Murder in the Telephone Exchange Read online

  Mac got up to collect the glasses.

  “Did Sergeant say when it happened?” she asked over her shoulder.

  “Not exactly,” I said slowly, frowning. “As the night was so warm, they didn’t like to make a definite time. But what does that matter? We were working all the time, and Sarah was actually in the room at least until a quarter to ten. I can prove that with a docket of mine that she queried. You probably saw it, too, Mac. I sent it along to the sortagraph.”

  Mac gave a tiny laugh, though she seemed far from amused. I thought it held a note of embarrassment, perhaps fear.

  “Maggie,” she said gravely, “would you swear that I was in the room all the time until 11 p.m.?”

  I looked at her in complete astonishment. “I didn’t actually see you, but I presume that you were there all the time. Weren’t you?”

  She made a pretence of arranging the flowers in the low bowl on the window ledge. Her head was turned away from us. Clark was very quiet. I glanced at him uneasily and then at Mac’s straight, slim back.

  “What is all this nonsense?” I asked impatiently. “Did you go out of the room or didn’t you? What story have you told the police?”

  Clark got up leisurely and strolled over to her.

  “You are making yourself appear very mysterious, Gerda,” he said lightly. “There is a very simple explanation, which in no way impairs the alibi that Maggie has supplied so blithely.” He turned to me. “I let Gerda shut up the sortagraph at ten to ten, so that she could have a few minutes’ relief before taking over the country boards.”

  “Is that all?” I asked, relaxing in my chair. “Why have you been acting so strangely, Mac?”

  “I saw Sarah,” she said in a low voice.

  “You mean when she was dead?” I asked, feeling a trifle sick. “Before we found her?”

  She turned quickly. “No! Oh no, Maggie. You don’t think that I was pretending up there in the cloakroom?”

  “Hardly,” I lied, for the thought had occurred to me. “What do you mean, you saw Compton? When and where?”

  “Entering the lift just as I came out on relief.”

  “That must have been about eight minutes to ten,” said Clark swiftly. “Did she say anything to you? What floor was she going to?”

  Mac twisted her hands together, and swung around to face us. “I don’t know. She just glared at me. But she must have gone past the fourth floor because I remember glancing at the indicator before I went up the stairs.”

  “I wonder where she was off to?” Clark said thoughtfully. “There is only apparatus below the fourth floor.”

  “Observation,” I cried, inspired. They looked at me blankly for a minute. Then Clark slapped his knee with his hand.

  “Maggie, you’re a marvel!”

  “But observation closes at 9.45 p.m.,” argued Mac.

  “What was to prevent her from wanting to observe herself,” I retorted. “Not her job, certainly, but quite in her line.”

  “But the room is always locked when the observation officers go off duty,” Mac still protested.

  “Another damned locked door!” I said, determined not to be put off from my brilliant idea. “She’d find a key from somewhere. In fact, I’m even beginning to think that she was responsible for the restroom door.”

  Clark interposed. “The point is, my dears, whom or what did she want to observe?”

  “Anyone,” I declared airily. “I said that it was in her line.”

  Mac was looking thoughtful. “She had a docket in her hand. I do remember that.”

  “There you are!” I said in triumph. “She was going to follow it up, and try to catch someone doing something they shouldn’t, I’ll bet.”

  Taking no notice of my solution, Clark asked Mac if she saw Compton at any later time.

  “Not alive,” she replied, and a shudder passed through her small figure.

  “Why didn’t you tell the Inspector all this, Gerda?” asked Clark gently. She gave that small laugh again.

  “It sounds very silly, but I forgot all about it.”

  I was sure that she lied. Mac was too honest and straightforward to be able to deceive anyone. It was not in her nature to be subtle that way. Why lie about seeing Sarah Compton alive at 10 p.m., or rather at eight minutes to ten, I couldn’t understand.

  “Mac is playing a dangerous game,” I thought with anxiety, resolving to find out what it was. A silence had fallen. Mac was staring at her entwined fingers, and Clark was whistling softly, flicking his cigarette for ash continually. I hauled myself up from the deep chair in several stages.

