Murder in the Telephone Exchange (51 page)

I felt Clark's body go tense beside me, and heard his hard breathing. “If that is correct, Maggie,” he said very slowly, “we've got that inhuman brute.”

I was filled with a wild exultation. How wonderful, how magnificent it would be to hand Mac's killer over to justice; to waken one morning in the early light and know that not far away someone was being hanged by the neck as a revenge for killing Mac. Compton I disregarded completely. I had no interest in avenging her death. But my little Mac, so gay, so alive! Whoever snuffed the flame of her vitality must die an ignominious death, and I would shout and clap my hands with awful glee when I heard the prison bell tolling.

Clark's voice roused me from my frenzied thoughts. “Where would she have hidden it? In her locker? Her handbag?”

My own voice sounded quiet and reasonable in my ears. “No. If the murderer went to the trouble of ransacking her room, he would have made certain about those two places.”

“But a docket,” Clark insisted. “The killer would be looking for a notebook or a plain sheet of paper. Probably that is why Gerda used a docket. It would be less likely to attract attention.”

I thought for a minute. What Clark had said was quite true. Moreover, if the killer was a telephone employee and accustomed to the stationery, the docket would probably have been passed over.

“I'm going straight in to the Exchange. What number was Gerda's locker?”

“You're doing nothing of the kind,” I declared firmly. “If you're going straight to anywhere, it is to bed. I'll have a hunt through her locker to-night.”

“What if someone catches you?” asked Clark, weakening visibly. His fatigue must have been great indeed to make him give in so quickly.

“I won't be caught,” I said confidently. In fact, I felt so sure of myself that had anyone told me what was going to happen that night, I would have laughed in their faces.

Charlotte arrived at this point with her box of pills, and strict instructions how to take them. Clark thanked her gravely. He seemed to have recovered some of his spirits since my inspiration about the pencil. It was a frail hope, but evidently he placed a great deal of dependence on the outcome of a search of Mac's locker. Charlotte and I stood at the gate to watch him drive off, after giving his solemn promise to swallow at least two of the sleeping tablets.

“They will nearly kill you,” I told him blithely. “But at least I can guarantee you some sleep. I'll ring you first thing in the morning about that other business.”

“What other business?” asked Charlotte, when we were seated in the privacy of my room some time later. Mrs. Bates, after grumbling
meaningly about the unpunctuality to meals of some people, had finally served a cold meal in the empty dining-room. I had avoided my mother's eyes, as I knew that she was waiting for me to ask her what she thought of Clark. Somehow I didn't want to hear her opinion, and put my lack of interest down to the fact that Mac's affair must come first.

I told her about the message that I had read in the pencil Mac had held in her dead fingers, and that I was going to search her locker that night.

Her eyes flickered once or twice, before she asked placidly: “Can't you ring Sergeant Matheson and tell him first?”

“That man!” I exclaimed scornfully. “He'd take hours going into the whys and wherefores. In the meantime the murderer might have woken up to the idea, and stolen a march on me.” I stripped off my shirt, preparatory to getting into a dressing-gown in order to stretch out for a while before going into town.

Charlotte said dryly: “As long as the murderer doesn't happen to search the locker at the same time as you, I suppose it's a good idea.”

I paused, one arm thrust through the loose sleeve of my gown. “Just let him,” I said darkly, tying the wide sash and climbing on to my bed.

“Can't you wait until to-morrow?” Charlotte pleaded, but I closed my eyes, determined not to be frightened out of my resolve.

A couple of hours' rest did much to restore my ever-flagging vitality, although I did not actually go to sleep, I dared not, and kept my mind working on all the different incidences of the past few days. Presently, I came to speculate on the sudden entry into the picture of Mr. Atkinson, broker and golfer. Was it, as Clark had declared, too much of a coincidence that I should identify that mysterious voice with a man in the lounge of the Riverlea club-house? It was certainly remarkable that the man who answered me that night in the power-room should be a member of a club whose numbers were not over-large. On the other hand, entry to Riverlea was very much sought after. Why shouldn't Mr. Atkinson be the successful one out of thousands who were all angling for admittance?

