Murder in the Telephone Exchange (45 page)

“Good night, Charlotte,” I said, bending to kiss her. “Be careful going home, and don't worry about me. Don't forget that I've got the promise of a police escort.”

* * * * *

I waited while she collected her coat and bag, and then put her into the lift with several others. Their quiet demeanour was not in keeping with the gay frocks. One lad wore a forgotten paper cap on the back of his head. The effect was grotesque in the face of the shocking end to the revels.

“Where is Inspector Coleman?” I asked. Sergeant Matheson waited until the lift indicator showed that it had stopped at the ground floor, and then pressed the button.

“Where are we going?” I asked fearfully.

“The Inspector is in that little room we used before,” he answered. With his head thrown back, he followed the progress of the lift by the indicator lights. I made no comment, steeling myself for the ordeal of passing the cloakroom door. Sergeant Matheson must have sensed my inward agitation, and said awkwardly, holding out one hand: “I'm terribly sorry
about all this. It should never have happened. I blame myself.”

He seemed so upset, that I took his hand warmly.

“Don't,” I replied in a husky voice. “It's as much my fault as yours. I didn't take the position seriously enough. I thought that she—Mac was jealous, and that was the reason why she was so secretive. You see, she and Mr. Clarkson used to be—” I threw out my hands helplessly, not looking at him.

“I understand,” said the Sergeant slowly. But I wondered if he did, as he added: “Poor chap!”

We walked side by side down the corridor of the eighth floor. I asked him jerkily, pointing to the closed door of the cloakroom: “Have they—I'd like to see—Mac for the last time. Do you think it could be arranged?”

He put one hand under my elbow. “Better not,” he advised gently. “She was lying face down when you found her, wasn't she?”

I nodded, and the horrible realization dawned on me why I must not see Mac. Sergeant Matheson paused for a minute outside that little disused office.

“Look here!” he said seriously. “If you're really not fit enough, the Inspector will wait until tomorrow. Would you like to go home right away?”

‘Home!' What a sweet sound it had, even though it meant to me in town a rigidly-run boardinghouse. How wonderful it would be to sink into bed, and relax and sleep until my strained nerves and body regained their freshness, and I would be able to look at Mac's death in such a way that would not make me quiver all over at the very mention of her name.

‘Time!' I thought suddenly. ‘Time is important. Who was it said that to me centuries ago?'

“Well?” said the Sergeant with anxiety. I raised my head. As I did so, two uniformed ambulance-men came out of the cloakroom bearing a stretcher, I received a quick impression of something white before Sergeant Matheson grabbed me by the shoulders.

“Look at me,” he ordered roughly, and I obeyed. I heard the men's footsteps go heavily along the corridor, and stop outside the lift. Then the gates clicked and the whirr of the automatic came to my ears as they descended with their ghastly burden. I gazed and gazed into the policeman's face until I knew each contour and feature by heart.

“I'm ready,” I said huskily. “Shall we go in?”

Inspector Coleman glanced up for a brief moment at our entry, and then resumed his writing.

“Take a seat,” he said casually, as if I had come to apply for a driver's licence during ordinary office hours, instead of presenting myself to be
questioned about a murder at nearly midnight. However, his prosaic attitude did much to calm my inward turmoil caused by the scene that I had just witnessed. It was with real gratitude that I heard him suggest to his subordinate to find some coffee and sandwiches for me.

“Get Roberts to fix it up,” he said.

“Is he here again, too?” I asked stupidly. It was as if they had never left, so familiar was the sight of the sprawled papers on the desk before me, and the ever-alert gleam in the Inspector's eyes. My mind flew back to that other time when I had sat before the two men. Mac had been with me, cool and detached. It had been hot then, just as it was now, but the sun had been blazing through the drawn blinds and the flies had been troublesome. Now the windows were dark, and moths and flying beetles battered themselves in vain against the panes.

Inspector Coleman did not say a word until Roberts, solemn-faced as ever, came in with a tin tray from the cafeteria. On it were two cups, a jug of coffee and a plate of tired-looking sandwiches. I looked inquiringly at Sergeant Matheson. The Inspector still wrote on, despite the interruption of Roberts, whose movements were not as quiet as his tongue.

“Not for me, thank you, Miss Byrnes,” he said in his deep voice, without raising his head. “But you help yourself, Matheson.”

“Thank you, sir. I could do with it.”

I poured out, watching my shaking hand with interest. It was funny what your nerves did to you. The Sergeant got up as I handed him his cup, and took two sandwiches at once. The coffee was stale, and had evidently been re-heated, but I felt better after I had drunk it. I had only to use one hand to hold my second cup, and felt vaguely triumphant.

“A cigarette, Miss Byrnes?” asked the Inspector.

“Thank you,” I said gratefully.

“I haven't got any. But perhaps Sergeant Matheson can oblige.” The Sergeant arose hurriedly, setting his cup on the tray with a clatter.

“Thanks,” I said. “I hope that you're keeping an account of how many of yours I've taken. I'll pay them back one day.” I had nearly finished my cigarette before the Inspector spoke. I was starting to become slightly irritated. Did he, or did he not want to see me?

He leaned back in his chair, which creaked protestingly, and surveyed me critically.

“You're looking better,” he observed. I recognized his forethought in letting me have a breathing space in which to pull myself together.

“Now, Miss Byrnes!” he began and I put my brain into concentration order. “I want you to tell me in your own words just how you came to find your friend, Miss MacIntyre. I realize that this is going to be very painful
for you, but you are a sensible girl and must know that the sooner we get it over the better.”

“I can stand it,” I answered in a tight voice, “if it will lead to finding out who killed Mac.”

“It will, I promise you,” he said grimly. “This time there will be no forced decision if I can help it. Please begin.”

