Murder in the Telephone Exchange (42 page)

‘I knew it,' I repeated over and over, running as quickly as my long skirt would allow me down the corridor to the stairs. I took them two at a time, pulling my dress up to my knees. How quiet the sixth floor seemed after the row taking place only one floor above me. No more than half a dozen girls were on duty in the trunkroom. There was a monitor in
charge. She looked up sternly at my whirlwind entry.

“I thought that Mr. Scott gave instructions that no one was to come into the trunkroom if they were not on duty.”

“Never mind,” I said peremptorily, my anxiety gaining the upper hand over my manners. Her mouth fell open in amazement at such insubordination. “When did you last see Miss MacIntyre?”

The monitor still stared at me stupidly. Out of one corner of my eye I could see the telephonist on Sydney one position watching the scene curiously. I repeated my question sharply. The tone of my voice galvanized the monitor into action.

“She went off duty at 9.30 p.m. Just what do you mean by this behaviour? I'll report you to Mr. Scott.”

“I give you my permission to do what you like later, but please answer my questions now. Do you know if Miss MacIntyre was going to the dance on the floor above?”

“I couldn't say,” said the monitor crossly. I turned to the room at large.

“Girls,” I said clearly. “Do you know if Gerda MacIntyre was going to the dance to-night?”

They looked at their monitor doubtfully. The girl on the Sydney position nodded. “She'd put her evening clothes in the cloakroom.”

“I know that,” I said impatiently, “but she hadn't changed her mind at the last minute about going?”

“No, because she told me quite definitely that she intended making Bertie—that is, Mr. Scott—dance with her.”

I smiled involuntarily. That sounded like the old Mac.

“Thanks,” I said, turning back to the monitor. “Sorry to have troubled you, Miss Howden.”

She swallowed hard. “You'll hear more of this,” she promised in an ominous tone.

“I suppose I shall,” I agreed pleasantly. “By the way, did Mr. Clarkson come in here during the past half-hour?”

“He was here a few minutes ago. What a shame you just missed him!” There was a nasty meaning in her voice. I merely shrugged and left without making any comment. What was the use of wasting important time on a dolt like Howden.

I stood there on the sixth-floor landing, chewing absently at one finger while I thought. But my brain seemed as heavy as lead and refused to budge. Above, the sound of the Master of Ceremonies' voice calling for supper partners came to my ears. It penetrated my consciousness and made me start up quickly. I almost laughed with sheer relief. What a fool I was! Supper! That was it. I remembered now. When this social was being
organized, the committee had been divided into different sections, each one with a special job to look after. I was appointed to the decorating, while Mac had been given the supper arrangements. Small wonder that she hadn't changed if she was cutting up greasy sandwiches. I walked lightly up the stairs. I knew where I would be able to find Mac: where she had probably been that afternoon, and I hadn't realized how near she was. How we'd laugh together over the way in which I had burst in on Howden, more or less telling her to shut up.

It had been arranged that the cafeteria on the eighth floor would be given over to supper. I continued up the last flight of stairs, whistling the tune that the band was playing below and wondering if Clark would be annoyed to find me gone. I hesitated on the last step at this thought. It wasn't very kind leaving him flat, especially as he was doing me a favour. I shrugged, and turned the corner to the lift landing. The grille door of the cafeteria was open opposite. I could see a woman in a white overall bending down to the oven. I sniffed the odour of sausage rolls as I stepped over the bar into the counter space.

“Hullo,” I said, full of party spirit. “Nice way to be spending your time at a dance!”

The woman swung around startled, an oven cloth in her hand. I raised my brows in surprise. “I didn't know cooking was in your line, Mrs. Smith,” I remarked. She stared at me in silence.

“Don't mind about me,” I went on testily, becoming restless under that opaque gaze. “Get going with what you want to do.”

“Supper is not ready yet,” she said.