‘I'll tell Sergeant Matheson,' I thought inwardly. ‘It should be a job after his own heart.'

But if Mr. Atkinson was by profession a broker, who and why would anyone be ringing him in such a secretive fashion from the Exchange? Why, too, did he do all the talking, while the unknown dialler stayed silent?

I had to stop these interesting, and so far unanswerable, questions in order to dress for work. I chose a dark-coloured frock in case I wanted to appear inconspicuous any time during the night. My heart was beating hard more from excitement than anything else. I had put Cliarlotte's grim
warning out of my head. She was reading in bed, as I went to bid her good night on my way down the hall.

“Turn off the light,” I commanded from the doorway, “and don't lie awake, waiting for your daughter's corpse to be brought home.”

“I don't like it at all, Maggie,” she answered, shaking her head. “You'll be very careful?”

I told her gravely that I had not the least ambition to be murdered, and was rewarded with a watery smile.

There is only one thing worse than working all-night, and that is working the Sunday dogwatch. The city was almost deserted, and as quiet as a graveyard. Public conveyances were infrequent. I found myself on the same bus as the other all-night telephonists.

By that time I was getting used to curious and awed glances, but when Bertie Scott stepped into the bus just as it was about to move off, and seated himself next to me, those girls positively goggled.

I greeted him coldly, and not without apprehension. It was rather unnerving to share a seat with someone who you thought might be a double murderer. Bertie said “Good evening,” and left his mouth open as if he were about to say more. Then he shut it abruptly, coughed, and stared at his own fidgeting feet as though they did not belong to him. Rather pointedly I fixed my gaze out the window; in fact, if I had had to watch Bertie fidgeting much longer, I would have screamed. He coughed again, and bent nearer.

“I met your mother last night, Miss Byrnes,” he confided softly.

“Did you?” I asked, edging away from his pince-nez.

“I was very happy to make her acquaintance,” he went on, holding on to the handle of the seat in front of him, as the bus swung round the corner and started to climb up to the Exchange. I murmured unintelligibly, unable to think of any suitable comment to make.

As the bus stopped and the other girls got out, he burst out suddenly: “I think your mother is a most remarkable woman. Will you tell her so from me?”

He rose to his feet. I slipped out of the seat without replying. What on earth had Charlotte been up to? Was Bertie looking for a successor to Compton already?

“I'll send her home to-morrow,” I told myself with alarm, “garden hat or no garden hat. Before she gets into any serious mischief.”

I caught up with the others as they waited for the lift, and one of them said awkwardly: “Sorry about Mac, Maggie, It was a terrible shock to us all, but it must be worse for you.”

I thanked her briefly, not wishing to open a way for any questions. I
think that they saw my reluctance. No one queried me that night, except on matters of switching.

It was after midnight when the relieving started, and I saw to it that I would be the last. I wanted a clear coast before I began rifling Mac's locker. Presently the last girl came back. Slipping from my chair, I strolled casually up the room, despite the fact that my heart was beating hard. Once out the door, I stripped off my headset and dashed up the stairs to the eighth floor. It was, as I expected, dimly lit. My running feet echoed uncannily. It was almost as if someone was approaching in the opposite direction. I paused outside the cloakroom, trying to still my breathing in order to catch the slightest sound. The floor was very quiet, but for the wail of the rising wind seeping through the ventilators.

I fumbled my way to my own locker without turning on the lights, and felt for the small torch I kept there for use after working late shifts. The battery was getting weak, and flickered several times as I stole round to where Mac's locker was at the bottom of the rack. I didn't dare to glance in the direction of the restroom. There was no difficulty in opening the locker, as my own key, in common with many others, fitted the lock perfectly. I stood the torch upright on the floor so that its failing beam shot up the side of the lockers, and rummaged carefully amongst Mac's belongings.