  “Stop that noise,” I ordered irritably. “We must go at once, Mac.”

  Clark removed his gaze from his swinging foot and grinned. “You’re very cross, Maggie.”

  “I know I am,” I snapped. “Who wouldn’t be with all this murder business keeping me out of bed, and Mac here acting the fool.”

  “I’m ready, Maggie,” said Mac, putting an arm through mine. “Don’t be angry. I didn’t mean to put on an act.” Her eyes were clear and candid, as I looked down at her.

  “Let’s go home,” I said gruffly, ashamed of my irritation. Clark turned off the lights and we returned to the car in silence, Mac still holding my arm.

  “Goodness knows what my landlady will think of me coming in at this hour,” I said, trying to speak lightly.

  “You’ll be the star boarder when she reads the paper in the morning.”

  “Of course!” said Mac suddenly. “I can just imagine the headlines. I suppose we’ll sweep the world news from the front page.”

  “I bet our glamorous Gloria has her picture waiting for the reporters when she hears all this,” I remarked. “By the way, she was off late. I wonder—”

  “Shut up,” interrupted Mac wearily.

  “Seconded,” said Clark in a firm voice.

  “All right,” I said huffily. “I was only wondering.”

  “Sit on her, Gerda, for Heaven’s sake! I’ll be glad to say good night to you two women.”

  We all seemed to be behaving like tired, cross children. I forbore any correction regarding the time that I might have made about Clark’s remark. The car sped through sleeping suburbs, passed jangling milk-carts. I stayed silent in my corner until we drew up outside Mac’s boarding-house.

  “Don’t get out, John,” she said, as I opened the door. “Good-bye, Maggie, and sleep well. I’ll call around to see you in the morning.”

  “Come to lunch,” I suggested, drawing up my knees to let her pass, “but not earlier. I mean to stay in bed until late.”

  “Very well, then; about twelve-thirty. Good night, John.” Clark, ignoring her request, held the gate open and patted her shoulder as she passed. He waited there until we heard the click of her key in the door, and then came back to the car.

  “Cut down the right-of-way,” I advised. “It will be quicker.” I lodged only two streets away from Mac, but there was no cross road, which made the distance quite considerable if one went by the main streets. Clark steered the car carefully down the narrow lane, bumping a little on the uneven paving stones.

  “Very exhausted, Margaret?” Clark’s voice was oddly gentle. It gave me a shock hearing my proper name; rarely do people call me that. I remembered suddenly that it was the second time that night that he had done so.

  “Completely and utterly,” I replied. “Do you think it will be bad tomorrow—John?” His name came to my lips with difficulty. I could not share Mac’s ease with it. I continued hurriedly: “Questions again and the like, I mean.”

  “It’ll be pretty grim. Be a big girl and you’ll get through. I’ll try to stick around as much as possible if that is any help.”

  “It will be,” I said gratefully, “but do you think that you’ll be allowed?”

  “No, probably not.” He stopped the car precisely opposite my gate, and leaned over the back of the driver’s seat, chin on his clasped hand, to gaze at me intently.

  I avoided his
eyes and said in a desperation of shyness: “What was it that Mac had on her mind?”

  He relaxed and shrugged his shoulders slightly. “Heaven alone knows! But what about you? Is there anything worrying you?”

  “No,” I replied slowly, trying to concentrate. “I don’t think so. But I’m tired now. My brain refuses to function. Good night, Clark, and thanks for being the proverbial rock.”

  “I’ll take you to your door,” he said, getting out.

  “No, better not. If my landlady sees you, she’ll have a fit.”

  “Rot,” he replied, taking my arm. Suddenly he swung me round to meet his gaze.

  “Listen, Maggie,” he said earnestly, searching my face. “Are you sure there is nothing worrying you; something perhaps that I could help you fix?”

  I stood still in his grasp under the hot, hazy stars. His eyes were keen and bright on mine. Presently I said with difficulty: “It’s ridiculous, I know, but I feel as if there should be. There was something on my mind earlier, that I was trying to remember—before the murder, I mean. But I can’t think what it was.”

