Murder in the Telephone Exchange (50 page)

“They already know about the caller in the restroom?” he asked quickly. I nodded. “Have you any idea who it might be?”

I addressed the roof casually, lying back against my mother's knee. “It was odd that the Heads should choose to come in that particular night. Who else was there besides Bertie?”

“Miles Dunn and Rattray from the Engineers' Department. But why should one of them want to use the restroom, when they have all the telephones they want at their disposal?”

“I haven't the faintest idea,” I said candidly, “but I daresay the police will cook up something. They have a never-ending source of ideas.”

“I don't like it, Maggie. Supposing that Atkinson is not the right man. There'll be a terrible row, and he's a bad type to cross. I've heard one or two stories about his dealings in the city.”

“A broker covers many different types of business, doesn't he?” I asked thoughtfully. “I wonder what shady game he is up to now?”

Clark shook his head in a puzzled fashion. “I don't know what connection he can have with anyone in the Exchange, let alone with the murders. What else have you discovered, Maggie?”

“Well, that's all about him,” I replied reluctantly, and went on to tell
him about Gloria and the anonymous letters, which finally brought me to Bill.

“I don't believe it,” said Clark emphatically. “He's one of the whitest men in the building.”

I looked at him unhappily. “I hate the idea as much as you do, but you can't get away from the facts.”

“What about this cleaner woman? She was actually on the eighth floor when Gerda was—when the murder was committed.”

“The police know about her too. She skipped out before the inquiries started, but I suppose that they have traced her by now. I'd rather like to have a word with her myself. You know, Clark, there's something about that woman that has always struck me as familiar, even before Compton was killed, but I just can't seem to put my finger on it.”

“Probably the similarity to the rest of her trade. The charing staff all look alike to me.”

I made no comment, striving after an elusive memory.

“What about Gerda?” said Clark jerkily. “Are you sure that she did not give you some hint? I mean about what she had discovered?”

“Not a syllable! As a matter of fact, the last time I saw her was down in the basement on Friday evening.”

“What on earth were you doing down there?”

I looked at him in amazement. “Haven't I told you about that? I went to find out if there was another door into the Exchange. Did you know of the existence of a door opening from the basement into that lane at the west side of the building? No, neither did I. But Mac did. I met her as she was coming out of the storeroom. I wanted to discover if the murderer could have entered from the outside, instead of sharing everyone's opinion that it was an inside job. The door was half-hidden by boxes. Only someone who was looking for it would observe it.”

I saw Clark grinning through the deepening shadows. “I bet the police didn't like that little find. It widens the stage rather, whereas they'd much prefer to think that it is an inside job still.”

“Exactly. What was to prevent someone like our friend with the stained trousers from doing the deed?”

“He'd have to know the Exchange routine rather well,” Clark objected. “Don't forget the murders were brilliant pieces of timing.”

“But with someone directing him from the inside,” I insisted, “it would be quite possible.”

“And who would that be?”

“I dunno,” I replied, “unless it was Gloria. She knows a lot more than I could coerce from her.”

Clark laughed gently. “I gather from that, that you have tried hard enough. I suppose your third degree was the cause of her fainting on Friday night?”

“No, indeed! I was merely chatting along agreeably when that happened. I remember that I had just mentioned something about the case being reopened when down she flopped.”

“She makes a rotten accomplice,” remarked Clark, frowning. “That is, if she is one.”

“I'm certain that she is something in this affair, anyway. Did you observe the way she hesitated with her alibi in that horrible game you invented?”

Clark's face set into hard lines. “I found it just as ghastly as you did,” he said, quietly.

“I know,” I replied, stretching out one hand impulsively. “You were wonderful. It helped the police and-Mac a great deal. They were very appreciative, Clark.”

He looked down at my hand resting on his coat sleeve. “Maggie,” he began hesitantly. “Would you mind—I mean, would it be too grim, if you told me just how you found her?”

I withdrew my hand, and said quietly: “Not at all. We had come to the dance, Charlotte, the Sergeant and myself, primarily to find Mac to force her to tell us what she knew. You see, her room had been searched that afternoon and Sergeant Matheson was worried.”

“Her room?” Clark demanded. “What do you mean, searched? Was it a burglar?”

I shook my head. “Nothing of any value was taken, I think—in fact, I'm certain that it was the murderer, who was hunting for some evidence that Mac had. Supposing she had made out a case on paper, as is quite likely. The murderer must destroy that, as well as her.”

“Go on,” said Clark roughly.

I didn't spare him any of the details. I knew that he'd be able to forget them later with greater ease, just as I had, if I described them accurately and without restraint. It was not knowing that hurt more.

“The pencil she was holding has the police puzzled. The point was un-blunted, so Mac couldn't have been writing anything. The only suggestion that I could offer was that the killer failed to find any documents in her room, but came on her suddenly just as she was about to add to her notes. But I don't like it. It's too much of a coincidence that she should be caught just in the nick of time.”

Clark lit another cigarette, and I could see his hands trembling ever so slightly.

I said without emotion: “The police say that Mac never knew what happened. The first blow from the pedestal 'phone would have killed her.”

His voice was hard and bitter as he replied: “They always say that.”

“If she did call out,” I went on, “Mrs. Smith would have heard her. Surely she would have gone to investigate?”

“Not if she knew what was going to happen,” was the quick suggestion. “After what you have told me, I consider that her position wants to be carefully looked into.”

I wrinkled my nose. “There's something fishy about her,” I remarked. “The fact that she voluntarily took over the supper cooking when she is nominally a cleaner is odd, to say the least. It looks as though she wanted to be on the spot last night.”

