Murder in the Telephone Exchange (22 page)

“I can't remember,” I answered hesitantly. “Mr. Clarkson may be able to tell you. Why are you so interested in it?”

“You are here to answer questions, not to ask them,” he returned coldly. “However, to satisfy your curiosity, I will tell you that we are concerned with all heavy instruments, especially ones that are missing.” He turned on his heel and left me.

I felt myself go cold, as I stood in the middle of the room staring after the two police officers. They approached Clark again, and I watched them go through the drawers of the Senior Traffic Officer's desk with him. I had forgotten that the weapon that had killed Compton was still undiscovered. I had no doubt of the significance of the Inspector's words. What a perfect instrument with which to batter anyone to death! Whether they found it in Bertie's locker or not, things would look very black for him. They had only to compare the aspect of the wounds on Sarah's head with a similar buttinsky from the power room to satisfy any doubt that they may have had as to the nature of the weapon. Around me telephonists were going off duty, and I felt vaguely annoyed as I caught their curious glances in my direction. But I stayed where I was, my mind in a whirl of confused facts and speculations, until a hand touched my arm.

John Clarkson's voice said sharply in my ear: “Maggie, what on earth are you day-dreaming about? Get your outfit quickly, and let those 10.30 p.m. girls go.”

“Is it time already?” I asked confusedly. The night seemed to have flown. “Clark,” I whispered, “they know what was used to kill Sarah.” He nodded. His face was pale and grim as it had been last night.

“Get to work, Maggie,” he said gently, “and forget it.”

I adjusted my telephone, mechanically taking a reef in the strap that held the mouthpiece, and went blindly to the Interstate positions. I listened in a faraway fashion as the telephonists gave me last-minute instructions. They made no comment when I was compelled to ask them to repeat themselves. They seemed to sense that something important had turned up,
and left quietly to sign off in the time-book near the door.

Only Dulcie Gordon whispered urgently in my car: “Maggie, I've got to see you. I'll wait for you in the restroom.”

“No,” I said. “Not there. Get downstairs to the front door. I'll be out as soon as I can.” She nodded, and I began to pick up the lights in the panel.

I worked automatically that night, my fingers fumbling with the keys awkwardly. I tried to remember later if the lines had been busy, but as no reports from irate telephonists and subscribers came to my notice the next day with “please explain” attached. I concluded that the traffic must have been easier than usual. It may have been hours or it may have been minutes before an amused voice penetrated my consciousness, and the telephonist with whom I was booking in Adelaide was cut off. One of the all-night girls had pulled my plug from the board. She handed it to me with a mock bow.

“Don't you want to go home to-night, Maggie?” she inquired laughingly. “You can work my shift if you like.”

“What?” I said, startled. I glanced up at the clock. “Oh, am I being relieved? Sorry! I was in a trance. Thanks, Nelson.” I slipped from my chair. “I don't know where anything is, so don't ask me.”

The all-night telephonist gave me a shrewd look. “You must have been in the wars to-day, Maggie, You're all in.”

“I certainly am,” I agreed fervently. “Good switching.”

“Sleep well,” she returned. I went down to the time-book and scrawled my name. Mac stood at my elbow as I was bending over the book, and I dipped the pen into the ink and gave it to her.

“Are you starting your week of all-nights to-morrow?” she asked as we climbed the stairs.

“So far. Bertie said that I was not to change with Patterson. In fact, he said that there were to be no more changes until further notice.”

“Why, I wonder,” Mac asked, pausing, with a foot on one step.

I shrugged indifferently. “Some new bee in his bonnet. He is the most inconsistent person I know.”

“Why, Maggie!” Mac exclaimed in surprise. She knew I regarded Bertie highly.

“He is,” I said fiercely, running up the stairs, “and I'd rather not talk about him, please.”

She laughed a little at my tone. “Why are you so cross, old girl?”

“I'm sick to death of all the subterfuge going on,” I said distinctly. “I don't think you're playing fair with me either, Mac. Why did you want to get rid of me when the Inspector spoke to you?”

“I didn't,” she protested. “Really and truly, I didn't.”

“Well. what did you tell him that made him look so smug?”

As we turned into the cloakroom, Mac answered in a low voice: “Only that I saw Sarah Compton when I was on relief last night.”

I jammed my key into my locker with unnecessary force. “Is that all,” I remarked with exasperation. “I thought you wanted to keep it a dark secret.”

“I might retaliate,” said Mac's calm voice from the other side of the lockers. “Where did you get to to-night? You said that you were only going back for your telephone, and it was after 8.30 p.m. by the time you entered the trunkroom.”

“I was talking to Inspector Coleman,” I answered shortly, making up my mind to say no more.

Mac came round to my side and gently put a hand on my arm. “Maggie,” she said. I continued to rummage in my locker with unnecessary vigour. “We sound like a couple of cats spitting at each other,” she remarked whimsically.

I looked down into her fine eyes. They were shadowed still, and so full of sadness that my heart smote me. “Sorry,” I apologized gruffly. “I don't know what's got into me to-night. So many things have been happening. Forget it, please.”

She hesitated, and then said: “Will you do me a favour, Maggie?”

“Certainly,” I replied in amazement. Mac was a most independent person as a rule.

“May I spend the night with you?”

“Why, of course. That's no favour.”

“Isn't it?” she queried with a twist of her lips that was no smile. She looked me straight in the eyes again. “Maggie, I—I'm scared stiff.” I could feel her trembling, and put out a hand to steady her for a minute.

“Come on, Mac,” I said quickly. “Let's get out of here. I promise you that I won't worry you with questions.”