There was her telephone with the faint perfume Mac always used still clinging to it, and an old cardigan that she kept handy in case the weather changed. Numerous pencils, rubbers and pieces of paper lay on the floor of the locker. I inspected each sheet carefully, but there was nothing to be construed as a secret message. I sat back on my heels, filled with a bitter disappointment. What a reward for our high hopes!

As I started to rise slowly from my cramped position, the stealthy move of a footstep came to my ears. I froze to the spot. I remember thinking to myself how Charlotte could say: “I told you so,” as I stood there, paralysed with fear. Suddenly, as I was loosening my throat to scream, every light in the cloakroom flashed on. The footsteps, no longer stealthy, came around the corner of the lockers. I kicked Mac's door shut, just as Bertie Scott came into sight. He stopped short and stared at me, his pince-nez glittering in what seemed to me a fiendish fashion. I gazed back, fascinated. Were these the eyes that Mac had looked into?

Suddenly Bertie advanced. Step by step I backed, my hands feeling behind me. There was no way of escape. The lockers and the wall hemmed me in on three sides, and Bertie was in front. I remembered how empty the eighth floor had looked when I came up. No one would hear my desperate screams. As abruptly as he had moved, Bertie paused. He bent down on
one knee like an animal about to spring. His eyes never left my face, as his hand felt for the locker that I had just opened. I began to think that the final show-down had come when a strange thing happened. It was really an anti-climax. There I was, ready to die, and Bertie merely locked Mac's door, held out my key in silence and stood aside.

I crept by him fearfully and, snatching my key, fled out of the cloakroom and down the corridor. There was no need for the girl Jameson to tell me that I was as white as a sheet when I seated myself, panting and trembling in every limb, at the Adelaide board. Who wouldn't be after such an experience?

It was some minutes later when Bertie came into the trunkroom. I heard the creak of the door opening, and then his fussy, short-stepped walk which paused at the Senior Traffic Officer's table. I did not dare look around as he came down the room to where I sat, turning over dockets nervously. His voice sounded over my head.

“Go down to the Tasmanian boards, Miss Jameson, please.” My neighbour pulled out her plug and departed.

“Is there any traffic waiting, Miss Byrnes?” he asked, his voice raised slightly, obviously to let the room know what he was saying.

I swallowed hard. “Not much,” I managed to croak. “There are a few calls to A.G.” I felt his hand come down firmly on my shoulder.

“I would advise you,” he said, very softly in my ear, “to concentrate on the work in hand.”

It was a warning, without any doubt. He left me sitting bolt upright, his words ringing through my head.

The best antidote for fear, as for many other emotions, is work. I busied myself unnecessarily with the few dockets on the board, writing up elaborate reports on the backs as they were retried. Gradually the trembling left my body. I became calmer and able to think more clearly. Why had Bertie let me escape from him? Not that I wasn't very grateful but his sudden manifestation of mercy was not in accordance with my idea of the murderer. And if Bertie wasn't the murderer, who was he? Then I remembered the suggestion that I had made that afternoon on the golf-house veranda. Was he an accomplice? The one who was directing the movements of the killer, who was in his turn managing the whole business from the outside?

No, Bertie was no murderer. Otherwise he would have removed me quickly as I stood hunted against the wall of the cloakroom. He knew that I had been searching Mac's locker with some ulterior motive. Not that I was any better off for doing so; rather, I was in a worse position now that Bertie's suspicions were aroused. I sighed despairingly, leaning back in my chair with my feet thrust out in front of me. Where else could
Mac have hidden that docket? My eyes wandered restlessly down the boards to where the girl Jameson was filing her nails, and chattering to the Hobart telephonist.

‘What on earth do you find to talk about at this hour?' I thought irritably, turning my head to survey the rest of the staff. My glance swept the end of the room, and I saw the sortagraph standing large and untenanted in its corner.