Murder in the Telephone Exchange (39 page)

“No, please go on, Miss Byrnes. I find your impressions most interesting.”

“All right. Tell me when you're getting bored. Where was I?”

“Eavesdropping,” said Charlotte.

“Indeed I wasn't,” I protested indignantly. “The remark was made for my ears but the speaker, one Gloria Patterson, lacked the guts to accuse me face to face. Perhaps you can guess what it was.”

“What a nasty, spiteful girl!” said my mother sharply.

“I see that you've caught on,” I observed, shrugging. “Yes, she gave out the opinion that I had forced Dulcie Gordon to her death. If I had known then of the threatening letter that Dulcie had sent to Compton, I wouldn't have worried, I would have put the remark down to sheer spite. It is just as well that I didn't know, otherwise this little meeting wouldn't be taking place.”

“I don't think that you would have stayed satisfied with our decision,” Sergeant Matheson said.

“Perhaps not,” I agreed. “If you don't mind me saying so, it was a wobbly sort of solution. There seemed to be a lot of gaps; those letters, Bertie, and—Mac. It would have been better if those had been cleared up too. On the other hand, I doubt if my entry in this case will make much difference. You too were not satisfied, and I know of another.”

“Who is that, Miss Byrnes?”

“Mr. Clarkson,” I replied, busying myself with a hand mirror and comb. “Though he didn't admit it in so many words.”

“How on earth—” began the Sergeant.

“Maggie just knows,” interrupted my mother. “Haven't you ever heard of a woman's instinct, Sergeant?”

“I have,” he replied grimly.

“Don't deride it,” I warned him, wondering if his wife possessed one. “I am working purely on intuition.”

“Gloria!” said my mother patiently. I glanced at her in surprise.

“Oh, I see,” I said, light dawning. “It's your fault anyway—sidetracking. But we'll leave Gloria for the moment as I have a little piece to work in about her and I want to achieve a dramatic effect. What else have I got down under Thursday?”

“ ‘Night guard sees Bertie enter Exchange about 10 p.m.'

I turned to my mother, grinning. “Forget your sensibilities, Charlotte. Your daughter is about to deal with some sordid facts.”

“I don't like it, Maggie,” she said plaintively.

“I'll be quick,” I promised, turning back to Sergeant Matheson. “We had it most reluctantly from Mr. Scott's own lips that Sarah Compton was his mistress, and that she had phoned him earlier on Wednesday night to meet her in the observation room on the third floor. Ormond, our stolid guard, who vouchsafed the opinion that Bertie entered the building about 10 p.m. and left before the half-hour, let drop, most accidentally I am sure, an important point. At 10 p.m. Bertie creeps into the building with his hat over his eyes, trying to make himself inconspicuous, but when he leaves at 10.25 p.m. his demeanour does not arouse any comment from our observant friend, Mr. Ormond. In other words, he enters surreptitiously, but leaves in such a manner that Ormond cannot fail to recognize him. In fact, I'm willing to bet that he didn't know Bertie at 10 p.m., but presumed that it was he when he saw him leave half an hour later. Do you follow what I mean?”

“Very subtle,” remarked the Sergeant, nodding. “What are you leading to?”

“I hold the theory that if Bertie entered the Exchange once without being spotted, but let the night guard get a good look at him as he left, he could re-enter unobserved. He made his exit so blatantly that Ormond would hardly expect to see him again. If a hunched-up figure entered the building flashing a pass some minutes later, I am willing to bet you yet again that it was Bertie, and that Ormond presumed that he was just another mechanic coming on duty.”

There was a pause. I looked over at the Sergeant's shadowy outline. “Well?” I asked.

He stirred restlessly. “Quite possible, but—”

“I'm ready for you,” I interrupted. “You think that my theory is rotten. That's all right by me, but just you listen to this one. While working on the idea yesterday, I was struck by a brainwave that sent me down to
the basement to explore. There, more than half-hidden by boxes, I came across a door leading into the lane on the west side of the building.”

