Murder in the Telephone Exchange (17 page)

As soon as I had said this, I knew that I had done wrong. The Inspector leaped on to my faux pas immediately.

“Quite so, Miss Byrnes,” he agreed ironically. “According to last evening's papers, the world and local news were both entirely satisfactory. So much so, that the untoward occurrence, as you so lightly term it, has almost stolen the headlines. I should like to suggest, in complete corroboration with you of course,” and he bowed slightly before my indignant gaze, “that that is just the reason for Mr. Scott's presence here last night.”

John Clarkson got up angrily. “What are you hinting at?” he demanded. He was the same height as Inspector Coleman. Perhaps it was the Inspector's bulk that made him appear the bigger of the two.

“Mr. Scott,” Clark continued, indicating Bertie who was still sitting as straight as an arrow, “is a well-known man, and one highly respected by all who come in contact with him. Such an accusation as you are making is completely ludicrous. I am sure that he had some perfectly good reason to come here last night.”

Inspector Coleman had transferred his cold look to Clark. “Perhaps you will sit down, Mr. Clarkson, and permit Mr. Scott to give us that reason.”

Clark came over to share my lounge, muttering in a way that would not have disgraced Bertie at his best. I was slightly astonished at his swift championship. I had not realized before that he held the Senior Traffic Officer in such high esteem.

Bertie had not moved at all during the tirade, although a shadow of a smile had crossed his lips, loosening the tight lines from nose to mouth. It was only a movement of the facial muscles, I thought, trying to analyse it; almost a grimace, but definitely without mirth.

“Thank you, John,” he said. It was the first time that I had heard him call Clark by his Christian name. “Well, Inspector?”

“Really, Mr. Scott!” said the Inspector with an impatient gesture of his huge hands. “Haven't you understood the meaning of all this? We are waiting for your statement.”

Bertie shot him a wary look. “And if I refuse?” he asked quietly.

Again Inspector Coleman moved his hands in aggravation. “If you refuse, my dear sir, you leave us with but one thing to do. But I hope that you will not be so foolish.”

Bertie turned to Ormond, who had been staring stupidly from one face to another.

‘A dozen murderers could have got by you,' I thought savagely.

“What time did you see me go out?” asked Bertie. Ormond thought for a minute or two. I could have sworn that I could hear his brain ticking over. The dolt!

“Cup of tea at 10.15 p.m.,” he murmured to himself. “Then a smoke—about 10.25 p.m., sir,” he declared suddenly. “I could swear to that, Inspector. Mr. Scott was carrying his hat in his hand, and the light fell right on to his face.”

Bertie turned towards the two policemen. “What time do you say that the crime was committed?”

“Between 10 p.m. and 11 p.m. is the nearest the doctor will give us,” answered Inspector Coleman. “But you don't seem to understand your extremely serious position, Mr. Scott. Unless you can give us some explanation of your movements during that hour, we shall be forced to detain you. Now, sir! Why did you come back to the Exchange after hours, when it was not your wont?” The Inspector had evidently ignored my futile interruption.

Then Bertie dropped his bombshell. I could see that the scene was working up to a climax and gripped my hands together.

“I returned,” he said quietly, looking Inspector Coleman straight between the eyes. “I returned to keep an appointment with Sarah Compton.”

“Get this down accurately,” flashed the Inspector to Sergeant Matheson. “Go on, Mr. Scott.”

Bertie threw out his hands. “That's all,” he said simply. The two men stared at him blankly. At any other time I would have laughed at the frustrated expression on their faces, but just now I was concerned about Bertie. He seemed to be sailing too close to the wind for my liking.

I was certain that I saw the Inspector swallow hard. “What do you mean-that's all? What happened? Did you see Miss Compton? And, if so, at what time?”

“Certainly I saw her,” Bertie said in a dignified voice. “I told you I had an appointment. It must have been about three or four minutes after ten. She was waiting for me.”

“May I be permitted,” asked Inspector Coleman, heavily sarcastic, “to ask where this meeting took place?” But this sarcasm went over Bertie's head. Years in the Exchange made one immune to such a figure of speech.

“Certainly,” he repeated. “Miss Compton asked me to meet her in the observation room on the third floor.”

I closed my eyes as an overwhelming surge of relief passed over me.
This removed Mac even farther away from the setting. Sarah must have been on her way down to the observation room to keep her appointment with Bertie when Mac saw her.

‘Exactly where I said she was going,' I thought triumphantly, closing my mind to the fact that at the time it had only been a wild guess. I felt Clark's shoulder press mine for a minute, and knew that he was thinking the same as I.

Inspector Coleman continued with his questioning. “You say that Miss Compton was waiting for you on the third floor. Was she alone?”

“The observation position closed at 9.45 p.m., so that it was a good place to talk undisturbed.”

“Did Miss Compton arrange this meeting?”

Bertie seemed to hesitate a minute before he nodded. “She rang my home earlier that evening, and asked me to come to it. She wanted to see me about something of the utmost importance, she said.”

“Was this an unusual request, Mr. Scott?”

That peculiar smile flickered on his face again. This time I thought that he appeared a little amused. “No, I'm afraid Miss Compton was always imagining that she had matters of great moment to divulge. In fact, had she not almost implored me to come, I would have let the matter rest until the morning.”

“So you sneaked into the Exchange, hoping that you would not be recognized. Why, Mr. Scott?”

“I've just told you,” replied Bertie, a little irritably. He had not liked Inspector Coleman's phrasing. “I came in answer to Miss Compton's request.”

“Don't quibble,” said the Inspector in an icy voice. “I am asking you for the reason for this meeting.”

“Miss Compton wouldn't tell me her reason over the phone,” Bertie began hopefully. The Inspector cut him short, looking rather angry.

