Murder in the Telephone Exchange (7 page)

A slight smile flickered across the Sergeant's face.

“There was nothing amusing in the situation at the time,” I remarked crossly. “If I hadn't bumped into Mr. Clarkson, I'd be running still.”

“What floor were you on during your marathon, Miss Byrnes?”

“I haven't the faintest idea,” I confessed, and his brows rose. “Clark will be able to tell you. What's the time? Can't I go home now?”

“No, not just yet. You must finish your statement first.”

“I'll miss my last train,” I complained, “and I suppose, murder or no murder, I'll have to be on duty to-morrow.”

“Arrangements will be made to get you home. Now, Miss Byrnes, what did you do when you met Mr. Clarkson?”

I pushed my hair back, and sighed. “I clung on to him as though he was the proverbial straw. I tell you I had got a terrible fright. He soothed me down, and after telling him about Sarah I walked up the back stairs to the trunkroom.”

“Did Mr. Clarkson go with you?”

“No. He went to look for Compton.”

“Miss Byrnes, what made you walk up the stairs instead of going with Mr. Clarkson?”

“I was too damned terrified to travel in that lift. I wouldn't go in it again if it was with a policeman.”

The Sergeant laughed. “We must try it one day,” he suggested. “Did you find out what floor you were on, when you started to walk up the stairs?”

“No, but it must have been a long, long way from the sixth. I arrived at the trunkroom about 7.25 p.m., and Sarah Compton was there as bold as brass to reprimand me for being late. In fact, she was as normal as ever. If this murder business had not taken place, I would have thought that I had dreamed everything that I have just told you.”

A long silence fell. Sergeant Matheson tapped his notebook pensively with his stub of a pencil, which had become blunter from its long use that night. I stared vacantly at my creased, linen skirt, and wondered if I would be let go home now. I felt limp from all the mental and emotional strain of the past few hours, though somehow the horror of the whole business seemed diminished. It was as if I had begun a tedious job, that must finish sooner or later. I could even think of that horrible scene in the restroom without feeling squeamish. My brain was so sodden and weary, that if anyone had asked me then if I had been responsible for the locked door, or even the murder itself, I would have agreed quietly just for the sake of a bit of peace.

Sergeant Matheson got up unhurriedly, and put a hand under my elbow. “That's all,” he said gently. “Home you go, and I advise a couple of aspirins before you go to bed.”

“I won't need them,” I answered, stretching. “I'm nearly asleep now.”

“Better take them,” he advised. “It'll be worse to-morrow. You'll need all the rest you can get tonight, or rather this morning,” he added, glancing at his wrist. “It's nearly one.”

“What!” I shrieked. He grinned at me.

“Don't forget that you were rowing around in a boat for a considerable time, while Inspector Coleman and I were trying to revive you with the good old-fashioned methods of cold water and slapping your hands.”

“Was that what it was?” I asked with the air of one making a great discovery. “I fainted! Well, well, I've only done that once before in my life—running a mile to school without my breakfast, when I was a kid.”

“At Keramgatta?”

I nodded.

“Good place,” he declared, opening the door and standing aside to let me pass through. The narrow passage outside ran down the walls of the cloakroom and restroom and into the main corridor. There were several small rooms opening from it. Outside the closed door of one stood a uniformed policeman. It opened as I came up. Mac and John Clarkson came out, followed by Inspector Coleman.

“Fixed things up, Matheson?” he asked his subordinate. “Right! Now, all you people, go home to bed. There is a car waiting outside for you. One word of advice before you go. Carry on with your normal duties, and the less spoken about all this the better. We don't want any unnecessary rumours starting. Do I make myself clear? Good! Mr. Clarkson, will it be possible to interview the night telephonists immediately?”

“I should think that it would be all right. Mr. Bancroft is the traffic officer on duty. He should be in the trunkroom at this moment. Just say I sent you down, Inspector. He'll fix things for you.”

“Many thanks. You can come along with me, Sergeant.”

“Wait a moment,” I said. “Can I go into the cloakroom to get my coat and bag?”

The Inspector swung around. “That's quite a reasonable request. Roberts! Take these young ladies into the cloakroom.”

Mac put a small hot hand into my cold one, and I squeezed it gently. Poor little Mac! If she was feeling anything like I was, she would be pretty bad. Even Clark looked pale and stern. Roberts took a ring of keys from one of his pockets, and fitted one into the lock.

“You'll find several duplicates of that one,” I informed him.

“I'll tell the Sergeant,” he replied, swinging the door open. “Thank you, miss.”

I could see the half-open door of the restroom, and caught the glimpse of a trailing dust-sheet as two men moved across the opening. Advancing to my locker, I realized that I was probably treading in the very footsteps of the murderer; that shadowy, brutal figure which was to hold us in its fearful influence for days to come. For never, until the Exchange building is razed to the ground—and I believe that it is built to stand the strain of many years—will that evil shadow be removed. My hands were shaking as I took my handbag from the locker and unhooked my light summer coat. I noticed a burnt-out cigarette on the linoleum-covered floor near the door, and remembered that it was the one Mac had given to me on leaving the trunkroom. “I hope they won't think that it is a clue,” I thought, pulling myself together.

Mac said gently at my elbow: “Ready, Maggie? John is taking us home.” Her face was pale, but very calm; only the still dilated iris of her fine eyes showed any remembrance of horror. I slipped my hand through her arm without a word. We went out.

