Murder in the Telephone Exchange (47 page)

“Those statements,” I said, clenching my teeth to keep my voice from trembling too. “May I see them?”

He must have thought me a fool, letting myself go suddenly like that. But if he had noticed the shuddering, he made no comment. He turned his attention to his desk. “Not to-night. I want to go home to bed.”

Was he being tactful, or didn't he want me to see them at all? I rather favoured the former idea, and felt a sudden warmth towards him. He
wasn't such a bad old stick, which was more than I could say for his subordinate.

“Will it be all right for me to take Miss Byrnes home, sir? I promised her mother.”

“Quite,” answered the Inspector promptly. “You'll hear from me later, Miss Byrnes.”

I arose with difficulty, praying that Sergeant Matheson would be able to get a taxi at this late hour. I could not see my legs standing the strain of much walking. My body was like a sack of potatoes. It was impossible to organize my muscles into co-operation with my brain, which was not too clear either. I have but a confused recollection of the drive home. It was as if my spirit was far removed from my body, and it stood afar off surveying the automaton curiously. I remember Sergeant Matheson's hand cupping my elbow to help me into a patrol car outside the Exchange entrance, and asked whether the wireless had been switched off. He laughed. I wondered why, feeling annoyed in a dazed fashion. I think Sergeant Matheson drove the car. I crouched in the back seat, watching the light come and go as we shot past the street lamps. He may have spoken once or twice, but I have no recollection of what he said and how I replied. I half-sat and half-lay against the leather upholstery, my head wedged in one corner, and counted the number of times the car filled with light. There were such a lot of things that I wanted to think about, but my mind seemed a complete blank. Only Inspector Coleman's words ran through my brain. ‘Keep your eyes and ears open, not only for the sake of the police, but for your own as well.' He was asking me to help him, and yet he issued a grave warning as to the danger in which I stood if I did so. I felt rather indignant. I had told them everything that I could remember. Why not leave me alone in peace, and do the dirty work themselves?

I wondered vaguely where Mac was. As we passed over the bridge, I remembered that the morgue was somewhere near the bank of the river. It was odd the jokes that people made about the place and the way the telephone number was Central 13. I shivered at the remembrance of the macabre humour. They had probably taken Mac there, and put her on a cold marble table. Perhaps a doctor was already bending over the horrible remains of Mac's piquant face, poking and prying to discover the nature of her death. It was just another body to him, a little messy to work on, but it was his job.

‘She must have been a pretty little thing. Fine eyes, from what one can tell now. Pass me that instrument over there, will you?'

My brain went on with its horrible imaginings. Presently I saw my mother's face instead of Mac's and tried to tell her to keep her eyes and
ears open. The effort was too great. ‘I'll tell her first thing in the morning. Where's a pencil to write it down. I've got a memory like a sieve.'

Someone was pulling my dress over my head. Suddenly I felt small and very young. I was sick, and my mother was putting me to bed. But what was wrong with me? Had I caught the 'flu again?

A glass was put to my lips, and I knew that I had to drink. Lemon juice and aspirin, I supposed, though it didn't taste much like it. Bed was good, but I mustn't doze off. I must keep my eyes and ears open, or maybe I'll have my face smashed in like Mac.

“Mother,” I shrieked, “help me to stay awake!” There was no reply, but a cool hand held mine, and I felt safe.

‘Mother won't let him kill me,' I thought, satisfied, sinking into the blackness.

CHAPTER IX

Mrs. Bates had got rid of the horrible oak suite at last. What a relief it was to see plain painted deal, instead of those knots and streaks that were an undeceiving imitation of the genuine article. I felt satisfied that my nagging had not been in vain until my eyes lighted on the window. What a beastly cheek the woman had! She had taken down my curtains, and put up some coarse white net in their place. Where were my sheepskin rugs? And the pink-tinted mirror that Mac had given me?

I sat up in bed, ready to leap out looking for a brawl. A pain shot up the back of my neck. I felt my tongue cautiously with my teeth. A hangover?

‘Tut, tut, Maggie, my girl! I'll lie quietly for a while with my eyes shut, and try to sort things out. The room is nice and cool. The wind must have changed.'

It was marvellous not to wake up to the blind flapping and the sun streaming in hotly. I screwed up my eyelids.

‘That's odd! If the wind has changed, it would be blowing from the south. That means that the door would have to be propped open; otherwise it would slam. This can't be my room in Mrs. Bates's boarding-house, and yet it looks familiar. I can't be at home either. The wood-cut Tony made usually hangs opposite my bed. He'd have the horrors if he saw what was in its place.'

‘Curiouser and curiouser,' I quoted aloud. ‘Here I am in a strange bed in a strange room, nursing a sore head and a thick tongue that are both
very reminiscent of what I have been told of the “morning after” feeling. What did I drink last night to warrant a hangover? Just in passing, what happened last night? This is absurd, ridiculous! Have I gone crackers, or am I suffering from—what is it called that is so popular with novelists and playwrights? Amnesia, that's it. Well, I haven't forgotten the English language anyway.'

A figure walked cautiously past my open door.

“Hey!” I yelled. “Come back.”

“Are you awake, Miss Byrnes?” asked Mrs. Bates, fitting neatly in the doorway with only a few inches to spare on all sides.

“No, I'm talking in my sleep,” I retorted testily. “I'm very glad to see you, however; a thing I never thought I'd be. Your solid presence before me proves that I am still in your boardinghouse. What do you mean by throwing me out of my own room?”

“It was Mrs. Byrnes's idea,” she replied without any outward indignation. No matter how you spoke to my landlady, she still preserved her equanimity.

“My mother?” I said, puzzled. “Is she in town?”

