Murder in the Telephone Exchange Read online

  ‘I told you that,’ I thought indignantly.

  “But what knowledge she held and over whom is still unknown. Therefore I ask you two girls to think, and think hard, whether there is not something more you can tell us, Miss MacIntyre?”

  I gripped the edge of my chair with my wet hands. I was glad that he had asked Mac first. At least I could get my cue.

  “No, nothing,” she replied in a low, tired voice.

  The Inspector turned towards me, I shook my head slowly, trying to appear as if I were searching my brain.

  “Very well,” said Inspector Coleman in an expressionless way, I thought that his eyes were as hard as granite. “One more matter. As you know, the Exchange building is not the accessible place it was once.” I knew what was coming. It had been in the back of my head ever since we left the building the night before, but I had tried to close my mind to it.

  “Everyone,” continued the Inspector, “who wishes to enter the Exchange has to pass an armed guard, and present his or her identity pass. Therefore unless the murderer got by on a stolen pass, which we shall consider in due time, this terrible crime was perpetrated by an employee of the Telephone Department. I want you to realize that we intend to bring that person to justice even if it means questioning every single inhabitant of the building, and you have several hundred people working with you. This will make our job long and tedious, and will allow the criminal to cover his tracks and perhaps-who knows-strike again in the same cold-blooded way.”

  I shivered in spite of the heat, feeling suddenly cold at the thought of an unknown killer walking freely in our midst. If the Inspector had expected some return for his dramatic speech, he was doomed to disappointment. Mac was as silent as a tomb, and I had vowed to myself that as much as I distrusted it, I would follow her lead only.

  “To continue with your statement, Miss Byrnes”—I started as he spoke my name, and looked at him inquiringly—“you informed Sergeant Matheson that earlier in the evening you were accused of having locked the door of the room where the crime took place.”

  “I wasn’t accused directly,” I declared. “Some busybody had conjectured it, because I was the last telephonist to be near the restroom. The rumour was spread to the boards.”

  “Do you know who that person was?”

  “Not the faintest. To be quite candid, I didn’t hear of the accusation until about 10.30 p.m. Even then I didn’t pay much attention to it. The girl Gordon, who was sitting at the next board, told me what everyone was saying. It was then that I noticed Compton was not in the room.”

  Inspector Coleman delved amongst his papers again.

  “When was the locked door first known?”

  I concentrated on the events previous to the murder. It was rather difficult to assimilate them, overshadowed as they were by more major happenings.

  “Miss Patterson,” I said suddenly. “I was relieving her and she came back late. I remember now that Compton rebuked her and said that she was to work overtime.”

  It was then that I saw the trunkroom time-book under the Inspector’s hand, and felt a slight admiration. They had probably checked up on our statements already.

  “G. M. T. Patterson, 10.35 p.m.!” read the Inspector, and looked up. “Is that the girl?”

  “Yes,” I answered, feeling maliciously pleased. They were on to Gloria’s trail now. How like her to have three initials!

  “She was the last telephonist to be off before you two,” stated the Inspector, keeping his finger on her name. “What time will Miss Patterson be on duty this evening.”

  “3.30 p.m. this afternoon,” I replied promptly, almost exultant. This new fact which had come to their notice would probably take their attention from Mac and me. I was a little tired of being number one suspect. They appeared to have disregarded our admirable alibis. Perhaps they were considered a little too water-tight to be wholesome.

  The Inspector glanced at his watch. “That is very soon.”

  “Can we go and find her?” I asked hopefully. “She may have arrived already.”

  He threw me a cold glance, and my heart sank.

  “That will not be necessary. We have not finished with you yet. Roberts!” he yelled. The solemn-faced policeman put his head round the door. “Find G. M. T. Patterson—she’s a telephonist due on duty at 3.30 p.m.—and tell Mr. Scott that we will not require him for a while.”

  Roberts withdrew his head without having said a word. If he hadn’t spoken to me the previous night I would have had doubts of his ability to do so.

