Murder in the Telephone Exchange (31 page)

Her tongue passed over her lips, and I had to strain my ears to catch her low reply: “That was my mother's name.”

“Was?” I inquired awkwardly. “Do you mean that she's dead?” Gloria bent her head as she nodded. I felt an odd mixture of disappointment and excitement. So Irene was Gloria's mother after all.

“Have you a father?” I asked her quickly.

“Yes. Yes, of course. Why do you ask?” she stammered.

I felt a new exultation as I observed her embarrassment. “What does he do?”

“What business is it of yours?” Gloria asked furiously. “If you really must know, my parents separated many years ago. I live with my aunt. I haven't seen my father for years.”

“But you'd know him if you saw him, wouldn't you?”

“I suppose so,” she replied uncertainly.

“You don't happen to know our liftman's name, do you?” I asked, having decided on a
volte-face
. Again I saw the blood pound under her fair skin.

“No, I do not,” she answered shortly. “Nor am I interested.”

“But I am,” I said, pressing the attack, “keenly interested. Perhaps if I suggest that the person you saw in the corridor was the liftman, Bill, it might help jog your memory.”

Gloria got up from her chair to wander about restlessly and also to hide her tell-tale fair skin from my never-flagging scrutiny. She did not dare make a dash for it through the door. I must have her more under my thumb than I knew.

“Well?” I inquired, almost loath to do so. “Was it Bill?”

She turned around and looked at me in a peculiar manner. I was unable to analyse that look. “Yes. It was Bill.”

I covered my eyes with one hand. This was almost as bad as proving Dulcie Gordon had killed Compton, a choice of two evils. I felt a strong desire to tell Gloria to forget all I had asked her. I wanted to go and hide myself far away and forget the whole business. I glanced up and caught that odd expression in her eyes again. I remembered her indirect accusation in the trunkroom uttered only a little time ago, and my will grew firm. If I wanted any peace for the rest of my life, I had to rid myself of the responsibility of Dulcie's death, no matter who was the scapegoat.

“Sit down, Gloria. You're as bad as Bertie for fidgeting. We come now to another matter which concerns me very much. On what grounds did you make that remark that Mac was getting fed up?”

“I don't blame her,” Gloria said viciously. “You're becoming as interfering as—”

“I know,” I interrupted. “Our late monitor. Already two people have pointed that out to me. I am getting just a little tired of the comparison. You haven't answered my question.”

“She told me,” Gloria replied with a malicious spark in her eyes.

“I don't believe you,” I exclaimed, sitting up swiftly. Mac, Mac, was that what our friendship had come to? As Gloria shrugged, I asked: “When did she tell you?”

“We had lunch together in town.”

“You had lunch together,” I repeated in amazement. “Don't tell me
Mac made an appointment to meet you!”

“Why not?” she asked, stung. “I am just as much a friend of hers as you are.”

“It's the first I've heard of it,” I answered, giving up. “Go on. What else did Mac say?”

“She rang me up this morning. She wanted to see me, so I suggested we meet at the ‘Blue Wren.' ”

“I knew it. Who paid for the lunch?”

“Gerda did. She insisted so you needn't look like that. As a matter of fact, I didn't have any change,” Gloria paused, evidently expecting some comment. I merely nodded for her to continue.

“Well, that's all,” she said lamely. “Gerda just wanted to hear about what I did on Wednesday night. She said that she might be able to help me.”

“And did she?”

“No, not exactly. But she was kind and more understanding than you were. She told me to stop worrying, and to forget all about the murder. You've no idea what I've been through. I've always been sensitive, and then Sarah going like she did!”

“Going where?” I demanded, busy with my own thoughts.

“Stop trying to be funny,” she snapped. “You know quite well what I mean.”

“And you stop trying to make out that you and Sarah were bosom friends,” I retaliated. “It doesn't go down with anyone, and only puts you in a very bad light. You'll find that advice quite as good as Mac's.”

“It's easy to see that you're jealous,” Gloria sneered, as she rose to her feet. “I'm going back to the trunkroom, and don't you try to stop me.”

“I don't want to now. You may go with my blessing. Tell Mr. Clarkson that I'm going to have a sleep for an hour, will you?”

“Give your own messages,” she snapped, flouncing out of the room.

* * * * *

I lay full length on the lounge and pulled a cushion behind my head, not to relax waiting for sleep to overcome my senses, but to reflect on what I had learned from Gloria. That damned blind started to flap in the rising wind. I hauled myself up to go and shut the window, which overlooked the dump-yard where Bertie's buttinsky had been found.

This building up a case against a person or persons unknown to vindicate Dulcie Gordon was harder than I had expected. I sighed despondently. As soon as I jumped on to one interesting point, all the other
questionable happenings left my mind. It was difficult trying to blend them all together. One fact would jerk up in my mind, and make the others fade into insignificance.

“I'll start all over again, and run through the main figures as I did this morning,” I said aloud, finding a companionable flying beetle to talk to, instead of the fly I had confided in before. “Though I don't know how long I am going to stand your stupid buzzing,” I warned it. I decided to turn off the restroom light to stop the irritating noise. The subdued glow from the cloakroom drew its attention, and I lay down on the lounge once more. I often wondered later why I wasn't nervous lying there alone in the dark room where Compton's bloody body had been found. l suppose it was because I did not realize then what a danger I was to the killer's safety. If I had, I would promptly have taken myself as far from the Exchange as possible. But there were too many disconnected pieces of information running around in my mind to give me time to think of myself. All I wanted to do was to put them together and make one whole picture, so that I could go to Inspector Coleman in the morning and beg them to reopen the case.

