Murder in the Telephone Exchange (56 page)

The two men were seated in that same hot, little room, as if they had never left it since that first terrible night of Compton's murder. Inspector Coleman rose as I entered, and beyond a quick glance at the plaster half-hidden by my hair, made no comment on the nature of the accident. Evidently he had no desire to waste time, as he knew that Sergeant Matheson had taken down all particulars concerning my adventure in the basement. However, it was he who told me that Dan Mitchell was responsible for getting me to hospital so quickly. Dan had slipped down to the basement to get something from his locker, when he noticed the door of the storeroom ajar and the figure of a girl sprawled across the threshold. I must have fallen against the door when the unknown assailant struck.

“We haven't succeeded in tracing this man Atkinson,” said the Inspector. “When a squad of plain clothes men went down to the office where he conducted his business, they found it picked clean. He must have been warned that we were on his tracks.”

“Did you find that docket?” I asked eagerly. It was put into my hand without a word.

Although I scanned it carefully, my decision was as before. It seemed a perfectly harmless piece of paper, recording a call to Sydney to a man called Brown.

“Can you make anything of it?” asked the Inspector hopefully. “I am afraid that we have to confess ourselves baffled. What is it about that docket that made the killer so anxious to have it in his own hands?”

I turned it over, and read the telephonic code on the back. Mr. Brown had been rather elusive. First of all, his number was engaged then not answering, and lastly he wasn't in. Nearly the whole of the back of the docket was written on. I turned back to see if the call was finally completed, and saw something very odd indeed. It was such a small thing. It puzzled me until I realized what a tremendous significance it held.

“I
can
make something out of it,” I told them. Slowly, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. I placed the docket down on the table and inspector Coleman came to look over my shoulder.

“See these,” I said, pointing out the remarks made in our own telephonic code. “Mr. Atkinson had a great deal of trouble trying to get hold of a
man called Brown in Sydney. When his 'phone was not engaged, it was W.D.A. That means that the wanted subscriber's number is not answering. When the phone was answered, Mr. Brown himself was not in—P.P.U., which is particular person unavailable. Mr. Brown was unavailable for a long time according to this side of the docket, but,” I continued, turning it over and putting the tip of my forefinger under the time that the call was booked, “this call was recorded at 4.58 p.m., connected five minutes later, and completed at 5.6 p.m.”

“You mean that if the remarks on the back are genuine, the call couldn't have gone on in that space of time?”

“Exactly,” I replied, not attempting to keep the triumph out of my voice. “Furthermore, someone must have seen to it that his call went to the top of the pack. The delay on the Sydney lines at that time of day is always well over an hour. Mr. Atkinson was a very privileged man indeed, if he didn't have to wait for that hour.”

The silence that fell was intense.

“Whose signature is that?” asked the Inspector presently, indicating the number at the bottom of the docket. It was then that I received one of the many shocks that the whole affair dealt me. At first, I couldn't believe my eyes. But there it was in black and white.

“It's—why, it's my own,” I stuttered. “But that is not my writing. I know nothing about it.”

“Are you sure?” asked the Inspector gravely. I fairly boiled with rage at the nerve of the person who had used my numerical signature on a docket that the police regarded with suspicion. Then I saw the twinkle at the back of the Inspector's grave eyes, and relaxed a little.

“Wait until I get my hands on whoever was responsible for that docket!” I exclaimed darkly.

Inspector Coleman returned to his chair, taking the docket with him.

“I hope that you never will,” he said, and his voice was grim. I remembered his first description of the man for whom they were hunting and shivered. The memory of those stealthy footsteps that stalked me down in the blackness of the store was still vivid.

“This man Atkinson,” I demanded. “What exactly is his business? Mr. Clarkson could only tell me that he was a broker. Beyond having heard one or two whispers as to his method of dealing, that is all he knows.”

Inspector Coleman did not look up as he answered. “He is a broker,” he agreed suavely, “but the term covers a varied amount of business interests.”

“That is what I said,” I remarked eagerly. “But have you found out any particular one which would connect him with someone in the Exchange?

This man Brown in Sydney, for example. What is his business?”

The Inspector searched amongst his papers, his face expressionless. “He is also a broker.”

I glanced from him to Sergeant Matheson who was sitting quietly by his side, puzzled. But as soon as I met his eyes, they dropped and he fidgeted with his notebook.

The Inspector drew out a long single sheet, and tossed it across his table. “Those are the statements, Miss Byrnes. I believe you said you wanted to see them.”

I picked up the paper automatically, still frankly bewildered. “But—” I began.

“Have you got those reports, Matheson?” asked Inspector Coleman. “Don't worry about us, Miss Byrnes. Just go on with your reading.”

“I'm not worrying,” I snapped, feeling balked. Why had they suddenly shut up like clams when I asked them about Mr. Atkinson? I turned my attention to the paper in front of me. Quite obviously, I was being fobbed off. The statements were all bald and uninteresting. Probably it was my bemused state that hindered me from reading between the lines, but it appeared that each statement was covered by a strong alibi.

In the first three, signed by Bertie, his wife, and Miles Dunn, was the declaration that they were together for the whole time that they spent on the eighth floor.

As Bertie himself had issued the order that no one was to use the trunkroom floor on Saturday night, the only way he could explain to his guests the working of the new automatic boards was to take them to see the dummy that was kept in the telephonists' classroom. They all declared that they had got there about 9.15 p.m. and had spent no more than a quarter of an hour before returning directly to the danceroom. They had neither seen nor heard anything of a suspicious nature.

The only interesting point that I gleaned by comparing the three statements was that they lost sight of each other soon after their return.