“Thanks,” she returned, and I fancied that her voice too was not quite steady. Not having seen Mac in such a state of jitters before, I felt all the more concerned. She was not merely shaken as were we all as a direct result of the staggering event that had taken place, namely the murder of a monitor in the restroom of the Telephone Exchange; she was terrified to the very core of her being. Some fearful thing was preying on her mind. Unless that something was removed and removed immediately, I felt afraid that her whole mental balance would be affected.

I forgot my own sensibilities as we went down in the lift, so urgent was my desire to hurry her away from the Exchange and its new and sinister atmosphere.

But I couldn't resist telling her about the missing telephone.

“I think the police have found the weapon that killed Sarah. Or at least that they know what was used. Bertie's buttinsky!”

Mac's dark eyes kindled with fresh horror. She raised both hands to press against her cheeks.

“No, no,” she whispered. “How horrible! Poor Sarah.”

It was the first regretful remark I had heard uttered since Compton was murdered. For once I forbore any comment that I might have made about Sarah having had it coming to her for a long time in order to spare Mac's feelings.

“Do they think Bertie—” she began in a low voice.

“Yes,” I cut in hardly. “He'll have to do a lot of explaining to-morrow. Think well, Mac; do you recall seeing his buttinsky at all yesterday?”

She drew her brows together. “I couldn't be certain. It's the sort of thing one sees lying around, but does not take in. Consciously, I mean. But I am sure that he used it yesterday afternoon. Since when has it been missing?”

“I don't know,” I replied, as I slid open the lift doors and got out as quickly as I could. “I remember that Clark used a spare telephone set when he was helping me last night. It must have been missing before that. Don't worry about it now. We'll hear all about it in the morning. Anyway, that's Bertie's pigeon. Let's run, and we'll catch that earlier train.”

We set off at a jog-trot down the passage to the Exchange entrance. My unintelligent friend, Ormond, was on duty again, a cup of tea and a doorstep of a sandwich in either hand. We bade him a brief “Good night” and went down the stone steps carefully, as the light was practically nil.

“Maggie,” called a voice out of the darkness.

“Oh blast!” I muttered, “I'd forgotten all about you.” It was Dulcie Gordon. She had waited for half an hour to see me.

“Yes, what is it?” I asked impatiently. “If you're coming with us, you'll have to run because we're after an earlier train.”

Under the shaded corner light, I saw Gordon's face was as pale as paper. I thought quickly. She was only a kid and she too was terrified. She must have wanted to see me particularly to wait all that time.

“Here, Mac,” I said, opening my scarlet leather handbag, “take the front door key, and get home to bed. I'll catch a later train.”

Mac took the key without comment. I watched her slight figure disappear down the street.

“I'm on all-night to-morrow,” I said resignedly, “so this may as well be a dress rehearsal. Can you swallow a milk shake, Gordon?”

She nodded and shrank close to my side as we proceeded down the dark street. Half-way down town I led her to a neat little milk-bar, a regular
haunt for telephonists because of its proximity to the railway station.

“Now,” I said briskly, having found a secluded corner and ordered two drinks. “What's the worry, Gordon?”

She glanced around the brilliantly-lit room with what I considered unnecessary nervousness.

“Maggie,” she whispered, leaning forward over the table between us, “I didn't write that letter.”

“So you've told me before,” I observed irritably, lighting a cigarette. “Try not to repeat yourself. It wastes time. Or is that all you want to say?”

She shook her head, and made no other answer as the attendant planked two foaming glasses on the table with that scornful air which seems part and parcel of most waitresses. I caught the straw in my mouth and drank eagerly. Gordon watched the froth of her milk-shake blow out in tiny bubbles, as though fascinated by the procedure.

I glanced at my watch, and sighed ostentatiously.

“Maggie,” she began, and I wished that she wouldn't call me by name quite so frequently. I was the only one with her, so that too seemed unnecessary.

“Dulcie!” I aped her. She appeared to take no notice, and turned her glass round and round on the table.

“Choke it down,” I advised, taking a strong line, “and get on with your story.”

CHAPTER V

It was a tragic enough little story, and one that in no way impaired my original animosity towards Sarah Compton. Rather than manufacturing some respect for Compton now that she was dead, I found myself disliking her the more.

A few years previously Dulcie Gordon had been the telephonist at one of our smaller country towns, when Sarah Compton had come into contact with her. The latter was then acting in a temporary capacity as a travelling supervisor—special officers of the Department who moved all over the state for the purpose of checking up on the local switching and handing out up-to-date operational instructions. She took a fancy to Dulcie and suggested her coming to town.

Gordon's people were pleased with the idea. They thought what a charming woman Compton was to take such an interest in their girl. Furthermore, Sarah had promised to take Dulcie under her wing, and to
find her a nice home where she could board. Finally Dulcie was persuaded against her will, because she was quite content to stay where she was, to put in an application for employment at Trunks. With a supervisor's influence and recommendation, it didn't take long for her transfer to be effected. After several bucolic farewell parties, Gordon came to the big city, metaphorically holding her benefactress's hand.

It was then that she received a rude shock. But not until Compton had let her one of the rooms in her dismal house, and made her sign a long term lease. It did not take her long to realize what type of woman the charming travelling supervisor was.

“She even used to read my mail,” Dulcie said, “saying as an excuse that she had promised my mother that she would be very careful of the company I kept.”

“Why didn't you write and tell your people?”

“Oh, I couldn't,” she replied pitifully. “You see, they thought that everything was just right for me, and what a lucky girl I was. I didn't want to worry them; especially as the crops had been so bad and they were having a hard struggle.”