Murder in the Telephone Exchange (62 page)

But even the story she told me of the tram stoppage did not deceive me. We came near to quarrelling, and that was the beginning of the shadow that grew up between us. I did not see Mac as a friend again until I found her dead, and read the message that she had tried to convey in her last consciousness; an appeal for my help to discover her killer. In the basement that late Friday afternoon we had been as casual acquaintances; perhaps not even that. We had been strangers, suspicious and jealous of each other.

Mac had held in her hand proof of the espionage taking place in the Exchange—the docket that she had found in the basement storeroom. Was it then that something stronger than her distorted loyalty to Clark stirred her? Did she pace the floor, as I was doing now, while her conscience battled against her own desires? If she continued to protect Clark, the
espionage would go on. Her own life would be safe from him personally, but the lives and well-being of countless numbers of her fellow countrymen would be in jeopardy.

She tried to put the responsibility on to others, making inquiries amongst the other girls who worked late on the night of Compton's murder. Officially the case was closed, but there was a chance that someone on the late staff had seen or heard something that might prove important. Mac's prompting might assist them to remember and to tell the police. I don't think that Mac succeeded in her idea. She may have learned about the masked and hooded man from Gloria Patterson, but placed no dependence on the police taking notice of Gloria. The responsibility was still hers. It was then in desperation that she came to me. That she had not done so before was probably because she was afraid that I might emulate her attitude towards Clark.

Meanwhile, Clark must have been watching Mac closely. Her obvious devotion to him was a small thread on which to rely for his safety. He knew the type of girl Mac was, and must have wondered how long her fearless, honest character would stand out against his persuasions. To make certain that her plea for time to consider the situation was not an endeavour to double-cross him, he searched her room for any possible evidence that she might be holding against him. He may have seen those letters I had found later and guessed that Mac had decided at last. He may even have received a complete note from her warning him that she was going to the police. The latter was more probable. It was like Mac to play fair and give him a chance to escape. She didn't realize that Clark would stay where he was until she saw him that night at the charity dance. Having warned him she felt almost happy. On duty in the trunkroom that night she regained some of her former spirits. The other telephonists said that her behaviour had been normal. She had passed some flippant remark about dancing with Bertie. But when she saw Clark still at the Exchange, she knew at once that her life was in danger. There was only one thing to do—get in touch with Russell Street.

Clark had made his plans earlier. This time it was not difficult to arm himself with an alibi. As Inspector Coleman said, there was no better opportunity to commit a murder than at a crowded dance. But Clark played safe. He arrived at the Exchange at about 8.30 p.m. that evening. His first move was to prepare a line in the power-room from the microphone in the danceroom to a vacant channel in the Trunk Exchange. Having done this, he made himself as conspicuous as possible, dancing with several different girls and always placing himself near the entrance to the hall between items where all could mark his presence.

All he had to do was to wait until Mac saw him. He knew that her first thought would be to get to a telephone, and outside the trunkroom the only line she could use would be either the one in the restroom or the public telephone in the old building. In her need for haste, it was more likely that Mac would make for the restroom. Everything went according to his reasoning. Mac came off duty, prepared to go and change in the cloakroom near the danceroom. She must have paused a moment to look into the hall and exchanged a few words with Charlotte before she actually saw Clark.

I could visualize the carefree smile fading from her lips and her small hands clenching themselves into balls as she realized what his presence meant. She hurried upstairs to the eighth floor, quite oblivious of the fact that Clark, observing her reactions when she caught sight of him, interrupted his dance with me under the pretext of amplifying the dance music to the trunkroom for my benefit. He ran up the back stairs to stop her from using that telephone in the restroom. But Mac managed to dial out the first numerals of Russell Street Police Station, automatically using a pencil instead of her finger as is the custom of most telephonists.

I did not pause to imagine the scene that took place then. But Mac must have known what was going to happen, despite the fact that Mrs. Smith still swore that she had heard no outcry. The only conclusion at which I could arrive was that the shock of the sudden and fearful realization that she was going to die froze all sound from Mac. Having satisfied himself that Mac was dead, Clark made quickly for the trunkroom. It only took a minute to complete the connection of the line which he had already erected.

I don't know whether the immediate discovery of the second murder or whether the game he organized when I told him the news were part of his plan, but both served well to establish his own security. He admitted being absent from the seventh floor, but the time that elapsed during his absence was sufficient only to erect the transmitting line to the trunkroom.

When Bertie learned that another murder had been committed and saw the way in which Clark was stage-managing the affair, he was helpless. The only thing he could do was to stand by, and hope that Clark would make some slip that the police would seize upon. Observing the way I acted under Clark's instructions, he began to suspect that I had had some part in the scheme. Most reluctantly, he set about trying to trap Clark through me. He decided to work the dogwatch the following night in order to watch my actions closely.

I gave him the slip when I managed to leave the trunkroom without attracting his attention. It was so soon after our brush outside Mac's locker
that he did not think that I would attempt anything further that night, especially after his warning. I considered that if Bertie remained in the trunkroom, I would be safe to continue my search for the docket in the basement. Little did I know it was imperative for Clark to find it before me. Here Clark played safe again. He informed me of his intention to take the sleeping tablets Charlotte had given him. He may have had a look for the docket, and failing to find it, waited until I arrived on the scene in the hope that I knew more of its whereabouts than I told him.

I don't think Clark meant to kill me then. He had lost his nerve after Mac died, and although he could not regret having murdered her, he was genuinely upset at what he had done. His one desire was to get that docket and to destroy it before I had time to work out its significance. He knocked me out with his clenched fist, and snatching what he thought was the correct docket out of my hand, left the building by the door leading from the basement passage into the lane.

