Murder in the Telephone Exchange (37 page)

I dropped my table-napkin to the ground. As we both bent to retrieve it, I whispered: “They're an inquisitive lot here. You never know who may be listening.” He nodded understandingly. “Thank you, Sergeant,” I said aloud. I caught a slight smile on my mother's face as she wrestled with corned beef and salad.

‘There's no doubt about you,' I thought admiringly. ‘You're up to every dodge around the place, though one wouldn't think it.' Charlotte always seemed so vague and helpless. The only factor which betrayed my mother's astuteness was the wily way she handled a number seven near the green.

We chatted for a while on a superficial plane. Sergeant Matheson tried to explain the rudiments of his sport with the aid of the cutlery until the sweet course arrived, which necessitated the removal of the dessert spoons from acting as goal posts.

“She was telling the truth,” said my mother softly, as we carried our coffee cups up to my room for privacy's sake. Mrs. Bates came hurrying out of the kitchen juggling a couple of plates in either hand. Her brows rose in a scandalized fashion as she observed Sergeant Matheson bringing up the rear.

My room was hot from the all-day sun. I stood between the window and the door, stirring my coffee and trying to persuade myself that there was a cool draught.

“Yes, she certainly was,” remarked my mother absently. She seated herself in my one armchair, while the Sergeant propped his shoulders against the wall.

“Who was what?” I asked, searching in a drawer for cigarettes.

“Your little dark friend. She looks as though she is on the verge of a nervous breakdown.”

“Mac is always rather pale,” I said uneasily.

“Not only that, but her eyes were enormous, and I noticed her jump at the slightest sound. I thought she was going to faint when she saw Sergeant Matheson.”

I looked up quickly over a lighted match. “Did Mac see him before or after you told her to come to dinner?”

“After, I think,” Charlotte said doubtfully. “Why do you ask?”

“That,” I said, flicking the first ash from my cigarette, “is probably the reason why she backed out.”

“Why, Miss Byrnes?”

I turned to him slowly. “Miss MacIntyre has been trying to see me all day, and yet on the weak excuse of not feeling so good, she missed her best opportunity. It's obvious that you're the snag.”

The Sergeant looked amused. “I realize that, but why should I be in the way?”

“I couldn't say,” I replied, taking my cup to the bedside table and sitting down. “The only reason I can think of is that she had something of importance to confide in me, and that she didn't know how much you
were dining with us officially. I will make no secret of the fact, since it was also apparent to Inspector Coleman, that she has had something worrying her ever since Compton was murdered.”

Sergeant Matheson nodded in agreement. “Yes, we know that. Supposing, Miss Byrnes, that she was going to pass on to you certain information that would help you to build up a case against someone, say, for example, Miss MacIntyre herself, what would you do? Would you submit the knowledge to the right quarters?”

I thought for a moment before answering, regretting again my quixotic desire to clear the name of a dead girl. First Bertie had shown me his clay feet, and now there was the possibility of Mac doing the same. I wondered if my loyalty to her would weaken, or perhaps grow so stubborn that whatever she had done, or was about to do, would remain forever a secret between us.

“You're taking a long time to answer the Sergeant's question,” reproved my mother.

“Sorry,” I replied quickly. “Supposing yet again, that we wait until such time as Miss MacIntyre gives me her confidence.”

Sergeant Matheson shook his head. “That's no good. I'd rather have your promise now.”

“You will certainly not get that,” I said haughtily. “My friends mean more to me than a desire to help you to honour and glory.”

He flushed, but replied steadily: “It's not only that. Like every other amateur, not only in the field of crime, you are liable to underestimate the professional; in this case, the real murderer of Sarah Compton. Yes, I think you are right and so does Inspector Coleman. But faced with the facts we had, what other decision could we come to? Furthermore, the father of your unfortunate fellow-telephonist has presented us with a letter that rather clinches the matter. It was written by Miss Gordon and posted just before she took her own life.”

“I suppose,” interrupted my mother, “that it was definitely suicide?”

“I'm afraid so, Mrs. Byrnes,” he said seriously. “There was absolutely no indication at all of foul play. Believe me, we were on the look-out for it.”

“But why? Why?” I exclaimed despairingly. “I keep thinking over and over that if Dulcie didn't kill Sarah, what was the point of her taking her own life?”

“You are in a better position to answer that than I am,” he returned. I felt a familiar wave of dread swamp me as I braced myself for his next words. Was he going to blame me for what Dulcie did too?

“You knew the type of girl that Miss Gordon was: young, inexperienced and very impressionable, the best victim for an unscrupulous
woman, who could play upon her minor peccadilloes until the poor girl thought herself a hardened criminal. Then there was the matter of a letter that we found amongst Miss Compton's correspondence. It contained a threat to do something desperate unless she stopped asking for money.”

I looked up from my clenched hands. The dread had changed to relief. “I didn't know about that,” I said in bewilderment. “Why didn't you tell me before?”

His brows rose in surprise. “I just presumed that Miss Gordon herself had spoken of it.”

“Maggie, what are you looking so pleased about?” Charlotte asked. “It doesn't seem quite nice.”

“Nice!” I exclaimed. “It's marvellous. Don't you two realize that I have been going through hell since Dulcie killed herself, blaming myself for forcing her hand. But now I know that I wasn't to blame. It wasn't anything that I said that made her commit suicide, but the fact that she had once threatened violence to Compton. She was afraid that if the police got hold of that letter it would mean a conviction.” I lay back on the bed in sudden exhaustion.

“Why, Maggie darling!” said my mother, rising and coming over to me quickly. “Did you really think—? My pet, don't cry.”

