Murder in the Telephone Exchange Page 10

  The note was quite short and written in an ordinary sloping hand, It began abruptly: I know that you have been trying to set Dan against me. You had better stop, or I will do something desperate. You’re only jealous. Dan trusts me, and nothing you can do will change our plans.

  The letter was signed “Irene.” I looked up at the Inspector wonderingly. He handed me another letter in silence. My eyes went to the date immediately, June 1917. It was longer than the last one, but written in the same hand on faded blue notepaper, which must have been quite expensive in its day. The name “Sunny Brae,” engraved on the top right-hand corner in a deeper shade of blue, was the only address.

  My dear Sarah.

  I want you to thank all the girls for the charming gift, and to tell them how much we appreciated it. The vase looks so well in our drawing-room. You must come out and see it some day. What a pity you could not come to the wedding. We missed you very much. Dan sends his regards. Many thanks to everyone again.

  Irene Patterson (nee Smith).

  I had seen that type of letter dozens of times in the past years. Girls who had left to be married were always made some presentation. It is the custom at the Exchange for their “thank-you” letters to be pinned to the notice board for all to see. I examined the pale-blue paper closely, but could find no pin mark. Either the letter was shown around the Exchange, or else Sarah had just passed on the thanks by word of mouth. I was inclined to consider that it was the latter. After the first note, written two months before, this one smacked of malicious triumph. Could it be possible that Compton had had a disappointing love affair? Somehow one could never connect such things with her. She seemed to have been born an old maid.

  I stretched out a hand for the third note, and was jolted back to the present time. This one, undated and unsigned, was written on a slip from an inquiry pad. But in this instance the headings had not been cut away like the original anonymous letter. It was certainly printed in a disguised hand, but somehow the two letters did not seem to match. I frowned as I read:

  WE WARN YOU, SARAH COMPTON, THAT IF YOU SEND THAT MEMORANDUM INTO THE DEPARTMENT, WE WILL MAKE THIS PLACE TOO HOT TO HOLD YOU!

  I drew my brows even closer together in an effort at concentration. There was something about that last note that was very familiar.

  I looked up. Inspector Coleman was still staring out of the window. The Sergeant had propped himself against the end of the bed, and was whistling softly. They both appeared preoccupied, so I bent my mind to the task of tracing that sense of familiarity to its source. Of one thing I was certain. It had not been written by the same hand as the one thrown into the lift. That had been a more personal note, one that could be related to the first two that I had just read; that is, if Sarah Compton had not gone around trying to break up other people’s lives a dozen times a day. My last thought seemed so feasible that I tarried with it, until I came to the conclusion that as the Inspector himself had gone through a pile of letters, he was not likely to select these three that had no bearing on the case. I would rather have seen the rest of the notes myself to make sure, but I doubted whether the Inspector would have permitted me. In fact, as I said to John later, if a few more crumbs of information had come my way, I would not have found myself where I am now.

  But that is neither here nor there. My present job was to assist these two policemen in identifying anonymous mail. It was then, quite suddenly, I remembered. I knew who had written that last letter. But I felt a little dubious about informing the Inspector. As far as I could see, it had no connection whatsoever with the business in hand, and I might only stir up unnecessary unpleasantness. So I resolved to hold my tongue; at least until I had consulted its author.

  The Inspector spoke at last. There was a twinkle in his eyes as he asked: “Well, Miss Byrnes? What is your opinion on the letters that I have given you to read?”

  “I feel very flattered to think that you are asking for my advice.” I hedged, playing for time while I thought out my reply. As usual, I had underestimated my opponents.

  “Keep to the point, please,” said the Inspector coldly. “You were not brought here for the drive, but to assist us.”

  “Sorry,” I replied, with what I hoped was a disarming smile, “but until now, you have been treating me as a suspect. It is no wonder that I am not quite sure of my role.”

