Murder in the Telephone Exchange (28 page)

“Yes, thanks. What about the garden hat?”

“I forgot to look for it,” she confessed. I guided her up town to a little continental café where the fish course is always superb. My mother insisted on “something to bring the colour to your cheeks,” so we shared a half-bottle of Sauterne. I certainly felt better after dinner, and lighting a cigarette over coffee, began to tell her of Bertie's misdoings. She made a little moue of distaste, but let me go on uninterrupted until I concluded with the discovery of the door in the basement.

“All very interesting, Maggie, but to where does it lead you?”

“To the right-of-way on the west side of the building,” I answered literally. “Although the door was bolted and barricaded, it would have been just too easy if anyone had really wanted to use it. Furthermore, in spite of Mac's assurance that most people knew of its existence, I didn't. And I've been at the Exchange for a good many years now.”

“But everything's finished,” protested my mother. “The case has been solved. Why are you worrying about out-of-the-way doors?”

“I don't know,” I replied slowly. “There are a few matters that I'd like explained. But I suppose you are right. Everything's finished—including my coffee. Shall we go?”

We had decided on the good film at the second-rate theatre. But I did not see much of it. My brain was going around and around; turning over first this fact and then that. I should have felt satisfied. I kept repeating to myself: “Everything is finished, everything is finished,” but my mind was restless and alert as though still awaiting a climax. Dulcie's suicide did not seem like the end of the story to me. Instead it seemed bizarre, extraordinary; even an anticlimax.

“It is because there was no letter found,” I told myself, wondering what the simpering blonde on the screen had to do with the picture. She reminded me of Gloria, and that made my brain tick over again.

What part had she played in the murder? Was she too the innocent
victim of our late unlamented monitor? And Bill! He knew something about that pencil I had offered him, I could swear. His manner was just a shade too off-hand and casual. I stirred restlessly, and Charlotte sh-h-d me to be quiet.

To hell with the Exchange and everyone it contained! Let them keep their guilty secrets! It was none of my business, thank Heaven. I tried to wipe all those nagging little thoughts from my mind and to concentrate on the screen.

“Very clever, don't you think?” my mother asked, as we came out.

“Excellent,” I agreed mendaciously. I walked on to the road to compare the Town Hall time with my own watch. “I'll have to fly, Charlotte. It's ten to eleven. Will you be all right going home? Catch the No. 16 tram.”

“I hate you going to work at this hour,” Charlotte remarked plaintively. “It's not natural. Be very careful going up that dark street.”

“I'll take the bus,” I promised. “It'll drop me right outside the door. See you in the morning. Sleep well.”

CHAPTER VI

I darted through the after-theatre crowd, thinking of them enviously. They would all be going home to bed, while I had to keep awake to serve them. The ungrateful cattle!

A telephonist's lot is a hard one, especially the all-nighter. I had started to yawn already. It is very difficult at the beginning to switch your working hours around to night-time. Once the first couple of nights are over, you become more or less accustomed to it. I always hated the first night of the dog-watch; you were relieved in the morning by fresh, clear-eyed girls, while you yourself were looking and feeling like death warmed up, Thank goodness, the all-night shift only occurred once every three months.

I caught the bus, and fell inevitably into the company of a couple of other all-nighters. They had brought books and knitting to while away the more tedious hours when traffic would be infrequent. I cursed my lack of foresight in not arming myself with similar weapons to keep me from further jumbled speculations about Bertie Scott and Bill.

“Have you seen Patterson?” I asked them, as we got ready for work in the dormitory on the seventh floor. It was a long room with curtained cubicles that more than adequately supplied accommodation for all-night operators. The following day it would be cleared and decorated for our charity social. I intended to help during the afternoon.

“Patterson? Patterson?” repeated one girl in mock concentration. “Who's she?”

“The girl with ‘it,' ” put in another.

“Oomph,” I corrected. “Don't be out of date.”

