by June Wright
“He must have felt rather terrible when you started questioning,” I murmured, forever putting myself in the other fellow’s place. “It’s a wonder that he stood the strain of pretence for so long. Afterwards, he took us home to his flat for a dose, as he called it.”
The Sergeant’s voice was grim. “He had an object in doing so. He wanted to find out how much you and Miss MacIntyre knew.”
“Mac showed her hand immediately. She never could deceive anyone. At the time I thought she was only worried about her own position in the case. It’s a wonder Clark didn’t kill her before Saturday.”
“He was planning to, but two things stopped him. He knew Miss MacIntyre’s feelings for him, and tried to persuade her to join him in his enterprises. Either he didn’t want the risk of another murder on his hands, or he was soft-hearted where she was concerned. Then Dulcie Gordon committed suicide, and he felt more or less safe. You were the main trouble. You insisted that the police decision was incorrect and started the ball rolling again.”
“He wasn’t much of an actor either,” I remarked thoughtfully. “I could tell he didn’t believe that Gordon was guilty. No wonder that he tried to dissuade me from continuing my inquiries! I never dreamed he was the murderer. Rather I favoured Bertie or Gloria. No, not Gloria; but I thought she knew more than she would admit.”
“Miss Patterson believed that Mrs. Smith had killed Compton,” declared the Sergeant. “That is why she fainted when you told her that the identity of the anonymous letter-writer and the killer was one and the same.”
“I didn’t say that exactly,” I protested.
“That is the impression she received,” he replied dryly. “She came to see me yesterday, wanting to know if she could sue you for making such a libellous statement.”
I sat up with a jerk. “I hope you told her to go to hell.”
“No,” he replied, smiling faintly. “I said that she required the services of a solicitor, not a policeman. But you needn’t worry. No sane man would accept such a case, especially from such a client as she would be.”
I sank back, muttering darkly about what I’d do to her when I got my hands on her. They were brave words, but when Gloria did come to see me a few days later, I felt that the effort to impress her misdoings on her was more than I could manage. She arrived dressed in baby blue and flashing a deep sapphire on her left hand, which I ignored out of sheer unpleasantness. She remarked with wide-eyed innocence on the nature of the place.
“Poor Maggie! How terrible it must be for you. I mean, realizing where you are.”
“Not at all,” I assured her. “It’s just like being at the Exchange again. A veritable home from home. Do you know, Gloria,” I went on confidentially, “that there is even a patient here who reminds me of you. What more could I want?”
“Very funny!” she said on a high note. “I’m sorry I came now.”
“Don’t say that, Gloria,” I said reproachfully. “I’m always delighted to see you. To whom are you waving all the time?” Her left hand fluttered down to her lap.
“I’m engaged,” she said crossly.
“Are you really? Who’s the unlucky—I mean, my heartiest congratulations.”
Gloria gave a small, self-conscious laugh. “You should say best wishes,” she corrected. “It’s not the thing to congratulate the girl.”
“Sorry. You must excuse my ignorance in such matters. To whom are you engaged?”
“The American I told you about. He comes from Virginia. His people are immensely wealthy. They own tobacco or something,” and she went into a score of details. I listened to them with only half an ear.
“Auntie pleased?” I interrupted presently, watching her closely. She paused open-mouthed in the middle of a description of her proposed trousseau.
“She hasn’t met him yet,” she muttered, without looking at me.
There was silence. She began to fiddle with the blue leather handbag on her knee. Once she glanced up as if to speak, but lowered her head as she searched for a powder compact. I gave her no help.
“Maggie,” she burst out suddenly.
“Yes, Gloria?”
“You won’t tell anyone, will you?” Her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know what I would do if Schuyler found out.”
“Is that his name?” I asked in astonishment. “His people must be rich indeed to be able to afford to call their son that. The poor boy!”
“Oh, Maggie!” Gloria said, between a sob and a laugh. It was the first evidence I had found of a sense of humour in Gloria.
It moved me to say impulsively: “You needn’t worry. I’ll never tell anyone that you’re a—”
“Maggie!” she interrupted, looking deeply shocked.
“Well, aren’t you?” I asked reasonably. She bent her head into her hands. I welcomed the appearance of a nurse to put an end to visiting hours. Gloria bade me a tearful farewell, and I shook her hand, hoping that she would be very happy with Schuyler. She seemed satisfied then that I would hold my tongue.
* * * * *
The following day I had another visitor from the Exchange. John Matheson had already got me started on what he said was the true story of the Trunk Exchange murders, and I glanced up, annoyed at being interrupted, as the nurse entered my room.
“Still at the letter writing?” she asked brightly. “You must have loads of friends.”
“I am a very popular girl,” I assured her.
“You must be;” she returned, giving me a sharp look. “A Mr. Scott has come to see you. He is waiting on the side veranda.”
