Murder in the Telephone Exchange (49 page)

Clark made a gesture of impatience. “Are you heading me off, Maggie?”

“Not at all. I was trying to remember how I began.”

He came to sit beside me, looking puzzled.

“I made a list,” I explained, “in my diary. Sergeant Matheson has it now. I'll get it back from him if I can, so that you can read my notes.”

“Can't you remember what you wrote?”

“Not without a wash and a drink,” I answered meaningly. “Pull me up, Clark, and we'll find Charlotte. She'll be wondering what's happened to us.”

He rose stiffly, and held out his strong lean hands. I put mine into them, and was surprised to find them so hot.

“You're not getting a chill?” I asked anxiously.

He stared at me in silence, still holding my hands. With a swift movement he put his head down to mine, and I heard his voice muffled in my hair. “Maggie, I'm tired! So damned tired!”

Very gently I slid my hands to his shoulders, and we stood together in silence. Presently a burst of noise came from the veranda above. The door into the lounge had been opened to emit someone. Clark must have noticed it too, and straightened himself quickly.

“Sorry,” he said. “What about that drink?”

It must have been an effort to pull himself together after that sudden collapse, but as we went up the steps he held his head high. The straightness of his back made me wonder if the few minutes I had spent so close to him in his weakness had not been a dream. Twice in the same day people to whom I looked for strength and encouragement had come to
me for comfort. First of all my placid mother, who usually remained undisturbed in the biggest crisis, had clung weeping and imploring me to go home. And now Clark, the debonair hero of the junior staff at Central, had manifested that his resistance to emotion was not as strong as I had previously believed. I don't think I was disappointed. After all, it would be very tiring to live with anyone who had an unquenchable vitality. But Clark had always been, as it were, on top of the troubles of the past few days. Then I remembered that this had been our first time alone since Mac's death, and I felt a sudden pang of jealousy. Was she the one that he really loved after all? Or was his feeling for her now like mine—sad that I hadn't shown proof of my devotion during the last hours before she died?

Charlotte came round the corner of the veranda. “Oh, there you are! I've ordered drinks to be brought out here. The lounge is packed.”

“I must have a wash,” I said. “What about you, Clark?”

He held out his hands for Charlotte to inspect. She bent over them critically.

“They'll do,” she declared. “You'll find us around the side, Maggie, and don't be long.”

But I dallied on purpose, taking a long time over my face and hair, to give them an opportunity to get to know each other. So far the only chances had been in a crowded danceroom and on the links, where the topic of their conversation, that is myself, had been with them. I knew that Charlotte would want to make a genealogical research, and such a task could not be accomplished without time. I experimented with a hair-do
à la
Gloria, only to become convinced that my usual method was better. I'd rather look hard, as Gloria described me, than the poor imitation of a girl I disliked. Certain that Charlotte should have reached the great-grandparents at least, I took a circuitous route through the lounge to the side veranda.

The lounge was full of smartly-dressed women with impossible vowels, and their appendages. The latter were, for the most part, inclined to Falstaffian figures, and to them golf was a means of diminishing their poundage. Not that to-day's playing would do much to accomplish that. Rather to the contrary; that is, if most of them had spent their time on the nineteenth, as they appeared to have done. White-coated waiters sped to and fro, handling trays of chinking glasses with amazing dexterity. I nodded briefly to one or two golfers, with whom Clark and I had had a foursome one crowded day. I was just refusing an invitation to join them in a drink, when a crash sounded near the far wall. There was a sudden lull in the conversation, as heads turned quickly to survey the scene.

One of the waiters, no more than a lad of sixteen, was nervously dabbing at the erstwhile immaculate slacks of one of the armchair golfers. He
was a middle-aged man, fair, but with that high complexion that deepens to a purple when its owner becomes incensed. I watched the transition interestedly, feeling very sorry for the hapless youth, and grimaced at a woman whom I knew slightly and whose accent was genuine. She shrugged hopelessly in answer, as some deep-throated swearing was heard from the purple-faced man. I considered it high time to retire and made for the main swing doors. Unfortunately, at the same moment the angry man, his trousers stained with beer, was also departing, followed by the protesting waiter.

“Excuse me,” I said coolly, as we both placed a hand on the doors. He muttered something under his breath, but stood back, the lad behind him saying in an apologetic voice: “Sir, will I go and—”

“You can go to hell,” declared the man roundly. I walked out ahead of him, just as Clark came down the veranda.

“Hullo,” he said. “You've been an age, and you don't seem to look any different.”

“At least my hands are clean,” I retorted. “Who is that man who came out behind me? He's just crossing the gravel to the car park now.”

Clark glanced over his shoulder casually. “Atkinson. The bad-tempered swine!”

“I quite agree with you. You should have heard the language when young Tom upset some beer over his slacks. I came to find my mother immediately,” I finished virtuously.

“For her sake or yours?” he grinned, and then became serious.

“How are you feeling now?”

“Pretty right, as long as I don't start to think. The brain is a treacherous thing when you try to co-operate it with your emotions. You start wondering if you're not a murderer yourself.”

He made no comment, as we rounded the corner to find Charlotte lying in a long chair sipping dry ginger ale. Mentally I kicked myself for being so tactless. Clark probably blamed himself for not having forced Mac's confidence, and thereby—but there was no use speculating. The fact remained that Mac was dead, and it was up to us to keep in a calm state of mind in order to help hunt her murderer.

‘When it is all cleared up,' I promised myself, ‘you can begin lamenting. You can show your regard better by not becoming rattled.'