I pressed out my cigarette, prodding it with a dead match while I thought.

“Two days ago,” I began, “in this room, you issued a warning to the effect that those who kept any useful information from the police were placing themselves in a very dangerous position. At that time, I must confess I did not take your warning seriously, thinking how clever I was in withholding facts from you. I might still have been doing so, if something had not happened. Sergeant Matheson can tell you about that later.” I looked at him for a moment, and he nodded.

“Had I known that you were speaking from the depths of your experience, I would not have hesitated one minute. I realize now, through bitter experience”—here I paused remembering what experience it was—“how very foolish I was. This evening I asked Sergeant Matheson to call, in order to put before him certain facts that entirely disagreed with the decision that you published about the murder of the monitor, Sarah Compton. Amongst other things, I told him that Miss MacIntyre's behaviour, which you had also observed as mysterious, had not altered since Dulcie Gordon was convicted posthumously of Compton's murder. I laid it down to the fact that she was jealous of me, and the notice that you had paid to my deductions. I thought that she was setting herself up as the opposition, so to speak, and was endeavouring to find out the truth before me. I also mentioned to Sergeant Matheson that during this afternoon Miss MacIntyre called to see me while I was asleep, and the reason I gave was that she intended to enter into a partnership with me, so that we could work together.”

The Inspector stirred irritably, and I glanced up meekly. “When I learned that she wanted to see me,” I went on, “I went round to her boarding-house. She was out, but her room was in terrible disorder. At first I thought that it must have been the work of a burglar, but no burglar leaves jewellery untouched. There was a brooch of Mac's pinned into her dressing-table runner. The only conclusion, therefore, is that her room had been ransacked by someone to whom money or its equivalent had no value; someone who wanted to satisfy himself or herself that Mac was not on the right trail, or, what is more probable, to destroy any evidence that she might have had in her possession. It is quite likely that Mac made notes as I did, and perhaps the killer learned of their existence.”

Inspector Coleman looked at me sharply. “What have you done with your own?” he demanded.

“I have them here, sir,” said the Sergeant, drawing out my little red diary, and putting it on the table in front of his superior. The Inspector picked it up idly, but made no attempt to read the notes. Evidently he was satisfied, now that they were out of my hands.

“I was very eager to see Miss MacIntyre,” I went on, “especially after finding her room in the state it was, so I came into the Exchange, hoping to find her assisting at the decorating of the danceroom. I learned that she had been in, but had left some time previously. I had a look in the trunkroom. One of the girls on duty, who worked late on Wednesday night, told me that Mac had asked her about her movements on that night. It appears that she had been questioning all the 10.30 p.m. girls, and the excuse that she gave was that she wanted to include the story of Compton's death in her memoirs. That did not seem plausible to me, and further enhanced my conviction that Mac was up to the same game as myself.”

I paused for a moment to give the Inspector an opportunity to ask questions. He nodded for me to continue.

“When I got home,” I said slowly, “my mother told me that Mac had called again and, finding me out, promised to come back later to dinner. When she did not arrive, I phoned to see if she was coming, but she put me off with the excuse that she was feeling ill, but would probably see me later at the dance. After dinner, I gave Sergeant Matheson the notes I had made that afternoon, and told him exactly everything I knew. Mac completely left my mind until the Sergeant expressed anxiety about her. I became uneasy. But when we arrived at the dance the atmosphere was so normal and cheerful that gradually I lost my fears. I thought nothing could possibly happen to her with such a crowd of people in the Exchange building.”

Inspector Coleman said in an exasperated way: “It is usually the ideal place in which to commit murder. The more people around the better. It takes time to account for everyone's movements, and that gives the killer ample opportunity to cover his tracks. I'm surprised at you, Sergeant.”

Sergeant Matheson remained calm under the rebuke. “I'm sorry, sir. I'm afraid that I shared Miss Byrnes's idea that Miss MacIntyre would be all right if she kept with the crowd. There were other matters that I wanted to attend to first.”

“Mac had an odd temperament,” I tried to explain. “Hitherto at every move I had to force her confidence; she shut up like an oyster. I thought that it would be better if she came to me, instead of rushing to find her and asking what it was she wanted to see me about. She could be very obstinate when she liked. If she had seen Sergeant Matheson, I doubt very
much whether she would still have wanted to confide in me. His presence at dinner to-night was the cause of her suddenly becoming indisposed.”

Inspector Coleman moved the papers about on his desk restlessly, “It is obvious that Miss MacIntyre knew something important,” he remarked, “and yet she was afraid to tell us until the last minute.”

“What do you mean?” I asked eagerly.

“The receiver of the telephone in the restroom was off its hook, and although certain circumstances existed, we thought it was worth while investigating. The credit goes to Sergeant Matheson for the idea.”

“To Miss Byrnes, rather, sir,” he interpolated quickly, and turned to me. “I remembered the way you told me you traced a call, so I found that young mechanic friend of yours. He caught on to what I wanted immediately. The first three numbers, including the Exchange alphabetical number of Russell Street Police Station, had been dialled.”

“Miss MacIntyre must have been calling us,” carried on the Inspector, “when the killer struck.”

I shuddered at the frightful scene that his words conjured up. I could see Mac spinning the dial in desperate haste, while from behind crept her assassin. Did she know what was going to happen? Did her heart leap with a suffocating terror, as she turned around to look into the murderer's eyes and read her fate? Did she utter a last helpless cry, before she fell to the floor in that pitiful heap? I knew that I was mad to start thinking along those lines, but a part of my mind had caught on to a phrase that the Inspector had used.

“You said the receiver was off its hook,” I began hesitantly, steeling myself. I had half-realized the significance his words had held.

He looked at me kindly. “I think that you can deduce what I meant when I spoke about certain circumstances.”