Murder in the Telephone Exchange (36 page)

“Thanks, I will. Are you going to the dance to-night?”

“Rather! The room looks good, doesn't it?”

“Marvellous. Where's Mills? Oh, I see her. I gather that I have your permission to speak to one of your telephonists?”

“Go right ahead,” she said generously.

I strolled over to the country boards, and had to wait as the telephonist cross-switched several stations on to the one caller. I heard a metallic voice
give the last result before Mills closed her key.

“Flat out?” I asked sympathetically. She unscrewed the mouthpiece of her outfit and shook it free of moisture. The ebonite was sweating from her breath.

“These fixed calls,” Mills remarked with disgust. “One minute you're all nice and relaxed dreaming of the frock you're going to wear to-night, and the next you're doing three girls' work.”

“Rotten,” I agreed. “I believe that Mac came in this afternoon to see you. Do you know where she has gone?”

“Home, I suppose. Did you want her?”

“Not particularly,” I replied carelessly. “But what did she want of you?”

“Just a yarn. I was on the 10.30 p.m. staff the fateful night, you know. In fact I just missed the fun.”

“You're not on Patterson's rota, are you?”

“No, but I had changed that night. Mac was interested in my impressions of that evening. She said that she was going round all the girls who worked that night.”

“Really,” I said, playing idly with the keys on the adjacent board. “What's got into Mac?”

“She's thinking of compiling her memoirs,” Mills laughed. “Don't fiddle, Maggie. You've already flashed the monitor's light twice, and I'm damned if I want Miss Lord over here again.”

“She's a friend of mine,” I said with a grin.

“Oh gosh, is she? Go away, Maggie. These calls are to come off. I don't like senior telephonists watching me work.”

“You're quite a good switcher if you keep your head,” I said kindly, getting up. She put out her tongue at me as she readjusted her mouthpiece. So Mac was writing an autobiography! That was interesting! What a rotten actress she was. I was sure I could have thought up a better one than that, and yet Mills seemed to have found her excuse plausible enough. How was she to question Mac's activities; not having known her for as long as I, and only being an outside figure in the recent drama. Mac was up to the same game as myself; of that I was convinced. I felt a sudden thrill as I thought of what we might be able to accomplish between us in helping to clear Dulcie Gordon. It was a nuisance that Mrs. Bates had interfered that afternoon. We could have got together to discuss ways and means, and resumed our old friendly footing. I hated the break that had occurred between us. Mac had been my friend for too many years to terminate our companionship so abruptly without leaving a nasty wound.

‘I'll give her a ring when I get home,' I said to myself, ‘and find out
what's to do. I wonder if she'll notice about her room?'

The west end of the city was practically deserted, but as I passed the Block, people started to swarm out of the group of picture theatres on the eastern hill. They were too far away to worry me so I kept on walking, thinking hard as I went. As I had told Dan Mitchell, facts were jumbled up in my head. The best thing I could do would be to retire to some quiet spot and take a pencil and paper to the problems.

I strolled leisurely out of town across the bridge, unmindful of my sandalled feet until it was too late to take a tram as I was nearing my objective. I found a secluded seat on the bank of the lake and sat down to concentrate. The sinking sun blazed full in my face, and I narrowed my eyes against the glare to watch the tacking yachts. To and fro they skimmed in line across the narrow stretch of water handled for the most part by male enthusiasts clad in trunks. I followed them idly for some time, wondering what there was in sailing that makes people so keen. I had been once, and had spent the whole time trying to keep dry and dodging the jib.

My mind darted from one thing to another and finally settled on my latest speculation, to which one of the decorators of the dormitory had all unknowingly given me the clue. It opened up tremendous possibilities. I kicked myself mentally for not having thought of it before. I stayed there brooding, now and then making some note in my little engagement book. Presently I became conscious of the sun nearing the horizon, and the tight, dry feeling of my skin warned me that I was in for a dose of sunburn. It was a stupid thing to sit full in the blaze, but I had been so wrapped up in my thoughts that I had not heeded. A quick glance at my hand-mirror corroborated my belief. Comforting myself with the reflection that I might be able to tone down the colour of my skin to at least magenta with powder. I slipped my book back into my handbag and got up.

However, it must have been worse than I knew. As I entered my mother's room and found her dressing for dinner, she let out a small shriek: “Maggie, your skin!”

“You're always passing some remark about my face,” I reproached her, walking over to the bureau mirror to scan it more closely. “It's not so bad,” I said hopefully.

“Where have you been to get so burnt?” she asked, picking up a pot of cold cream and turning my head around to her with one hand.

“In the sun. I went down to the lake for a walk. How did the basketball go?”

Charlotte frowned as she dabbed cream on the tip of my nose. “Most uninteresting, darling,” she confessed, “but your friend, the Sergeant, seemed to be wildly excited at times. Hold your head up.”

I did so obediently. “Haven't you put enough on? Dinner will be ready soon, and I'm not dressed. I take it that your long skirt is not for Mrs. Bates's sake?”

“Will I look odd?” she asked, lifting the black lace a trifle. “I had to change when I came in, so I thought that I may as well get ready for tonight. What time do we get to the Exchange?”

“Any time,” I shrugged. “It all depends on when Sergeant Matheson calls. I hope you remembered to ask him.”

“I think so,” answered my mother vaguely. “Anyway, he's in the lounge-room now. You can see him at dinner.”

“I didn't tell you to ask him to dinner,” I said, feeling cross. “I only wanted to see him professionally. You're making it a social turn.”

Charlotte wound up her watch carefully before putting it on. “I'm sorry, darling, but I had to do something to repay him for the outing. I think the poor boy wanted to stay. Do you dislike him that much?”

