by June Wright
I tried to remain calm in the face of my new discoveries, and to put myself in Mac’s place. What had she done with that docket? Had she put it back with the others, or taken it home to study it more closely? When the murderer searched her room, was that the evidence he was after? Surely Mac would have realized that something like that would happen, and—what was it John Clarkson had said? Mac would have insured herself against losing it. Perhaps she kept it in her handbag, or concealed about her person. She may have done what Dulcie Gordon did. If so, I knew where that docket was, and it was safe. Once again, I saw Mac’s room with the drawers pulled out, and the upturned wastepaper basket with its contents scattered around the room. I felt myself smoothing out those crumpled sheets of pale blue notepaper, and saw each one starting with Clark’s name. That was why Mac had found it so hard to write that letter. She was insuring herself by telling someone else what she had learned. Someone whom she knew she could trust.
Without a second’s hesitation, I put on my headphone and called the Windsor Exchange to give Clark’s number, praying wildly that the sleeping draught had not taken full effect on him yet, and that he would answer my call. If Mac had posted a letter to Clark on Saturday that meant that he would receive it in the morning’s mail. But if the killer had reached the same conclusion, he would be waiting outside Clark’s flat to get that letter first. I must get hold of Clark to warn him.
“They’re not answering, Central,” Windsor’s voice said boredly.
‘You dumb cluck!’ I thought, ‘If you only knew how important it was to get that ’phone answered, you’d snap out of it.”
“Keep trying, Win.,” I ordered curtly. “If you raise them, get in touch with Margaret Byrnes in the trunkroom.”
“O.K.,” she answered lightly.
I dropped my head into my hands, thinking hard. If Clark had taken that dose, he wouldn’t awaken for hours; perhaps too late. Glancing at the clock, I saw that it was now 2 a.m., and speculated on trying to reach either Inspector Coleman or the Sergeant.
“They wouldn’t love me if I dragged them out of bed at this hour to tell them a theory,” I thought with grim amusement. “The best thing that I can do is to slip down to the basement, and see if Mac re-filed that docket. Then I would have a legitimate excuse to rouse them.”
Bertie sat at his desk once more, his head bent over papers. I threw him a cautious look, and called gently to Jameson: “Come on Adelaide 5.”
She set up the line on her own board by opening a key and tapping out 35 on her dial.
“What do you want, Maggie?” said her voice in my ear.
I glanced at Bertie again, but he hadn’t lifted his head as the lines clicked loudly in the silence of the trunkroom. “I want to sneak out without Bertie seeing me. Come up here, and change positions with me. I have more chance of making a dash from the Hobart board.”
Jameson turned her head to watch me curiously. “What’s the idea? You’ve just come back from relief.” But she arose carelessly, and sauntered towards me swinging her flex by the plug.
“You’re a pal,” I told her fervently. “There’s no work to do. You needn’t worry that I was trying to put one over you. See you later.”
I sat on the Hobart board for five dragging minutes, but still Bertie did not move.
‘Now’s your chance,’ I muttered, watching out of one corner of my eye as he lifted his telephone and called out a number. Quickly and silently I slipped from the chair and sped behind the delay board to the door opening on to the back stairs. My telephone was dumped on the first step and I took the others in flying leaps.
One would have thought that after my narrow escape with Bertie in the cloakroom, I would have disdained any further adventures that night. I must confess to a one-track mind. All thought of Bertie, outside wondering if he had already missed my presence, had left me. I wanted a docket from the basement storeroom, and nothing would stop me until I got it. How I expected to recognize it as the one Compton had filed just before her death never entered my head. It was sufficient to say that I knew what I wanted, and even the uncanny half-gloom in the basement caused by the street lights shining through the glass bricks failed to deter me.
I heaved a sigh of relief as the storeroom door opened under the turn of the handle. Thank heaven, it was not locked! The little matter of finding the key would have been most irritating. Even the light went on. I felt that luck was with me as I surveyed the shelves that lined all sides of the room before starting on my search. I found the bundle labelled Wednesday, February 11th, without any trouble, and sank down on to my knees tearing at the string.
Mac said that Compton had filed a docket before she went on relief, so I turned to the bottom of the pile and picked out those timed from 9 p.m. to 10 p.m. Moistening my forefinger, I went through the dockets, but each one appeared a genuine call. None of them held either the signature of Compton or Mac. It was only on glancing through them a second time that I noticed that one had been completed at 5 p.m. I sat back on my heels slowly. Was it an error that a call, connected five hours earlier, should be amongst those of a later hour? Then the calling number leaped to meet my gaze. I stared at it fascinated, unable to believe what my senses told me. It was the same number that I had rung from the power-room with Dan Mitchell. A man had answered that call. A man whom I had identified with an armchair golfer in Riverlea club-house that very afternoon.
Was this the docket that had cost two lives? Had Mac found it, and purposely placed it in its wrong place to avoid detection by the killer? Or had she done so hoping that it would catch the eye of the right person, in case something happened to her before she could reclaim it? It looked innocent enough. But for the number, I would have passed it over. What had Sarah Compton learned about Mr. Atkinson that made her file his call so carefully? Something very grave indeed that would send her to her death. I turned over to the back in a puzzled fashion.