Mac's piquant face came before my mental vision so vividly that I wondered for a moment if I had fallen asleep, and was dreaming. There seemed no reason why I should think of her suddenly. I tried to analyse the disturbed feeling that her name gave me. What was it that Gloria had said lightly, but with malicious intent? That I was jealous? Perhaps she was right in that assertion; not because of Mac's abrupt appreciation of Gloria, but the fear that she would get in before me with her own amateur inquiries. I felt a sense of possession in regard to the whole affair, that was as foolish as it was absurd. After all, Mac had been in on practically every happening since Wednesday night. She had every right to pursue her own line of detecting. The kindly attention, which Mac had shown Gloria when she had taken her to lunch that day, was not due to a sudden liking for Gloria's company, but a means by which she might tactfully discover what Gloria was so obviously hiding. I wondered if she had found out why our blonde friend was so anxious to avoid meeting Sarah on Wednesday night.

Mac must have got what she wanted, because of the way in which she told Gloria to forget all about the nasty business. I resolved to see Mac the next day, and lay my cards on the table so that we could work together. Perhaps in that way we might resume the old footing of frank camaraderie and break down the barrier which, in all justice, had been most of Mac's making.

Then there was John Clarkson to remember. It was obvious that he was as dissatisfied with the police decision as I. Certainly he seemed reluctant
to commit himself further. That was all very well for him, but he didn't have the awful dread of wondering if he were responsible for the suicide of poor Dulcie. I knew my Exchange and fellow-telephonists too well not to realize that, although the majority would recognize Gloria's accusation as a product of her nasty temperament, the rumour would swell and enlarge into an ominous size. It would take some drastic move to destroy the rumour. As far as I could see, that move had to be made on my part, and as quickly as possible. It was a choice between my own peace of mind and leaving things as they stood, or trying to construct a case against someone else. Perhaps I was selfish in choosing the latter course, but I knew now that nothing I could have done would have altered the turn of events.

I closed my eyes as my head started to ache from intense concentration. It was dark and still in the restroom. Only the distant thud-thud from the power-room kept me conscious of my surroundings. I jerked my head up from my chest to which it had fallen, and let it rest against the side of the couch. I must have fallen asleep, but I did not realize it at the time. I certainly did not hear anyone switch off the cloakroom light and come creeping into the restroom. But my muscles were still tense and unrelaxed when I heard the telephone across the room click as the receiver was lifted. The dial was spun round softly.

I stared wide-eyed in the darkness searching for the door to the cloakroom, not daring to move. My breath came quickly and my heart pounded against my ribs. I was so silent that I could hear the faint burr-burr of the 'phone ringing. It stopped as a voice crackled metallically for a few seconds, and then the click was repeated as the receiver went back into place. Whoever had dialled out on the restroom telephone in the pitch-black darkness had not uttered a word. The caller had merely listened to the person at the other end of the line, and then glided out as quietly as before.

I longed for the courage to call out but dared not. I waited for minutes to pass before I was game enough to put one foot to the floor. My heart still thumped sickeningly, and I counted up seconds to three minutes.

‘I'll get up then,' l told myself firmly. ‘I'll walk straight over to the door and switch on the light.' But I was coward enough to allow another sixty seconds to pass before I slid carefully from the couch and felt around the wall, ready to make a dash if the need arose. The room flooded with light under my hand. I blinked rapidly, trying to change my focus. The pedestal telephone stood in its corner quietly, and I tried to visualize a hand spinning the dial around softly. As I stared at it in fascination. my heart began to slow down to its normal tempo. My panting breath had left me parched. Taking one last look around the room, I switched off the
light again and walked rather unsteadily through the cloakroom to the lunchroom opposite to get a drink of water.

I forced myself to drink slowly between deep breaths, and felt much better after doing so. As I was draining the glass, an idea occurred to me. I put down the tumbler quickly, and dashed out of the lunchroom and along the corridor to the lift. It was waiting for me at the eighth floor. I paused for a brief moment then shrugging hopefully, I locked myself in and pressed the button for the first floor. As the lift started on its descent with a jerk, I clung on to Bill's empty chair, staking my faith in the law of averages. I had come through another harrowing experience in the restroom unharmed, so surely my solitary journey in the lift would be unmarked by any further disturbances. Four, three, two, and as the lift came gently to rest, I pulled at the doors hurriedly and jumped on to the solid concrete of the first floor.

The landing was the replica of the other floors; the stairs curving away to the left and a glass door on the right. There, the power could be heard more clearly, and as I opened the door the occasional click of dial feelers in the automatic boxes came to my ears. The long room was lined with grey-painted apparatus, and was as close as an oven. Someone was whistling cheerily at the far end. I made my way down the room, calm once more within the sound of that unconcerned whistle. In one corner, I found the all-night mechanic plaiting multi-coloured wires that billowed from the insides of the structure. He looked up from his work, startled, and the whistle died away in a long breath.

“I thought you were a ghost,” he said, grinning, “but I see now that you're an angel. Have you come to keep me company in the long hours before dawn?”

“I was always taught that angels were beautiful spirits,” I retorted.

He shook his curly head. He was only a youngster of twenty or thereabouts. I had got to know him slightly when he had mended my telephone.

“You're wrong, lady. Anyone in skirts looks pretty good to me when I'm stuck amongst all this stuff.” He waved his hand indicating the apparatus, and arose from his squatting position, pulling his mechanic's dustcoat into place. The whirr of a dial feeler reminded me of the need for haste.

“I want you to show me where a certain telephone is,” I said hurriedly. “It's frightfully important, so just lead me to it, and don't ask questions. I'll explain in a minute.”

“What's the number?” he asked, looking surprised.

“M—” I stopped short. Heavens! I had forgotten it in the stress of the moment. “The telephonists' 'phone up on the eighth floor.”