I went down to meet Bertie, filled with what can only be described as mixed feelings. Here was a man for whom I had had nothing but the highest regard. Then something happened that aroused my dislike, and my opinion of him had dropped to nil. But it had been my own fault. I had confused his business personality with his private life. I considered that as an ordinary man, his code would be as rigid as his behaviour as Senior Traffic Officer of the Telephone Exchange. Then I learned that Bertie was none of the despicable things I had thought about him. Indeed, he had sacrificed the respect of his fellow men for a deeper and more worthy motive. That he had recognized my sudden distrust, I was certain. Therefore it was with some trepidation that I made my way to the side veranda.
He was sitting on the extreme edge of a deck chair. It was remarkable that it did not overbalance as his feet did their perpetual dance-step. Seeing him twist his hat around and around in his hands, I realized with some relief that he was just as nervous. His lips moved slightly, as though he was rehearsing his part in the forthcoming interview.
“It is very kind of you to come and see me,” I said, seating myself on the edge of the opposite chair, and drawing the folds of my long housecoat together.
“Not at all, not at all,” he replied, standing up with a jerk. He must have known that he still seemed ill-at-ease even in that position, and sat down again.
“How are you?” Bertie demanded with that forced smile which men seem to keep for the sickroom.
“Fine, thank you. I didn’t go out of my head after all. The doctors were disappointed,” I added dryly.
He looked very unhappy. “I’m sure that there wasn’t the slightest possibility, Miss Byrnes. You’ve been remarkable, simply remarkable.”
‘A true daughter of my mother,’ I thought to myself, as Bertie began to cough and fidget. I was about to start commenting on the weather when he said abruptly, not meeting my eyes:
“I want to apologize to you, Miss Byrnes.”
“Do you?” I asked in a dazed fashion. I had thought that the hoot was on the other foot.
“Yes, I do,” he insisted fiercely. “My behaviour was scandalous, and I am very, very sorry. I should have known better, but at the time I was suspicious of everyone. I hope you understand what I mean?”
“I think I do,” I replied cautiously, “but I’d be glad if you’d explain a bit more.”
“Certainly, certainly,” said Bertie, co
ughing again. “It was your—er—friendship with Mr. Clarkson that made me apprehensive. You see, I thought that the pair of you were working hand-in-glove, as it were. Whenever anything untoward happened, you always seemed to be together. That was why I decided to work that Sunday night in his place. I hoped that I might be able to find out what part you were playing. When I found you at Miss MacIntyre’s locker I considered that my worst fears were justified.”
Bertie arose, and walked to the edge of the veranda. Without turning around, he said gruffly: “I need hardly tell you, Miss Byrnes, that I was most upset. I had always considered you as a young lady of the highest integrity.”
I stared in amazement at his dumpy little figure, silhouetted against the sky. So that was why he had let me go unharmed from the cloakroom! The warning that he had issued was not prompted from any sinister motive, but from his desire to release me from Clark’s toils.
“I thought that you were mixed up in the murders yourself,” I burst out.
Bertie spun around. His pince-nez slipped down the length of its chain as his brows rose in an astonishment that must have been equal to mine.
“Dear me!” he said blankly. Then I saw a twinkle appear in his eyes, and as a broad grin lit up his face, I suddenly began to laugh.
“How amusing!” he exclaimed with his odd little chuckle. “We seem to have been at cross-purposes, Miss Byrnes.”
“When you started apologizing to me,” I said, wiping my eyes. “I wondered what on earth you were talking about. It was I who should have been doing the apologizing.”
“Not at all,” he repeated, seating himself again. But this time he lay back at his ease, crossing his short legs. “May I ask what made you think that I committed the murders? I presume that is what you did think?”
I nodded. “I’m afraid I did, and for just the same reason as you suspected me. You always seemed to be on the scene when anything happened. The night Miss Compton was killed, you entered the Exchange in the most suspicious way.” I hesitated, glancing at him for a brief moment. “Although you gave an explanation of what made you return after your usual working hours, that explanation only increased my suspicion. I thought maybe that Compton was blackmailing you. She had tried to with others, you know. My theory was that you killed her, and made your escape by that door down in the basement.”
Bertie placed the tips of his fingers together, and inclined his head gravely. “Quite feasible,” he announced. “To concoct such a story as I did about that meeting was most abhorrent to me. Apart from soiling your ears with sordid facts, I never did like telling untruths. But at the time I had no option. Mr. Clarkson was there as well as you. In fact, Mr. Clarkson’s dramatic defence rather amused me. There was no better way in which he could have made worse my already uncertain position. I knew he was guilty but I had no proof, and I had been warned to use the utmost discretion in handling the situation. Time was with Mr. Clarkson, and he used it to put me in the most suspicious light possible.”
“About what were you to be discreet?” I asked.
Bertie glanced sideways at me, a dubious look.
“I know that Mr. Clarkson was mixed up in some espionage game,” I said encouragingly. “Sergeant Matheson told me.”
Bertie seemed relieved. “If the police told you, I suppose that there is no harm in my telling you what I know. Over the space of several months many well-known people, not the least among them a high Defence official, have approached the head of the Telephone Department concerning information that had leaked out over the lines. You may have observed the way the secrecy line has come into more frequent use just lately. I had instructions to employ it for every call of a confidential nature.”
I nodded. That secrecy line had certainly been working overtime.