“No,” I shouted, “but he's a married man. What would the Old Man say if he knew that you were running around with policemen?”

A dimple appeared in one cheek as she replied: “I don't think he'd mind just this once. Can I come and watch you dress?”

“No. Go and entertain your boy friend. I won't be long.”

“But, Maggie,” she protested. “I've been talking to him all day. He doesn't think that poor child killed that horrid woman either.”

I turned back quickly. Charlotte had the habit of wrapping up gems of information in thick layers of superfluous remarks.

“Doesn't he? Charlotte! You're marvellous. How did you persuade him?”

“I told him that you were convinced that the police were wrong,” she said flatly.

“He must think I'm a cocky person,” I interrupted. “Go on.”

“Why should he?” demanded my mother on the instant. I smiled at her lovingly. “I told him everything you told me, that's all. But he seemed to lose interest in the basketball all at once, for which I was very grateful. Such a limited game, darling. Not enough room to run about. He started asking me a whole lot of questions. That was when I remembered to ask him to call.”

“I'll go and get dressed at once. I want a nice, long talk with Sergeant Matheson. Does Mrs. Bates know that we have a guest for dinner?”

“Two guests,” she corrected. I turned back from the door in surprise.

“Who? Oh, I see, you mean yourself.”

“Indeed, I don't,” said my mother placidly. “Your little friend is coming—”

“Do you mean Mac?” I demanded. “When did you see her'?”

“She was waiting in the lounge for you when I got home. As I didn't know where you'd got to, I told her that she would be certain to catch you at dinner time.”

“That's wonderful!” I said heartily. “Mac wanted to see me this afternoon, but Mrs. Bates wouldn't let her waken me. She thought she was doing the decent thing, of course, but it meant that I've been chasing Mac all this afternoon, even to the extent of going into town to the Exchange. We'll form a big four after we've eaten and get down to business. We ought to be able to do something between the lot of us.”

“She said she was on duty at seven,” my mother interrupted warningly. “It won't give her much time to be in on the discussion.”

“Time enough. Gosh, but I'm glad Mac has come around. We'd had a bit of a row. Things haven't been quite the same between us the last few days.”

I just had time to slip into a long dress of flowered cotton before Mrs. Bates's one maid walked up and down the hail playing tunes on the gong. I walked slowly down the narrow stairs, happy in the knowledge that I was looking my best. Sergeant Matheson, who was standing with his back to me at the foot of the stairs and talking to my mother, swung round quickly. There is nothing like a staircase for making a good entry.

“Very nice, darling,” said Charlotte approvingly. “Don't you think so, Sergeant?” He reddened a little, but the admiration was blatant in his eyes. I felt a glow of satisfaction.

“Hullo,” I said coolly, joining them. “Who won the match?”

“Varsity,” he replied, staring at a point over my head in an irritating fashion. Was he as shy with his wife, or didn't she like him admiring other women? “They deserved to win. They were the better team.”

“Were they, Charlotte?” I asked teasingly.

“What, darling? Oh, yes, indeed. It was most thrilling. You must take Maggie next time, Sergeant.”

“I'm pretty booked up for the next few weekends,” I said hurriedly, throwing my mother a baleful glance. “Hasn't Mac arrived?”

“We were waiting for her. Does she live far away?”

“Just round the corner. I'll give her a ring and see if she's left. You two go in to dinner and start.”

I knew Mac's telephone number so well that the dial practically spun itself. In spite of our proximity, we were forever ringing each other up under the slightest pretext. As I waited to be switched through to Mac's room, I recalled an occasion when she had told me a joke on duty one night. The full strength of it didn't strike me until many hours later, when I
sat up in bed and laughed until I was sick. I crept down the stairs and gave Mac a ring to tell her that I had seen it. My reminiscences were cut short as a familiar voice spoke in my ear.

“It's Maggie,” I said heartily, trying to disguise a feeling of embarrassment and thus making it worse. “Dinner's waiting. How long will you be?”

There was a short silence. Then Mac's voice said in a strained fashion: “I can't come, Maggie. I'm sorry.”

“Why on earth not?” I asked with rising impatience. “You're behaving in the most extraordinary fashion. At first you're frightfully anxious to see me, and now you won't walk one block when I'm waiting for you.”

“I'm sorry, Maggie,” she repeated in a low voice, “but I don't feel well.”

I felt justifiably incensed and tried to swallow my annoyance. “It's all right,” I replied gruffly. “Will you be at the dance to-night? Perhaps we can have a talk then.”

“I'll probably see you then. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” I echoed, replacing the receiver and staring at it as though it might be able to explain the mystery of Mac's sudden change of front. I shrugged my shoulders helplessly. She was really the most exasperating person I had ever known; although I had to admit that her vagaries were of a recent vintage.

“Will she be long?” asked my mother.

“She's not coming,” I said shortly. “Yes, soup, please, Betty. She is feeling sick. She may see me to-night.”

Sergeant Matheson cut his bread into neat cubes. “Miss MacIntyre is still behaving in a peculiar fashion then?” he asked casually. I shot him a quick, speculative look. If he was convinced of Dulcie Gordon's innocence, and, although not wishing to detract from Charlotte's persuasive powers, the thought must have been there before she told him my side of the story, just how much was he dining with us officially and how much socially? I gave the matter a little thought under cover of seasoning my broth.

“Miss MacIntyre's behaviour,” I said distinctly, emulating his style with a slice of bread and dropping the blocks into the liquid, “has been for the last few days, from last Wednesday evening to be accurate, questionable to say the least. But suppose we enjoy Mrs. Bates's excellent cooking before we take other people's characters away.”