“I’m blowed if I can see anything odd about it,” I said aloud, about to rise to my feet.
Before I got both feet to the ground, the storeroom was plunged into darkness. My heart stood still with a terrible fear. Was it Bertie again? Would he let me go this time? Not in my wildest hopes did I expect to get out alive from that room. I could hear someone breathing lightly, and got cautiously on to my other foot, still holding the docket in my hand. In those few seconds before I heard footsteps approaching me very, very slowly, I thought of a million things. I must do what Mac did. I must hide the docket again. When I am dead, Clark will look for it. He knows.
The footsteps came on. I backed away quietly, my fingers ever feeling for a hiding place, and encountering nothing but bundles of dockets. With a sudden inspiration, I slipped one out of a pile, jamming the docket I held into its place. I continued to creep round the wall. Where was that door? If I could reach it, I would have a chance. Even if it was to open it and scream. Someone might hear me.
Suddenly I could stand the sound of those footsteps and soft breathing no longer. I rushed like a mad woman through the blackness, sobbing under my breath as I banged my fist along the wall in a desperate search for the door. But it was no use. The last thing I remembered was a feeling of triumph as the dummy docket I held in my hand was torn from my grasp.
CHAPTER X
It was very annoying to recall later that I had used precisely the same words as Gloria Patterson when she recovered from her faint. But I had some excuse, as I found myself lying on a hard bed in a room of dazzling whiteness, clad only in a knee-length robe that tied with strings around my neck.
A thin, boyish face studded with freckles bent over me. For one moment I thought it was Sergeant Matheson, until Charlotte’s candid remark floated gently into my brain. “Either they’ve come back very quickly, or else Charlotte couldn’t have been seeing too well,” I said resentfully. Those freckles worried me, until my eyes travelled over his white-coated figure.
“You’re not a policeman, after all!” I exclaimed in triumph. “You’re a doctor
.”
The boy’s face crumpled into an attractive smile, that revealed rather buck teeth. Sergeant Matheson had a nice, even grin.
“Not quite,” he said modestly. “I’m only a medical student. You had an accident, and they brought you to hospital.”
“Who are they?” I demanded, my mind still on Sergeant Matheson. I was going to ring him about something; drag him out of bed for a joke.
“A Mr. Scott brought you into the casualty ward. There was a young lad with him, whom he called Dan.”
“Dan Mitchell,” I nodded, pleased to be able to remember something. “Was it Bertie who hit me?”
The embryo medico turned my head gently, and started to plaster some evil-smelling ointment on to my forehead.
“I asked you a question,” I said reproachfully. He shook his head, smiling, and turned away.
I scowled. “Like that, is it? Where are my clothes?”
He came back quickly to force me down on the bed. It didn’t require much effort on his part as I sank back with a groan.
“You’re not leaving here for a while,” he told me firmly. “Try and get some sleep.”
As I opened my mouth to protest, a hypodermic was flourished warningly before my face. “See that! If you don’t shut up, I’ll give you a plug of dope that will make you sleep. Now turn over, and off you go.”
“The room is too light,” I grumbled, rolling over on to my side obediently.
When I awoke later, the whiteness was even more glaring. The sun filtered through the frosted windows, and fell in a pattern on the starched coverlet of my bed. While I was studying it in a bemused fashion, a nurse came into the room holding a tray aloft.
“Cup of tea?” she snapped, placing one on my chest at the same time, and whisking off before I had opened my mouth to thank her. The hot liquid felt grand as it flowed down my parched throat. Very warily I raised myself on one elbow. There were half a dozen other beds in my ward, and I grimaced in a friendly fashion to the blowsy-haired woman opposite.
“Feeling better?” she asked.
“Much, thank you. Were you here when I came in?”
“This is my second week,” she replied cheerfully. “I stopped a car down town, and didn’t remember anything else until the doctor was taking the stitches out of my head. What happened to you?”
“I’m not too sure,” I replied, feeling the dressing on my forehead gingerly.
“You made enough row when they brought you in. I knew you couldn’t have been hurt much.”
“Oh,” I said, interested. “I was talking, was I?” The woman folded the bedclothes in an embarrassed manner. “Of course, I didn’t listen to what you were saying. It was about 3 a.m. when they brought you in, and the wards were asleep. But you kept calling out to someone called Clark. They had to put you in another room. You were waking everyone up,” she finished in an injured tone.
The woman seemed inclined for conversation as she sipped her tea gustily. I asked her how she came to get run over, and let her ramble on about car drivers’ manifold iniquities as I lay back to think. I could remember going down to the basement to look for a docket, but somehow I couldn’t fit Bertie in. Did he hit me, and then cart my senseless body off to hospital with the assistance of Dan Mitchell? No, that was wrong. I couldn’t see the person who knocked me out. I could only hear that horrible breathing and those creeping footsteps. It couldn’t have been Bertie. What happened about that docket? I looked down at my clenched hand, and then opened it slowly. There were one or two tiny spots of paper on the damp palm. I laughed triumphantly.
