Murder in the Telephone Exchange (20 page)

“I suppose that you will want to keep it,” I said, relinquishing it with a sigh as I thought what an interesting relic it would be to show my grandchildren.

“If you don't mind,” said Inspector Coleman gravely. I was amazed at
his sudden courtesy.

‘Don't tell me that he is starting to respect my powers of deduction,' I thought.

A tap came at the door, and Sergeant Matheson opened it. Part of his work seemed to be the opening and shutting of doors. John Clarkson's anxious face appeared.

“Excuse me, Inspector, but do you know where— Oh, you're here, Maggie. Just when are you going to do some work?” he asked in an exasperated voice.

“They're after me, Clark,” I said in a flippant manner. “I've been showing Inspector Coleman my last warning.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked almost irritably. “See here, Inspector, if you don't want Miss Byrnes, we are terribly short-staffed tonight. As a matter of fact, I want her to do some monitoring.”

“Am I to step into the dead woman's shoes?” I demanded.

“Please be quiet, Miss Byrnes,” ordered the Inspector sternly. “Your sense of humour is extremely ill-timed at this moment. I am very sorry, Mr. Clarkson, I'll let Miss Byrnes go as soon as possible. Perhaps if Miss Patterson is of any use, we can dispense with her for the time being.”

Clark gave a noncommittal grunt, and held the door wider for Gloria, who made her exit with unflattering haste. We listened to their footsteps receding down the corridor before Inspector Coleman spoke.

“Now, Miss Byrnes,” he said in a persuasive way that fitted him as badly as his suit. “bringing this letter straight to us is the first sensible thing that you have done.” I eyed him apprehensively, wondering what his game was. “I admit that you have been of great material assistance to us. For an amateur, you show remarkable shrewdness. I am sure,” he continued, laying on the blarney with an O.S. in trowels, “that if you could be completely frank with us, you would help us solve the case in no time. Sergeant Matheson tells me that you know the name of at least one anonymous letter-writer amongst your fellow-telephonists. I consider the first step to clearing up this horrible affair is to learn the identity of that person. Now, will you help us?”

‘Poor Dulcie,' I thought. ‘I can't see you in the role of murderess, but here goes.'

“I told Sergeant Matheson this afternoon,” I said distinctly, “that I would not give him the required information until I had, in fairness, consulted with that person concerned, and given her the chance to tell you herself.”

“Her!” exclaimed the Inspector. “Then it is one of the telephonists.”

I nodded. “However,” I continued, “she disclaims all knowledge of the
particular letter to which you are referring. As I am inclined to believe her, seconded by another opinion, do you still want to know her name?”

“Whilst admiring your loyalty,” observed the Inspector gravely, “I think that it would be wisest.”

I took a deep breath. “Dulcie Gordon. She is working from 3.30 p.m. until 10.30 p.m. to-day, if you want her.”

“Gordon?” queried Inspector Coleman, frowning.

“Miss Patterson mentioned her name,” reminded the Sergeant and his superior officer's brow cleared.

“That's right. Her opinion of Miss Gordon's character was not very high. Sly and deceitful, I think Miss Patterson said.”

“Dulcie is not a bit like that,” I assured the Inspector. “You never want to take much notice of Gloria Patterson. In any dealings that I have had with Miss Gordon, I should say that she was a very honest type of girl, and extremely conscientious at her work. You can learn a lot about a person's character by working with them, you know.”

“Quite true,” he agreed. “Tell me, then, your reading of Mr. Scott's.”

I glanced down at my hands as I felt myself flushing a little. “My opinion of Mr. Scott,” I said slowly, “is wholly at variance with the facts he gave you before tea. He is a splendid boss to work for, and one who knows how to get the best from his staff by his fair dealings with us. However, I must be wrong in my former beliefs.”

“Why, Miss Byrnes?”

I looked up straight into those keen eyes. “Because it seems impossible that a man with a private life such as his can be so respected by his employees.”

Inspector Coleman shrugged ever so slightly. “You are what is known as straitlaced, Miss Byrnes. I confess I am inclined to agree with you. In furtherance of our duty, we come up against some very sordid details. Although I most certainly do not condone murder, I should say Sarah Compton was a thoroughly bad woman.”

“I am not too sure,” I disagreed, though not out of my usual perverseness. “At one stage last night, when I was talking to her on the roof—you remember that in my statement—she made me feel almost humble. It was nothing that she said,” I assured him hastily, “but her face changed as if she forgot that I was there. It's absurd to describe it so, but she looked—noble; rather like a tragedy queen, but not a scrap histrionic. I'm sorry to be wasting your time like this giving you my impressions. I don't suppose that they are of any use.”

“Not at all,” he answered politely, but I could see that he was bored stiff. “An accurate insight into the murdered person's character is often a
leading clue to discovering the identity of the killer. Will you tell us again, in your own words, the facts of that meeting with the deceased on the roof of the Exchange building?”

I sighed inaudibly. I had gone over and over every detail connected with Compton in my mind, until I was utterly disheartened and weary. But I repeated my story obediently, and the Inspector listened attentively, now and then interrupting to ask me a question.

“The last time you saw the deceased was at about 9.45 p.m.?”

“I didn't see her,” I corrected yet again.

“No, that's right,” he said hastily, “you heard her; we have the docket that she queried you about, from Mr. Scott. Is that the one?” He handed me a white out-docket. I took it without interest, and returned it to the Inspector after a casual glance.

“That's the one,” I confirmed. “On the back, you will see her numerical signature after the
précis
of the inquiry. Some stupid woman rang up to find out why her call hadn't come through. Although I had told her myself, five minutes previously, that the particular person whom she wanted was out, she needed a monitor to impress it on her. You'd be surprised the number of subscribers who doubt a telephonist's word.”

