Murder in the Telephone Exchange (46 page)

“Please explain,” I begged in a low voice. “I'd rather hear it from you correctly, not from rumours around the Exchange; or even be left to imagine.”

Inspector Coleman paused as if to gauge my control. Presently he spoke, and his voice was hard. “The telephone, in what is known as the telephonists' restroom, is a pedestal type. The flex had been tugged from its socket in the wall, near the table on which it stood, by some tremendous force. The killer picked up the telephone by its stem and struck Miss MacIntyre down with it.”

I closed my eyes and felt myself swaying slightly in my chair. Someone—I supposed that it was the Sergeant, since he was the nearer—thrust my head down to my knees. I stayed there obediently under a firm hand on the nape of my neck.

“I'm all right now,” I said presently. “Sorry to give way like that. It doesn't help any.”

“Take your time,” said the Inspector.

“No,” I said fiercely. “Get going with your questions, I'll stay here all night if it will help you to find who killed her. My poor Mac,” I added brokenly. “Do you think that she called out?”

“Most unlikely,” he replied swiftly. “The first blow from the heavy base of the telephone would kill her immediately. Don't worry yourself into thinking of her last agonies. She probably knew nothing about it.”

“But she must have known what was coming,” I insisted. “It was her face that was struck, wasn't it? I realize that, because when I saw the back of her head, there was no mark visible. Therefore she must have seen the murderer coming towards her with the intention to kill in his eyes.”

“Stop thinking about it,” ordered the Inspector sternly. “If you keep on like that, you'll be no good to me. Just treat it as you did before, and answer my questions.”

“I'm sorry,” I said again. “What do you want to know?”

“Did you see Miss MacIntyre at all to-night?”

“No. But I know of several persons who did. My mother was one. Mac spoke to her for a moment when she came off duty. She said that she was going to change into evening dress.”

“She was found in ordinary clothes.”

“I know. When I went to find her later, I saw the case containing her frock in the cloakroom near the danceroom. It gave me a fright until I thought that there was a possibility of Mac helping upstairs with the supper. That was how I came to go up to the eighth floor.”

“What time was that?” asked the Inspector.

“About 10.30 p.m.,” I replied, after giving the matter some thought. “Supper was timed for a quarter to eleven. The supper-dance had begun as I walked up the stairs, so it may have been a few minutes after the half-hour.”

Inspector Coleman stopped me with one raised hand. “I want you to take this down, Sergeant.”

“Very well, sir.” He brought out a sheaf of papers from his inner pocket, and turned them over to select his notebook.

“Go on, Miss Byrnes. Try to remember every detail.”

I knew what I was about to tell him would be a severe strain on my nerves, and gripped the sides of my chair, uncrossing my legs.

“I had a look in the cafeteria kitchen, first. Mrs. Smith, one of the cleaner-women, had come in to do whatever cooking was necessary. She told me that Mac had been in, but there was no sign of her in the supper-room. I
concluded that she must have gone down again by the back stairs, which was probably the reason why I had missed her. I didn't worry unduly, and offered to set the tables, As you know, the cafeteria and kitchen is one room, though they are separated by a counter with an iron grille reaching down from the roof. The only way to get from the kitchen to the lunchroom is by the corridor.” I paused again, re-living that awful feeling of apprehension as I saw the light glowing from the telephonists' cloakroom.

“I don't know what made me go in, but somehow that light didn't look right. There was a special cloakroom fixed up on the seventh floor for the dance. Why should anyone have gone into the telephonists' cloakroom up here? There was no one in the room, but I saw that the restroom door was half-open. The situation was so horribly reminiscent of last Wednesday night that I ran across and tried to push it open. But it wouldn't move,” I continued, my mouth becoming dry once more. “I think that I knew then what had happened. I switched on the restroom light. You know what I found.” I bent my head down to my knees again as my own words drummed in my ears. Presently I looked up. The two men were watching me gravely.

“Be brave,” said the Inspector. “I want you to give me a description of what you saw. Don't think that I am being callous, but the first impression may be important.”

“But I locked the door after me. No one could have got in and—and disturbed anything.”

“Please do as I say, Miss Byrnes,” he commanded.

I stared at him, words of defiance running through my mind. ‘You're cruel, cruel! Don't you realize that she was my friend? I won't describe to you a scene that I am trying hard to forget. Will I ever forget once I put into words the memory of her lying there? She looked so small. Little Mac, who was so gay and companionable. Now she's dead, and you want me to gloat over the nature of her death. I can't.'

I knew I was being foolish. He wouldn't have asked me to do anything so painful without an object in mind. He knew what he was about. He was the law, and I had promised to help. I heard my own voice speaking, almost dispassionately.

“She was lying face down, her body along the door as though she had been trying to escape. One arm was stretched above her head, while the other lay across the small of her back. It was such a peculiar position that I bent clown to look at it. I thought maybe it was broken. As I did so, I noticed a pencil caught between her fingers. Was it still there when—?” I paused, and the Inspector pointed to the table.

“May I pick it up?” I asked, worrying vaguely about fingerprints.
Inspector Coleman passed it to me, and I took it gingerly, It was almost new, and of the type that Bertie gave out periodically to the staff.

“Mac couldn't have been writing anything,” I observed thoughtfully, feeling the lead with my forefinger. “It's too sharp.”

“Perhaps she was stopped just in time,” replied Inspector Coleman. “Does the pencil convey anything to you?”

I told him that Bertie had a drawer full of them.