Before Bertie had time to mark my absence, Dan Mitchell had gone down to his locker for cigarettes and nearly tripped over my senseless body, lying half-in and half-out of the storeroom. He rushed upstairs with the news that yet another murder had taken place. After ensuring that I was still alive and rushing me to hospital, Bertie was completely bewildered. Here was a girl, or a young lady as I suppose he phrased it, considered by him as a likely accomplice in a couple of murders, who had been knocked on the head by someone whose intentions could not have been lawful. Bertie could only shake his head and come to the rather dubious conclusion that I had taken his warning to heart, and had quarrelled with the person directing my actions, refusing to do his bidding, and that that person had struck me down in frustrated anger.

When John learned of our mutual suspicion, he laughed uproariously.

“What's so funny?” I demanded, nettled. “You thought it was Bertie, too, until I put up a case against the liftman.” Bill had been another of my visitors. It was only when he was announced that I knew the reason why his surname had remained such a dark secret. He brought me the first nectarines from his garden. In an unspoken bargain, we discussed everything but the Exchange.

John's laugh was so infectious that I could not help joining in, although I don't know what amused me. It was the first time for days that I had done so, and the sheer relief of being able to laugh again made it hard for me to stop.

“I thought it was you, too,” he gasped presently. I went off into another spasm of mirth. A nurse put her head out of a window and called across the lawn to where we sat.

“Are you all right, Miss Byrnes?”

I controlled myself with difficulty. “Quite, thanks,” I replied hurriedly, fearing that John might be ordered to go. She merely grunted and pulled the window down with a bang. I wondered who was the happier that I was leaving the following day, the nurses or myself.

The sight of the nurse must have sobered John too. He was quite serious as he explained: “You seemed to know too much. Whenever Inspector Coleman asked for your opinion on any matter, your answer was too prompt and exact to be healthy. Then there was your obvious dislike of Sarah Compton, and the hint that she had been interfering in your affairs.”

“It would be rather foolish of me to admit it if I had killed her,” I remarked.

“Not at all. Many's the person who has tried a double bluff and got away with it. Moreover, you could present us with theories before we had time even to get facts. When we checked up on them, they were found to be amazingly accurate; for example, the second exit to the Exchange.”

“Do you mean to say that you doubted every word I spoke?”

John grinned. “Definitely. You never trust anyone in our game; not even your best girl. That was why I was absent from the dance-hall the night of Miss MacIntyre's death. I was crawling around the basement looking for your secret door.”

“So that's where you'd got to!” I burst out.

He looked at me quizzically. “What did you think I was doing? Flirting with Gloria Patterson on the roof?”

“Of course not,” I replied, trying to look dignified. “I wasn't in the least interested in your actions. Go on with your explaining.”

“That's about all. Let's stop discussing crime, and talk about something pleasant for a change. Whenever I come, you spend the whole time asking questions.”

“It's your own fault,” I pointed out. “It was your idea that I should write a book. Is that really all, or are you trying to spare my peace of mind?”

For a while John made no reply. He got up and stood at the back of the long cane chair in which I sat. By tilting my head, I could see his face, grave and unsmiling.

“Not quite,” he said, “but I don't want to hurt you, Maggie.”

“If it's about Clark, go right ahead,” I said fiercely. “I'm sick and tired of people eyeing me askance whenever his name crops up.”

“Good girl!” He touched my hair for a brief moment in an approving fashion before resuming his lounging position in the chair opposite.

“We shall discuss the relations between you and Clark dispassionately.
The idea did come into my head, but briefly I assure you, that you killed Miss Compton because she was attempting in some way to break up your friendship. Miss MacIntyre was murdered because you were jealous of the hold she had on Clark's affections.”

I smiled a little, but it was an effort. “You sound like a third-rate love story. Purple passion and the like.”

“I told you the thought was only a passing one. But apart from that side of the question, you did appear to know Clarkson very well. As soon as Mr. Atkinson appeared on the scene, I began to wonder if your relations with Clarkson were for business purposes instead.”

John drew out a small, red-covered book from an inner pocket and gave it to me. “I couldn't help noticing that nearly every second day held some mention of him,” he said apologetically.

I flipped over the pages of my diary containing my notes on the case. After a moment's hesitation, I held it out to him. “Would you mind taking it away with you and destroying it?” I asked in a low voice. “I don't think I could bear to keep it.”

“No, not yet. I want you to glance through it after I've gone.”

John seemed so insistent that I tucked the book down the side of my chair. To break the silence that had fallen between us, I asked, without caring much about a reply: “Why was Mr. Atkinson at Clark's flat that morning?”

“He wanted to question him about how much you knew. He had seen you with Clark too many times. Men like that cannot afford to trust even their accomplices. Atkinson paid the rental of the flat and possessed a latch-key, so he was able to enter without arousing the attention of the neighbouring flats.”

“Then Clark did not really take the sleeping tablets?”

“Oh, yes. He took them as a precaution as soon as he arrived back from his tussle with you. He knew you would get in touch with him as soon as you were able, and wanted to appear as though he had not left his flat. Mr. Atkinson learned that we were on his trail from some other source. You'd be amazed at the enormous organization he used to manage.”

I don't think that there is anything more I have to add. The pattern seems complete now that all the smaller, but just as important, pieces have been fitted into place. Oddly enough, what I considered was the central figure of the picture seems to have changed. Perhaps because of what I read in my little red-covered diary when John had gone.