I was annoyed at the impertinent way in which she spoke. “I haven't come up here to eat. Not yet, anyway. Has anyone been helping you?”

“One or two,” she replied grudgingly, placing sandwiches on the thick Departmental china. “They were more in the way than anything.”

“A small dark-haired girl hasn't been here, has she?” I suggested. “She was in ordinary clothes.”

Once more I bore the full brunt of her uncanny eyes. “She was here. You mean Miss MacIntyre, don't you?”

I nodded. “I'll go into the lunchroom and have a word with her. That is, if I'm not in the way.”

“She's not there,” said the woman shortly, turning her back to me. “She only came in for a minute.”

“How long ago?” I asked. “About 10 p.m.?”

“I couldn't say. If you don't mind, I have to put these sandwiches on the tables.”

“Go right ahead,” I watched her push the plates through the grille on
the opposite counter. “Leave them there,” I called across the kitchen. “I'll slip round to the lunchroom and fix them up for you.”

She gave a grunt, which I took as a sound of appreciation.

‘This is Mac's work,' I thought peevishly. ‘I did my bit by standing on that damn ladder this afternoon.'

It was odd that I should have thought of it just then. Perhaps I should say that it was a coincidence. The one or two dances that I had had in the festive atmosphere on the floor below had completely removed all remembrance of the notes that I had given to Sergeant Matheson earlier. There I was, face to face with my new figure in the case, and it hadn't even occurred to me to ask her any leading questions.

‘I haven't any time now,' I thought. I heard the first part of the supper-dance finish, and the clapping of the pausing dancers. I decided to leave it until later. Perhaps, after supper, I could sneak a few minutes from the trunkroom, and come back to the kitchen to help Mrs. Smith clear up. That would put her into a good mood. It was amazing what you could learn from people while you worked side by side; especially washing dishes, when you would talk about anything to relieve the monotony. I walked down the corridor, thinking out the best plan of attack. A direct approach or maybe the tactful method I had used with Gloria? I was going to enjoy my encounter with Mrs. Smith. She was my own pet discovery. I stopped short outside the telephonists' cloakroom.

The door was closed, but a faint bar of light was on the floor at my feet. I turned the handle quickly, and put my head in, calling: “Hullo! Are you there, Mac?” There was no reply. I switched off the light and reclosed the door.

I don't own to psychic powers, in spite of what my mother told Sergeant Matheson about Grandmother MacPherson, but I could have sworn that some inner voice told me to act, and act quickly as all was not well. I threw open the cloakroom door, and ran my hand down the row of lights, switching them on one by one until every nook and cranny of that room was ablaze with light. Without a second's hesitation, I hurried around the lockers to the inner door of the restroom. It was half-open. When I tried to push it to the limit, a heavy object blocked its advance. My face and hands became wet all at once, and my heart pounded at a suffocating speed, but still I did not pause. I slipped through the narrow opening, my fingers feeling for the switch. The light shone down full on that second terrible scene. I turned my face to the wall, resting my forehead against the cool plaster, and fighting for self-control.

How long I stayed there, I couldn't say. But I do know that not a single sound passed my lips. I was beyond screaming, and that faraway voice
bade me not to make a scene. Gradually I turned around, my teeth biting into the back of one hand as I tried to absorb the realization of what had happened. Horror shook me from head to foot as I knelt down beside that quiet figure. Such a small, helpless, huddled bundle, lying face down with one arm, clad in a short lemon-coloured sleeve, bent across her back. I mouthed Mac's name but still no sound came. I put out one finger to touch the curled hand. It was slightly warm, but stiff to feel. The pencil that was held between the first and third fingers did not move.

The sound of clapping penetrated my consciousness, and made me start up quickly. Any minute now, the dancers would be trooping up the stairs and along the corridor past the cloakroom door. I didn't touch Mac again. There was nothing I could do. I longed to look into her face, but knew that I must not move her. Leaving the door ajar as I had found it, but with the light still on, I ran through the cloakroom, and pulling the key from the inner side, locked the door behind me. I had some confused remembrance of Mrs. Smith's complaining voice addressing me, but I took no notice. I fled down the stairs, nearly tripping in my long skirt, the key to the cloakroom held tightly in my fist.

