Murder in the Telephone Exchange Read online

  The 10 p.m. girls had signed off and gone long since. Dulcie Gordon was shifting impatiently in her chair; it was a minute after the half-hour, and Compton whose duty it was to release the staff was still absent. Suddenly John Clarkson laid down his pen, rose, and walked down the room. Several girls said plaintively: “I’m supposed to be off, Mr. Clarkson.”

  “Where’s your monitor?” he asked, looking round the room swiftly.

  “Miss Compton has not been in for some time,” said Gordon. “I didn’t see her go out.”

  “You’ll have them all claiming overtime if you don’t let them go,” I murmured, as he bent over my board to see if there were any dockets. I thought his hand touched mine for a second. He straightened up and said clearly: “All right, all you 10.30 girls, just drop out. Couple up these boards, Maggie.”

  “Now for the rush,” I thought, replacing my earpiece and picking up a light from the panel. On these modern boards when an interstate or country telephonist is wanting attention, her ring on the line brings a light flashing in a panel on the Melbourne boards. To transfer that line for working is accomplished by merely pressing a button.

  I heard Korrumburra yelling her head off, demanding service, and released the line to let Mac deal with her on the far side of the room. I had both my boards covered, and more lights were flashing in the panel, waiting to be picked up. As a rule, the late monitor gives assistance during this half-hour, and I wondered again, irritably, where Compton had got to. She was never around when you wanted her.

  John Clarkson passed on his way to dismantle the delay-board at the other end of the room.

  “All right?” he asked.

  “Quite,” I retorted. “Absolutely nothing to do.

  He grinned. “I’ll give you a hand in a minute. Where’s that blasted woman?”

  I didn’t have time to conjecture about Compton’s whereabouts. The lasses across Bass Strait were being neglected shamefully. I gave Sydney the go-by, and picked up Launceston. A blistering diatribe greeted me. I listened patiently.

  “Sorry, dear,” I said in a meek voice. “My attention is all yours from now on.”

  That was the only apology I gave during that hectic half-hour. I cut the standard phrases originated by some leisurely Department official in his nice quiet office to the minimum. Once I wondered how Mac was faring over on the country boards behind me. The Senior Traffic Officer’s telephones rang for a while and were silent, so I supposed that Clark was as busy as we were. Book, dial, connect and a swift glance at the clock to complete the docket with my numerical signature. I felt the perspiration trickling down my ribs, and the wire band of my headset was cutting into my skull.

  “Mel., book please.”

  “Your particular person is waiting, Mel.”

  “Mel., take a through call.”

  It came at me from all lines; all those telephonists throughout Australia with the same metallic crisp voice.

  On with those calls.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “Three minutes—extending please?”

  “You’re through—go ahead.”

  Mentally I threw up my hands in despair, while coaxing slow callers to start their conversations. The perpetual ‘Hullo’s’ and those bad telephone voices, with their unenunciated consonants and flattened vowels. They all wasted precious seconds of the three minutes that most subscribers declare that they do not get, not realizing their own extravagance.

  Five minutes to eleven! Out of one corner of my eye, I could see Clark grappling with lines with a spare telephone set from Bertie’s table. His face was in profile, but I thought that he looked angry.

  “Sarah will get it in the neck for landing us in this bag,” I thought. “She deserves boiling in oil.”

  Three minutes to eleven, and a couple of the all-night girls came in early. Bless them! May all their children have curly hair! I stayed on for a while helping to straighten things out. It was amazing the difference one or two extra telephonists made. At ten past eleven, I rose wearily from ray chair and stripped off my outfit.

  “And so to bed,” I said. “Sweet dreams, my dears.”

  “I believe you have been locking doors, Byrnes,” remarked the girl Billings with a grin.

  “I am too tired to defend myself,” I answered, “so let it stand that I was the culprit until the morning.”

  “Giving yourself time to think up a good one,” another called after me as I went to sign off. Mac’s neat signature was the last in the book, made at 11.5 p.m., while above hers with many flourishes was that of Gloria Patterson at 10.40 p.m. She must have been afraid that Compton would see her if she had gone with the rest of her rota.

