Murder in the Telephone Exchange (34 page)

Presently the 6 a.m. staff came in, yawning and complaining of the early hour. A couple of charwomen started to sweep and dust. Patterson had not returned. I was wondering whether she had gone home neglecting to sign off, when in she walked as fresh as if she was just about to begin work.

“Do you feel better?” I asked, as she paused behind my chair.

“Much,” she nodded, “May I sit next to you?”

“Certainly,” I assented in some surprise. “Here are a couple of 6.30 a.m. calls. If we split them up, maybe we won't get in a bag.”

Gloria gave that high artificial laugh that always made me grate my teeth. “Fancy being able to be witty at this hour,” she remarked in a gracious manner. I stared at her in amazement, not unmixed with suspicion. She turned over the dockets, saying casually: “It was frightfully silly of me to faint like that. I felt such a fool. Has anyone said anything about it to you?”

“I don't think so,” I replied slowly, wondering at what she was driving. “The final stages of the dog-watch are never chatty ones, you know.”

“Don't tell anyone, will you?” she asked, turning on a dazzling smile that filled me with further suspicion.

“Why not?”

She shrugged lightly.

“I just don't want anyone to know what a fool I was,” she said, examining her trim, naked leg. “Don't you think I'm getting browner, Maggie?”

“Rather,” I agreed drily. “Never break away from the point so abruptly, Gloria. It merely attracts attention to what you are trying to disguise. The correct meaning of your sudden benevolence is that you are afraid that I will start telling people the reason why you fainted. Don't bother to contradict,” I went on hurriedly, as she opened her mouth to speak. “I know my assumption is correct, and you know that I know. But what I don't
understand, and you'll observe that I am laying my cards on the table, is why you got so frightened. From what I know of your charming character, and without wishing to offend you mortally, I should say that you wouldn't have had the guts to bash in the head of your so-called bosom friend. You're in this business somewhere, Gloria,” I went on, shaking my head, “but I'm damned if I know where.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she replied, looking everywhere but at me.

“l knew you'd say that,” I sighed. “Your vocabulary, my pet, is very limited. l think that it would be better for you to say nothing rather than make that inane remark. It's so obviously an untruth, and one that only whets my appetite to discover more of your part in our late monitor's schemes. You had better put on those calls before you destroy them completely.”

“Do them yourself,” Gloria snapped, tossing over the dockets she had been twisting and turning. “And if you aren't more careful, Byrnes, you'll get what has been coming to you for a long time.”

“Do you know,” I remarked gently, smoothing out the crumpled dockets, “that strikes a chord in my memory. Now, of what does it remind me?” I paused to book a call with Sydney. When the connection was completed, I turned back to Patterson. She was watching me fearfully. “I remember. The day after Sarah's murder I found an anonymous letter pushed into my locker with almost the identical phrasing as your little threat just now.”

Gloria's skin underwent that curious change I had previously noted. “I don't write anonymous letters,” she muttered.

“No?” I queried politely. “Perhaps you might be interested to know that I consider the identity of the writer one of the most important things to discover if I want to break the police decision and exonerate Dulcie Gordon.”

I saw her finger-tips whiten under their polish as she pressed her hands against the board.

“We must have another little talk later on,” I suggested conversationally. “Just now, breakfast and bed are my one ambition. I think Mr. Clarkson is approaching to tell us that we may go.”

CHAPTER VII

John read through the untidy sheets up to this point when he came to see me one day. They do allow visitors occasionally in this dreadful place. I asked him for assistance in describing that fateful Saturday when the charity dance was held at the Exchange. I was a little undecided how to
begin. His advice was the same as when he started me off on this manuscript. It was quite simple. As a record of my part in the affairs of the Exchange during that week, it must contain certain details of what I had thought was my ordinary life.

“But I can't tell people that I had bacon and eggs for breakfast,” I objected. “It's too mundane.”

He laughed, and suggested that perhaps that could be quite well omitted without misleading anyone, but to continue with the first items connecting with the terrible event that was to occur later.

“I'd better say at what time I awoke,” I remarked, sighing despondently, “though that seems rather futile, too.”

I arrived home that morning feeling very weary and grubby, with just enough time to snatch a shower and change into a cool dirndl before breakfast. I took one depressing look in the mirror, and then strolled along to my mother's room.

“Are you up, Charlotte?” I called, tapping her door gently with my fingertips.

“Come in,” she answered. I pushed it open. “Darling, you do look dreadful!”

“Don't rub it in,” I replied irritably. “I've been up all night, you know. Are you coming down to breakfast?”

“Why don't you go straight to bed,” she coaxed. “I'll bring you up a tray.”

I shook my head so violently that I was compelled to retie the narrow white ribbon I wore to keep my hair from my face.

“I'd fall asleep before I ate anything. What will you do with yourself to-day?”

“I've got an engagement for this afternoon,” she replied placidly. “I'm going to watch a basketball match.”

“What!” I yelled, unable to believe my ears.

“A basketball match, dear,” Charlotte repeated distinctly. “That nice boy who used to have freckles is taking me.”

“You mean Sergeant Matheson? I'll have you know that you're cutting me out. He asked me first.”

“So he said,” agreed my mother, “but he told me that you didn't seem keen to go. The poor boy was quite disappointed. I felt so sorry for him that I said I'd never seen a basketball match, and if he didn't mind, would he take me?”

“When did all this take place?” I asked.

“He rang you up last night. Mrs. Bates told him you were on all-night shift, so he asked to speak to me. By the way, Maggie, Mrs. Bates was
giving me such peculiar looks when I was on the 'phone.

“She was probably worrying about the Sergeant's intentions,” I explained. “She hates men.”

“How odd of her! I must get your father to meet her. I'm ready. Shall we go down?”