  He gave me a little shake. “Try now,” he commanded. “Think hard.” I shook my head.

  “It’s no use,” I said wearily. “I’ve tried and tried. I don’t think that it could have registered in the first place.” He let me go and patted my shoulder as he had done to Mac.

  “Never mind, my sweet,” he said softly, “just forget everything and have a sound sleep. But remember, Maggie, if there should be anything worrying you now or later, tell me. I would be glad and—honoured to help you.” We had reached the doorstep and I turned to look at him wonderingly. I could not think of any way to express my gratitude, so I just repeated Mac’s phrase: “You’re great, John.”

  He smiled a little before his face became serious again.

  “No, Maggie. It’s just that I—well, perhaps we’d better leave it for tonight. Good night, my dear.”

  Again that night I felt his lips on my cheek. I put out a hand to hold him. But he had gone, striding swiftly down the path to the gate. He did not look back, though I was ready to wave a last good-bye.

  CHAPTER II

  John Clarkson’s “medicine” must have done the trick, because I slept very deeply for several hours. I don’t recall having had any vivid dreams as perhaps I should, and awoke, prosaically enough, feeling refreshed and active. The burning sun was seeping through the brown blind at the single window of my bedroom. I stretched out a hand to the bedside table, that I had bought a month previously at a sale, for my watch. It was 11 a.m. About twelve hours since Mac and I had stumbled into that horrid affair; plenty of time before I need shower and dress before lunch. I had missed breakfast altogether. I kicked off the sheet that I had used through the night as a protection against mosquitoes, and hunted for some fruit. Chewing an apple, I lay back on my pillows to reflect.

  The day was promising to be another scorcher, and mentally I selected the frock I would wear. Then my eyes roamed around the little north room which I had made my home in the city. The green linoleum on the floor belonged of course to Mrs. Bates, my landlady, but the couple of sheep-skin rugs came from my home in Keramgatta. One was at the side of my divan bed, the other in front of a chest of drawers, both pieces of furniture being made in some uninteresting hardwood. My eyes dwelled appreciatively on the folk-weave curtains, striped in green and white, that I had bought and made up myself; presently the bed on which I lay would be disguised with a cover of the same material. The walls had been covered with some hideous wallpaper. This, with Mrs. Bates’ reluctant permission, I had stripped off only to disclose stained plaster. The marks were minimized by tinting the walls a faint pink and a cunning arrangement of furniture. I had put a very bad water-colour of the old homestead into a rather good frame, so that it had a blended effect on the observer. This hung opposite the flattering, pink-tinted mirror that Mac had given me. For this room and three meals a day, I paid a substantial amount from my fortnightly pay envelope. But I was comfortable enough, and my fellow boarders did not worry me.

  Only Mrs. Bates, a follower of some obscure religion, ever pryed into my private affairs. To do her justice, I think that she considered herself responsible for the ignorant country girl whom she had occupying a front room on the first floor of her boarding-house. I had heard her light switch on and the bed creak as I crept past her door the previous night. I fully expected a visit from her to learn why I was so late, so I was not surprised when a tap synchronized with my thoughts.

  “Come in,” I called, pulling the sheet over my pink silk pyjamas. Sure enough, it was Mrs. Bates. When I first set eyes on my landlady I had the impression she was too unreal to exist. She was more a product of the imagination; the type of character Dickens would have created and revelled in. She was fairly tall, clad always from head to bunion-swollen feet in respectable black, with a surprisingly enormous bosom pushed high to her chin by old-fashioned corsets. Her face was long and narrow, and there was something wrong with her tear-ducts. She was compelled to wipe her pale blue eyes continually. It gave her the appearance of a mastiff dog, which was rather apt. According to the saga she had told me in serial form over a space of months, she had had a dog’s life. This canine career included a drunkard of a husband, who, having deserted her many years previously, turned up frequently demanding money. I often heard Mrs. Bates haranguing him when I was hanging stockings over my window-sill to dry. Her Billingsgate, or perhaps I should say Fitzroy language, to make it more local, must have been totally at variance with the weird religious creed to which she was always trying to convert me.