  Inspector Coleman melted. The twinkle returned to his eyes. “We regard you with suspicion, inasmuch as you seem to have an unbreakable alibi.”

  “I guessed that. It stands to reason. However, the letters!”

  “Yes, Miss Byrnes. Try to be brief and to the point. Time is an important factor in this sort of case.”

  ‘And me a telephonist,’ I thought, casting him an indignant look. ‘You can’t know much about our game, my man.’

  “The first two,” I began briskly, “are most obviously written by the same person. You consider there is a possibility that the person who sent that note down into the lift last night might be connected with them; otherwise, why pick them out? Am I right?”

  His eyes narrowed. “You’re very shrewd, Miss Byrnes. You are correct in your supposition.”

  “Nonsense,” I complimented in my turn. “It is you who are acute. However, I don’t want to dampen your idea, but it is quite on the cards that our late monitor tried to break up many a life.”

  “I have taken that into consideration,” he announced calmly. “Of all that rubbish that we went through,” pointing to the bed, “these two seemed best to suit our book.”

  “You’re probably right,” I agreed reluctantly. “Judging by the second letter, I should say that this Irene person was a fellow-telephonist of Compton’s. She herself was one originally, you know, before she passed the monitor’s examination. At least, I presume so. She had been a monitor for as long as I can remember, but we all start from scratch. Sorry,” I added, taking a deep breath. “I’m wasting time.”

  Inspector Coleman shook his head. “No, go on.”

  “There’s the name, of course,” I said slowly. “That gives you something to go on.”

  The Inspector perched himself on the edge of the bedside table. It creaked ominously. “This morning,” he remarked, examining one huge hand in a casual manner, “you mentioned a Miss Patterson.”

  “Her Christian name is Gloria,” I said quickly. “Patterson is quite a common name. Anyway, she couldn’t have written those letters. She is only in her twenties. You’ll have to look among the monitors and supervisors to find anyone near the fifty mark.”

  “An odd coincidence,” observed Inspector Coleman. “Is there anyone else by that name working in the Exchange?”

  “There is another girl, but I believe that she spells her name differently from Gloria.” I don’t blame her for wanting to differentiate, I added to myself.

  “How old would she be?” asked the Inspector.

  “About forty or so. It is hard to say. But she has been at the Exchange for years. You could find out easily enough through the Personnel Branch. They know all our most guarded secrets.” I caught Sergeant Matheson grinning like an ape, and longed to tell him that I was only twenty-five.

  “Do you think,” I asked Inspector Coleman, “that Irene Patterson murdered Compton?”

  “It is a possibility,” he admitted cautiously, “but don’t bank on it.” I had no intention of doing so. “You must remember,” he went on, “that it is almost certain that this crime was committed by someone on the inside.”

  “You mean someone who works at the Exchange?” I asked. He nodded. “Well, all you’ve got to do is to find out under what name Irene Patterson is working, and there you are.”

  The twinkle grew into a smile. “It all sounds perfectly simple to you, doesn’t it?”

  “It does,” I agreed candidly.

  “It is amazing,” he declared to the room at large, “how tenacious people are when it comes to giving away information,” I felt myself reddening guiltily, and began to put on my hat to hi
de my embarrassment. He looked down at me a little grimly. “Everyone I have interviewed since the beginning of this case has been withholding some information, from your Senior Traffic Officer down. I can tell when people are not giving me the whole truth; read it in their faces. Usually I find that if they had told me everything they knew, the mystery would have been cleared up sooner. Am I not right, Sergeant?”

  “That is certainly our experience, sir.”

  There was silence. I sought for something to say.

  “It rather appears to me,” I remarked presently, “that Irene Patterson and Sarah were both after the one man, and that when the former succeeded in hooking him, she wrote a very nasty letter to Compton to rub salt into the wound, so to speak.”

  “Quite so,” said the Inspector. “We’ll leave that for the moment however, and concentrate on the last letter that I gave you to read. Compared with the others, it seems to have been the most recently written.”