“Mr. Dunn called for my assistance in tracing the person who was at the root of all the trouble. As I have told you, he warned me to go carefully as the good name of the Department had to be protected. There was also the fear that our man might slip through our fingers. It was impossible to go to the police. They would have immediately started inquiries at the Exchange, and that was the last thing that we wanted to happen.
“Checking up on my staff’s activities was a very difficult job, and one that was most distasteful. It meant putting all the outward phones in the building under observation, and even going through the lockers in the endeavour to discover who the person was.”
My mind flew back to that game of solo I had played in the restroom. I could hear the girls’ indignant voices as they protested against the continual spying.
“After a while,” Bertie went on, “I came to the conclusion that the person must be fairly high up on my staff. A monitor, or even a traffic officer. Strangely enough I thought of Mr. Clarkson almost at once. But it wasn’t until I overheard a certain remark that I had anything to go on. It was passed by a person who had recently been at a party Mr. Clarkson had given at his flat. Perhaps you were there too?”
I nodded, and felt that weary feeling creeping through my brain again. How could I forget the sight of Clark playing the debonair host in the middle of his charming flower-filled apartment. He had come to us for help.
“Look here, you girls,” he had said. “What about coming and poking weeds into vases before the show. I don’t know how to arrange flowers.”
I could see the broad mixed bowl on the window sill against the chintz, and Mac standing back, her small dark head on one side, as she surveyed her handiwork with grave concentration. I jerked myself back to the present. What was it Bertie was saying? Someone was wondering where Clark got his money; how he managed to run a flat in South Yarra on a traffic officer’s income?
“That’s funny,” I said aloud. “I used to speculate on the same thing. I presumed that his parents had been well-off.”
“He was a member of a very exclusive golf club, too,” Bertie continued. “It was always a source of surprise to me, until I made a few inquiries. I discovered that his name had been put up for election by a man called Atkinson.”
“Atkinson!” I repeated, almost yelling the name. “So it wasn’t a coincidence after all.”
Bertie surveyed me anxiously. “I am making you excited. Please be calm, Miss Byrnes, or they’ll make me go.”
“No, they won’t,” I replied firmly. “You’re staying until we thrash things out.”
Bertie chuckled again, like a playful conspirator. “That’s exactly how I feel about anything unpleasant. Get it off your chest, and then forget all about it. Where was I?”
“I’d just taken over the conversation,” I said, smiling at him warmly. He was a lamb, after all. “Did you know about Mr. Atkinson?” I demanded.
“I had been furnished with the names and telephone numbers of several persons who were suspected of being connected with the affair. He was one of them. As soon as I realized that there was some link between him and Mr. Clarkson I knew that I was on the right track.” Bertie paused, and I noticed that the twinkle had faded from his eyes.
“Everything was going well,” he went on presently. “I had only to wait for such time when I could catch Mr. Clarkson red-handed, when Sarah Compton started to interfere. Poor woman! She thought that she was acting for the best, but really she was just an infernal nuisance. I tried to head her off, but she kept coming to tell me that something wrong was going on in the Exchange. It was only a matter of time before Mr. Clarkson would realize she was on his trail. I became desperate,” Bertie stopped again, and I wondered why he looked so sheepish.
“I even had recourse to a trick I have never done since my schooldays,” he confessed. “I sent her an anonymous letter, warning her to mind her own business.”
“So that’s how that letter fitted in!” I exclaimed, remembering the third note Inspector Coleman had handed me to read in Compton’s room. “It had me puzzled.”
“Even that did not work,” Bertie went on regretfully.
“I should think that it would only increase her curiosity
,” I told him. “The mere fact that she kept it proves that.”
“She was a very foolish woman,” said Bertie, shaking his head. “Her inquisitiveness caused her death.”
“In spite of all her faults, she was proud of the Telephone Exchange,” I declared slowly. “I think that she would have done anything to protect its reputation.”
Even my own defence of Sarah Compton did nothing to dispel the feeling of angry bitterness that filled me when I remembered the unhappiness and destruction she had left in her wake. Had she not started prying into matters that were really none of her concern, Clark would not have had to kill her. Not only Mac would have been still alive, but also Dulcie Gordon.
By a great effort I had managed to write a short note to Gordon’s people. It was an unpleasant task, and one that I considered was more than amply rewarded by the grateful reply that came by the following mail. They thanked me for the description I had given them of what I knew of Dulcie’s last days, and also for the way in which I had befriended their girl.
Far from being satisfied with their letter, it did more to augment that guilty feeling that I was responsible for Dulcie’s death. Certainly I had achieved what I had sworn to do. She was totally exonerated from any suspicion of murder; but what comfort was that now, when she was dead by her own hand? Compton was more to blame than I, by her wicked exploitation of the simple country girl not overladen with brains. Poor little unsophisticated Dulcie, with her easily aroused timidity and concern for her family. Rather than face what she imagined would be shocked and disappointed parents, she had chosen to commit suicide. The principal emotion I felt when I thought of Gordon was regret. But the slightest remembrance of Mac made me clench my hands in the endeavour to beat off that old feeling of horror I had known so well in the first days of my breakdown.