Murder in the Telephone Exchange (16 page)

‘I suppose all the sensation-mongers will be pouring in soon, and asking me questions,' I thought gloomily, as I opened the door. I glanced involuntarily over my shoulder, thinking that I heard a footstep. I waited a moment with my hand on the knob, my heart beating a little faster than usual. I was beginning to regret not waiting for the Sergeant to accompany me. I might have known that the eighth floor would be as lonely as a grave at this hour of the evening. I took a grip of myself and walked in boldly, even trying to whistle a little. As I opened my locker, my hand paused again. I stood frozen to the spot, straining my ears. I could have sworn that someone was moving about in the restroom.

‘Pull yourself together, my girl,' I said severely. ‘This is pure imagination.' But I wasn't game to have a look round the half-open door of that restroom. Then, as I was pulling my telephone out, a voice behind me said loudly and suddenly: “Boo!” I dropped my apparatus and spun round with a hand to my mouth to stop a semi-materialized scream.

“John Clarkson!” I cried furiously. “What on earth are you doing? What do you mean by giving me such a fright?”

He stood in the doorway, grinning. A look of concern came into his face as he realized that I was in earnest.

“Poor little Maggie,” he said anxiously, coming forward and taking my hand. “I'm sorry I was such a brute. Do you feel all right?”

“No, I don't,” I choked. “You nearly scared me out of my wits.” He slipped an arm around my shoulders comfortingly, and I felt a kiss dropped on my hair. I pushed him away.

“I feel better now,” I declared, turning aside to hide my embarrassment. “Just look what you made me do!” The mouthpiece of my telephone had a large piece missing out of it. I got down on the floor to look for the broken-off ebonite. “It was a rotten transmitter, anyway. You'll have to find me another. It was your fault that it broke.”

“You will have the best available,” Clark promised in a big-hearted way. “Are you coming to revisit the scene of the crime?”

“You talk as if I was the murderer,” I protested, walking gingerly into the restroom. “It looks just the same.” I stared around in surprise. Unconsciously I must have expected some change. Clark was so quiet that I glanced up at him, and saw his face was very grim.

“Yes, just the same,” he repeated.

“Anyway, what are you doing here? Don't tell me that you are playing
amateur detective?” I asked sarcastically. Clark walked into the centre of the room, gazing about him in frowning silence.

“Looking for clues?” I inquired in the same vein, as I caught his eye.

“Just mooching about,” he answered airily. “Where have you been all day, my girl? I rang this morning, but that old battle-horse of yours said that you were asleep. Then I called in this afternoon only to find that you had left.”

“I have been hunting with the hounds,” I said, seating myself deliberately on the chair at the foot of which I had seen Sarah Compton sprawled in her own blood the previous night. “I'm not too sure if I'm not a hare,” I continued, staring fascinated at the damp patch at my feet. It seemed the only visible link with that horrible scene I remembered so vividly.

“In with the cops, are you, my pet? What happened?”

I shrugged indifferently. “They got the bright idea of going through Sarah's papers at her room. You remember the letter that I told you about last night? They wanted to see if I could identify that with other letters she had. You'd be surprised at the amount of mail that woman got.”

“I wouldn't,” he said with emphasis. “She was pretty poisonous, though I suppose one shouldn't talk ill of the dead.”

“That's what Patterson said this morning,” I remarked absently.

“What was that?”

“Gloria Patterson. You know; the wench who thinks that he has ‘oomph' or ‘it' or whatever it is. She came to see me this morning with a long tale of woe that reeked to high heaven with suspicious circumstances. I told her to take it to the Inspector, and see what he would make of it. Like the majority of us, Gloria seems to have something on her mind.”

Clark came to stand over me, looking very large. “Have you?” he asked swiftly. “I asked you last night, Maggie. What is it?”

“Not my hidden thought,” I dismissed with a gesture of my hand. “It's just—Mac.” I gazed up at him earnestly. “Have you seen her to-day at all, Clark? I can't make head or tail of her attitude. I wish you'd try to win her confidence.”

“How can I, if you can't? You know how close-mouthed Gerda can be on occasions.”

“You used to be pretty matey,” I said in a gruff voice, examining my finger-nails. He laughed and caught my hands to pull me to my feet.

“Maggie, you funny kid!”

“Why?” I asked, still gruffly and staring at his tie. He always wore the most original ones.

“Never mind for the moment,” he replied, dropping my hands abruptly. “Things are too serious just now. What happened at Sarah's place to-day?”

I strolled over to the windows, not that I could see anything from there. They were always kept tightly closed on account of the air-conditioning. I told Clark about the letters Inspector Coleman had selected and the latter's subsequent interest in Gloria Patterson.

“But she couldn't have written them,” I pointed out. “I consider that it is just the long arm of coincidence. The same names, I mean.”

“Maybe,” he agreed briefly. “Have the police seen Patterson yet?”

“I shouldn't think so. I have just left Sergeant Matheson, and we dropped the Inspector at Russell Street. He gave me some tea,” I added inconsequently.

“Indeed,” said Clark in a peculiar voice. “Is he falling for our Maggie?”

“Don't talk rot,” I retorted, turning to face him. “I think that he's just a low skunk. Do you know the real reason why he took me to tea? To pump information out of me, if you please. Luckily I saw through his game early in the piece.”

Clark laughed gleefully. “Did you tear him limb from limb, my sweet?”

“Only verbally. It was a little too public for anything else. The pair of them—Inspector Coleman and the Sergeant—think everyone is withholding something; even including Bertie. I don't know what he can have on his mind, but I will say that during the last few weeks he has altered a great deal. I don't consider him a well man. What is your opinion?”