  Inspector Coleman turned his attention once more to his desk. He was in truth the most untidy man that I had ever seen. I often said to John afterwards that it was a miracle that he ever solved the case. I came to realize that the more haphazard the Inspector appeared, the closer he had his nose to the right scent. At length he produced a small, grimy piece of paper. This was handed to me without comment. I gave him a surprised look and glanced at the document. Sudden excitement tingled my nerves as I knew at once that it was the mysterious note that had hit me in the lift the night before. I have, like the majority of telephonists, developed a good memory, so I can give you its contents word for word. Printed in block letters, obviously disguised, it ran:

  SARAH COMPTON, UNLESS YOU KEEP YOUR SPYING NOSE OUT OF OTHER PEOPLE’S BUSINESS, YOU’LL GET WHAT HAS BEEN COMING TO YOU FOR A LONG TIME. YOU TRIED TO BREAK UP MY LIFE ONCE, BUT I WON’T LET YOU DO IT AGAIN.

  There was no signature of course, but the tone in which the letter was written gave no doubt that Compton would have recognized its author. I re-read that grimy sheet several times, until the Inspector held out his hand impatiently. As I gave it back, I saw Mac looking at me curiously; I had forgotten to tell her of my adventure in the lift. It was her own mysterious behaviour that had made it slip my mind, and this morning there had been Patterson to deal with. I dropped my sodden handkerchief to the ground, and bending near her to retrieve it, breathed: “Later.”

  Again I saw Sergeant Matheson’s keen scrutiny, and smiled gently at him. Much to my annoyance, he grinned back.

  “Well?” asked the Inspector.

  I replied cautiously: “I should say that it was the letter I told the Sergeant about. The two words I noticed, ‘spying’ and ‘Compton” are there, so that makes it rather conclusive.”

  The Inspector smiled a little. It was amazing how it changed his big, rugged face. “Again we will rely on your judgment. Will you give us your opinion on the matter?”

  “The letter?” I queried, pleased, though rather surprised. It was very flattering for a Russell Street Police Inspector to ask my advice, but I went carefully, fearful of some trap that might lurk behind the Inspector’s expressionless eyes.

  “I haven’t any idea who wrote it, if that’s what you are getting at.” He did not seem disappointed and waited for me to continue. I began to feel helpless, not knowing exactly what to say.

  “Let me see it again,” I requested. After gazing at it closely and turning it over in my hand, I observed: “I should say that it was written by a well-educated person. I mean the grammar and all that sort of thing. The paper itself—the paper,” I repeated slowly with growing excitement and raising my eyes to look at the two men. I saw their faces alight with eagerness. “It is a sheet from an inquiry pad. Look! You can see that a piece has been cut off the side. As a rule there are headings there to facilitate inquiries—number required, calling number, and so on.”

  Inspector Coleman studied it carefully, holding it up to the light. Presently he gave it to the Sergeant, who perused it in his turn.

  “Look, sir,” he said. “There’s a watermark. It should be easy enough to trace.”

  “It is from an inquiry pad,” I assured him with asperity. “I have seen those forms many times in the past few years, haven’t I, Mac?”

  She nodded. Her eyes were candid and bright once more. I told myself: “Mac doesn’t know anything about this, anyway.”

  The Inspector put the pap
er carefully into an envelope. “Who would have access to these pads?”

  “Anyone and everyone,” I answered, gesturing broadly with one hand. “First of all the printing people who send them to the Stores Department down town, who in their turn send certain supplies up here. A limited amount of stationery arrives at a time, in the hope to make us economize with it.”

  The Inspector observed: “I consider it more likely that it was used by someone here on the spot.”

  “That’s true,” I remarked thoughtfully. “After all, it was someone in the building who threw it down into the lift.”

  “Miss Byrnes, and you, too, Miss MacIntyre, can you tell us of anyone who might, in your opinion, write such a note to the deceased?”

  Mac and I exchanged hopeless glances. But contrary to her former remoteness, Mac seemed eager with suggestions.

  “That’s very difficult to say, Inspector,” she said in the frank manner that became her best. “Miss Compton was a very trying woman, to say the least. Numerous people might have written that letter, which, by the way, I have not yet seen. I am just presuming that it held come sort of spite.”

