Murder in the Telephone Exchange (13 page)

“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.

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?”