“Would I?” he asked, with such a gleam of amusement in his eyes that I could guess his thoughts. “On the back, Miss Byrnes,” he continued, turning over the docket, “is a most mysterious code of which neither the Sergeant nor myself can make head or tail.‘9.45 p.ppu 10.30 p. ag D376,' ” he read out.

“That's just our telephonic way of writing that the particular person is unavailable until 10.30 p.m., and is to be tried again. D376 was Compton's signature,” I explained. “We haven't the time nor the space to write it down in full, so some bright person in the Department worked out this code. It's really quite simple, being based on phonetics.” I thought that Inspector Coleman looked a shade disappointed, and wondered if he had expected it to be a last message from Sarah Compton.

“Did you go straight home last night, Miss Byrnes?” he asked suddenly, and continuing to study the docket. I was caught unawares, but managed to conjure up a haughty manner on the instant.

“Really, Inspector, that is my own private affair. I don't think that you have any right to ask such a question. Whether you have or not, I most certainly will not answer it.”

He shrugged again. “As you will,” he replied carelessly, “but it so happens that you went home in a police car, and that we have every right to inquire where it went.”

I bit my lip in vexation. “I suppose there was a dictaphone all set up in
it to record our conversation,” I said sarcastically.

“Quite correct,” he declared, grinning in a brazen fashion.

‘Heavens!' I thought. ‘What did I say in the car last night, and Mac—'

“That's rather low,” I said hotly, “considering that we all have alibis.”

The Inspector seemed apologetic. “Quite an accident, I assure you. Sergeant Matheson only discovered it this morning, when Mr. Clarkson returned the car to Russell Street.”

“He would,” I remarked bitterly, meaning the Sergeant. “I thought such things only happened on the films.”

The Inspector leaned forward confidentially. “As a matter of fact, it was a wireless patrol car, and your conversation went through to Headquarters on the air. They thought that it might prove useful, so it was recorded. Actually there was no dictaphone.”

“I am very relieved to learn the differentiation,” I returned, sarcastically again. “Are we all to be arrested?”

“Not just yet,” I was assured. “There were one or two interesting points, that perhaps you will enlarge upon for us. Tell me,” he continued conversationally, “have you discovered what Miss MacIntyre has on her mind?”

“I don't know what you are talking about,” I said flatly, but avoiding those keen eyes.

“Don't play the simpleton, Miss Byrnes. It is not at all in keeping with your previous evidence of acuteness. Come now, I have asked you a question.”

“And I refuse to answer it.”

The Inspector looked me over speculatively. “One of these days,” he observed, “you will carry your sense of loyalty too far. It is obvious even to the meanest intelligence that Miss MacIntyre is hiding something. We intend to find out what it is.”

I shook my head. “Not from me, anyway. Last night Miss MacIntyre was tired and distraught, as were we all. We don't stumble on to messy corpses half a dozen times a day in the Exchange. Is it any wonder that we were irritable and suspicious with each other? Miss MacIntyre's demeanour is only a result of this unnatural environment.”

“Very well,” answered the Inspector, in a disbelieving fashion. “We will pass over last night for the moment. Let's talk of something else. I believe you had a caller this morning.”

“You know everything,” I said with mock admiration. The party was becoming rough. “As a matter of fact I had two. I suppose my friend Patterson has told you all about it. I hope you found her entertaining.”

“Most illuminating,” he agreed. “What did she want of you?”

I considered his question carefully, before I parried: “What did she tell you?”

“She gave us some confused and slightly mendacious story, how everyone in the Exchange hated Miss Compton except herself, who was her only friend. She even obligingly supplied the names of several persons, including yourself, who would willingly have murdered your late monitor. She further informed us that she called on you this morning to beg you to confess to your crime, and save unnecessary distress among your fellow telephonists.”

“Better than I expected. I thought you'd have fun. Did you get any sense out of her at all?”

“Only that she saw a masked and cloaked figure stealing down the stairs, gun in hand.”

“Heaven spare my days!” I ejaculated. “Do you call that sense? Did she tell you that she saw Sarah Compton alive at about 10.37 p.m. last night?”

That made them sit up with a jolt.

“What!” shouted Inspector Coleman, “Quickly, Sergeant, get this down.”

As Gloria had been telling calumnious tales about me, I felt that I had sufficiently redeemed my promise to her to speak the truth.

“Miss Patterson paid me a visit this morning to get my advice. She said,” and I winced at the memory, “that I was always so sensible. Anyway, she poured forth a tale of woe about being late off, and seeing Compton in the cloakroom, and how she was too scared to tell you in case she would be suspected of having murdered her.”

“Quite right,” interrupted the Inspector grimly. “We would. Go on.”

“That's about all. Except that it sounded rather fishy to me. Patterson was in the cloakroom and as soon as she saw Compton come in, she ducked behind the lockers to avoid her. Sarah had told her that she was to work overtime as she was so late back from relief, and as I know she didn't sign off until 10.35 p.m., I would have thought her conscience was quite clear. But she remained hidden until the coast was clear, when Compton went into the restroom.”

“Did she have to unlock the door,” Inspector Coleman demanded.

“I was expecting that,” I answered resignedly. “I asked exactly the same question, but the fool of a girl couldn't tell me. She was so bent on escaping unseen that she didn't take any notice.”

“All this is very interesting. We have succeeded in limiting the time of the murder to a half an hour. Whoever committed the crime certainly planned it to the last possible moment. A very clever person, and one who must
know the working of the Exchange very intimately. Any suggestions?”

“None,” I replied promptly, crossing my fingers.