Mrs. Bates looked at me fearfully. “I'm not mad,” I assured her irritably. “I just can't seem to think above this head of mine. Where is she?”

“In your room. She slept there last night after we put you to bed in here.”

I had a terrible thought. “Don't tell me I disgraced your house by coming home tight?” I asked, scandalized. She folded her lips together without any comment. “I'd better go and find my mother,” I said uneasily. This was a dreadful state of affairs.

Charlotte was staring out of the window when I entered on the echo of my knock.

‘It can't have changed after all,' I thought stupidly, feeling a breath of hot air.

“Hullo, darling,” she said, turning around and surveying me anxiously. “Do you feel better?”

I was too ashamed to meet her eyes. “Yes, thanks,” I answered in a gruff voice, and stood before her like a child waiting for punishment. She made no rebuke until I could stand the silence no longer. “How did I come to be drunk last night?” I burst out.

“Maggie, dear, what a dreadful thing to suggest,” said my mother placidly.

I looked up, bewildered. “What's the matter with me then? I feel like death warmed up this morning. I suppose that it is morning, isn't it?”

She glanced at her wrist. “About two in the afternoon,” she replied.
“Go and have a shower. You'll feel better, and then I'll get you something to eat.”

“I'd be sick,” I said frankly.

“No, you wouldn't. Go and do as I say before you start asking questions.”

“Just one,” I begged, and hesitated. “Am I all right? I mean—my brain hasn't gone or anything equally ghastly, has it?”

Charlotte came quickly, and put her arms about me. “Maggie, you didn't think—” she began. “Oh, darling, I am so sorry. It's probably the sleeping tablets I gave you that are making you feel odd.”

“How many did you force down my throat? I bet I didn't take them willingly.”

“Two,” she answered, standing back.

I clapped one hand to my forehead. “It's a wonder I'm not dead. Where's that shower? It might clear the old brain a bit.”

I let the cold water run hard on my body and over my aching temples, and presently came back towelling my head vigorously.

“Why the change of rooms?” I asked, my voice muffled.

“I thought the sun would waken you in the morning. I wanted you to sleep as long as you could.”

“Thanks, Charlotte,” I said, going over to the chest of drawers. “You always were considerate.” I started to hunt for fresh clothes, and presently looked up into the mirror to see if my face was as bad as it felt.

“This pink tint is very flattering,” I observed to my mother. “Mac gave—” I stopped short, meeting her eyes over my head. They were full of sympathy, and quite suddenly I remembered. I didn't say a word, but put up my hand to touch the clear glass gently. My fingers left a mark, and I stared at it while my mind flew back to the events of the night before. I saw my own eyes darken with horror, as step by step I approached the climax, and my jaw harden resolutely as I recalled the interview with Inspector Coleman.

“Maggie,” said my mother in a frightened voice. She was standing directly behind me, and her reflection was now hidden. I turned round slowly.

“It's all right, Charlotte,” I said quietly. “I remember now. What, tears? Darling!” I exclaimed, putting my arms about her comfortingly in my turn. It was very rarely that my placid, easygoing mother ever had recourse to tears. She pulled at the handkerchief in her sleeve, and blew her nose hard.

“You sound like an elephant,” I observed lightly.

“Maggie, come home. I am so worried about you.”

“Worried about me?” I repeated, misunderstanding the cause on purpose. “I'm quite all right now. It takes more than two pills to kill me off.”

“Don't,” said Charlotte huskily, making me feel a brute. “Come home before anything else happens at that horrible place.”

“No, Charlotte,” I said gently, but firmly. “If it had been anyone else than Mac, I would have considered it. But I can't go now. I must stay in town until—”

“Until something happens to you like it did to her,” she burst out.

“Nonsense,” I said bracingly, trying to smother the sick, uneasy feeling her words invoked. ‘If anyone else tells me that my life is in danger,' I thought, ‘I'll get Inspector Coleman to lock me in a cell until the murderer has been found. I am sure he could find a nice quiet niche for me out at Pentridge.'

“Listen to me, Charlotte,” I said in a reasonable voice. “Nothing is going to happen to your only daughter. I've told you before that I value my skin too highly to run any risks. Moreover, I'm out of the picture now. Once I publish it abroad that the police have all the information I ever held, there will be no point in killing me off. Now, cheer up, and get me that food you promised.”

“You're very like your father, Maggie,” sighed my mother, going to the door obediently. “How long will you take to get dressed?”

“I'll be in the dining-room within five minutes.”

As I came down the stairs to the lower hall, clad in a dirndl and sandals, the telephone rang.

“I'll take it!” I yelled towards the kitchen, and walked leisurely up the hall.

“Is Miss Byrnes in, please?” asked a male voice.

“She is,” I replied, pulling the hair away from my ear. “How are you, Clark?”

“Is that you, Maggie. How are you?”

“I asked you first. I'm fine.”

“So am I.” There was a pause. What liars we both were!

“No, I'm rotten,” declared Clark emphatically.

“I'm pretty low, too,” I admitted. “How did you get on last night?”

“Grim,” was the succinct answer. “I'm glad that you dropped out. You'd never have stood the staff I had. How I longed to wring each respective neck! They chattered all night like magpies.”

“How ghastly!” It was better to keep the conversation on a light plane. You could control yourself more easily. Once I let go again, it would be the end of me. I would shriek and shriek until I collapsed into an oblivion of insanity.

Clark said in a strained voice: “I'll call for you in about half an hour. We can't talk properly on the phone.”

“Come as soon as you can,” I begged.

“What about your mother?” he asked quickly. “Is she still taking me on?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, puzzled. “You're not coming to pick me up for golf?”

“Why not? You made the date.”

“I couldn't go now,” I declared faintly.