  In addition to the affliction of her eyes, she had had an operation for goitre, which had in some way impaired her windpipe. This caused her to wheeze every few words she spoke. It held Clark fascinated the first time he met her. She carefully inspected all the men whom her young ladies, as she called us, brought to the house, and later issued gloomy warnings as to the general infidelity and unsteadiness of the male sex. Clark had had a bad start. He was too good-looking to be trusted at all, though I had seen Mrs. Bates relax a little under his infectious smile.

  “Good morning, Miss Byrne,” she said, as usual omitting the “s” from my surname and thus rendering it completely insignificant. I could see that I was in for a bad time, and tried to brazen it out.

  “Hullo, Mrs. Bates,” I said brightly. “Have you come for your rent? I don’t get paid until tomorrow, you know.”

  She hated any direct allusion to money, and disliked the word rent. When I did pay my board, she would write out a receipt quickly and hand it to me, so as to forget the disagreeable occurrence immediately. I often wondered what would happen if I didn’t see her each fortnight in my honest way.

  “There are two letters for you,” she said, putting them on my table and ignoring my question. “The telephone has been ringing all the morning. I said that I wouldn’t disturb you, as you were so late last night.”

  “Here it comes,” I thought, before saying aloud: “Yes, I was rather late, wasn’t I? Sorry if I awoke you.”

  Mrs. Bates was one of those people who say that they hear the clock strike every hour. I pondered as to the best way to attack her. I was feeling physically at a disadvantage lying in bed lightly clothed, while she was standing on one of my sheepskin rugs, thickly upholstered. Presently she came to my assistance.

  “Here is the morning paper,” she said, handing it to me folded.

  “Are you sure that you’ve finished with it?” I asked, not attempting to open it. “Any special news?”

  “You’d better read and see,” she said grimly.

  I spread the front page on the bed, hoisting myself to a sitting position. The first thing that struck my eye was a photograph of myself. One in profile taken at the boards some weeks ago for publicity purposes; not this type of publicity, however. I didn’t bother to read the caption below, but grinned up at Mrs. Bates.

  “Not bad, is it?” I asked, surveying the picture
again with my head on one side. “It makes my nose look rather long, don’t you think?”

  Mrs. Bates wheezed several times in a visible effort to control her indignant curiosity. “Miss Byrne,” she demanded, pointing a trembling finger at the paper, “what is the meaning of all this?”

  I leaned back on my pillows again and closed my eyes.

  “It means, dear Mrs. Bates, that you are harbouring in your respectable house a suspect of murder.”

  Her wheezing was so loud that I opened one eye anxiously. Her pale blue eyes were filling and being emptied in such rapid succession that unkindly I wanted to laugh. She was as curious as a cat and was trying not to appear so.

  “Is that why that man has been ringing all the morning?” she asked.

  “What man?”

  “Sergeant someone or other from Russell Street. But I told him that you were still asleep.”

  I sat up with a jolt and swung my legs over the side of the bed. Mrs. Bates transferred her gaze to my solitary picture.

  “What did he want? And why didn’t you get me up? Where’s my dressing-gown?”

  Mrs. Bates got it from a hook, and held it out in front of her face.

  “Thanks,” I said, slipping it on and tying the girdle. “All right, Mrs. Bates, I’m modest now. What did Sergeant Matheson want?”

  She sniffed audibly. “He said that he’d call back, and he did again and again until I said you’d let him know when you were up.”

  I made for the door. “I’d better ring him at once. It may have been important.”

  Mrs. Bates moved after me, wiping her eyes again. “Get dressed first, please, Miss Byrne. I can’t have one of my young ladies walking down the hall in night attire.”

  “Don’t talk rot,” I said irritably. “There is no one around at this hour, and what does it matter? We are all females here, worse luck!” I dashed along the hall and slid down the banisters under Mrs. Bates’s mortified gaze.

  “Russell Street—Russell Street,” I muttered as I ran. “I should know that number. What the devil is it? Do you know the number of the police station?” I called to Mrs. Bates, as she came down the stairs after me.