  Inspector Coleman took it out of its envelope, and passed it to her. Mac’s tiny hands were quite steady as she held it. I felt a surge of relief.

  “Thank you,” she said calmly, placing the note on the desk in front of the Inspector. “I agree with Miss Byrnes who suggested that it was written by a well-educated person, but I think also that it is someone who had known Miss Compton for a long time.”

  “Quite so, Miss MacIntyre. The mention of a previous brush with Miss Compton manifests that, but have you any idea at all—”

  “Not the slightest,” interrupted Mac with a faint smile. “We all had some sort of grudge against Miss Compton, but I know of no one whose life she had once tried to break up. Our differences with her were minor affairs. She tried to stop smoking being allowed in the restroom, and—a criminal offence in the eyes of a telephonist—never permitted anyone to leave work before time, even if there was no traffic on hand.”

  “They are certainly small grudges,” agreed the Inspector, ‘but with a certain type of character, those petty annoyances might assume alarming proportions. Have there ever been any other anonymous letters written in the Exchange?”

  “Hundreds,” I cut in promptly. “Some weak-kneed person is always trying to make a sensation.”

  The Inspector looked very interested. “When you say hundreds, Miss Byrnes,” he asked, “just how many do you mean, exactly?”

  “Sorry,” I replied, grinning. “Feminine hyperbole! On and off, someone gets the bright idea. I should say about two or three a year; when it was the fashion, it used to be that many a day.”

  “Do you know if Miss Compton received any of those letters?”

  “Her mail was the largest. She must have quite a collection, if she kept them all.”

  “She probably did,” remarked the Inspector surprisingly. “It sounds entirely in keeping with her character. If she has,” and here he tapped the envelope in front of him significantly, “that collection may throw some light on this. By the way, I can trust you two girls not to say too much about all this.”

  “Don’t worry,” I assured him. “We won’t. I must confess, however, that I told John Clarkson about the lift business. You know that,” I added to the Sergeant.

  “The traffic officer on duty last night?” queried the Inspector, turning over papers. “He is a man of authority, so that will not matter.”

  “Men are usually very discreet,” I conceded honestly. His eyes twinkled for a moment.

  The phlegmatic Roberts appeared once more. “Mr. Scott wants to know if you’re ready for him yet?”

  I felt amused at Bertie’s humility; as a rule, he was a most independent person. He peeped around the door like a frightened rabbit.

  The Inspector arose. “Come in, Mr. Scott. You have arrived at a very good time.” Bertie handed him a docket, and he glanced at it, puzzled. “Oh, yes, many thanks. We will go into that matter a little later on. Just now, I want to know if I can borrow one of these young ladies?” I looked from Mac to the Inspector in amazement. “I’d like one of them to accompany us to the home of the deceased; a little matter of identifying some correspondence. Now which one can you spare?”

  “Neither,” answered Bertie promptly, who imagined that he was always short of staff, “but I suppose that it is a command.”

  “That’s quite correct,” said the Inspector firmly.

  “You go, Mac,” I urged, rather reluctantly. I wasn’t anxious to miss anything that might happen. I felt jubilant when she shook her head, frowning.

  “No, I’d much rather not, Maggie,” she replied with sincerity.

  “You’d better make it urgent leave,” Bertie declared in a resigned fashion. “Make out an application, and I’ll see if you can get it with pay.”

  ‘I should think so,’ I thought indignantly, as I thanked him.

  “We’ll have those rooms cleared for you by to-night,” Inspector Coleman told Bertie. I presumed that he meant the rest- and cloakrooms. “We’ve done all the work we wanted on them. But if we might keep the use of this office for a while, I should be glad.”

  “That’ll be quite all right, Inspector. I’ll fix it up with the Department. We are only too glad to be of any assistance. The sooner that this horrible business is cleared up, the better. The traffic is worse than usual to-day, busybodies ringing up and trying to find out details.”

  “The general public has the mind of an insect,” agreed the Inspector. “Are you ready, Matheson? Just leave those papers; we can lock the door.”

  “Are you sure that you don’t mind going?” whispered Mac, as we went into the corridor.