“Mr. Scott, you are wasting our time. Unless you can give us a satisfactory explanation of your conduct and at once, I must ask you to accompany us to Russell Street Headquarters.”

There was dead silence after this ultimatum. Presently Inspector Coleman, rather red in the face, glanced at his watch, saying: “I'll give you thirty seconds in which to think the matter over. Then we must act.”

I could guess that Bertie was already thinking furiously, and wondered what was happening behind his expressionless face. He got up from his lounge chair to take a turn about the room. I noticed the Sergeant move nearer the door; an instinctive, almost imperceptible movement. ‘Quite unnecessary,' I thought scornfully.

Stealing a glance at Clark, I saw him watching Bertie's pacings with a puzzled look on his face. He felt my eyes on him, because he turned his head and frowned warningly. He must have thought that I was going to burst out with another faux pas. He need not have worried. I had cut my dash, and was quite willing to be a passive onlooker from now on.

Finally, Bertie came to stand directly in front of the Inspector; an absurd little figure beside all that bulk.

“How much information are you giving the Press?” he demanded.

“That depends,” was the cautious answer. “So far the papers have only the bare outline of the crime. With such a well-known place as the Exchange, the utmost discretion is being used to protect the good name of the Department.”

Bertie looked grimly amused. “If I tell you my story, there will be more good names than the Department's to save.”

“I will treat your information with as much confidence as I am able,” promised the Inspector.

Bertie looked round to the lounge that Clark and I shared. I thought he appeared more embarrassed than anything else. “I suppose that I can rely on the members of my staff to say nothing about what I am going to tell the Inspector?”

“Certainly, Mr. Scott,” said Clark promptly, and I inclined my head without speaking.

Bertie gazed at Inspector Coleman, as if he was sizing up his opponent before he struck.

“Well, Mr. Scott?” asked the latter, with scarcely curbed annoyance. My sympathy was partly with him. Bertie could be very trying at times.

“I told you that I came here to keep an appointment with Sarah Compton,” he declared slowly. “It was not the first time. We have been meeting for several years now—clandestinely.”

CHAPTER IV

I closed my eyes as the room reeled a little before my gaze. I doubted my own ears for a moment, so amazing was the confession that the Senior Traffic Officer had made. The mere idea of middle-aged and seemingly respectable Bertie carrying on a love affair with a faded spinster like Sarah Compton was appalling. Having held him in such high regard for so many years, I felt shocked and more than a little disgusted. It is all very well reading about such things and feeling broad-minded, but on coming into
such close contact with an
affaire
my only reaction was a strong desire to be violently ill. I fancied that Clark must have shared my emotions, because his face was blank as was its wont when his contempt was aroused.

If the Inspector had received a similar shock, he concealed it admirably. I presumed in his game nothing would surprise him.

“Are you informing us,” he demanded, after blunt facts, “that the deceased woman was your mistress?”

I looked at Bertie immediately, but his face, like Clark's, was enigmatic. He answered Inspector Coleman's question in a prim voice: “Really, Inspector! Must you be quite so frank before a young unmarried woman?”

Again I felt a surge of disgust. Must he add hypocrisy to his other misdemeanours? Why couldn't he be quite open about it, now that I had discovered his clay feet?

“Perhaps Miss Byrnes would like to go,” said the Inspector coldly, without taking his eyes from Bertie. But my first instinct to flee had departed.

“No, thank you,” I replied, attempting to sound careless, “but I will if you want me to.” I hoped that he would not dismiss me. As far as I could see the case was working up to a sordid solution with Bertie as the chief figure. Although I had had some interest in the Senior Traffic Officer's defence, my main concern had always been Mac. I could not see my loyalty to her wavering, no matter what she had done.

Inspector Coleman had started asking questions without a glance in my direction, so I concluded that he took my presence for granted.

“How long have you been—on such familiar terms with the deceased?” he asked presently. The delicate phrasing was on account of my maiden ears, I supposed.

“A matter of some years,” answered Bertie promptly. “I knew her a long time ago, when we worked together as telephonists.”

“As far back as 1917?” Inspector Coleman inquired in an odd voice. I pricked up my ears. This was definitely going to be interesting.

“Why, yes, I suppose so,” Bertie replied in some surprise.

“She was not a—?” began Inspector Coleman hesitantly.

“No,” came a firm answer cutting him short. I considered it time to stop such idiocy, and interrupted them. “You needn't spare my ears. I am twenty-five years of age; not a child, you know.”

I think that they were both grateful, although neither looked around at me as I spoke. The Inspector continued: “Do you remember a telephonist about that time called Irene Smith?”

“Irene Smith,” repeated Bertie slowly. “Yes, I knew her. She was a friend of Miss Compton's for a time, before they had some sort of a quarrel.”

“Do you know what that quarrel was about?”

“No,” he answered promptly again. And I wondered if I should tell the police about Bill's story. “Miss Compton had an unfortunate temperament, which was difficult for those of her own sex to tolerate. However, she seemed to be well-liked by men. I suppose that there was a little jealousy.”

“Did you ever see Irene Smith after she left the Exchange to be married sometime in 1917?”

There was an almost imperceptible pause before Bertie answered. “Not to my knowledge,” he said.

The cautious reply had the effect of making the Inspector ask: “Why do you put it like that, Mr. Scott? Did you or did you not see her again?”

“There is a possibility that I might have seen her after many years, and not recognized her,” explained Bertie in his precise manner, that his inquisitor must have found excessively irritating.

“There is no need to be quite so accurate,” declared Inspector Coleman dryly. “A negative answer would have been sufficient. However, we will leave that for a moment and come up to the present. Are you quite certain of the time that you left the deceased last night?”