“Were you talking about me, Maggie?” asked an icy voice behind me. I swung round, adjusting the neckband of my outfit. Gloria stood in the doorway, a picture of dignified disdain.

“Well, well,” I said brightly. “Look who's blown in. Yes, sweetheart, I was talking about you. And you can just take that nasty expression from your face. As a sneer, it is very feeble. What do you mean by putting a change in the book without telling me?”

She shrugged lightly, slipping the silver fox stole from her shoulders. “You said that I owed you a pay-back, and Bertie signed it.”

“Well, next time, please let me know. As we are going to be overstaffed to-night, I intend to get in as much sleep as I can. I am just as glad that you made the mistake. But don't think that I am thanking you,” I added hastily.

“You're a cat, Byrnes,” Patterson burst out, losing her nonchalance. “One of these days, I'll get even with you.”

“Try it,” I advised. “You've already made one attempt and failed. Your first endeavour in telling lies about me to the police didn't get you very far.”

“Getting an opinion of yourself after the notice they took of you, aren't you?” she sneered, this time more successfully. “No wonder Gerda is getting fed up.” I stiffened suddenly. As she observed me wince, Patterson pressed home her attack. “I suppose that you know that your policeman is married, and has a couple of children.”

“How interesting!” l said coldly, trying to bring the subject away from Mac. “And just where did you get this information which you have told me so thoughtfully?”

“That's my business,” she drawled.

“Stop squabbling, you two,” interrupted one of the others. “It's well after eleven, so hurry up.”

So Mac was getting fed up with me! How did Gloria know that we had quarrelled—no, not exactly quarrelled. A shadow had grown up between us; a wall that had begun from withheld confidences and half-truths and had grown into indifference. It did not sound like Mac to go talking about our dissensions, especially to Gloria of all people. I pondered over it, puzzled and uncomprehending.

Mr. Bancroft was on duty as traffic officer. We were sternly rebuked for being late. He was a tall man, painfully thin, and suffered from diabetes,
though I doubted whether that was the excuse for his continual tea-drinking. Every half-hour or so he would slip out of the trunkroom and brew a pot of tea. Almost everyone who worked in the Exchange developed some pet peculiarity. That was why I found my colleagues not uninteresting. We might be regarded like so many cogs in the wheel, but we retained some individuality above our work.

The late telephonists were all a trifle terse. The usual custom was to relieve a few minutes early; even if one was kept working until the stroke of eleven, which was the exact time that the late telephonists' duty ends, one felt hardly done by.

I took over the country boards, far from the rest of the staff. As an interstate telephonist, I thought the slight change in operating might make up for the lack of other amusement. I regretted my decision immediately. I knew that once I got by myself the old doubts would start running around in my brain again, and I would have no peace unless some hard switching demanded my full attention. That would be unlikely to happen after an hour or two when the lines became slack, and if the traffic officer on duty was a decent fellow we could go off for some sleep, or knit and read.

Clark came in a few minutes before the half-hour. He talked for a while with Mr. Bancroft to learn the state of the traffic, and if any of the lines were out of order. Presently, he passed me on his way to dismantle the delay-board. The room grew quieter as the power fell to half-pressure, and calls became more and more infrequent. The chatter of the girls the other side of the room echoed hollowly. I half-listened, casually drawing faces on the back of a docket for want of something better to do. When their voices fell to a murmur I realized that I was the subject of the conversation. It didn't worry me much. After all, my position during the last few days must have been the subject of a lot of discussion.

Suddenly Patterson's voice arose, shrilly, “Personally, I think that she was to blame for poor Dulcie's suicide.”