“I'm not,” I shouted into the counterpane. “It's just that—that I feel so relieved.” I sat up and shook Charlotte off. “I'm all right now. Sorry I was a fool, Sergeant.”

“You weren't a fool,” he said gently, “but I wish that I'd known. You must have felt rotten about the business.” I grinned at him weakly and blew my nose. “And now,” he continued slowly, “that the blame has been shifted from your shoulders, what are you going to do?”

I met his eyes straightly, and asked in a quiet voice: “What do you want me to do?”

He came over to where I sat with Charlotte's arm through mine and put his hands on my shoulders. At that moment he did not seem to be the shy, uneasy policeman at whom I had scoffed. His face was stern and his eyes cold as he asked me very gravely: “Does that mean that you are ready to help me all you can?”

I nodded, and his hands dropped. He strode over to the window, drawing back the curtain to stare into the street. “I'm glad,” Sergeant Matheson said simply.

“I don't like it,” Charlotte said, breaking a short silence. “What can Maggie do that the police can't?”

He did not turn his head. A smile flickered on his mouth. “She is already in possession of a good deal more information than we are.”

“Didn't you tell the police everything?” asked my mother in a shocked voice.

“Certainly,” I replied airily, and received a severe look from the Sergeant. “All right,” I said hastily. “I'll come clean. Let me get up, Charlotte.”

I rummaged in my handbag for the little red-covered diary in which I had jotted down some notes by the lake, and handed it to Sergeant Matheson.

“What is this?” he asked, without opening it.

“Turn to last Wednesday. I have made a few notes. Perhaps if you read them it will be easier than asking me questions. You'll find everything that I know under the different dates of the last few days.”

“Very neat, Maggie,” approved my mother. “You're just like your father. Read them aloud, please, Sergeant.”

“Wednesday the 13th February,” Sergeant Matheson began, “hours of duty—4 p.m. to 11 p.m. Bertie in an uncertain mood again.” He looked up inquiringly.

“Mr. Scott,” I explained, “for no reason at all wouldn't permit me to swop shifts with Gloria Patterson. He had been acting oddly for some days. Go on.”

“ ‘Constant observation on restroom 'phone.' Is that unusual, Miss Byrnes?”

“Most. Why should the telephonists' private line be observed?”

“I must check that up,” the Sergeant said, making a note in his own book. “Mr. Scott will be able to tell me.”

“Will he?” I queried, sotto voce. “Read out the next bit.”

“ ‘Found door ajar, but only one of the cleaners in the cloakroom.' ”

“Don't ask any questions yet,” I ordered. “I'll explain later.”

Sergeant Matheson read on in silence. Presently he raised his head and stared in front of him, frowning. “Can you remember the size of the paper Miss Compton was reading on the roof?” he asked, keeping one finger on the page.

I concentrated hard, shutting my eyes in the endeavour to visualize a scene that had taken place four days ago. “It wasn't as large as an inquiry slip. I think that it might have been about three inches by four, but that is only a guess.”

“More like an ordinary docket,” suggested my mother. I swung round quickly.

“Quite possibly,” I said. “In fact, it must have been. There are only three types of stationery used in the Exchange: a long foolscap which Bertie uses for reports, and the inquiry and booking pads. If it was anything connected with the trunkroom, the paper that Compton was behaving so oddly
about was a docket. Isn't my mother a wonderful woman, Sergeant?”

“I can see from where your own astuteness comes,” he answered gravely, though his eyes twinkled.

“This is becoming interesting,” I said excitedly. “I wonder what was on that docket?”

“A booked call, probably,” said my mother, intent on following up her own brilliant suggestion.

“I suppose you're right. But it is not the custom to take dockets out of the trunkroom; in fact, it's forbidden. Too many have been mislaid that way. Compton always stuck by the rules very rigidly. It wouldn't be like her to take a docket away from the boards, certainly not a booked call.”

“What's this next note, Miss Byrnes?” Sergeant Matheson held out the diary, pointing with one finger in a puzzled fashion.

“Where? Oh, that! When you took my statement do you remember I told you there was something in the back of my head that I couldn't put my finger on? I wrote that down just in case it came to me later.”

“And has it?” he asked.

I shook my head despondently. “I'm afraid not. All I can remember is that it is something odd or rather out of the way that I must have heard or seen.”

“It's a pity,” said the Sergeant. “That knowledge might make all the difference.”

“I don't think so. It's probably something quite trivial.”

“It is often the most trivial fact,” he said seriously, “that is the criminal's one mistake. I advise you to keep on concentrating.”

“I will,” I promised.

He asked me to explain what I meant by the note ‘The murder: I expected it.'

“Another shot in the dark, I'm afraid. I don't pretend to be psychic, but all that night I was waiting for something to happen. It was beastly hot, of course, so perhaps that helped the general atmosphere of tension. Absurd?”

“Not at all,” Charlotte put in. “Don't forget your grandmother MacPherson. She was fey.”

“I daresay,” I said, “but Sergeant Matheson wants facts, not figments of the imagination. Am I not right, Sergeant?”

As he bent his head over the diary, one corner of his mouth quirked upwards. “The only explanation I have to offer for your expectancy is that you probably knew the murder was going to take place.”

Charlotte let out a horrified gasp, but I laughed gleefully. “What about my alibi?”

“You're pretty safe,” he admitted, “providing that you are not an accomplice after the fact.”

“How dreadful that sounds,” remarked my mother, with a sigh of relief as she realized that we were only joking. “To whom is Maggie an accomplice, please, Sergeant?”

“Anyone. Let us say Miss MacIntyre, for instance.”

“You read that in my notes,” I declared defiantly. “Now you know about Mac, what are you going to do?”