  “No fear!” I said stoutly, “I think that it’s all rather fun.”

  As she shuddered a little and turned away, it occurred to me with amazement that Mac was developing sensibilities.

  CHAPTER III

  We drove towards the east of the city in an open patrol car. Sitting in the back seat and holding my big hat safely on my knees, I received quite a thrill when a policeman on point duty saluted as we passed. How Mac would have enjoyed it; that is, if she wasn’t in her present distrait mood. We had had a lot of fun together, Mac and I. Our personalities seemed to harmonize, which was remarkable because I am not overfond of my own sex. I suppose that comes from working amongst females—a hundred of them to one male. Fortunately, chattering is strictly forbidden in the trunkroom, and after work the quicker one gets away from the place the happier one is.

  I already knew where Sarah Compton lived. When I first came to town, a rather shy and awkward country girl, I’ll admit, she approached me to rent one of the furnished rooms in her East Melbourne house. Luckily someone intervened, and gave me some sound advice as to what type of woman I was up against. I was told that she made one pay “through the nose” under a legal arrangement that did not permit one to back out of the proposition if dissatisfied. I used to pass on this information to any new girl who came to the Exchange, when I saw Compton’s eyes alight on her.

  I believe that it was her old home that she had turned into small flats. It was one of a terrace, overlooking the gardens. A very excellent position, but I was told that the house itself was terrible: small, poky rooms badly lit and ventilated, and smelling always of mice. She must have been doing excellent business just lately, because every room was taken. But with the present housing shortage, I should imagine that people would be only too glad of any type of dwelling.

  Inspector Coleman ran his finger down the cards in the harrow hall, and we mounted the steep stairs to the first floor. Compton had kept one of the front balcony rooms for her own Use. I was agreeably surprised. Though full of hideous, old-fashioned furniture, it was neat, clean and cool. I dropped my absurd hat on to the spotless counterpane of the brass-knobbed bed, feeling a little sacrilegious. Although prying into other people’s business had been the spice of life to
Sarah Compton, it did not seem quite the thing to be rummaging amongst her belongings when she was not alive to protect her own.

  ‘Heaven knows what they might find,’ I thought, wishing that I hadn’t come after all. But I comforted myself with the reflection that Sarah herself would have been only too glad to assist in the discovery of her assassin. I sat down in the one lounge chair that her room held to watch the two policemen at work. They were so methodical in their search that I was amazed after having observed the Inspector’s untidy desk and creased appearance.

  On one side of the room Sergeant Matheson had started with the wardrobe, and was working round to a marble-topped washstand and bedside table. Inspector Coleman was tackling the dressing-table and a masculine-looking desk. The latter was locked, and he glanced around frowning. Without a word, he began to finger the contents of the pin-tray on the dressing-table. I watched him, fascinated, as he selected a good-sized hairpin and slid it carefully into the keyhole of the desk. There was a quick turn of his wrist and a click. The roll-top slid up under his hands.

  “Are those the Inspector’s usual tactics?” I asked Sergeant Matheson softly. He grinned.

  “The hairpin trick? He learned that from an old friend of ours, who is staying out at Pentridge for an indefinite period.”

  “Nice company you keep,” I observed acidly, but he missed my remark. The Inspector had beckoned him over with a jerk of his head. Together they thumbed over a couple of packets of letters, held by rubber bands.

  “On the bed, Sergeant,” said Inspector Coleman, “The light is better.”

  I leaned my chin on the arm of the chair and watched. I was longing to ask them what they had found, but their business-like demeanour bade me stay quiet. They went through the letters systematically, until they were tossed in an untidy heap on Sarah’s snowy bedspread. But I could see that at least three had been separated from the rest. Inspector Coleman glanced through these again, and then stared thoughtfully out of the window. I coughed gently to remind him of my presence. His eyes came slowly round to mine. After a moment of frowning silence, he looked down at the papers in his hand. Selecting one, he passed it to me. I received it eagerly, and saw with some surprise that it was dated April 1917. What a magpie Compton must have been to keep a letter all these years! Unless, I thought suddenly, she had been using them to some financial purpose.