Murder in the Telephone Exchange (25 page)

“Charlotte!” I yelled, dragging on the dressing-gown that Mac had left lying over a chair for Mrs. Bates's sake.

“Hullo, darling,” said my mother, opening the door gingerly. “Aren't you up yet?”

“No. I was fearfully late last night, and I've got the dogwatch to-day. What are you doing in town? Come and sit down.” I closed the door in Mrs. Bates's face and heard an indignant sniff.

“Didn't I write and tell you?” asked my mother, looking around her vaguely as she peeled off her gloves. “I am sure I did.”

“As a matter of fact,” I admitted, “a letter came yesterday, but I didn't have time to read it. So many things have been happening.”

“So I heard,” she returned calmly. She was surveying me critically from every angle. “Darling, you're getting terribly thin. I'm sure you're smoking too much.”

“Correct,” I grinned. “That and work keep my figure. You rarely see a fat telephonist. Do you remember Sarah Compton when she came to Keramgatta on a supervising trip?”

Charlotte began to strip my bed and turn the mattress. My mother was that type of woman who could never sit still when there was work to do. Even if it was someone else's work.

“The woman with the nose?” she queried.

“What was the matter with her nose?”

“It preeked. Didn't you ever notice?”

I shook my head. “Sorry, but I've never even heard of the word. But I can guess your meaning. You know she's been murdered?”

Charlotte had started to make my bed, so I went to the opposite side to assist.

“So I read in the papers. Your father was in a great state when he saw your photograph.”

“I didn't give it to them,” I protested, folding back the sheet. “If I had had any say in the matter, I certainly wouldn't have let them print that one. Did you observe the Byrnes profile?”

My mother laughed a little. “It jutted. Tell me,” she asked abruptly in her customary manner, “how's your friend, Gilda?”

“Gerda,” I corrected. “You're thinking of
Rigoletto
. What about her?”

“She actually found the body, didn't she?”

I grimaced. “What an abominable word! Yes, she was the first that ever burst, etc. But I was close on her heels. Did you know I fainted?”

Charlotte looked round horror-stricken. “Darling! Dear me, you've not done that since you were twelve.”

I nodded. We spread the disguising day-cover over the bed. “Running to school,” I confirmed. “I told the Sergeant. Do you recall meeting a policeman up our way called Matheson?”

Was that his name?” asked my mother doubtfully. “A shy boy with freckles? He found some shorthorn cattle in one of our own paddocks, after your father had reported them stolen.”

“How very embarrassing for them both. I don't vouch for the freckles, but he certainly seems bashful. He's assisting on the case.” I was hunting about for my soap and bath powder, and heard Charlotte say “Oh,” in a certain tone behind me.

I laughed. “No, Charlotte.”

“Darling, I didn't say a thing,” she protested mildly.

“But you were thinking,” I accused her. “How are the boys? They haven't written to me for an age.”

“They're both fit. Tony thought he'd save postage and send a letter by
me. Are you going to have a bath?”

“A shower. I won't be long. Read the daily news, and let me know the latest about the Exchange murder.”

My mother glanced at me shrewdly. “I should have thought that you knew more than the papers.”

“Maybe,” I answered briefly over my shoulder.

I came back from the bathroom feeling fresh and cool to find my mother tidying up my room.

“Sit down and relax,” I begged. “You give me the fidgets. You haven't told me yet why you're in town.”

“I thought I'd like a hat,” she replied, continuing to dust the wardrobe. “Only a garden hat. One of those straw things you used to be able to get in a nothing over two-and-six pence store.”

“Don't tell me that you've travelled over two hundred miles just to get a garden hat!” I said in astonishment, “Come on, own up.”

She began to fiddle with the ornaments as Mac had done the previous day. I almost expected to hear the pin-tray crash again. “I suppose that l came to see how you were.”

“That's better,” I grinned, “but what for?”

My mother went off at a tangent. “How's work? Are you still as busy as ever?”

“Pretty hectic,” I agreed, waiting patiently.

“Do you still see that John Clarkson you wrote about?”

“Now and then,” I answered carelessly, knowing that the point had now been reached. “We play golf together as often as duty allows. As a matter of fact, I am to have a game with him on Sunday, but I'll cut it now that you're down.”

“Don't do that. Is he a good player?”

“Very. Come along with us. I'd like you to meet him.”

Charlotte looked dubious. “Won't Mr. Clarkson mind?”

I laughed. “I don't think so. You'd better get to know him sometime.”

An expression of resignation came into her face. “I thought so,” she announced. “Goodness knows what your father will say.”

“I don't think it will matter,” I said lightly.

“A warning, Maggie?” asked my mother gravely.

I laughed again and put an arm through hers. “Most uncalled for,” I confessed, “and quite unnecessary.”

“Well, I hope he's nice,” she remarked inadequately, going to the wardrobe. “What dress do you want? It's very hot out.”

“It should change soon,” I said, I glanced out the window trying to read the sky. “Give me the navy horror I wore yesterday, and I'll take a
coat. But we are not going out yet, are we? Don't forget that I'm not on duty until eleven to-night!”

“We'll have lunch here,” promised my mother. “Can Mrs. Bates squeeze me in somewhere for the weekend?”

“I think so. Are you only staying until Monday? That won't give you much time to find that hat.”

“What hat? Oh, you mean my garden one. Perhaps you could keep a watch out for one, Maggie, and send it home to me. I'm not in any violent hurry for it.”

“Charlotte,” I said, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her gently, “you're an old fraud.”

“Why, darling?” she asked with a surprised look.

“You know what I mean,” I said, opening the door. “Come down to the lounge. It's cooler.”