We strolled down arm in arm. In the lower hail I paused and said half-laughingly, half-earnestly: “There's more in this than meets the eye. Are you really going to see that absurd game for the fun of it? Or are you trying your hand at the same game as your daughter?”

Charlotte never gave much away. “I thought it might be interesting if I could have a little chat with that nice boy,” she remarked, opening the dining-room door. “I used to know his mother many years ago.”

“Then the conversation will be purely personal? All right, we'll let it go at that. Perhaps if Sergeant Matheson hasn't anything better to do, he might drop in later this evening. Will you ask him for me?”

“Certainly,” my mother replied with surprise. We seated ourselves at a small table near a window. “But I thought you didn't like him.”

“He's all right,” I said carelessly, unfolding my table-napkin. “I should imagine that he makes a very nice husband and father. I gleaned that bit of news last night, so you can take that innocent look from your face and keep it for Sunday. I've arranged a game for you.”

“Have you, Maggie?” she asked, selecting an orange to squeeze into a tumbler. “That'll be enjoyable. Is Mr. Clarkson a terribly good player?”

“Moderate. You may be able to beat him; especially as he might be nervous.”

My mother sipped her orange juice. “Why should he be nervous?” I grinned at her even though I felt a slow blush creeping into my face. “Darling, how dense of me!” she said apologetically, changing the subject in a hurry. “Tell me, what are you going to eat?”

The dining-room was almost empty of my fellow-boarders. Being Saturday, many took the opportunity to sleep on and skipped breakfast. I nodded briefly to one or two who entered, not being in a sociable mood, and escaped as soon as I could to my room. Charlotte came in to draw the curtains, and to make the room as dark as possible by anchoring the blinds with pillows to prevent them from blowing inwards. Trying to get a sound sleep by daylight was one of the major problems of the all-night telephonist, but I was so tired that I would probably have fallen asleep with a searchlight blazing into my face.

“Stick up my ‘Don't disturb' notice on the door,” I murmured, turning over, “and remember you're a lady when you're watching that riotous match.”

“I will,” my mother promised to both requests, closing the door carefully behind her.

I fell at once into that hot, restless slumber that brings no refreshment. My brain kept turning out grotesque dreams that seemed almost real, so vivid were they. It was the same sort of troubled sleep I had had the previous night. Familiar faces and places, distorted but still recognizable, grew up in my overexcited brain. Voices and noises were as clamorous as before. Presently I heard one voice speak quite clearly: “You'll enter only over my dead body.” I shook myself into semi-consciousness. There was a short, metallic laugh and the sound of footsteps, then the banging of a door. I heard all three as separate impressions. I tried to rouse myself completely, but the effort was too great and I sank into a deeper sleep.

It was the flapping of the curtains that awoke me finally. I turned over on my back in exasperation and watched the room fill with light and then darken with each motion. Suddenly I sat up, my body tense, searching in the recesses of my mind for some thought that was nagging at my memory. It was only the middle of the afternoon, but more sleep was impossible when I remembered the brief laugh that I had thought was part of my dreams. I slipped back into my dirndl quickly and made for the stairs, going down two at a time. Mrs. Bates was peeling potatoes in the kitchen, her voice uplifted in some dreary song.

“Stop that row,” I ordered, entering in a rush, “How can you expect me to sleep?”

She dropped a potato and stared at me in offended dignity. “That was a hymn of hope.”

I grinned. “Sorry, but it sounded like nothing on earth. Tell me, has anyone been to see me this afternoon?”

Mrs. Bates nodded virtuously. “I wouldn't let her disturb you. I knew you were worn out and wanted to sleep.”

“You didn't seem to realize it just now. Was it Miss MacIntyre by any chance?”

“She came about two,” Mrs. Bates said, resuming her potato peeling, “but I wouldn't let her go in. I stood at your door and said ‘You'll enter only over my dead body.' When she saw I meant what I said she left.” Mrs. Bates looked around at me, waiting for commendation.

“I wish you'd woken me,” I said, troubled. “Was Miss MacIntyre anxious to see me?”

“I couldn't say I'm sure. She wouldn't leave any message with me.”

I smiled and let it pass without comment.

“Did she say if she was coming back?” I asked, but Mrs. Bates shook her head. “Thanks very much for not disturbing me,” I said mechanically
and went out of the kitchen.

I mounted the stairs slowly, lost in thought. Mac had wanted to see me. It must have been something important, otherwise she wouldn't have risked breaking in on my sleep. Telephonists respected each other's hours of rest, especially when they were on the all-night shift. She was probably going to make an effort to lower that barrier that had come between us, and I had missed the opportunity. I felt restless and uneasy, and walked round my room tidying up in an unseeing fashion. I wished that my mother hadn't been out. She was a grand person to talk to, and Mac might have come straight with her.

On impulse, I went to my wardrobe and found a pair of sandals to slip on my bare feet. I settled a rough straw hat anyhow on my head, and snatched up my handbag.

Mrs. Bates poked her head into the hall at the sound of my running footsteps, her eyes round with curiosity. “Will you be in to dinner, Miss Byrnes?” she asked.

“Yes, I'm only going out for a moment.”

I cut down the right-of-way where John Clarkson had driven me home that awful night of Sarah Compton's murder. The wind billowed the full skirt of my dress, and made me clutch my hat as I rounded the corner of the street where Mac lodged.

As was the custom of all boarding-houses, the front door was ajar. I passed in without bothering to ring. Mac used an outside bungalow as a bedroom. I went down the hail and through a side door to reach it. It was a fibrous-plaster building, shaped something like a tent with a sloping roof and fly-wired all the way round just below the ceiling. I knocked gently, calling her name. There was no answer. A slovenly woman came round the side of the house, wiping her red hands on her apron.