But it was hard to sit at my mother's feet and look up at her head against the gay cushions and not visualize Mac's pale, piquant face, when you remembered that once she had lounged her slight figure in the same chair and crossed slim brown ankles one over the other, as even now my mother had.

Charlotte was looking a little disturbed. I wondered if a great-uncle of Clark's had been a bushranger, or whether St. Vitus's dance ran through his family. However she smiled at us both placidly, and started a lecture on putting until I cut her short.

“I think the game is lousy after my effort to-day.”

“That was because your mind wasn't on it,” said Charlotte wisely. “To play the game properly, you must be concerned with two things only. One is the ball, and the other is yourself.”

Clark stirred in his chair, re-crossing his long legs. He had offered no contribution to the conversation, and I guessed the cause of his impatience.

“That's enough about golf,” I said. “Let's get down to business.”

“And I was trying to keep your minds away from the Exchange!” exclaimed my mother plaintively.

“Not possible,” I replied grimly. “Now you know why I took an average of four putts a hole.”

Clark bent forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his eyes alight with interest. “Go ahead, Maggie, but don't make it too loud. You never know who may be listening.”

I cocked my head on one side. “Your bad-tempered friend, maybe?”

He frowned, and took out his cigarette case. “Atkinson? He's no friend of mine.”

“Who is he?” I asked, taking a cigarette from his proffered case.

“Something in the city. A broker, I believe, but I'm not certain. What about you, Mrs. Byrnes?”

“I don't smoke, but do you mind removing this glass to a safer place than the arm of my chair?”

Clark got up. I watched his movements frowningly. “Do you know whereabouts in the city?” I asked.

“Atkinson? Queen Street, I suppose. That is where brokers are as a rule. Why are you so interested in him?”

“Queen Street,” I repeated with growing excitement. “That means that he'd be in the City West Exchange, wouldn't it?”

“Providing that he is at the top end, he would,” Clark admitted, watching me curiously. “What's got into you, Maggie? What has Atkinson to do with us?”

I bent towards him, so that he would be able to hear me. “You remember on Friday night,” I whispered, “how I was missing from the trunkroom when Bertie paid us his surprise visit? I had fallen asleep in the restroom, and was awakened by the sound of someone calling out on the phone. What with dialling a number in the dark and then not saying a word, I got suspicious, to say the least. I dashed down to young Dan Mitchell in the
power-room, and he traced the call for me. I rang the number. I won't tell you what ruse I used to cover myself, as I have already shocked Charlotte once, but a man answered.”

“Do you mean that his voice was similar to Atkinson's?”

“It may be,” I replied. “I haven't thought about that. No, wait, I'm quite serious. It wasn't so much the likeness between the voices, but the fact that they both used the identical phrase.”

“But you've never spoken to Atkinson,” objected Clark.

“As a matter of fact I have, not that my words were important, but I have got that way that I feel compelled to correct every delusion. It's from working with the police, I suppose.”

“Stop chattering, Maggie,” said my mother, “and tell us what the identical phrase was.”

“ ‘You can go to hell,' ” I replied promptly. I laughed aloud at the shocked expression on Charlotte's face, before she gathered that I was not addressing her.

“But everyone passes remarks like that,” Clark objected again, when the grin faded from his face.

“So Charlotte thought. But it's a strange coincidence, don't you agree? For several reasons. Both men exhibited a remarkable lack of restraint where their patience was concerned. Then you tell me that Atkinson's telephone would be a City West number.”

“No, I didn't,” corrected Clark. “I only suggested that his office would be in Queen Street.”

I looked at him reproachfully. “Don't spoil my theory. Lastly, the words themselves.” I stamped out my cigarette, half-smoked, in my excitement. “I want to ask your opinion, Charlotte,” I said, turning to where I could see her face as a white blur in the gathering dusk. “If you wanted to consign someone, in words, to the hottest place in existence, what would you say?”

“Nothing,” she replied firmly. “I was brought up by a strict mother.”

I smiled at her. “Whereas I was not, I suppose? But seriously, Charlotte, what would you say? Your answer may be important.”

“Well, if you must, Maggie,” she sighed. “Wait a minute while I concentrate on someone with whom I don't agree too well. Let me see, who is there?”

“No one,” I declared emphatically. “Hurry up and say it. Don't worry about achieving an atmosphere.”

“Go to hell!” said Charlotte with surprising force.

“Good work! Now you, Clark.”

He shook his head. “This sounds idiotic to me.”

“I have a reason,” I coaxed. “Please.”

“Go to hell,” he said expressionlessly, and I clapped my hands together in triumph.

“There you are! It's just as I thought. Charlotte,” I declared pompously, “you have a remarkable daughter.”

“Yes, darling, but what are you driving at?”

I laughed with pure enjoyment. “You are about to listen to an example of exquisite reasoning. Let us suppose that the man I rang from the power-room and Mr. Atkinson are two different persons. Just as you two are. In expressing indignation at being called in the early hours of the morning, he used a phrase of five words. When I asked you both to repeat the gist of his remark, only three were necessary. You. Clark. declared that it was the sort of phrase anyone would use. I agree with you. But what I am trying to point out is that the majority of people would use only the three words, and therefore coupled with the probable fact that Mr. Atkinson's telephone is connected to City West, I say that Mr. Atkinson and the man I rang are the one and same person.”

I sat back as they meditated on my deduction. Presently, Clark tossed his cigarette end over the side to fall in sparks amid the heavy scented petunias.

“Perhaps you're right,” he admitted slowly. “What are you going to do about it?”

“There is only one thing to do. Tell the police.”