* * * * *

We chatted companionably for some time about home. I read Tony's letter while Mrs. Bates fixed up a room near mine and Charlotte unpacked. The Exchange and everything connected with it went out of my mind until half-way through lunch. I got up suddenly from the sweet course.

“Where are you going, Maggie?” Charlotte asked. “Come back and finish your pudding.”

“I'll only be a second, I want to make a 'phone call.” I closed the door on her mild protestation, and made for the telephone. it took a little time to trace my number. I found what I wanted by making a few inquiries with the Personnel Branch of the Telephone Department. “Is Miss Gordon there?” I asked, as a male voice answered.

“Who is speaking, please?”

“Miss Byrnes,” I replied haughtily. What business was it of his? I glanced down at the receiver, puzzled at the sound of muffled conversation, as the man at the other end put a hand over the mouthpiece. Presently the hand was removed. l heard someone say: “I'll speak to her.” A voice asked me crisply: “Miss Byrnes? This is Sergeant Matheson.”

I knew that something had happened as soon as he spoke. A fearful excitement shook me. “I wanted to speak to Dulcie Gordon,” I said hesitantly. “What are you doing at her boardinghouse?” The police had got on to her tracks quicker than l had expected. Poor Gordon! Poor little kid!

“I've got some bad news for you,” the Sergeant's voice said gravely. I gripped the receiver hard. I thought I knew what was coming. “Miss Gordon was found dead early this morning.”

I could neither speak nor move. The shock was almost overwhelming. Somewhere in the distance, through the drumming in my ears, I could hear the Sergeant's voice saying urgently: “Miss Byrnes. Are you there, Miss Byrnes?”

“Yes, I'm still here,” I replied, leaning against the wall to support my weak legs. “It's just the shock. When you say dead, what—”

“She was found gassed.”

“That means suicide, doesn't it? Did she leave a note?”

“None has been found,” he replied, and a dreadful tremor passed through my body.

“The Inspector,” I whispered. “Does he think-is it another murder?”

“We don't know yet. Can I trust you to keep this quiet?”

“You may,” I replied, reviving a little. “I suppose that I'd better own up to the fact that I was probably the last person to see Gordon alive; that is, if you disregard tram conductors and the like.”

His exclamation nearly deafened my eardrum. “Don't speak so loud,” I ordered acidly. “Well?”

“We can't talk over the 'phone. Someone might be listening in. Where are you now?”

“At my boarding-house,” I informed him, overlooking the slur aimed at the telephonic escutcheon, “in the middle of lunch.”

“I'll be right over,” Sergeant Matheson said. “Don't go out, will you?” But he hung up before I had time to reply.

I didn't go back to the dining-room at once, but stood against the wall staring stupidly at the 'phone in my hand. “Poor Dulcie!” I repeated to myself. “She must have got the wind up properly last night when she left me, and felt that she couldn't face it.”

But perhaps it was murder, though it seemed a difficult way to get rid of anyone by gassing them. There would sure to be marks of a struggle. No one in their right senses would put their head into a gas oven without making some protest if they were being forced to. Gradually the sick feeling left me. I walked slowly back to the dining-room.

“Hullo,” I said to myself, in a disinterested way, “Mrs. Bates is trying to convert Charlotte.”

My mother was saying in her gentle way: “That's all very well, Mrs. Bates, but one can't possibly speak the truth always. Dear me, you wouldn't have a friend in the world. Maggie, dear, what's the matter with you? You're as white as a sheet.”

“Come and have your tea in the lounge,” I ordered. “Will you please excuse us, Mrs. Bates?”

“But Maggie, what about your sweet?” I glanced at the caramel custard
without enthusiasm.

“No more, thanks. Very nice though, Mrs. Bates,” I added hurriedly, as she presented an offended back towards us and poured out two cups of tea. I carried them carefully up the hall. My hands were shaking. I closed the lounge room door and wandered restlessly over to the window. Charlotte waited in silence.

“Dulcie Gordon has committed suicide,” I blurted out without turning my head. I couldn't trust myself not to give way if I met my mother's eyes.

“Did you put sugar in mine?” asked my mother, stirring her tea. “Who's Dulcie Gordon, dear?”

“One of the girls,” I replied, pulling the curtain aside to watch the gate. “She may have been murdered. The police wouldn't commit themselves, but I don't know. You see, I was speaking to her last night.”

“It's all rather dreadful,” my mother said quietly. I talked about our conversation in the milk bar the previous night, and my own speculations that morning, until Sergeant Matheson arrived. I couldn't stop chattering. Charlotte's matter-of-fact attitude calmed me down greatly.

“You've lost your freckles,” Charlotte remarked as I introduced the Sergeant. He reddened uncomfortably, and laughed.

“Don't be personal, Charlotte,” I rebuked her. “Well, Sergeant?”

“Well, Miss Byrnes?”

I made a gesture of impatience. “Was it murder or suicide? I don't think you need go,” I added to my mother, as I saw her making a half-hearted attempt to leave the room.

“We are inclined to consider that it was suicide,” answered the Sergeant with habitual caution. “There is no evidence of death from any other cause than gas, and no marks of a struggle. There is always the possibility of the unfortunate person having been stunned first, and then the mouth placed over a gas jet in order to give the impression of suicide. The only strange feature of this case is the lack of any farewell note, explaining the reason for taking life.”

“Did you look underneath everything?” my mother chipped in. “Men never seem to.”

“We made a very thorough search,” he assured her, smiling.

“Perhaps Gordon thought there were already enough letters in this business, and that she would not add to the confusion,” I remarked flippantly.