  I found Mac outside on the lift landing, studying the notice-board.

  “I’m down for a late on Sunday,” she said as I joined her. “What a bore!”

  “Did you see my name?” I asked, scanning the list. “I worked last Sunday, but you never know what fast one they’ll pull next.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve got the dog-watch with John. Compton is working late, too.”

  “That’ll be great!” I said bitterly. “Especially if Sarah does the disappearing trick again. I’d like to get my hands on that woman.”

  We had started walking up the stairs together. At the eighth-floor landing, Mac paused to light a cigarette; at this late hour we should be able to dodge a reprimand, so I followed her lead.

  “Having supper with John?” she asked with a sidelong glance that made me wish that I knew more about her late ‘affair’ with him.

  “And you,” I said in a firm voice.

  “I don’t think so. I don’t want to butt in, Maggie.”

  “Shut up!” I said loudly.

  We entered the cloakroom and parted company. Mac’s locker was against the wall, while mine was in the centre aisle facing the restroom door. It was still closed, and no light showed through the glass pane at the top.

  “That blasted door!” I said, tossing my telephone into my locker.

  “What’s that, Maggie?” called Mac.

  “The restroom door! Someone locked it, and everyone seems to think that I did, since I was the late telephonist.”

  I heard Mac laugh softly.

  “Yes, I heard something about that. Perhaps it is not locked but jammed after all. It has happened before to better doors. Try it for yourself and see.”

  “I will,” I said, advancing with my cigarette between my lips so as to have both hands free.

  “Well!” I declared. “What do you know about that!”

  “What?” Mac asked, appearing around the corner of the lockers, lipstick in hand. “What’s the matter?”

  I pointed to the door in amazement.

  “Why, it is not locked after all. I suppose someone must have found the key,” she added, rather obviously.

  “Someone is going to pay for this,” I said, putting my hand around the door to switch on the light. “The idea of accusing me!”

  Mac was amused.

  “I think things look rather black for you, Maggie. After all the door is locked, and you are the last one to be near the restroom.”

  “I wasn’t,” I protested.

  “And then you come off duty, and lo and behold the door opens. Very, very ominous!”

  “Rot! A dozen others could have done it. Oh well, at least we can make up under a decent light.” I returned to my locker to get my handbag. “I look a hag. I say, Mac, I must tell you about our Sarah.”

  “Sarah!” I heard her repeat in a horrified whisper. “Sarah!” I swung round quickly. Mac was standing in the lighted doorway of the cloakroom, swaying slightly. I was beside her in a second. She turned towards me and tried to push me away. Her face was close to mine. I could see the pigment of her pallid skin, and the dilating iris of her eyes. They both spelled terror.

  “Don’t go in, Maggie,” she whispered imploringly. “It’s—it’s horrible.” But I pushed her roughly aside, and went into the restroom.
r />   I think I almost expected what I saw. It was as if I had dreamed it all before, but the stark reality of the scene froze my blood and parched my throat. Mac was leaning against the wall, panting; her normally pale skin had taken on the bluish appearance of alabaster. We heard someone walking down the corridor outside, whistling the ‘Destiny Waltz.’ Suddenly hot sweat started to flow down my icy body, and dark mists crept up from the corners of my eyes. I heard Mac shriek like a madwoman: “John! John! John!”

  ‘Fancy knowing that those footsteps were Clark’s!’ I thought, as I slid to the ground and remembered no more.

  * * * * *

  I was in a floundering boat on a rough sea. I could feel the icy water on my face. Then a pair of oars appeared in some mysterious fashion, but I did not seem to be able to manage them. They kept hitting my hands and eluding my grasp. Presently I heard a man’s voice say: “She’ll be O.K. in a minute, sir,” and wondered about whom he was talking. I was quite comfortable now that the sea was smooth. I wanted to stay quiet, but a strong light was shining through my eyelids, forcing them open.

