Murder in the Telephone Exchange (38 page)

“Unfortunately there is nothing I can do; beyond questioning her as to the reason why she didn't tell us at once that she saw Miss Compton about 10 p.m. going down in the lift. I can't understand why she withheld the knowledge, especially as it was well-known that Miss Compton was not killed before 10.40 p.m. and had been seen by two other people after Miss MacIntyre.”

“I don't understand it either,” I said, troubled.

“I wish that I hadn't frightened her away,” Sergeant Matheson said with a sigh. “Had I felt that I had you on the right side of the law, I would have been willing to depart discreetly and leave her in your capable hands.”

“How do you know that I've joined the hounds for good?” I asked out of mischief.

He held up my little book. “If you haven't, you would not have given me this diary.” Sergeant Matheson was a difficult person to tease. It was not because of any lack of humour on his part. He was so quietly reasonable that he made one's remarks seem superfluous.

“You're right,” I admitted, feeling flat. “I am in this to the end now. At first I didn't care one way or the other, enjoying the adventure of it. But when Dulcie—died, and I heard—someone more or less accuse me of being responsible for her death, I made up my mind either to clear myself by proving that she really did kill Compton, or else find out the identity of the real murderer.”

“And now,” said Sergeant Matheson quietly, “that you realize that you were not the cause of Miss Gordon's suicide, you still want to continue. Why, I wonder?”

“I dunno,” I said, shrugging. “Probably for the fun of it again.”

“I don't think so, Miss Byrnes,” he said, coming to stand beside me. “I think that you are like most decent-living people. You know that Miss Gordon did not murder the monitor, and you want to see fair play done. There is a sense of justice deep inborn in you that demands that you do your share to help the police whatever the cost. I admire you greatly for it,” Sergeant Matheson held out his hand.

I felt myself blushing awkwardly. “Thank you, Sergeant,” I replied
shyly, and we shook hands on an unspoken bargain.

“You're with the law now, my girl,” I told myself. “You can't back out.” I caught Charlotte smiling gently to herself, and said hurriedly: “Go on with the notes.”

“The notes? Yes, of course. Where were we?” The Sergeant frowned at the open page. “Miss MacIntyre is certainly an enigma. Have you any explanation to offer for her behaviour?”

“Only one,” I answered, “and I hope that it is correct. In fact it seems to be the only explanation. Last Wednesday night Mac, not having been as sensitive to the atmosphere as I, received a tremendous shock when she saw Sarah lying dead on the restroom floor. After all she saw her first, while I had time to more or less prepare myself.”

“And yet,” suggested the Sergeant, “you were the one who fainted, not Miss MacIntyre.”

“That doesn't count,” I went on hurriedly. “Fainting is a matter of glands. Anyway, Mac told me later that she was violently ill. To get back to my theory. It sounds a bit like cheek, but I think that Mac is jealous of me; for two reasons. One is quite personal and wouldn't interest the Sergeant in the least.” He flicked through the pages of the diary, his face expressionless. “The other is the notice that the police took of me. Mac wasn't the only one by any means. I might add that I have had to stand up to a considerable amount of baiting. Mac, seeing the fun that I was getting out of the situation that was excluding her for practically the first time, made up her mind to start on her own and beat me to the punch, so to speak. I don't think for one moment that she ever entertained the conviction that poor little Dulcie murdered Compton. In that she scored over me, when I thought that I was being terribly clever. I only discovered to-day that she has been going through those telephonists who worked late on Wednesday night, questioning them. Whatever line she is working on must be somewhere near the truth.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Sergeant Matheson.

“Her room was searched to-day,” I said grimly. I had the doubtful pleasure of seeing his eyes become filled with anxiety. “I went round to her boarding-house this afternoon after Mrs. Bates had told me that Mac had wanted to see me. But she had evidently gone straight from here into town.”

“It might have been a burglar,” suggested my mother hopefully.

I shook my head. “Although the room was in a terrible mess, I don't think that anything was taken. Incidentally, Sergeant, I'm afraid that I did the wrong thing. I tidied up a bit. I didn't want Mac to get a fright when she returned. Does it matter?”

“I suppose not,” he replied, writing again in his own book. “There would have been very little that the local police could have done, providing Miss MacIntyre called them in, which somehow I don't think she would.”

“Mac's playing a dangerous game,” I remarked with a sigh. “I almost wish that I had left her room in the state it was. It might have made her realize what she is up against. Why doesn't she go straight to Inspector Coleman and tell him everything she knows?”

I met the Sergeant's eyes accidentally. They were twinkling merrily. “That is exactly the same sentiment as I have been trying to drum into you for days,” he observed.

I had the grace to blush. “I was a fool,” I admitted. “Wait until I see Mac. I'll persuade her. I think it is most likely that she wanted to tell me her side of the story this afternoon, don't you?”

“I sincerely hope so,” he replied gravely, “and when she does, don't forget your promise, will you?”

“I've learned my lesson,” I answered reassuringly. “Not that I intend to have any further dealings with the police as soon as this affair is cleared up.”

“You are very optimistic,” the Sergeant observed, smiling.

“Certainly,” I replied stoutly. “As soon as we know what Mac has discovered, we'll break the case. Then you'll get promotion, and everything will be marvellous all round. No more mysteries and suspicions.”

“I didn't mean that,” he murmured, making another note with his inevitable blunt pencil.

“I am sure that I have a better one than that,” said my mother, searching in her handbag. “Here, Sergeant.”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Byrnes. I'm rather attached to this pencil. It was the same one I used on my first murder case.”

“It looks like it,” I remarked tartly. “However, talking about pencils brings my wandering attention back to the matter in hand. Suppose you read on, Sergeant.”

“I have been, Miss Byrnes. With your leave, I'll copy one or two points for my own benefit.”