Silence fell. I noticed that the chatter from the lounge had diminished to a murmur.

“It must be getting late,” I said, rising. “Charlotte, have you gone to sleep? You've been very quiet.”

“No, darling, I've been thinking.”

“With your eyes shut? Come on, before we are chucked out of here.”

* * * * *

Clark was very quiet as we drove home through the hot dusk. Now and then I stole a sidelong glance, wondering what he was thinking. It was only when an approaching car flooded our faces with light that I saw the intense weariness in his face. It was deeply lined, and his eyes were dull and half-closed.

“Would you like me to drive?” I suggested, as he took a right-hand corner in a wide semicircle. Charlotte gasped as the car narrowly missed a cyclist. Clark shook his head without speaking. Words were evidently beyond him until we drew up outside Mrs. Bates's boarding-house.

I hesitated before getting out. “Will you come in and have some tea with us?”

His voice was hoarse with fatigue. “No, thank you, Maggie. I want to go straight to bed. What about those tablets you promised me?”

Charlotte heaved herself out of the back seat. “I'll run in and get them,” she said tactfully.

I glanced at Clark in surprise. “You hardly seem to need a sleeping draught now, but you're welcome to have them.”

Clark gripped the wheel with his hands, and spoke in a low, fierce voice. “That's the trouble. I'm dead tired, but I can't seem to relax. When I've got nothing to occupy my mind, I start thinking.” He slid his hands off
the wheel, and clasped mine hard. “Maggie, if I don't get Gerda out of my head, I'll go mad. Mad, do you hear?”

At the sound of Mac's name, my body went cold. My hands were lifeless under his grip. Was she to become a shadow between us for the rest of my life?

‘You're not fair to me,' I cried silently and resentfully. ‘If it was Mac you wanted, why didn't you say so in the first place?'

Then I observed his strained eyes again, and was filled with shame and pity. “Hush! Try not to think about her. You'll be better after you've had some sleep.”

He removed his hands abruptly, and stared unseeingly through the windscreen. Neither of us said a word. I wondered how long Charlotte would be. There was no need for her to be so tactful, if Clark's mind was filled with memories of Mac.

His voice sounded strangely calm through the darkness of the car. “I wonder if it is possible that Gerda left some message. Some hint of what she was about, that only those who knew her would be able to appreciate.”

“I doubt it,” I replied grimly. “I think that the murderer would have seen to anything like that.”

Clark shook his head with an impatient movement. “There must be something,” he declared. “If Gerda knew she was playing a dangerous game, she would have insured herself somehow against any possibility of—of—” His voice trailed away, but I knew what it was he shrank from putting into words. “Can't you think of anything that she did or said that could give us a lead?” he asked helplessly.

“I told you the last time that I saw Mac alive was on Friday evening; after that, I only heard her voice on the 'phone, and spoke to people who actually saw her just before her death. My mother was one of them.”

“What did she say to her?”

I shrugged. “I haven't asked Charlotte any details, but I don't think that there was anything important mentioned. Mac merely said that she was going to change. She had a case in the cloakroom nearby. Then Mavis Hemingway told me practically the same thing.”

Clark said slowly: “She must have changed her mind at the last minute, and gone upstairs to the restroom. I wonder why?”

“To ring Russell Street,” I replied absently, and felt Clark jump in the seat. “How do you know? Quickly, Maggie, answer me.”

I hesitated. “They checked up on the line. Although the telephone had been used to—to kill Mac, they thought that there might be a possibility of her having made a call. The first three numbers of Police Headquarters had been dialled.”

“But Sergeant Matheson was actually in the building. Why didn't she go to him?”

“Mac couldn't have seen him. After all, one doesn't look for a policeman at a dance, and I didn't ask him until the last minute. No one knew that he would be present.”

Clark gave a soft groan. “Evidently Gerda was calling Russell Street just as the killer entered the restroom. He must have torn the 'phone from her hand, and struck her with it again and again until she died.”

I bowed my head without a word. Clark's description of what had happened brought a vivid picture before my eyes. Once again, I saw that slim, twisted figure lying at my feet, and the blood that splayed out from the dark head. I saw Mac's arm rounded across her back, and the curled fingers holding a pencil.

‘Mac certainly died with her boots on,' I thought grimly. ‘Anyone would be able to tell her profession, holding a pencil between her fingers like that.' Only a telephonist was capable of doing intricate finger work, and not letting a pencil get in the way. It was almost as though Mac was just about to complete a docket with the time disconnected and her signature.

Suddenly my mouth went dry, and a flicker of hope shot through my brain. A pencil! A docket! Did it hold any significance? Was Mac in her last agony trying to convey a message that only a telephonist would understand? Did she remember me in her last desperate thoughts, and hope that I would notice that pencil and construe an explanation. The blood drummed in my cars.

“Clark!” I said sharply. “It's a clue. Mac knew that I'd notice it. She was trying to tell me something.”

Clark gripped my arm. “What did she say? I thought you said that she was already dead.”

His fingers bit into my bare arm, but I barely felt them. “She
was
dead. It's that pencil I mean. Before it seemed all wrong that she should be holding one, but now I know. Who do you see holding pencils in that peculiar fashion, between two fingers?”

“Go on, quickly,” he commanded, shaking my arm.

“Telephonists switch with one. You get that way that you don't notice it, and it doesn't impede your work. Your pencil is as much part of your apparatus as the mouthpiece is. I'll swear that Mac was trying to say something. She was trying to convey that she had written down something on a certain type of paper that that pencil is used for. A docket!”