Murder in the Telephone Exchange (32 page)

“This way,” he answered briefly, leading me down a narrow passage
between the rows of boxes. “Here you are!” The mechanic tapped one just above his head.

“Thanks. Is it possible to trace a number that has just been dialled out on it?”

“How long ago?” he demanded. I felt grateful for his quick appreciation of my strange request.

“It must be about a quarter of an hour, but I shouldn't think the 'phone would have been used again.”

“Hold everything,” he ordered. He ran back down the passage calling over his shoulder. “Keep your eye on that box. If anyone starts to dial, pull out the pip with the red cord connecting it.”

I watched gingerly, always having had a dislike of tampering with things about which I knew nothing; especially wires with power running through them. A small light glowed above the box suddenly. I yelled: “Quick! I think someone is going to dial.” The mechanic appeared at a run, holding a buttinsky in his hand. “Pull the red out,” he commanded, and as I obeyed him the glow vanished. Unfolding the flex that was wound around the handle of his instrument, he opened the box and placed the fork-shaped tip on a wire.

“Sorry, we're testing on here,” he spoke into the mouthpiece.

“Who is it?” I whispered.

“It's a woman's voice,” he returned softly, closing the mouthpiece with his hand, “and she's going mad at me for using the line.”

“Let me listen,” I said urgently. He handed over the buttinsky without any comment. I knew the voice immediately. There could be only one person in the Exchange who made such a business of pronouncing her vowels.

“Tell her to wait a moment. It won't take you long to trace the last call, will it?”

He shook his curly head again, and repeated my message to Gloria. Presently he started fiddling at the bottom of the box, peering through the wires, and now and then pushing the fork on to a line.

“You're in luck,” he commented. “It looks like a city west number. Go round the other side and see if any light flashes.”

I ran around quickly and took up a position against the wall, my eyes raking the tall structure.

“No light,” I called to my mechanic friend. He grunted something inaudible.

“Try now,” he said, and I saw a light flash two or three times towards the left, far above my head.

“Hold it,” I yelled, almost dancing with excitement. It continued to flash as I counted the boxes carefully to its position. “I've got it. It's the
seventeenth on the second row from the top. You're a marvellous man,” I added, as the mechanic joined me, buttinsky still in his hand.

“Thanks, lady,” he grinned. “I don't know what you're getting at, but at a word like that from you, I'm willing to blow up the whole place.”

“Sometimes I'd rather like to do it myself. Can I come up with you?”

“Sure,” he replied, mounting the steep steps that led to an iron landing, from which the mechanics attended to the higher places of the apparatus. “Be careful in those heels. It's pretty slippery.”

“I will,” I promised, following him cautiously. It reminded me of a gangway of a ship, and I wondered if the correct thing was to descend backwards.

The mechanic walked along the landing carelessly, counting each box with a tap of his hand. “This'll be it,” he said, opening the door and reading the plate fixed to the back. “M9173. Would you like me to call them?” He glanced at the clock in a dubious way.

“It's only quite early,” I remarked airily, “but I'll take the blame if there's a rumpus.”

“There'd better not be,” he returned, grinning mischievously, “or we'll get the sack. You shouldn't be here at all. There's probably a long paragraph in the security regulations forbidding the entrance of pretty females into the apparatus rooms.”

“Well, that wipes me out,” I said serenely. “Here, give me that buttinsky, and I'll put on an act. I promise you there won't be any row.” I took the instrument and slid my hand down the flex to the metal fork. “What do I do with this thing?”

The mechanic guided it to rest on a wire. “Mind your ear,” he warned just in time. The automatic ring reverberated through the earpiece. It rang for a long time. I was almost calling it a day, when the 'phone was unhooked at the other end and a man's voice said: “Well?”

Thinking that I had better not attempt my laryngitis disguise again, I adopted a high-pitched tone like Gloria's.

“Oh, doctor! Will you come at once? I feel so dreadful ringing you at this hour, but I really can't stand it any longer. Do you think that I should go to hospital?”

“Who is speaking, please?” asked the voice levelly.

I hesitated a fraction of a second, thinking quickly. “Mrs. Thompson,” I answered in a plaintive voice. “Mrs. William Thompson. Doctor, do you think I should go?”

“You can go to hell!” said the voice crisply, and the receiver was slammed down in my ear. I pulled out the fork and let my mechanic friend shut the door. He was grinning like an ape as he led the way back to the
stairs, re-wrapping the flex.

“My, my! I would never have guessed it of you. You do keep your secret well.”

“Don't be so indelicate,” I rebuked him. “I had to say something. Does one climb down these steps sailor-wise?”

“You'd better let me help you,” he replied in mock anxiety. “Hang on to my arm.”

“Will you shut up?” I begged.

“What about your girl friend who was waiting to use the 'phone?”

“Oh, blast!” I exclaimed. “I'd forgotten all about her, and I wanted to listen in to what she was saying too. I suppose she's made her call by now.”

He looked at me oddly. “Are you sure you're feeling all right?”

“Quite, thank you,” I answered in surprise. He did not appear to be acting the fool now.

“I was just wondering,” he remarked casually. “I'm not accustomed to strange women rushing in and interrupting my work to get me to butt in on lines so that they can listen in.”

“I'm sorry,” I apologized, “but it's really terribly hard to explain. In fact, I don't think I'd better yet. But I promise you that you won't get into a row if this little adventure is found out. If anyone says anything, just refer them to me.”

“That'll be grand,” he said blankly. “Just refer them to you. They'll know whom I mean, of course.”

“They will,” I agreed sweetly, “if you say that the name is Margaret Byrnes, and that l am an interstate trunk telephonist.”