Clark stood in the corridor, a raincoat over his arm. I thought, in a detached fashion, of how we all must have thought that it would change that night. Rarely in our damnable climate does one venture forth without being prepared for a taste of several seasons during the day. Clark was very gentle and understanding with us. He held my arm firmly as we descended in the lift. I felt grateful, as I could not resist the impulse to glance at the emergency exit above us. He kept his torch alight all the way down, and it softened the memory of Sarah's hideous grimace in the red glow of the apparatus board globe.

We walked in silence along the narrow passage of the ground floor in single file, Mac leading the way; passed the power-room and into the old Exchange building, where the only entrance to both Exchanges was guarded day and night by an ex-serviceman with a revolver on his hip. To get by him into the Exchange, you had to produce a special pass issued only to Telephone employees. He bade us a cheerful good night. Clark answered for us all in a quiet, even voice.

A Departmental car was at the kerb. Mac and I got into the back, while Clark slipped into the driver's seat.

“Home, James,” I murmured, leaning back and closing my eyes.

Clark let in the clutch, and swung the car around in a big semicircle.

“Listen, you two lasses,” he said presently, driving swiftly through the deserted streets, “you're coming to my flat for five minutes before you go home. I want to give you a dose of medicine that'll fix your night's rest.”

“I've already been advised aspirin,” I said, without opening my eyes. “What's your prescription, Clark?”

“Aspirin!” he said scornfully. “Who said that? The flatfoot who poured water all over you? Just you wait and see what I've got for you, my children.”

“I must say I'd be glad of something stronger than aspirin,” Mac remarked, with a faint smile.

“All-in, Gerda?” asked Clark, glancing at her in the mirror over his head.

“Just about. What about you, Maggie?”

“I'll make that five minutes, but no more. You must be rather fagged yourself,” I added to Clark. I could only see his profile but guessed he was frowning.

“You're quite right,” he replied briefly over his shoulder, and then remarked on what was uppermost in our minds. “What a hell of a business!”

“Perfectly bloody,” I agreed with accuracy.

“Shut up, Maggie,” said Mac, with a shudder. “Don't be so callous.”

“I'm not,” I protested. “It's just that if I let go one minute I'll have hysterics, or something equally idiotic.”

“Don't repeat your fainting act,” said Clark with a grin. “I think I'd be even clumsier at reviving you than our friend, the Sergeant.”

“What happened exactly? I know that I went off into a genteel swoon, while Mac was yelling like mad for you. Then I came to after some time to find two strange men ministering to me. Don't tell me that you let me stay unconscious until the police arrived without doing something!”

“No,” said Mac, smiling faintly again at the recollection. “He pushed you aside from the door, so as you wouldn't be in the way.”

“What!” I cried, leaning over the driver's seat. “I'll get even with you for this, John Clarkson.”

He put up one hand to pat my check. “Sorry, my sweet. But what else could I do? Besides you in a swoon, as you term it, Gerda was still yelling her head off, trying to explain what had happened.”

“I was speaking quite clearly,” interrupted Mac, “but you were saying ‘what' so many times that I thought you couldn't hear me.”

We were turning off the highway into South Yarra, as Clark spoke jerkily: “It was rather difficult to grasp the situation.”

“You were great, John,” said Mac in a soft voice. “As soon as he saw Sarah was—what had happened, he pulled me out of the room and locked the door. By the way, you'll be interested to know that the key was in the lock on the inside. John carried you into the sick-bay, while I went back to the trunkroom to ring the police. They arrived in less than no time.
John had to deal with the situation alone, as I was being violently ill in the washroom.”

“I'm glad that it affected you in some way, and that I wasn't the only weak-kneed person.” We had drawn up outside a block of flats, and Clark said as he got out of the car: “I wasn't so marvellous. I nearly followed Gerda's example a couple of times. In fact I wish you'd shut up about it until I have that medicine.”

I had been in Clark's flat several times, but never by myself. That was one of the many things I liked about him; in spite of his air of a gay Lothario, he was, in the correct meaning of the word, a gentleman. The lounge room where Clark left us was furnished with a taste for which it was hard to give a man credit. A plain mulberry-coloured carpet covered the floor, and the misty chintz that hung in the windows matched the deep lounge chairs where Mac and I had seated ourselves. A rather lovely mahogany escritoire stood in one corner of the room diagonally opposite a low table with slender, curved legs. On the cream-textured walls were two or three charming water-colours depicting Australian bush scenes.

Clark came back presently with a tray of long, frosted glasses. He put it down on the table by my chair, and took one to Mac.

“Hold your nose, my pet, and swallow it down.”

“What is in it?” I asked, peering into the amber depths. It tasted delicious, cold and fragrant.

“That is a very guarded secret,” said Clark gaily. “Only through many years of careful experiment has this drink been discovered. It's my own invention,” he added, White Knight fashion.

Mac fished for the floating lemon ring, and started to suck it.

“I can taste soda water.”

“A very minor ingredient. How do you like it, Maggie?

“It is delightful, but I'm very glad you're taking us home,” I confessed. “I won't trust my legs by the time I reach the bottom of this glass.”

“You'll be all right. Have a cigarette?”

“That'll put a few more minutes on to our stay. How I'll get to work to-morrow, I don't know. What say we drop out, Mac?” “Drop out” is another Exchange expression. Its obvious translation is to stay away from work on the excuse of illness.

“I wouldn't mind,” Mac agreed, “but what about John? In his responsible position, now that he knows our plans, he will be compelled by his conscience to report us.”

“You wouldn't give us away, Clark, would you?”

“I'd send someone out to your boarding-house to see if you were faking,” he threatened.

“Dirt mean!” said Mac. “Sarah Compton used to have that job.”

“And didn't she love it,” I cut in. “I'll always remember the day she came to see me, prepared to be very triumphant, and ran into my doctor. It was the one bright moment of my illness.”