Gloria's remarks only covered about three lines. I was full of admiration for the person who made the précis. She had gone up to the eighth floor for the purpose of checking up on the supper arrangements, but had not stayed more than a few minutes. She did not mention having spoken to Mrs. Smith, and it was that omission that put me on my guard. There was something fishy about Gloria and the cleaner-woman. It hadn't needed Bill to draw my attention to the fact that they were withholding some information from the police. It also seemed that they shared the same knowledge.

The four remaining statements held little interest, although I noticed Dan Mitchell's name amongst them. I glanced through the paragraph
which concluded with his signature. He and his partner had used the back stairs from the roof, and walked through the length of the eighth floor to follow another couple by way of a joke. The unfortunate pair they had been shadowing were the newly-engaged couple Clark had congratulated at the commencement of his alibi game.

“They tell me precisely nothing,” I said flatly, flicking the sheet across to the Inspector with the tip of one finger and feeling indignant that Clark's good work had been used to no avail.

Inspector Coleman picked it up, holding it at arm's length to regard. “I am not so sure,” he replied musingly. “There are one or two possibilities.”

“Beyond the fact that Mr. Dunn lost sight of Mr. Scott and his wife immediately after their return to the danceroom, I can't see them.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Scott also became separated,” interpolated the Inspector gently. I did not miss the significance in his voice in spite of my glowering reflections as to the way they had wasted the result of Clark's invention. I made a mental note not to let Clark know how his effort to help Mac had been of no material use after all. How bitter he would be, on top of his failure to get hold of her letter ahead of Mr. Atkinson.

In the midst of these reflections, Sergeant Matheson was called to the door by a knock. I heard the voice of my friend Roberts.

“Here's Mrs. Smith now, sir. Will you see her?”

Inspector Coleman glanced up quickly. “Bring her in. Sit down, please. No, not in that chair; the one facing me. Perhaps if Miss Byrnes wouldn't mind moving over a little?”

“Certainly,” I replied, shifting my chair against the wall, and regarding the Inspector with renewed interest. Just as I was beginning to feel disgusted with his methods, he had introduced what I considered one of the most important figures of the case. The elusive Mrs. Smith!

I studied her closely for perhaps the first time, and saw a middle-aged woman of the type that doesn't attract undue attention. She was fairly tall, with dark greying hair and a heavily lined face, set now in a sullen expression. She wore the white overall which was usually the dress of the women who attended the cafeteria. It puzzled me slightly, as hitherto she had always been on the cleaning staff. By lucky chance, the Inspector remarked on it after taking her name and address and making a few routine inquiries.

“Mrs. Smith, I believe that your position in the building is that of a charwoman. How did it happen that you worked in the cafeteria kitchen on the night that Miss MacIntyre was found murdered?”

I saw her fingers interlock as she muttered her reply defiantly. “Mrs. Dobson asked me to. She hated these dance suppers. She always got in a bag.”

These were the first words she had volunteered since her entry. As soon as she spoke, a blinding light swept through my brain. The shock of sudden mental sight made me forget my position as an onlooker. I got up from my chair and stood leaning over one corner of Inspector Coleman's desk. Mrs. Smith looked up at me in surprise, and then her eyes flickered once or twice fearfully. I think she guessed her mistake.

“You were a telephonist at one time,” I declared.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she whispered.

“Yes, you do,” I insisted. “Only a telephonist would use that expression ‘in a bag'.”

I straightened up and faced the Inspector. “For months now, ever since the first time that I heard this woman speak, I have been troubled by a sense of familiarity about her. Now I know. It was not her appearance that I recognized, but her voice. Only a trained telephonist has that type of voice. You can pick them out of a crowd.”

“Is this true, Mrs. Smith?” asked the Inspector quietly.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sergeant Matheson look up suddenly from his writing. His eyes met mine, and I think the same thought struck us both. But I was not to be done out of my triumph.

“Smith,” I repeated. “Smith! Was that what Charlotte meant? Show me your notes, Sergeant.”

Inspector Coleman expostulated a little. “Really, Miss Byrnes! I am conducting this inquiry.”

“Just one moment, please, sir,” begged Sergeant Matheson. “It was Millicent, Miss Byrnes.”

I turned back to the woman, who cowered now in her chair. “Is that your real name?” I asked, holding her eyes. She nodded. “Does the name Irene mean anything to you?”

“No, no,” she almost screamed in reply. “I don't know what you're saying. What right has this girl to ask me questions?”

“None at all,” responded the Inspector dryly. “But she seems to be succeeding where we are not, so I suggest that she carries on. Well, Miss Byrnes?”

I grinned at him warmly. He was certainly behaving like a sportsman in the face of my audacity.

“Just one other matter, before I explain what I'm driving at,” I said, fumbling in my handbag. I was forced to empty the contents on the table in order to find what I was looking for. The two men watched me, and once Sergeant Matheson dived under his chair to retrieve my rolling lipstick.

“This,” I said, holding out my hand to Mrs. Smith. “This belongs to
you, doesn't it? You dropped it in the cafeteria kitchen, when you crouched behind the counter to overhear what I was saying to Dulcie Gordon. Oh, no, you don't,” I added, closing my fist quickly, and tossing a short indelible pencil in front of the Inspector. He picked it up with a broken-off exclamation.

“Too bad you lost it just then,” I went on. “You had to find another one to write that anonymous letter I found pushed under the door of my locker.”

The woman covered her face with her hands and began to whimper. Perversely, I began to feel a brute, and cursed the soft streak in me. Then I remembered the reason for my bullying and stiffened. What did this woman mean to me? It was Mac's death that I wanted to revenge. Whoever fell in my path was of no importance, in comparison with discovering Mac's killer.