I bent my head down to my knees again as my own words drummed in my ears. Presently I looked up. The two men were watching me gravely.
“Be brave,” said the Inspector. “I want you to give me a description of what you saw. Don’t think that I am being callous, but the first impression may be important.”
“But I locked the door after me. No one could have got in and—and disturbed anything.”
“Please do as I say, Miss Byrnes,” he commanded.
I stared at him, words of defiance running through my mind. ‘You’re cruel, cruel! Don’t you realize that she was my friend? I won’t describe to you a scene that I am trying hard to forget. Will I ever forget once I put into words the memory of her lying there? She looked so small. Little Mac, who was so gay and companionable. Now she’s dead, and you want me to gloat over the nature of her death. I can’t.’
I knew I was being foolish. He wouldn’t have asked me to do anything so painful without an object in mind. He knew what he was about. He was the law, and I had promised to help. I heard my own voice speaking, almost dispassionately.
“She was lying face down, her body along the door as though she had been trying to escape. One arm was stretched above her head, while the other lay across the small of her back. It was such a peculiar position that I bent clown to look at it. I thought maybe it was broken. As I did so, I noticed a pencil caught between her fingers. Was it still there when—?” I paused, and the Inspector pointed to the table.
“May I pick it up?” I asked, worrying vaguely about fingerprints. Inspector Coleman passed it to me, and I took it gingerly, It was almost new, and of the type that Bertie gave out periodically to the staff.
“Mac couldn’t have been writing anything,” I observed thoughtfully, feeling the lead with my forefinger. “It’s too sharp.”
“Perhaps she was stopped just in time,” replied Inspector Coleman. “Does the pencil convey anything to you?”
I told him that Bertie had a drawer full of them.
“That’s not much help,” he remarked, shrugging, “but it’s odd that Miss MacIntyre should be holding it. There doesn’t seem to be any reason for it, especially as there was nothing found to write on when the room was searched. The murderer would hardly have taken away an unused piece of paper.”
“Unless,” I said quickly, “Mac was about to add to some notes that she had already made. The murderer would want to destroy them.”
The Inspector frowned. “Do you actually know of the existence of such notes, or are you presuming?”
“I’m only presuming,” I confessed. “But I am sure my idea is correct. Mac was making inquiries. Right! So was I. Apart from the fact that I had had the advantage of observing the police methods, I found that it was impossible to assemble circumstances and information into one reasonable whole without writing them down
. In my brain they were just a jumbled assortment, but when I put them down on paper they seemed to take shape. Mac was a much more orderly person than I, both mentally and physically. If I made notes on the case, she would have also.”
“Quite conclusive,” agreed the Inspector, smiling a little. “And you think that is what the person who searched her room was after?”
“I don’t see why not,” I replied, feeling ruffled at the patronizing way in which he had accepted my theory.
“You’re probably right,” he said hastily. “But to get back to to-night, how long did you stay in that room?”
“It could only have been a few minutes,” I answered, and an involuntary shiver passed through my body. “I knew that there was nothing that could be done for her. There was so much blood coming from the head,” I explained, amazed at the detached way in which I spoke. “I don’t think I touched anything. I left the restroom door like it was on purpose, but locked the outer one leading from the cloakroom into the corridor.”
Inspector Coleman had picked up the pencil, and was running it absently through his fingers. “This woman in the kitchen,” he remarked. “You didn’t tell her what had happened?”
“No. She must have guessed that something was wrong. I remember she called out to me as I passed the top door of the cafeteria. But I was too intent on getting down to the danceroom to take in what she said. What has she told you?”
“I’ll tell you by and by,” he said. “Go on with your own statement.”
“That’s all,” I said lamely.
“You told Sergeant Matheson that another murder had been committed?” he asked, and I frowned a little.
“No, Mr. Clarkson must have told him. I was a little distraught at the time,” I remarked dryly. “When I reached the seventh floor I didn’t know quite what I was doing. The first person I saw was Mr. Clarkson, so I dashed over and told him.”