  I knew where I was immediately: in the sick-bay on the eighth floor of the Telephone Exchange building. I had tried that hard bed before.

  ‘That’s funny!’ I thought. But I must have spoken aloud, because the man’s voice said: “What’s funny?”

  I struggled to sit up. “I thought I was in a boat.”

  A strange man stood over me, and another figure was in the background. They swayed a little before my puzzled gaze. I put my head down to my knees automatically. They spoke over my head.

  “We’d better leave her until the last, Sergeant.”

  “Very well, sir. What did they say her name was?”

  I raised my head.

  “M. Byrnes,” I said clearly.

  The first man seemed amused. “What does the M. stand for, Miss Byrnes?”

  “Margaret,” I replied, embarrassed. Ob. was to blame for my slip.

  “How do you think you will stand up to a few questions, Miss Margaret Byrnes?” he asked.

  “It all depends what they are about,” I answered, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

  The two men gazed at me so keenly that I began to feel uncomfortable. I looked at them inquiringly, but they remained silent. Then a wave of horror started to sweep over me, and Mac’s tragic whisper seared my brain.

  “Sarah Compton,” I breathed in answer to my own question.

  “Precisely, Miss Byrnes,” said the second man crisply. “I am Detective-Inspector Coleman from Russell Street Police Headquarters, and this,” indicating his companion, “is Detective-Sergeant Matheson. We are inquiring into the murder of Sarah Compton, late monitor at the Melbourne Trunk Exchange.”

  I gripped the edge of the bed, hard.

  “Murder!” I repeated, still whispering. Something seemed to have gone wrong with my voice-box. Detective-Inspector Coleman nodded in silence. The sick-bay room was so quiet that I could hear the thudding of the dynamo many floors below.

  “Surely, Miss Byrnes,” he went on, “as you saw the body, you realize that Miss Compton has been the victim of foul play?”

  I stared down at my clenched hands.

  “I only looked into the room for a minute—a second,” I replied jerkily. “It—she was a shocking sight, but—murder did not occur to me. It doesn’t seem possible. Those sorts of thing,” and I threw my hands out helplessly, “murders—only happen in mystery novels, not in a Telephone Exchange.”

  “They happen in real life,” said inspector Coleman quietly, “only too frequently.”

  I stared at him, trying to absorb the fact. Sarah Compton—murdered! Someone had killed her; taken from her the most precious thing we own. And Mac and I had found her, lying face down in her own blood. At once I realized what it meant. We would be mixed up in this ghastly business, no matter how repugnant we found it. But would I find it so distasteful after all? It was horrible and frightening finding Compton like that. I was not likely to forget the scene in the restroom in a hurry. But I had never cared much for the woman. I felt no personal grief on top of the horror. The situation might prove exciting and intriguing. I wondered if Mac, who had always been indifferent to Sarah, was thinking the same.

  “Where is Miss Maclntyre?” I asked abruptly.

  “In the next room. I am just going to take her statement. Sergeant Matheson here has a few questions to ask you. I hope that you will give him every assistance.”

  I nodded dumbly and watched him depart. He was a big man, but as light as a cat on his feet; later, I learned that he was an enthusiastic amateur boxer. Sergeant Matheson switched off the bright overhead light, leaving only the shaded one on the table aglow. I supposed that he thought the powerful light would only aggravate my aching head, but it had the effect of making me feet very nervous. It was as if he was setting his stage. When he sat down beside me, notebook in hand, I lost all my fears. He looked shy and ill-at-ease, so much so that I wondered if this was his first important case. It took me a long time to realize that this appearance was only part of his stock-in-trade, and that he was considered one of Russell Street’s most able officers.

  However, just then I thought he was bashful, and to break the ice I remarked lightly: “Why is it all you policemen only have blunt stubs of pencils with which to take your notes?”

  His smile was infectious. It lit up his plain face, and made his eyes twinkle under their sandy brows.