Clark thrust his hands into his pockets, and walked around the room moodily. “I'm as much in the dark as you. I have noticed him ageing too. I have been at him to take his leave, but he won't hear of it. He veers away from the subject, and says that he never felt better in his life.”

“It's a wonder that his wife doesn't make him take a holiday. I understand that he's married,” I said with a sigh. I was a bit tired of all the mysteries; Bertie, Mac and even Gloria. Not that she worried me overmuch, but I had a genuine admiration for the Senior Traffic Officer, and Mac was my best friend.

“Perhaps the Exchange has got him at last. It seems to affect people after a while. Take that Gaynor woman, for instance. Forty-five if a day, and she behaves like a giggling schoolgirl. Just plain simple. Do stop fidgeting, Clark, or you'll have me going berserk.”

He came to stand near me again. “Poor little Maggie. Things getting on your nerves?”

“Everything,” I declared emphatically. “You and I seem the only normal people mixed up in this business. Which reminds me. I must find Dulcie Gordon. I want a word with her.”

“What about?”

“There was a letter of hers amongst Sarah's correspondence. Unsigned,
but I think that she wrote it. I don't see any connection between it and this affair,” I gesticulated to the wet carpet, “so it's only fair to give her a chance to tell the Inspector herself.”

“I'll let her go for tea when I go back,” promised Clark.

“You can thrash things out then. By the way, do you intend working at all to-day, or have the police claimed your services for the rest of the night?”

“I hope not,” I said in alarm. “I'd much rather work the busiest board in the trunkroom, I assure you. Hasn't Bertie gone home yet?”

He shook his head. “He won't until I return, so I'd better get going. You can come on after your usual tea-time. What's the matter?” I had been staring over his shoulder at the door. It opened slowly, and a head came round the corner. It was Bertie Scott.

“There you are, Mr. Clarkson. I thought that I heard voices. Dear me, they've made a thorough job in here. It looks much the same as usual.”

‘What did you expect?' I thought sarcastically. ‘Bloodstains left spattered on the walls?' I forgot for the moment that I had made the same remark.

“Will you take over in the trunkroom now?” Bertie asked Clark. “The Inspector wants to have another talk with me. Come in, Inspector. We were just talking about you,” he called through the door.

‘Just as we were when you came in,' I thought inwardly, wondering if he had heard me call him by his nickname.

Inspector Coleman entered with his light tread. His eyes, that passed from one to another of us, were still expressionless. Over his shoulder I could see the plain face of Sergeant Matheson, looking distinctly worried. I wondered if he had told his superior about our brush over afternoon tea, and his ultimate failure to discover the information the Inspector wanted. In my perverse habit, I felt a little sorry that I had used him so roughly. Inspector Coleman looked the type of man who would brook no mistake from his subordinates.

He motioned us to seat ourselves, saying casually: “This is a cooler room than the other. May we stay here, Mr. Scott?”

“Certainly, certainly,” answered Bertie, rising a little from his chair, and then reseating himself. He looked like a little grey rabbit, lost as he was in the depths of one of the gay chintz-covered lounge chairs. “Perhaps if you lock the door, we will be quite undisturbed,” was his suggestion.

“One moment,” said the Inspector, taking a bunch of keys from his pocket. He selected one and put it in the inside lock. I was very glad to see that he had charge of that damned key.

“Mr. Ormond,” he called out. I recognized our night guard as a burly
individual entered. He had not discarded his leather holster. The hilt of his revolver peeped from his unbuttoned coat.

“This is Ormond, the night guard at the Exchange door,” introduced the Inspector unnecessarily. “You may sit down, Ormond.” He did so, facing our circle.

“Mr. Scott,” began Inspector Coleman. Bertie jumped. “I regret to inform you that we have come to the conclusion that the crime was committed by someone who has access to this building; that is, by a telephone employee.”

“Surely—” began Bertie, but Inspector Coleman cut him short.

“There is absolutely no doubt,” he said curtly. “Now Ormond, I want you to tell me as far as you can remember those persons who entered and went out of the Exchange between the hours of ten and eleven.”

The night guard twisted his cap nervously in his hands. He kept glancing at our Senior Traffic Officer timidly.

“Well, sir, I had just relieved Mr. Parker a few minutes before ten, and we were chatting for a while before he went home, when a man came in, showed me his pass and continued on through the old power-room passage to this building.”

“Did you recognize that man?” Ormond hesitated. “Come on, man, who was it?” asked the Inspector impatiently.

“He had his hat pulled low over his face,” continued Ormond, “but I could swear that it was Mr. Scott, here.”

I gasped with surprise. I hadn't remembered seeing Bertie in the trunkroom the previous night.

“Is that correct?” asked the Inspector, turning to Bertie who was sitting fidgeting in his chair, with his head bent forward. Presently he raised it, and his face and bearing seemed oddly dignified and assured.

“Really, Inspector, is there anything so unusual in my entering the Exchange?”

“I think that there is, at that hour,” replied Inspector Coleman grimly. “Especially as you have so far omitted to inform us of your presence here last night.”

Bertie sat up very straight and stiff. I could see that he was longing to get up and pace around the room. Such vitality as he possessed must have been hard to curb.

“Have you ever returned to the building after your usual office hours before?” asked the Inspector, motioning to Sergeant Matheson, who took out the eternal note-book and pencil.

“Er—no.”

“Yes, you have,” I interrupted so unexpectedly that I was surprised to
hear my own voice. I wasn't going to sit by and let those two men have their way all the time. The Inspector directed a very cold glance in my direction, as I continued: “You were here late that night of the bush-fires a few years ago, and then that Sunday when war was declared. I should imagine,” I declared airily to Inspector Coleman, “that Mr. Scott would have every right to return if anything untoward had occurred.”