Murder in the Telephone Exchange (11 page)

She turned towards the door sullenly.

“Surely you realize that once the police know you were late off, they'll question you. Then where will you be? If an untrained person like myself can see through your flimsy yarn, how will you fare with experts? That is all I have to say. You came to me for advice, and I have given it to you.
Have you finished, Mac? I'll dash up and get a hat. You two can start on ahead, but don't you forget to see Mrs. Bates first, Gloria.”

* * * * *

They were nearly at the station when I caught them up. I hadn't bothered to look up a train. Having travelled for years on that particular line to attend different shifts at the Exchange, I practically knew the time-table by heart. Mac and I both had monthly tickets, but we had to wait at the barrier for Patterson, who lived in the eastern suburbs, to buy a single to town. I found a vacant carriage, but the short journey was unbroken by any conversation. Gloria seemed subdued, and neither Mac nor I felt inclined for any more talk. It was only when we were crossing the river into the city that I asked Gloria: “Have you made up your mind? You can come with Mac and me to see the Inspector.”

“I've nothing to say to him,” she muttered sulkily.

“You're a silly little fool,” I told her roundly, wondering why I bothered. “You're certain to be found out, isn't she, Mac?” I saw the strained look come back into Mac's eyes. She nodded and turned to the window. I watched her averted head in silence.

“Mac, Mac,” cried a voice in my brain, “why don't you tell me what it is? What has filled your eyes with inexpressible sadness and lined your lovely skin?”

We lost Gloria when we got into town. She must have slipped away in the crowd at the station. I was rather thankful. After all, whatever foolish game she was playing, it was none of my concern. I had vindicated myself of any responsibility that she might have thrust upon me by appealing for my advice.

We boarded a west city bus that would take us right to the Exchange door. It was too hot to walk for pleasure, although the usual lunch-time crowds were milling at the street corners waiting for the green light. Wet or fine, city workers always take a constitutional down town between the hours of 1 p.m. and 2 p.m.

I always think that the Exchange buildings look different by day; perhaps because of the continual stream of telephonists tripping up and down those few steps, passes in hand. By night, it is a gaunt, lonely place, situated on a hill away from the heart of the city. As we entered, I saw a summer-helmeted policeman sitting with our usual guard. I supposed that this was to be expected. I nudged Mac significantly as I fumbled for my pass. We walked by a group of Central girls who were talking together in the hall. They stopped to look at us curiously, and I noticed Mac's chin
lift a little. I gave them a brief nod as we went through the swing doors to the new building. The stuffy atmosphere of air-conditioning enveloped us. As we passed a block of apparatus, the continual click of the automatic feelers warned us that it must be after 2 p.m. and that afternoon work had commenced all over the city.

Bill was on duty, so I entered the lift with but few qualms. He gave us his usual cheery greeting, perhaps a little kindlier than was his wont. I inquired mechanically after his vegetable garden.

“Do you know where we can locate Inspector Coleman?” asked Mac, as Bill managed the lift dexterously with his one hand. We learned that the police had taken over the room next to the sick-bay to use as a temporary office. It was there that, some years previously, higher officials of the Department had sat mapping out operational instructions. In the opinion of the majority of telephonists, these instructions were all very well in theory, but put into practice with four lines buzzing on your board and a pile of dockets to break, were well-nigh impossible to obey.

We were informed by a man in uniform outside the cloakroom that lockers and coat-racks had been moved to another room off the corridor. We retraced our steps to the telephonists' classroom which had been fitted up as a temporary cloakroom. A quantity of telephone sets were neatly laid out in rows on a table. The powers that be must have authorized someone to go through the lockers with a duplicate key and remove them before the police closed up the rooms. A number stamped on each chest piece coincided with the numerical signature with which we signed dockets. But I recognized mine immediately by the small chip in the mouthpiece. Telephonists are very jealous of their sets. They become as attached and accustomed to them as a child to a doll. It is only with extreme reluctance that they are loaned, and any criticism by the borrower as to the quality of the telephone is strongly resented.

I balanced my cartwheel hat on top of a dummy pedestal telephone and observed casually: “I hope that it won't change to-night. I didn't bring a coat.”

I was slightly apprehensive about the forthcoming interview. There was Gloria's semi-confidence that had fallen on my unwilling ears that morning. Not that it worried me overmuch. She could stew in her own juice for all I cared. But Mac's tragic eyes troubled me. There seemed neither rhyme nor reason for her secretive manner. She appeared placid enough now, a small cool figure in a printed crepe dress with her dark hair brushed up from her temples against the heat. Together we went down to the sick-bay passage.

The solemn-faced Roberts opened the door, and I heard a familiar
voice say: “Here they are now.”

It was Bertie Scott, the Senior Traffic Officer. Somehow his existence had gone out of my head completely, so that it came as a surprise when I saw him seated with Inspector Coleman and the Sergeant. His appearance was shocking. The gradual disintegration of his face and bearing that we had observed had risen to a climax. He looked an old man.

“I suppose that you would like me to go now, Inspector,” he said, getting up slowly.

“I'd rather that you stayed, Mr. Scott; that is, if your duties are not calling you urgently. There may be a few questions for you to answer in collaboration with these young ladies.”

Sergeant Matheson placed chairs for Mac and me opposite the wide desk, from behind which the Inspector had half-risen when we entered. Then we all sat down together in a rush as though we were playing musical chairs.

That little room was almost unbearably hot. The close atmosphere and the nervous anticipation that I was feeling made me perspire in a most unladylike fashion. I wiped the palms of my hands on my handkerchief and cast a covert glance at Mac who was sitting very straight. She still looked calm and cool, but I considered that her fine eyes were more than naturally alert and wary. Beyond Mac's profile, I could see Bertie. He was clad in his alpaca office coat and was sitting slackly with his hands hanging loosely from his knees.

