Murder in the Telephone Exchange (26 page)

The Sergeant gave me a direct look. “You don't seem very upset by your friend's death.”

“Did you want another fainting act? I could have obliged you before, but now I am feeling more interested than sick. Where are your questions?
Don't tell me that you came just for the social visit!”

“No, indeed,” he answered, searching his inner pockets.

“I knew it,” I said in a resigned voice. He glanced at me, puzzled. “You haven't sharpened your pencil yet.”

Sergeant Matheson laughed again. He became serious. It was amazing how young he could appear and then how awe-inspiring when he adopted his official manner. I never knew where I was with him.

“What time did you leave Miss Gordon last night?”

“At about ten minutes to twelve,” I replied promptly. “We parted at the Commercial Insurance corner. I managed to catch the seven minutes to twelve train.”

“Was she alone?” he asked, writing carefully in his book.

“Yes. I had just bought her a milk shake at Peter's Bar. She had been pouring forth her soul to me. It's amazing the number of secrets that I've come across since last Wednesday.”

“It is a pity that you don't divulge them to the right quarters,” Sergeant Matheson said sternly. I smiled at him, not rising to his bait.

“I am quite willing to tell you what we talked about,” I informed him kindly. “Don't be afraid to ask. In fact, if this tragedy had not occurred and brought you hurrying to my side, so to speak, I would have sought out your superior officer to lay certain facts before him. They might have enabled him to make an arrest. Savvy?”

“Certainly. There is a decided possibility that by taking her own life so suddenly Miss Gordon stands a self-confessed murderess.”

I felt unreasonably annoyed that he had followed my somewhat obvious theory so closely on his own.

“Did you know that our late lamented monitor was more or less blackmailing the poor kid?” I demanded.

“We had a fair idea,” he confessed in a meek voice. “That mail that we went through yesterday at Miss Compton's house was sent on to Russell Street for further inspection. There were several copies of letters written by Miss Compton to Miss Gordon. We also came across some of Miss Gordon's own, written by some lad she knew rather well.”

“You can get rid of those,” I said firmly. “You're not going to drag that poor child's love affair into the limelight if I can help it. She may have murdered Sarah Compton, but I, for one, don't hold it against her. That woman deserved everything she got and more.”

“Maggie, darling,” protested my mother. “Don't be so vindictive. Don't forget that Miss Compton is dead.”

“What does that matter?” I retorted. “Furthermore, Compton seems to be making just as much nuisance of herself dead, as she did when she was
alive. If she hadn't tried to mess up Gordon's life, she wouldn't have been murdered. If she wasn't dead, that poor child wouldn't have done away with herself.”

Sergeant Matheson said calmly: “You seem very certain that Miss Gordon killed Miss Compton.”

“I am,” I returned with emphasis. “Though a very humble amateur in the game of detection, I would say that the first thing one should look for when hunting a murderer is motive. Dulcie had a motive. A very good one, I consider. She also had the opportunity. You may go to that awful idiot, Ormond, and ask him who went in and out of the Exchange during a specified time, but I am willing to bet you a hundred to one, in pennies,” I added cautiously, “that anyone could pass him without being observed. It's impossible to remember everyone, accurately.”

“And yet,” the Sergeant put in dryly, “he remembers Mr. Scott and Miss Patterson.”

“Two!” I replied scornfully. “Bertie is well known, and Gloria was already well-impressed on his mind by a previous
rencontre
. Take Gordon, now. She was a nondescript-looking girl. I doubt if I, who have worked with her for years, could tell you even the colour of her eyes. She was the type that you don't notice. She moved quietly, and she talked quietly. I suggest that you go back to her room, and have another thorough search for a farewell letter. Suicides always leave them, I'm told; especially women. It would be quite easy to stay behind after the other 10.30 girls had left. They would not mark her absence. She could hide in the lunchroom opposite until Sarah came along to the cloakroom. Even the fact that Patterson was hanging around would not matter, as she left as quickly as she could. Then Gordon—” I stopped, as Sergeant Matheson spoke.

“Wait a moment. What weapon did she use?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?” I demanded, “or don't you know? Last night, the Senior Traffic Officer's buttinsky—a mechanic's telephone, Mother, very heavy—was discovered to be missing. Unless Mr. Scott has shown its whereabouts this morning, a better weapon for bashing anyone's head in could not he used.”

“There is no trace of it,” answered Sergeant Matheson shortly. “Mr. Scott professes himself completely in the dark as to its absence. He remembers it last on Wednesday morning, but could not say when he first missed it.”

“I knew it,” I declared in triumph. “It's the sort of accoutrement to the Exchange that you don't notice, and certainly don't miss. You just presume that the other fellow is using it. It would be quite simple for Gordon to lift it on her way to tea and put it in her locker. When I came into the
restroom before having my own tea, several of the girls were playing cards. Incidentally, Charlotte, I took a hand and made two over with four trumps. Dulcie was one of them, and she mentioned, just casually of course, that some of the lockers including her own had been disturbed. What an admirable way to cover herself, if Bertie's buttinsky had by some extraordinary stroke of bad luck been found before she could use it on Compton. None of the other girls corroborated her statement nor did they contradict it, naturally thinking that the lockers belonged to other telephonists.”

“Have you any suggestions as to where Mr. Scott's telephone is now?” asked the Sergeant smoothly.

“None. Charlotte, where would you have put it if you had murdered Compton?”

“What a horrible thought, Maggie! What is a buttinsky like in appearance?”

“About a foot long, with a length of flex that could be easily removed. The dial and mouthpiece are at one end, and the earphone at the other.”

“Quite a difficult thing to hide,” remarked my mother. “I should throw it away.”