  “You seem to know a great deal about policemen, Miss Byrnes,” he remarked, writing carefully in his book.

  “Here! I hope you’re not putting that down to be used in evidence against me.”

  His mouth was closed firmly, but his eyes still danced.

  “No, just your name. Margaret Byrnes,” and he repeated it slowly.

  “That’s quite correct,” I said tartly. “Now what is it you want to know?”

  “Your address, please, Miss Byrnes.”

  “15 Lewisham Avenue, Albert Park. I board there. My real home is in the country. You’ve probably never heard of it. Keramgatta.”

  “About twenty miles from the north-east border?” he queried.

  “That is right,” I agreed in vexed surprise.

  “I used to work in that district,” he said apologetically.

  I kept what I thought was a dignified silence.

  “Now, Miss Byrnes—you knew the deceased?” I nodded.

  “What sort of woman would you say she was?”

  “She was a—” I shut my mouth quickly. Sergeant Matheson looked up from his writing.

  “You were saying?” he prompted.

  I thought for a minute. “She was a very difficult woman to work with,” I said lamely.

  He gave me a direct glance. “What were you going to say originally, please, Miss Byrnes?”

  “I don’t think that I’d better tell you,” I parried. “It was something very rude, though rather apt when applied to Sarah Compton.” I was sure that his eyes twinkled again, as he let the matter pass.

  “I believe that you were the first to find the body,” he continued.

  “The second,” I corrected. “Miss Maclntyre saw Compton a few seconds before I did.”

  “Miss Maclntyre is a particular friend of yours, Miss Byrnes?” he asked quickly. I looked at him speculatively.

  “A friend, yes,” I answered, “but not an accomplice.”

  “I did not suggest it, Miss Byrnes,” he said, appearing uncomfortable and ill-at-ease again.

  “No, but you were thinking it,” I retorted, and had the doubtful reward of another infectious grin. He shrugged his shoulders slightly.

  “We seem to be getting nowhere, and taking a long time about it,” he remarked. “Perhaps it would be better if you told me in your own words exactly what happened.”

  “No interruptions?” I asked, and he raised one hand solemnly.

  “Not unless strictly necessary.”

  “Right!” I said briskly. “Have
you a cigarette? I don’t remember finishing my last one. Thanks. And a match, please?” I drew a long breath. “Are you ready? Shall I go fast or slow?”

  “Medium,” he suggested. “I’ll take it down in my own particular brand of shorthand, but I want to absorb all the facts.”

  I looked at my cigarette a moment in silence, mentally gathering myself together.

  “I’ll begin by answering your first question more fully,” I began. “Sarah Compton was a prying old busybody. Hundreds of people, not only in the Exchange but outside, that is if she behaved anything like she did here, must have had her in the gun. But I don’t know of anyone who would want to murder her for her inquisitiveness. You see, I have provided you with a motive for the crime already.” I flicked the ash from the cigarette and drew again. “I disliked her intensely myself; why, I won’t tell you. That’s my business! But I will say that the reason I detested her was not enough to make me even want to, murder her. I might have scratched her face, considerably, but bashed it in, no!” I wished I had not said that now. My stomach felt squeamish, and I fought against nausea. “When did it happen and how?” I asked, desiring a breathing space.

  Sergeant Matheson looked up from his notes.

  “That’s for you to help us find out, Miss Byrnes. Medical evidence is rather vague as to the time. The body was still warm, but then it is a hot night. We dare not give an accurate time. As to how—two blows were struck with some heavy instrument, as yet undiscovered; one on the temple, the other directly in the face. What time did you last see Miss Compton?”

  I frowned in concentration. “The last time that I actually saw her,” I said slowly, “would be about five minutes to eight. I had finished the relieving—letting different girls have a short break,” I explained in answer to the question in his eyes, “and then Compton sent me to work the principal Sydney board. We were very busy. In our game you rarely lift your head during the rush period, but I can remember her querying me about various dockets. I think that the last I heard of her would be about twenty to ten. I can check up with the time on the docket, if you like.”