The Inspector hunted on his desk until Sergeant Matheson put a single sheet into his hand. His big frame fitted badly into the dark suit which most of our city men seem to wear in all seasons. Only the Sergeant had compromised with the heat. With unreasonable irritation, I saw that he was wearing a thin, fawn-coloured outfit without a waistcoat. In spite of a glaring tie, he looked all one colour, with his sandy hair and skin. I had had plenty of time for these observations. A long silence had fallen as Inspector Coleman read through his paper, frowning. I sighed and transferred my attention to a solitary fly buzzing about his head. It settled on his broad wet forehead, and he brushed it away with an impatient wave of his hand. At length he raised his eyes, and the three of us—Bertie Scott, Mac and myself—were compelled to run the gauntlet of his keen scrutiny. It took me all my control not to fidget my feet like a guilty schoolgirl. Up to that moment I had a clear enough conscience, but I began to wonder if perhaps there was not some little thing that I was trying to conceal. I think it was then that I realized what a very formidable body the Police Force was. I made a mental vow never to get mixed up with them again.

“Miss MacIntyre,” he began and I saw Mac's eyelids flicker. “I understand
that it was you who discovered the body. According to your statement you last noticed the deceased about 9.30 p.m. Wednesday night, that is yesterday evening, when she approached the sortagraph position where you were working.”

“That is so,” said Mac in a low voice. “She put a docket in the file at the side of the sortagraph.”

“Did she speak to you at all?”

Mac frowned. “I don't think so.”

“Come, Miss MacIntyre, my question required only yes or no.”

She looked at him directly. “She muttered something. Whether it was meant for my ears or not, I don't know.”

“Did you catch what she said?” asked the Inspector. Mac hesitated.

“I am not sure,” she replied cautiously, “but I thought she said ‘that'll fix it' or something similar.”

“H'm,” said the Inspector, “it may or may not be significant. Was it an unusual phrase for Miss Compton to use?”

A slight smile crossed Mac's lips. “I have heard stronger remarks made during the rush time,” she said.

I coughed suddenly, noticing at the same time Bertie's hand crossing his mouth for a moment. Mac's answer could tickle the risible faculties of telephone employees only, although I observed Sergeant Matheson lower his eyes quickly to the papers on the desk. Only the Inspector remained grave.

“That was the last time that you noticed her in the trunkroom?”

“Yes,” answered Mac, and I felt almost happy. The form of the Inspector's question had not necessitated her lying. I looked around the room benevolently, and caught Sergeant Matheson's keen eye fixed on me. As he leaned over and whispered to his superior, I cursed myself heartily for not keeping a poker face. The Inspector nodded. and turned again to Mac.

“Have you anything that you wish to add to your statement, Miss MacIntyre?”

There was another pause, while Mac stared at her hands. Presently the Inspector stirred impatiently.

“Well, Miss MacIntyre?”

“I was thinking,” she remarked coolly. “Perhaps it would help if I could see my statement?” She held out one small hand for it.

“She's playing for time,” I thought anxiously, as Mac's eyes travelled down the single sheet to her signature at the bottom. Only her left hand pleating a fold of her floral skirt betrayed her nervousness.

I said to myself: ‘You're no good at deceiving people, Mac, my sweet.
Why don't you tell them that you saw Sarah later. They'll soon find out about the relief you had.'

“That is quite in order,” she said, returning the sheet, “I have nothing further to tell you.”

It was my turn next.

“I believe that you can swear to Miss Compton's presence in the room at a later time than Miss MacIntyre can.”

“Correct,” I answered without hesitation. “I remember she queried a docket with me about a quarter to ten. A Windsor number was the caller, so it should be easy to trace.”

Bertie spoke for the first time: “Dockets are filed under the calling number, Inspector. I'll have it looked up for you. Any query on a docket is always noted on the back and signed by the person handling it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Scott,” said the Inspector. “Perhaps if I could have that call at once?”

Bertie rose with alacrity. He seemed to be anxious to be up and doing. “A Windsor number you said, Miss Byrnes?” I nodded. He trotted out of the room in his fussy manner.

“Now, Miss Byrnes,” continued Inspector Coleman, as Roberts pulled the door shut. “That was definitely the last time that you saw Miss Compton?”

“I didn't see her,” I corrected again. “Working at top speed you don't see anything but the board and dockets that you are handling. But I'd swear that it was Compton who made the inquiry. I'd know her voice anywhere.”

Sergeant Matheson whispered to the Inspector again, who smiled a little.

“No, that is a little too subtle,” he answered, and added to me: “Sergeant Matheson suggests that it may have been someone imitating her voice, but I think that we will trust to your judgment.”

“You can rely on it,” I said firmly, directing a withering glance at the Sergeant. He reddened a little.

“You don't know if the deceased was seen by anyone else at a later time?” I was asked. I felt Mac stir beside me and closed my eyes for a minute thinking: ‘Now what do I say? It is obvious that Mac doesn't want me to mention her meeting, and then there is my promise to Gloria.' Of course it would be me who came up against the difficult part. I crossed my fingers and lied bravely, hoping that I was a better actress than Mac.

John told me later that it was the silliest damn thing I did throughout that dreadful time. He adheres to the opinion that if I had told the truth, the case might have been broken then and there.

I sighed with relief as Mac drew their attention by suggesting that they query the all-night telephonists as to whether they saw her. The Inspector did not seem pleased with the advice. He probably did not like being told his business, and on any other occasion I wouldn't have blamed him. However he made a note on his pad and asked at what time they came on duty.

“At 11 p.m.,” I informed him. “We usually went when they relieved us, but last night it was so busy that we stayed on helping to clear things up. I signed off about 11.10 p.m.” I glanced at Mac inquiringly.