“Go right ahead. What has taken your interest?”

“Only that you say that Miss Patterson knew more about the murder than was printed in the Press.”

“That is correct. She was able to tell me where Compton was found dead when she came to see me here the following morning. I jumped on to it. She got scared immediately.”

“Did she tell you how she knew?”

I shrugged. “Some rigmarole which I didn't swallow about one of the girls ringing her from the Exchange. Bear it in mind until you reach a bit further on, and I bet you'll sit up with a jerk. What comes next?”

“ ‘The anonymous letters!' ”

“This is where I'll take over again,” I said. “I hope I'm not boring you.”

“On the contrary. What have you to say about the anonymous letters?”

My bedroom was growing steadily darker. I leaned over to switch on the bedside light. Somehow the subdued glow did not give such an impression of heat as the ceiling lamps. The light fell on to the Sergeant's hands as he sat near the window, but his head and shoulders remained in a shadow. Outside the north wind had dropped to a hot sigh every now and then, while crickets screeched in Mrs. Bates's garden. I lighted another cigarette and half lay on the bed, leaning back on one elbow with my legs crossed.

“Inspector Coleman gave me three letters to read,” I began. “The first two were written by Irene Patterson. At once I was struck by the name being the same as that of a telephonist who already seemed to be connected with the crime. There was also the similarity between those two early letters and the one that Compton received in the lift. The conclusion that we all came to was that Irene Patterson was somehow connected with the last anonymous note that Compton was to receive. Could it be that she was an employee of the Telephone Department? The writer of that note most certainly was. Working on the theory that Irene Patterson might be an employee, we ask ourselves what relation is she to the telephonist, Gloria Patterson? Is she her mother, which would seem the most likely? Or is she no relation at all? At this point, I am forced much against my inclination to inform you that Gloria has told me that her mother is dead, and her father deserted her many years ago. So that sort of wipes that out, doesn't it? But don't be downcast, as I have another little theory to come to.” I looked at the tip of my cigarette in silence for a few minutes, fighting an inward battle. Presently an impatient sigh from my mother penetrated my consciousness. “Go on with Thursday's notes,” I said curtly to Sergeant Matheson.

As he bent his head, I guessed that he had been gazing at me through the shadows. “ ‘Tea with S.M.' ” he continued.

“You can skip that,” I interrupted, smiling.

He nodded gravely. “ ‘Discovered B. knew of S.C. years ago!' Who is B., Miss Byrnes?”

“The liftman,” I said shortly, “and a gentleman in the truest sense of the word. This is where I strongly regret ever having set eyes on you, Sergeant. But I don't go back on a promise, so I think that it is only fair to give you some facts and ideas about Bill.”

“Maggie is one of those persons who are almost tediously loyal,” said Charlotte, aside to the Sergeant.

“An excellent trait,” he agreed, “but unfortunately, in a case like this, there must be nothing that cannot be unfolded and looked at from all angles. Go on, please, Miss Byrnes, I am getting interested.”

“At last?” I queried, my reluctance making me sarcastic. I retold the story of Bill overhearing the quarrel between Sarah Compton and Irene Patterson, and the theory Mac and I had evolved silently between us that he was Gloria's father, Dan Patterson.

“I was very surprised to learn that he was married and had two children, a boy and,” I paused for a moment, “a girl.” The Sergeant made no comment, so I continued. “Not long afterwards it occurred to me that although we had seen our liftman day after day for many years, not once had I heard his surname. I asked Mac, but she, too, was in ignorance. In fact, I doubt if a dozen persons in the Department would be able to say what it was. He is Bill to all and sundry. Was the daughter he had owned to switching side by side with us? In fact, Gloria? Working on that assumption and knowing what a ghastly little snob she can be, we realized that her obvious disinclination to come into contact with Compton was due to the fact that the latter knew of the relationship. Perhaps Compton was becoming nasty about it, though I fail to see what difference having a liftman as a father would make to the normal person. But Gloria is not normal. She lives in a rosy mist of fabrication. If the identity of her father got around the Exchange, the fact would be too real and prosaic for her to continue her romancings. Perhaps she was afraid of being laughed at. Believe me, Gloria would hate that. She has little or no sense of humour. My theory is that she appealed to Bill to stop Sarah and that he tried to do so through the medium of an anonymous letter. That is, the one thrown down into the lift on Wednesday night.

“Now we come to the matter of yet another anonymous letter. This time it was sent to me, and I took it to the police at once. It was a most unoriginal note. The only interesting thing about it was that it was written in an ordinary pencil, not an indelible one. You remember me asking you that, Sergeant?”

“As a matter of fact, we wondered what you had in mind,” he confessed. “Even Inspector Coleman hadn't observed that the first letter was in indelible writing.”

“This is what I was getting at. That note must have been written and put in my locker between the time I found that pencil during tea on Thursday, and when I came down from the roof to collect my headset prior to going on duty. I discovered Bill eavesdropping on my conversation
with Dulcie Gordon about the practice of writing unsigned letters. He knew I was becoming curious and wanted to stop me before I learned too much Having lost his indelible pencil crawling under the kitchen counter to hear what I was saying he had to use an ordinary one. I showed it to Bill yesterday, but he disclaimed all ownership, his manner abrupt and totally different from usual. I let the matter drop as I considered then that it was pretty conclusive that Dulcie Gordon was guilty. Either she had written the anonymous letters or else they had nothing whatsoever to do with the case. Whichever way suited me as I was fast losing interest until, as I have said, I overheard something,” I paused to press out my cigarette.

My mother remarked with the air of one making a great discovery: “Darling, I have never known you to speak at such length before.”

I laughed. “Sorry if I've been holding forth too much. Shall I shut up, Sergeant? Those notes of mine should be fairly explicit. “