“Yes, but where? Don't forget that it would probably be rather messy after the use to which it had been put.”

“I would just throw it anywhere if that was the case,” she answered firmly. “I'd be only too glad to get rid of it.”

I turned to Sergeant Matheson. “There you are! We'd just throw it away. When and where, I can't tell you.”

“From a window,” added my mother, inspired.

“From the roof,” I shouted in excitement. “There's a small dump-yard on the east side of the building; it would only mean a matter of dropping the buttinsky over the side, and it would be certain to land amongst the rubbish. What about it, Sergeant?”

He looked as excited as I felt. “Miss Byrnes, you should be in the Force,” he declared emphatically.

“I thought of it first,” Charlotte protested. I patted her on the back in a congratulatory fashion.

Sergeant Matheson closed his book with a snap, and got up. “If we find the weapon it looks pretty well as if the case is broken; even in spite of the missing letter.”

“How did she do it?” I asked, growing grave.

“A gas-ring in her room. No one noticed the smell for a long time as she lived in a small back room, right away from the other boarders.”

“The poor little girl,” said my mother sadly. “Have you advised her people?”

The Sergeant nodded, preparing to leave. “A telegram was sent. You have nothing more to tell me, Miss Byrnes?”

“Nothing,” I repeated, “though as far as I can see, you already knew what I was going to say. Wait a moment. There is something.”

He turned back.

“She said quite definitely that she did not write that anonymous letter about the memorandum that we found amongst Compton's pile. I think,” I continued slowly, “that I am inclined to believe her now.”

“Thank you,” he answered, making a note. “We missed that out on questioning Miss Gordon last night, so we have to rely on your evidence. Good-bye, Mrs. Byrnes.”

“I'll see you out,” I declared, ignoring his protest. Mrs. Bates was polishing the brass hat stand in the hall. It was an ancient piece of furniture and seldom used, but she kept it gleaming like gold. As a rule it was attacked first thing in the morning. I guessed its second polishing was just an excuse for Mrs. Bates to be within call of the lounge room. I grinned at her cheerfully as I shut the door after Sergeant Matheson.

“Who was that?” she demanded, without beating about the bush.

“The police,” I said tragically, clasping my hands together in a dramatic fashion. “They have discovered all. Dear Mrs. Bates, in your mercy, will you still house a criminal?”

She stared at me round-eyed. “If they arrest you,” she declared with a wheeze, “I'll give them a piece of my mind.”

“It's just what they require,” I answered, kicking open the lounge room door viciously. “Are you ready, Charlotte? Let's take a constitutional.”

“Not too far, darling. It's so very hot.”

“We won't be in for dinner,” I told my landlady, as we went up the stairs to my room.

“We'll go over to the Gardens,” I suggested. “It should be cool there. Then what about a meal in town and a show before I go on duty?”

“Won't you be too tired, Maggie?”

“I can sleep to-morrow,” I answered, shrugging. “By the way, we've got a hop on at the Exchange to-morrow night. Would you care to come? I am going to honour it with my presence for a couple of hours.”

“I'd love to,” replied my mother promptly.

“I'll have to get a leave-pass for you. Actually the dance is only for the Exchange employees, but l think I'll be able to wangle it.”

We took a tram round to the Domain, and walked through the Gardens until we found a cool place to sit and browse. The lake looked hot and muddy. A few white swans wilted to and fro. In the background, the towers and spires of the city rose up in a misty haze.

“Were you suspected of murder?” asked my mother presently. She seemed quite placid about the idea.

“I don't think so,” I replied, tilting my hat over my eyes against the glare. “You see, the police had the crime timed for between 10.40 p.m. and 11.10 p.m., when Mac, Clark and I were working flat out in the trunkroom. Having such a good alibi naturally they were wary of us, but I think that they will be satisfied now that Gordon has made her fade-out. It's very odd that she left no letter.”

“Perhaps someone took it.”

“A brain-wave!” I said approvingly. “But I don't see why; unless, of course, Dulcie was going to spill the beans about someone else. But who was to know that she was going to gas herself last night? l would be the only one who had any idea of what state of mind she was in, and it certainly didn't strike me last night that she might commit suicide. If she didn't kill Sarah, I can't understand why she did it. After all, Compton had very little with which to blackmail her; just an innocent boy and girl friendship, and a threat to tell Dulcie's people about the money that she owed. I told her last night Sarah didn't have a leg to stand on.”

My mother made no comment and I was glad. Gordon's suicide had shaken me more than I had admitted. It was rather grim wondering if I had said the wrong thing the previous night and precipitated the affair. I shouldn't have let the poor child go home by herself. But even if it had occurred to me, which it didn't, what could I have done? I already had Mac sharing my bed. I couldn't go bringing half the trunkroom home to sleep with me.

“Maggie, do look at those sweet little ducks!”

A half-dozen or so came streaming under the bridge in the wake of their matronly-looking mother.

“She looks like you,” I remarked, jolted out of my reverie.

“Darling, how rude! What show would you like to see?”

I told her what was on in the city. We argued amiably for a while about the relative enjoyment of a good show amidst uncomfortable surroundings and a feeble film at one of our most up-to-date theatres.

“I bet we make it a newsreel in the end,” I said, glancing at my wrist watch. “Charlotte, I want to go up to the Exchange for a few minutes. Can you amuse yourself in town? You can start a search for your garden hat,” I added mischievously.

“Very well, dear,” she answered, ignoring my hand to help her rise. “I'm not that old. Did you leave something at the Exchange and want to collect it?”

“Preeker!” I replied, grinning. “I want to make sure about something.
If I find what I am looking for, I'll tell you. I'll meet you outside the Town Hall about six o'clock, and we'll find some nice place for dinner.”