“That's not much help,” he remarked, shrugging, “but it's odd that Miss MacIntyre should be holding it. There doesn't seem to be any reason for it, especially as there was nothing found to write on when the room was searched. The murderer would hardly have taken away an unused piece of paper.”

“Unless,” I said quickly, “Mac was about to add to some notes that she had already made. The murderer would want to destroy them.”

The Inspector frowned. “Do you actually know of the existence of such notes, or are you presuming?”

“I'm only presuming,” I confessed. “But I am sure my idea is correct. Mac was making inquiries. Right! So was I. Apart from the fact that I had had the advantage of observing the police methods, I found that it was impossible to assemble circumstances and information into one reasonable whole without writing them down. In my brain they were just a jumbled assortment, but when I put them down on paper they seemed to take shape. Mac was a much more orderly person than I, both mentally and physically. If I made notes on the case, she would have also.”

“Quite conclusive,” agreed the Inspector, smiling a little. “And you think that is what the person who searched her room was after?”

“I don't see why not,” I replied, feeling ruffled at the patronizing way in which he had accepted my theory.

“You're probably right,” he said hastily. “But to get back to to-night, how long did you stay in that room?”

“It could only have been a few minutes,” I answered, and an involuntary shiver passed through my body. “I knew that there was nothing that could be done for her. There was so much blood coming from the head,” I explained, amazed at the detached way in which I spoke. “I don't think I touched anything. I left the restroom door like it was on purpose, but locked the outer one leading from the cloakroom into the corridor.”

Inspector Coleman had picked up the pencil, and was running it absently through his fingers. “This woman in the kitchen,” he remarked. “You didn't tell her what had happened?”

“No. She must have guessed that something was wrong. I remember she called out to me as I passed the top door of the cafeteria. But I was too
intent on getting down to the danceroom to take in what she said. What has she told you?”

“I'll tell you by and by,” he said. “Go on with your own statement.”

“That's all,” I said lamely.

“You told Sergeant Matheson that another murder had been committed?” he asked, and I frowned a little.

“No, Mr. Clarkson must have told him. I was a little distraught at the time,” I remarked dryly. “When I reached the seventh floor I didn't know quite what I was doing. The first person I saw was Mr. Clarkson, so I dashed over and told him.”

“What did he say?”

“I don't remember,” I replied tartly. What did one say on learning that a second brutal murder had taken place a floor away; especially when the victim was a girl to whom you were very attached? “The supper-dance was almost finished and I knew that the last thing the police would want would be hordes of people on the eighth floor, trampling on clues.”

“Thank you, Miss Byrnes,” said the Inspector.

I glanced at him suspiciously as he had cast his eyes down to the papers in front of him. “Don't thank me,” I replied carelessly. “It was Mr. Clarkson's suggestion that I go and keep the band playing as long as I could while he searched for Sergeant Matheson. Where were you by the way?”

“Keep to the point,” said Inspector Coleman sharply. I felt even more suspicious as the Sergeant reddened a little.

‘Petting with some girl, I suppose,' I thought scornfully. ‘I only asked you to the dance so that you could see people with their masks off, as it were.' I turned my shoulder towards him, hoping that he noticed the snub.

“Presently he came to me for the cloakroom key.”

“You hadn't given it to Mr. Clarkson?” asked the Inspector.

“I don't think that he had any doubt as to whether I was telling the truth,” I replied with heat, “so there was no need for him to go investigating as well. Our main idea was to tell the police immediately.”

“Mr. Clarkson has a quick brain,” said the Inspector approvingly. “I can't thank him enough for what he did.”

I felt a glow of pride, and made a mental note to tell Clark what the Inspector had said. Perhaps it would be some comfort to know that he had acted in Mac's best interests. It suddenly occurred to me that now she was dead, I no longer had any worries concerning the friendship between Clark and myself. I banished the thought immediately, feeling horrified and disgusted.

The Inspector picked out one sheet of paper and scanned it closely. “Owing to Mr. Clarkson's good work,” he remarked, “we were able to
obtain brief statements from the persons who were on the eighth floor during the course of the evening.”

“What about Mrs. Smith? Did you get one from her?”

“Not yet. She had left the building before we had any opportunity to question her.”

“She must have known that something serious had happened,” I insisted. “I wonder why she went?”

Inspector Coleman laughed shortly. “We are an unpopular breed,” he observed. “However, the lady can't stay out of our reach for ever. Her evidence may be very helpful as she was in the best position possible to see those who came and went.”

“Only the front stairs,” I objected. “Anyone could come up the back way and get into the cloakroom unobserved from the kitchen, or even the lunchroom. Don't forget that Mrs. Smith was busy preparing supper, and might not have looked up when she heard footsteps. I know that she did not turn round from the oven until I addressed her.”

The Inspector's laugh was an expression of genuine mirth that time. “You're ready to throw the spanner in at every turn,” he observed. “Perhaps it is just as well. Constructive criticism never harmed anyone.”

“I have got a nerve,” I confessed, “telling you how to run the case. But you see, I am deeply concerned with the outcome.”

“I know,” he returned gently, “and I promise you faithfully that we will do everything to revenge your friend's death. But you must continue to give us assistance.”

“I?” I said in surprise. “I've told you everything that I know. What more can I do?”

The Inspector leaned over the table. His eyes looked steadily into mine. “You can do a great deal,” he declared slowly and distinctly. “Keep your eyes and ears open; not only for the sake of the police, but for your own as well.”

I felt my eyes widen as I continued to stare fascinated into his. His words left me in no doubt as to his meaning, and I stayed very still. Gradually the tenseness went out of my muscles, to be replaced by long, slow shudders that I sought in vain to control.