  I tried to put on my most guileless expression. “That’s just what I was going to say,” I declared. I knew that he was gazing at me searchingly, and attempted to meet his eyes.

  “I think you know who was responsible for it,” he said.

  I fell to playing with the ribbon on my hat. “When I saw it first, it certainly seemed familiar,” I admitted truthfully, “because of the word ‘memorandum.’ ”

  “And why is that, Miss Byrnes?”

  I explained, glancing from one man to the other in the hope that they would swallow my half-truths, and not press for more.

  “Although sending memorandums to the Departmental heads was one of Compton’s favourite pastimes, I fancy that I know what this one was about. It created a bit of a stir at the time, more so than usual. The staff felt very hostile towards her. A few months ago—October, I think—Sarah Compton brought forward the suggestion that telephonists on duty on Sundays should not have their day off during the week. That meant, of course, that we would work two or even three weeks without a break. Quite often we are down on the sheet for alternate Sundays. Our higher Departmental officials,” I added bitterly, “have no idea of what that would have meant to us, and would quite likely have favoured her idea. The part that made us mad was that it was to be limited to telephonists only, not monitors. You can understand the reason for our hostility. That was not the only anonymous letter that Compton received about the matter.”

  “Did you have any hand in them yourself?”

  “Certainly not,” I said indignantly. “I don’t like that method of attack at all. As soon as I heard what was in the wind, I went straight to the woman and told her in no uncertain terms what I thought of her notion. She reported me to Bertie—Mr. Scott, that is—for rudeness. But it didn’t cut any ice with him.”

  “Why, Miss Byrnes?” asked the Inspector, interested.

  “He’s a sport,” I replied, “He is always fighting for us over different matters. That’s why the staff work so well for him. Psychology!” I added vaguely.

  There was another pause. I was congratulating myself on diverting them from the subject in hand, when I was jolted out of my complacency by the question I had most feared.

  “Can you tell us, Miss Byrnes, who wrote that last letter?”

  “No,” I said promptly, and waited for the worst to happen.

  But the Inspector turned away without a word, and started to clear up the papers on the bed. The three letters that he had selected were put carefully away in his pocket. I could see that they were getting ready to depart so I arranged my hat at the dressing-table mirror. It was sheer waste of time as the north wind which was threatening the previous day had started blowing its hot dusty breath from the desert. I would not be able to keep it on for five minutes.

  ‘If it changes to-night,’ I told my reflection gloomily, ‘my hat will be ruined—not that I care much.’ It was a ridiculous creation that I had got some seasons ago, when Clark took me to Henley. In a detached fashion I saw my eyes soften as his name entered my head. It is always difficult while looking in a mirror to reconcile that reflected person with oneself. Often I feel as if I shouldn’t appear like that at all. Somehow my spirit does not blend with the rather square-faced fair girl that I see. My eyes met the amused stare of Sergeant Matheson. I spun around feeling annoyed and more than a little foolish. Goodness knows what he thought I was doing. Blast him, anyway.

  As the Inspector locked Compton’s door carefully, he asked: “Last night, you mentioned to the Sergeant about another letter that you saw the deceased reading.”

  I looked at him blankly for a moment before I remembered. “You mean on the roof?” I queried. “I don’t think that was a letter. It might have been, of course, but it didn’t strike me that way. It was too small.”

  We started down the narrow stairs. “Didn’t you tell Sergeant Matheson that you saw Miss Compton put it into her handbag?” he asked from behind me.

  I felt for the banister and glanced over my shoulder. “That is what I saw. Didn’t you find the paper?”

  “No,” he said, opening the front door and standing aside.

  “That’s odd. I am sure that she put it into her bag. Someone must have stolen it.” I added brightly.

  “That is highly probable, Miss Byrnes.” His voice was stern.

  “Do you think,” I asked, “that the murderer wanted that bit of paper?”