I saw the Sergeant sit up with a jerk. “How many people know of it?” he asked swiftly.

“I'm afraid I couldn't say. It came as a great surprise to me, if that is anything to go by. But Mac knew of it. She had been rummaging around the storeroom for a docket when I met her. I am of the opinion that very few people know of it, and that those few would only be the Heads.”

“The Heads? Is Mr. Scott one?”

“Sure,” I replied, noting his sudden excitement. “He comes under that category. Would you like me to stop while you have a think?”

“No,” he said like a cross child. I leaned back, smiling in the darkness. Even on duty the Sergeant was not without a chink in his armour.

“Now we've found a secret entrance for Bertie,” I continued, “though I am still attached to my first theory, we will get down to the subject of motives, opportunities, and last but by no means least, the weapon. If there had been any doubt as to whether the murder was an inside job or not, I think the buttinsky that bashed Compton's head in settled the question. It was a premeditated crime, with the weapon chosen well in advance. Only one conversant with Exchange ways would be able to select such an instrument to kill somebody. You could rely on a buttinsky to do the job thoroughly. No murderer could have chosen a more suitable weapon.”

I felt my mother shiver a little in spite of the heat. “Don't, Maggie,” she said in a quiet voice.

“Sorry, Mother,” I answered contritely.

“It certainly looks bad,” nodded the Sergeant. “Mr. Scott owned that the buttinsky was his. We presumed at the time that Miss Gordon had stolen it for her own use.”

“Bertie couldn't say when he first missed it?” I asked hopefully. He shook his head. “He's appallingly absentminded. I must introduce him to you to-night, Charlotte. It should be rather good value to bring you two together.”

Sergeant Matheson was continuing his own line of thought. “There is certainly a motive in Mr. Scott's case.”

“We all know what it is,” I said hastily. “Don't bring up the subject again. Mother doesn't like it, do you, darling?”

“I am sure your father would have done the same in Mr. Scott's position,” Charlotte declared vaguely.

“Mrs. Byrnes!” I exclaimed in a scandalized voice.

“What's wrong, dear? What have I said?”

“Only that father would have—er—a friend,” I said solemnly.

“I didn't mean that. I am sure he wouldn't think of such a thing.”

“Well, what did you mean?” I demanded.

“If someone was trying to break up his domestic life, I am sure that your father would take steps to remove that person,” she explained, not very lucidly.

“That's almost as bad,” I pointed out. “You're making the Old Man out a potential murderer. Let's drop the subject, Charlotte, before you become more involved. Keep it for Bertie to-night.”

“I will,” she promised. I laughed, not taking her seriously. I thought that I knew my mother, but therein I made yet another mistake.

“Miss Byrnes,” Sergeant Matheson addressed me so abruptly that I jumped. “Could anyone have taken that buttinsky from Mr. Scott's desk?”

“Anyone,” I replied promptly.

“Miss Patterson could have taken it then?”

“She could. But I can't see Gloria wielding it with such a terrible effect as it was used. I don't hold much brief for Gloria, and although she knows quite a bit about what has been going on during the last few days, she is no murderess. But her part may have been to provide the instrument,” I suggested.

“H'm,” said the Sergeant thoughtfully, and I waited for him to speak. Presently he looked towards me. I thought he was smiling.

“Where's your bombshell?” he asked. “I thought you said you were leading up to a climax.”

“I was waiting for my cue,” I replied with a mock bow. “There is yet another figure to be introduced on the stage of this drama. So far, that person has remained discreetly in the background, probably for reasons best known to-herself. To be strictly honest, the same person only came to my notice this afternoon. But on thinking back, I am astounded at my lack of perspicacity, as she has been somewhere on the stage during each scene.”

“Her!” exclaimed the Sergeant. “One of the telephonists?”