The third encore of the supper-dance had begun. I realized that I could only have been away a few minutes. It seemed an age had passed. The music swelled as I ran down the last steps, and laughter, gay and unconcerned, came to my astounded ears, Here there was light and gaiety, while only one floor above—I shook my head violently, and nearly collided with a couple coming out of the danceroom. They called to me good naturedly, but still I took no notice. John Clarkson's tall head appeared in the middle of the room. I brushed aside the dancers as I made for him.

He was demonstrating an intricate step to a blonde girl, dressed in gold satin, when I pushed her roughly aside and put his arm around my waist.

“Well, really!” I heard Gloria exclaim angrily. Clark looked down at me in astonishment.

“Dance with me,” I ordered quietly. He guided me down the room mechanically, my fist, still firmly holding the key, a ball in his hand. I felt his fingers gently prising mine open, and spoke urgently. “Something terrible has happened. No, let go my fingers, Clark. Mac has been killed.”

I heard the quick intake of his breath, and a tremor passed through his body. His face was white, but the line about his lips was even more so. His eyes, that stared down into mine, must have mirrored the horror that still held me in its grip.

“Keep dancing,” I insisted, as I felt his steps faltering, “until we work out something. There's such a crowd here. We don't want a scene.”

I heard him breathe “Gerda” over and over. Presently he asked
abruptly: “What have you got in your hand?”

“The cloakroom key.” I saw a fresh gleam of horror in his eyes.

“Not—” he began in a low tone.

“The restroom,” I replied. “I didn't want to touch the door in case of fingerprints, so I locked the outer one.”

Clark nodded approvingly. “Good work!”

“Clark!” I said and my voice quivered. “What will we do? Bertie?”

“No. Sergeant Matheson is here. I'll tell him right away.”

I had forgotten all about him. Clark stopped near the dais where the band was playing, and bent down to my ear. “Tell them to keep going,” he ordered, “while I find the Sergeant. Make any excuse you can to keep this mob from going up to the eighth floor.”

I nodded and tried to steady my knees, as I approached the pianist. “Supper has been delayed,” I called up to him. “Will you give another encore?”

He nodded in time to his music, and I turned aside to follow Clark's dark head with my eyes as he wended his way round the edge of the crowd. A hand caught my arm roughly, dragging me into a corner. Gloria Patterson faced me, her eyes ablaze and her perfect skin slightly mottled.

“How dare you humiliate me so!” She was choked with rage. I watched her in a dazed fashion, wondering what she was driving at. “I could kill you,” she breathed in a venomous voice. But still I stared at her, bemused. I felt so tired all of a sudden, and now Gloria was worrying me about some trivial business. What else mattered except that Mac lay dead above my head.

“Go away,” I begged her wearily. “Tell me about it to-morrow.”

“I'll get even with you, Byrnes, if it's the last thing I do. I could kill you,” she repeated on a rising note.

I looked about me nervously. “Oh, hush!” I said. “Don't say that. You don't know who might be listening.”

She stared at me in amazement. “What's the matter with you?” she demanded. “You look queer. What has happened?”

“What has happened?” I repeated. I heard myself laugh, even though I hadn't meant to. It needed a stupendous effort on my part to pull myself together and avoid the threatening hysteria.

‘Quiet,' I told myself. ‘You must be quiet and think.' But how could I, when all I could see before my eyes was the pathetic figure on the restroom floor. The years rolled back as I closed my eyes, leaning against the dais, and though the music was loud in my ears, I could still hear the ping of the ball off the tee, and Mac's joyous laugh sounding hollow in the open air, and see her small hands moving across the switching keys, and
remember all the fun that we had had together . . .