  “More than likely,” he agreed. I nearly stamped my foot with impatience. His continual noncommittal replies were getting on my nerves. However, I didn’t dare voice my annoyance. We got into the patrol-car again.

  “I want to go to Headquarters, Matheson,” said Inspector Coleman, as we drew away from the kerb. “Will you take Miss Byrnes back to the Exchange? Stay there until I come. I want to question that guard who was on duty at the door last night. Make arrangements to have him relieved and ready for me.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  The car stopped at Russell Street, and the Inspector got out. We watched him disappear into the tall modern building before the Sergeant headed the car down town. Waiting for the traffic signals to change, he said: “What about a cup of tea?”

  “I’d love one,” I answered with real gratitude. “This detecting business has given me a thirst.”

  He glanced at me uneasily in the driver’s mirror, “Would you rather have a spot?”

  “I would not,” I said firmly, and then hesitated. “Will it be all right for you to take me—I mean—”

  He was staring at the car in front of us, but I could see that he was smiling. “Quite. Anyway, I know of a nice quiet place, where it is unlikely that anyone will know us.”

  “Don’t you believe it,” I declared emphatically. “I’ve yet to go anywhere that I don’t see someone from the Exchange. I went on a trip to Port Moresby some years ago, and sure enough I met a girl from the Central the first night out.”

  He laughed as he ran the car into a park. “Come along,” he ordered, holding out his hand. “I can guarantee this place to be private.” He lead me through an arcade that opened into a right-of-way. A few yards along, an enchanting bow-window set with small lead-rimmed panes bulged out.

  “And I thought that I knew all the tea-shops in Melbourne!” I declared, as we entered a tiny black-beamed room. “I’ve never even heard of this one.”

  “It’s most exclusive,” answered Sergeant Matheson, pulling out a chair. “It is run by two very genteel ladies of the old school. They are rather characters. One of them does the cooking. The other does the books. Gentlewomen fallen on hard times, I should say.”

  “It’s charming,” I said, looking around me appreciatively as I stripped off my gloves. The room reminded me of a painting of a Dutch interior. Although the furnishings were only imitations, they were not aggressively so. A black and white squared linoleum covered the floors, while the curtains that hung in the bow-window were of crisply starched muslin. A row of brightly coloured pottery stood on the low sill, filled with different specimens of geranium. Even the
hard-wood chairs and tables were unusual in design, with slim twisted legs. Red checked cloths covered the tables set with simple white tea things. There was no raucous radio to spoil the digestion. The atmosphere was quiet and peaceful, while from one corner of the room a canary whistled cheerily. The single waitress, who had approached us as soon as we entered, wore a lavender-blue dress with a snowy lace collar. She was a comparatively middle-aged woman with a sweet, serene face.

  “Tea and—?” Sergeant Matheson looked at me with brows raised.

  “What is there?” I asked practically.

  “Make it the usual,” he said to the waitress. “I promise you will not be disappointed,” he added across the table.

  “They know you here?” I asked, leaning my chin on my hands.

  “Yes, I’m an old customer. That woman who attended us is some sort of cousin to the two old ladies.”

  “She looks terribly nice. May I have a cigarette?”

  He drew out his case and sprung it open. “She is,” he agreed, striking a match. I glanced at him inquiringly over the flame.

  “It sounds like a story. Am I right?”

  He put the match to his own cigarette. Blue smoke made a veil between us. “I don’t think that you’d be interested,” he said, and I felt snubbed.

  The light repast, which arrived with lightning service, was as delightful as the room in which we sat. From the steaming tea-pot I could detect the fragrant odour of a china blend. I was interested to see what “the usual” was; golden balls of butter nestled in gleaming lettuce leaves to be used on crescent-shaped bread rolls. At least they looked like bread, until I took a bite, and discovered that they had more the consistency of a scone. Whichever they were, they were delicious when spread with butter and creamed honey.