“Gosh!” he stammered suddenly. “You're the girl who found that monitor's body.”

“One of them. You'll keep my visit under your hat, won't you? By the way, what's your name?”

“Dan Mitchell. Are you doing a spot of detecting? I thought they knew who committed the murder.” He walked with me to the door and swung it open.

“Thanks, Dan,” I said, passing through. “Just for your information only, and I know that I can trust you, I'm trying to break the police decision. I know it sounds an awful cheek. But I worked with that girl who was supposed to have killed Compton, and I can't believe that she's guilty.”

Dan Mitchell's boyish face was flushed with excitement. I heard him repeat: “Gosh!” as I let the door close quietly behind me.

I walked up the stairs automatically; not because of any fear of taking the lift again. I wanted time in which to think. The first thing I wanted
to find out was the name of the subscriber the mysterious caller in the restroom had rung, and that was going to be a difficult job. Mentally, I ran through the list of telephonists with whom I was acquainted on the Information desk, and who might be able to trace it for me without wanting to ask too many questions. We trunk telephonists over in the new building were rather isolated from the “Infa.” girls, and consequently it was unusual for the two sections to become friendly. But I once had a session of relieving at the position, and recalled one girl who had been helpful in showing me the ropes.

Information was a thankless job, and one that received more abuse than any other position in the whole of the Exchange. Subscribers ran to the “Infa.” girls under the slightest pretext, and it was amazing the good results they received for some of their outlandish inquiries. It was also the place where complaints were lodged. It was no wonder that the higher percentage of nervous breakdowns was always found amongst the telephonists working at the Information desk.

‘I'll call the all-nighter from the boards as soon as I get back, and see if she can do anything for me,' I promised myself. Once having discovered the subscriber's name and occupation, I would have something to work on. It seemed odd to say the least that someone should be ready to answer his telephone at a city number, where the greater majority of subscribers' numbers were offices and not even hotels or flats. I hoped that the man had presumed my call was just an error of dialling, and had not started to get suspicious.

I half-closed my eyes in the endeavour to recall the restroom episode more clearly. I remembered my head jerking forward before I let it fall back against the cushion. The cloakroom light was still on then. I did not know for how long I had slept, but it couldn't have been more than half an hour. In that time the light in the cloakroom had been extinguished, and the unknown caller had crept into the restroom, oblivious that it was already occupied by a weary all-night telephonist. The prowler evidently dared not use the light for fear of attracting attention, though it seemed more likely from the unhesitating way in which the dial was turned that the number was familiar, and that a light was unnecessary.

‘Whoever it was,' I reflected thoughtfully, ‘must be a telephonist. Firstly, there would be no one else on the eighth floor, and secondly, only a telephonist could use a dial accurately without looking at it. Furthermore, that same person must be up to something fishy.' The whole episode was too quietly performed for it to be a legitimate or casual call; especially at that hour. Another sinister aspect was the fact that, although the man I had called in the apparatus room had spoken, the caller had not uttered a
word; just dialled, listened, and hung up the receiver all in the space of a few seconds.

I climbed the last few stairs to the sixth floor, and rounded the landing just as the lift was moving down. I heard two or three male voices talking inside it, and tried to catch a glimpse of the occupants through the long narrow glass windows set in the outer doors. I turned away and saw John Clarkson standing by a window in the trunkroom with his hands in his pockets. He was staring out into the dark sky. I watched him absently for a while, the long hours of the first dogwatch telling on my tired body. His straight profile was lifted slightly, and although his eyes remained blank the lips above that square chin of his moved continually as though he was repeating something over and over. Presently, as though aware of my scrutiny, he turned his head. I smiled weakly, feeling a little foolish. It came as a surprise that there was no answering flicker in his eyes. Instead he drew his hands from his pockets and strode over to the door, his brows drawn together in a heavy frown.

“Where on earth have you been?” he demanded angrily, but not without an underlying tone of anxiety. I motioned to him to close the door and to join me on the landing.

“I've been having adventures,” I replied coaxingly, trying to banish the annoyed look from his face. It was not often that I saw him thus. “Who went down in the lift just now?”

“Only Bertie with a couple of the Heads of the Department,” he replied in a hard voice. “They paid a surprise visit to see if everything was under control.” I ignored the heavy sarcasm in his voice, as that sense of excitement that was becoming so familiar shook me from head to foot.

“That's marvellous!” I cried. “But quickly—how long has Bertie been in the Exchange?”

“Are you mad, Maggie?” Clark asked in exasperation. “Don't you realize what this means? The Heads come in unexpectedly hoping to catch someone falling down on the job, and some of my staff is missing. I can tell you I looked pretty silly. I couldn't even say where you'd got to.”

“I'm sorry,” I answered with real contrition. “I'll explain to Bertie when I see him; not that it's so frightfully important against what I have discovered.”

Clark looked at me searchingly. “What have you found out, Maggie? I thought I told you to let well alone.”

“I was seriously considering your advice, but not now. I'm in this business until the end.”

“Well, make sure that it doesn't mean your end,” Clark said, relaxing a little. “Where have you been all this time?”

“Asleep,” I replied airily. “In fact, I'm not too sure if I haven't been dreaming. Is the girl Patterson in the trunkroom?”

“She is now,” he answered irritably. “She's another one who was missing when Bertie arrived.”

“Is that so?” I remarked with interest. “Where had she been?”

“Asleep too, so she informed me. You girls beat everything. There will be a nice long report for me to-morrow with ‘please explain' on it. It's all very well you saying that you'll take the blame, but the Officer in Charge is the one who receives most abuse on an occasion like this.”