“Let me tell my own story,” I begged. “Yesterday, as you know, I was on the all-night shift. By a lucky chance, Gloria Patterson was also on duty. It gave me the opportunity to ask her some leading questions.”

I sat up from my reclining position, and bent forward so as to be able to see the Sergeant's face. It did not seem natural to be addressing one's remarks to a dark object presumed to be one's audience.

“At that time,” I continued with a sigh, “my mind was in a sad muddle. I don't know whether it was the heat or the readjustment to different hours, but I thought it advisable to go right back to the beginning and ask Gloria her movements on Wednesday evening. It had to be done very tactfully, because I knew that she would be on the alert. However,
I learned that although the girls on her rota saw her arrive on the eighth floor as they were going down the stairs to the trunkroom, she did not appear there until some time later. When I faced her with the question as to whether she had seen anyone in that time she shut up like an oyster, but not before she let slip a few unguarded words. Those words were ‘only one of—' and there, as I have just told you, she stopped.”

Sergeant Matheson leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees. The light fell on both our faces.

“I repeated that phrase over and over again,” I went on, “but I could not complete it until this afternoon. Gloria had become suspicious, so I sent her out on relief in the hope that her wariness would evaporate if I let her alone for a while. Presently she came dashing back in what can only be termed as a ‘state.' She had been in the restroom and had seen Sarah Compton's ghost. I offered to go and allay her fears. Needless to say, they were quite unfounded. But they only went to manifest further that the murder was on her mind.”

Sergeant Matheson had taken out his notebook once more and was transcribing my words. I continued: “Rather meanly, I admit, I caught her on the hop and made her stay in the restroom while I asked a few more questions. I won't say how I compelled her, as it may shock the Sergeant. I finally got it out of her that the person to whom she had been talking that Wednesday night was Bill the liftman. That clinched the matter as far as I was concerned. Had I not overheard a chance remark this afternoon, I was going to present you with a cast-iron case against our liftman.”

Sergeant Matheson's face was stern as he looked across the narrow space between us. “It can only be hoped that the liftman can present an alibi for the time between 10.40 p.m. and 11.10 p.m. on Wednesday night. Otherwise things will look very black for him.”

I did not interrupt him. I wanted to see what he thought of Bill's position first.

“Let us suppose that he is the Daniel Patterson we are looking for: the man who married Irene, and the father of Gloria. Suppose that Miss Compton had already found a way to repay the injury his wife had done her, and that he in his turn set out to revenge that injury. What was there to stop him from stealing the buttinsky from Mr. Scott's desk? I daresay that he has entered the trunkroom many times?” I nodded, and watched him thoughtfully.

“You yourself have provided a way by which he could enter the Exchange building without having to use the front door. But perhaps that was unnecessary as he might not have left the building at all, but hidden himself either in the restroom itself or the lift cabin on the roof.
Then there are those letters. Who would be more conversant with Irene Patterson's style than her own husband? Who would have been better able to be on the lookout for the right time to send that note down into the lift to Miss Compton? He could have arranged the open emergency hole before he went off duty with just that view in mind. No, Miss Byrnes, I fail to see any alteration to the facts that you have given me.”

I uncrossed my legs, and leaned back again to stare dreamily at the shifting shadows on the ceiling. “Only one of—” I murmured softly. “How those words worried me until this afternoon.” I turned my head and smiled gently at the Sergeant.

“Well?” he asked crisply. I saw him looking annoyed under my teasing.

“This afternoon,” I said, transferring my attention once more to the ceiling, “like the Latin tag about a dog, I returned to the Exchange. Charlotte, I hope you don't follow my simile. It is rather vulgar. I went into town with the object of finding Mac. My search took me to the dormitory on the seventh floor, which was being prepared for to-night's show. I missed Mac, who had been in earlier, but the decorators demanded my services because of my height. I was forced to mount a rickety ladder to alter some streamers. While I was in this precarious position a knock came at the door. One of the girls answered it. When she came back presently to direct my faltering hands, I asked her quite casually who it was.”