The patient opposite raised an aggrieved face. “It wasn’t funny, I can tell you,” she remarked. “The doctor told me that it’s a wonder I’m still alive.”
“Sorry,” I replied. “I was thinking of something else. Go on.”
The murderer didn’t get away with the right docket. I had swopped it with another in the darkness and foiled him. How angry he would be to discover his mistake, and that it needed a harder blow to penetrate the skull of one Maggie Byrnes. I closed my eyes hard in an attempt to remember every detail. Someone had turned out the light in the storeroom just as I was about to rise, holding the docket on which was inscribed that number that I had allocated to Mr. Atkinson, broker and golfer. Was it he who had struck me down in the darkness? Was that the reason that I could in no way identify my assailant. Supposing that Bertie, after finding me at Mac’s locker, rang him and told him of the danger in which they stood. He could have directed Mr. Atkinson to the door opening from the lane, and arranged that I could have been sent to a nice quiet spot to be finished off. Furthermore, if Bertie knew what I was searching for in the cloakroom and had seen me at the files below the sortagraph he might have guessed that my next move would be to continue my search in the basement. Once he saw me leave the trunkroom, he could have advised the murderer as to where I was heading. What would be a better place in which to eliminate me than the lonely, soundproof storeroom? Evidently Mr. Atkinson was so eager to get that docket out of my hand that he did not worry whether he killed me or not. I felt my forehead again. Perhaps he had no suitable weapon to hand, so hurried was the need to stop me, and used his clenched fist.
The fact remained that he didn’t get the correct docket. Even if he had, there was always that letter that Mac posted the day of her death. I glanced around the room for a clock, but there was none in sight. I waited until my blowsy-haired friend took a breath, and cut in.
“Have you any idea of the time?”
“It would be about 8 a.m. Do you know that when doctor examined me yesterday, he told me that it was a miracle that I was alive?”
“Yes, I know,” I replied. “You told me before. How do I get hold of a nurse or someone? There doesn’t seem to be any bell near my bed.”
“Just tap on the wall. The pantry is next door, and someone will hear you.”
I banged with my fist. Presently a nurse came running in. “What’s the trouble?” she demanded, looking down the ward.
“The young lady over there wanted you.”
She swung round. “I’m just preparing the breakfast trays. You’ll have to wait until the right time.”
I looked at her puzzled for a moment before light dawned.
“I only want my clothes,” I said firmly. “Where are they?”
The nurse gave me a sharp glance. “Never mind. You’re not to get up until the doctor sees you.”
I lay back in a turmoil of impatience, biting at my lip. It was essential that I got out of the place, and got hold of Clark. If the murderer had learned of that letter Mac had written, he might go armed to Clark’s flat to intercept it. I shuddered, visualizing a short struggle for the letter between the two men, and the sharp sound of an exploding pistol before Clark staggered and crashed face downwards. That must not happen. I couldn’t bear to see another twisted figure lying in a pool of blood. I banged hard and urgently against the wall and waited a few minutes, but no white-garbed nurse appeared in the doorway.
“What’s the matter, dearie? Can’t you wait any longer?”
“No!” I shouted, throwing off the bedclothes, and slipping to the floor. My appearance must have been ludicrous, to say the least, with my long legs bare to the knee. I didn’t care. Things were desperate. With a swimming head I managed to negotiate my way to the door, and clung there panting as the nurse came hurrying in, bearing two breakfast trays.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” she asked angrily. “Get back to bed.”
I shook my head, and demanded weakly for the nearest telephone. “I must make a call; in fact, two calls,” I added, remembering Charlotte. The poor darling would be out of her mind if she knew that I was in a hospital.
The nurse dropped her trays on one of the beds, and advanced with both arms outstretched. “Come along now.”
But I clung to the door defiantly. “Please, nurse,” I begged. “You’ve no idea how important it is that I make those calls.”
She
slid one arm around my waist, and half-pulled me across the room. “Don’t be so foolish,” she scolded. “You’re in no condition to go rushing about. I’ll call whatever people you want and give messages. Climb up into bed again.”
I clambered up, and sank down breathlessly. It was amazing how weak a crack on the head could make one.
“Will you ring up at once?” I pleaded.
She handed me a pencil and block from one of her capacious pockets. “Write down the numbers, and the messages you want sent. I’ll do it as soon as I’ve finished with these breakfast trays.”
“No, ring them right away,” I insisted. “Nurse, you’ve no idea—”
“All right,” she cut in peevishly. “I’m glad you’re not a patient of mine for long.”
I gave her a warm smile, writing quickly. “Like the rest of your profession, you’re an angel in disguise. Here you are.”
The woman in the bed opposite remarked to the ward at large after the nurse had gone: “Well, I must say that some people haven’t much consideration. Do we have to wait for our breakfast while Nurse Williams makes telephone calls?”
“You don’t happen to mean me?” I asked gently. “I’m sorry about delaying everyone’s breakfast, but since there are two trays at the foot of your bed I don’t think you need worry.”
She snorted indignantly, and, not attempting to take my advice, folded her hands with a martyr-like expression on her face.