There was no doubt as to her meaning. A dead silence fell. I stared for a moment at the absurd faces that I had sketched, and then swung round in my chair filled with an indescribable mixture of emotions. Anger, there certainly was. Who would be able to keep calm in the face of such an accusation? But there was also a dread, cold feeling of horror. Could it be that Patterson's word spoken with malicious intent held some degree of accuracy? Had I killed Dulcie? Had I forced her to commit the terrible crime of taking her own life by my untimely intervention in her affairs? It had occurred to me before, but not quite like that. I had been blaming myself for leaving something unsaid; a few comforting words that might have coaxed Gordon out of her despair. Had my clumsy advice
only deepened her sense of hopelessness? In those few minutes as I stared across the room to where Patterson faced me defiantly, I went through an age of torturing fear and self-condemnation. I could not utter a word to defend myself, but continued to gaze horror-stricken at my tormentor.

John Clarkson came striding briskly down the room. “Now then, you girls, what are those lights doing in the panel? Get going.” He must have heard Patterson. No one in the room could have missed her raised voice. He continued on his way towards me. I watched his approach miserably, my eyes altering their focus as he came nearer. He turned my chair around gently so that I faced my position again. I felt the firm pressure of his hand on my shoulder before he walked round to the back of the boards, and leaned over the low top opposite me. I looked at him beseechingly for a minute in silence. I was forced to whisper as my throat felt parched and tight.

“Did you hear what she said? Clark, I—” He stopped me, putting a finger to his lips.

“Take no notice,” he replied gently. “She was only trying to bait you.” But the way he spoke made me say urgently: “Is she right? Is that what everyone is saying, but she was the only one game enough to speak straight out? Am I the cause of Dulcie—that poor child-?”

“Hush, Maggie, pull yourself together, or you'll go to pieces properly. Dulcie took the best way out if she killed Sarah.”

“If!” I repeated almost hysterically. “Supposing she didn't kill Sarah? Then l am to blame for her death as surely as if I killed her myself.”

“Don't talk rot,” Clark said sternly. “Look! There's a light waiting for you. Get on with your work and stop thinking idiotic thoughts.”

I fumbled blindly for the key, and dialled out a number for Leongatha. Clark stayed where he was, glancing now and then over my head at the other telephonists. I was glad that he was so near. I needed assurance and plenty of it at that moment.

“Margaret,” he spoke my name in a low, kind voice. “Gordon did kill Sarah Compton. The police are satisfied. They must be, as they've packed up and left. Won't you forget the whole horrible business for ever?”

“Never,” I replied vehemently. “I can never forget what Patterson said. Oh, I don't hold it against her, as she only spoke with the idea to get a rise. But it would be just the same if my best friend, or even you, made such an accusation. I'm not going mad, Clark, so don't worry. I am beginning to think clearly for the first time, and there is one fact in my mind that stands out. It may be ridiculous, and it may have been proved that I am wrong, but of this I am certain. Dulcie Gordon did not murder Compton. She was incapable of such a deed, and I know it. Granted, she had both
the opportunity and the motive, which I, in what I thought was my clever way, pointed out to the police. But I will never believe her guilty. That is, not until some letter is found from her definitely stating that she murdered Sarah.

Clark's eyes narrowed a little, and I thought he looked concerned. “Leave it, Maggie,” he advised. “You're only a kid yourself. Be satisfied with the police decision. It's the best in the long run, and will spare you needless self-reproach.”

I felt a surge of despair go through me, but I looked up at him almost triumphantly. “You see,” I said. “You don't think that Dulcie did it either.”

“I didn't say so,” he answered sharply. I shook my head in an unbelieving fashion. I had seen the doubt in his eyes for a moment, and it had convinced me utterly that he, too, believed Dulcie had had nothing to do with Sarah's murder. I completed a couple of calls mechanically, as Clark went to answer a ringing phone on the Senior Traffic Officer's table. My brain as for ever searching for a lead that would enable me to take a satisfactory case to the police. If only I could find some small clue that might get them to revise their decision. But there seemed to be no loophole whatsoever. Sarah's real killer must have been rubbing his hands with glee at this lucky turn-up. I sighed despondently reaching for a pile of dockets marked A.G.