Murder in the Telephone Exchange (54 page)

“Hullo,” I said. “I think I know you. I work at Central.” She glanced at the plaster on my head curiously. “Just a disguise,” I explained hurriedly. “Your name doesn't happen to be Doris?”

The curious look deepened. “That's right. Who are you?”

“Margaret Byrnes. Could you trust me at that board for a while?”

She looked at me doubtfully. “Margaret Byrnes?” she queried.

“Maggie,” I said suddenly on an inspiration.

“Oh—Maggie. Sure, come right in. But if you only want to make a call, I'll put you through on the public telephone over the way.”

“Thanks very much. As a matter of fact, I had an accident last night and I haven't got any money.” I gave her the number of Russell Street Police Station. She raised her brows, but made no comment. I went across to the P.T.

“Inspector Coleman or Sergeant Matheson,” I requested. “It's very important,” and waited.

“I'm sorry, but they are both very busy. Would anyone else do?”

“No,” I said firmly. “Tell them that Miss Byrnes wants to speak to them.”

There was another pause, and then a click, and a slow voice said: “Miss Byrnes? This is Police-Officer Roberts. What is it you want?”

“Your superiors,” I retorted. “I've got something very important to tell them.”

There was another silence. I could see Roberts scratching his head in perplexity.

“I've got strict instructions not to disturb them, even for the Commissioner himself,” he pronounced in his slow voice. “Wouldn't I do instead?”

“Wait a minute while I think.”

His heavy breathing came over the wires as I speculated on what was best to do. Time was getting short, and it was imperative that someone should be at Clark's flat as soon as possible, in case he was still under the influence of the sleeping drug. Blast those two policemen and their high and mighty way in which they were not to be disturbed.

“Yes, you'll do,” I said at last. “Listen carefully, Police-Officer Roberts, or whatever it is you call yourself.”

“You can call me plain Roberts, Miss, if you like.”

“Many thanks. It'll save time. Can you leave whatever it is you are doing, and come down to the Royal Melbourne Hospital? Don't start asking questions as my head is nearly splitting already. Just come. I'll be waiting for you at the main entrance.” I rang off without giving him time to demur.

“Thanks, Doris,” I called, putting my head out of the box. “Will you give me a line to Windsor now?” But Clark's telephone still remained unanswered. I hung up slowly, beginning to feel uneasy. Surely he couldn't still be asleep.

The first thing I asked Roberts was whether he had any money. After a moment's hesitation he took off his tall helmet and produced several five-pound notes from the crown.

“That should be enough,” I remarked dryly. “Now go and hail that taxi. I want to get to South Yarra in a hurry.”

Roberts seemed in no way surprised at my high-handed behaviour. He must have been used to girls demanding his escort, so unchanged was his phlegmatic expression. It was only when we were bowling swiftly down town that he asked in a disinterested fashion: “What hit you, Miss?”

“The murderer,” I retorted. “But I can't explain now. There isn't time,”
and I leaned forward to give the taxi-driver some directions.

Roberts did not open his mouth again until we drew near the block of flats where Clark lived.

“What are we going to do?” he asked.

“See if Mr. Clarkson is all right,” I replied grimly. “I have been calling him all night, but he doesn't answer his 'phone. I also want to have a look at the contents of his letterbox.”

Roberts seemed a trifle shocked. I hastened to explain my reason for wishing to interfere with the King's mail. He nodded solemnly as the taxi swerved around a corner into South Street. The driver muttered under his breath as he pulled the wheel sharply to dodge a car parked on the wrong side of the street.

“I'd like to report the swine who owns that car,” he said. “I nearly crashed into him.”

I had a good look first to see whether it was the one Clark usually drove, and suggested that as one of his passengers was a policeman he go right ahead.

“That looks like the owner getting in now,” I began, as a man came hurrying out of the flats. My heart leaped in excitement. “Don't stop your engine,” I commanded. “Let me get out; then follow that car. Roberts, you stay here and detain that man when you catch him.”

“But, Miss!” he protested.

“Do as I say,” I said fiercely. “It's vitally important.”

I wrenched open the door and jumped on to the pavement. “Quickly. He's headed for town.”

The taxi-driver waved to me in a reassuring manner as he swung the taxi round again and sped after the car. I watched them turn the corner, Roberts leaning forward with both arms resting on the front seat. Evidently his blood was up.

The group of mail-boxes caught my eye as I ran for the stairs. As I opened Clark's my heart sank. There were two letters, but neither bore Mac's writing. We had been beaten after all. Clutching them in one hand, I flew up the stairs and pounded on the door. There was no answer. A woman in the flat opposite put her head out. I asked whether she had seen or heard Mr. Clarkson that morning. She shook her head, eyeing me curiously as I banged at the door again. When I was just about to give up, the taxi still containing Roberts stopped at the kerb.

“Did you get him?” I cried, running to the edge of the stairs, and leaning over the banister.

He made no reply until he joined me outside Clark's door. “He got away; dodged down a side street.” I thought that he looked a trifle disgusted.

“Mr. Clarkson hasn't answered his door either,” I told him, troubled. “What will we do?”

Roberts gave the lock one keen glance, and drawing out what looked like a large hairpin told me to stand aside. Presently there was a click. He turned to me saying simply: “I can usually open them.”

“Clark,” I called from the doorstep. But there was no reply. I walked cautiously along the hail to the closed door of his bedroom. I said his name again, but the only sound that came to my ears was the steady tick of the clock standing in the hall. Swiftly I threw open the door and walked in, Roberts close on my heels. Clark was lying face down across the bed, clad in the clothes that he had worn the previous day at golf. Even his feet were still shod in rubber-soled brogues.

“John,” I whispered, staring at his back. Was it my imagination, or was there a movement of breathing? Roberts strode quickly over, and put one hand on his shoulder, My heart leapt again as I saw Clark stir. Raising himself on his elbows he stared for a moment in a dazed fashion at the policeman, and then sank back.

“Come on, sir,” said Roberts, shaking his arm. “Wake up.” He helped Clark to sit up. His eyes were dull as he stared across at the door where I stood, nearly sick with relief.

“Maggie?” he said. His voice was thick. I went swiftly across the room, and knelt on one knee before him to look up into his face.

“Are you all right?” I asked, choking a little.

He nodded. A shadow of a smile came into his eyes. “Those damn pills,” he said hoarsely. “I took three of them. They certainly work.”

I laughed with the sheer joy of finding him alive. “Get under a shower at once,” I ordered. “I'll make some coffee. Hurry, Clark. There are such a lot of questions I want to ask you.”

Glancing down, he saw the two letters that I still clasped in my hand, and tried to take them from me with fumbling fingers. I disengaged myself gently, and rose to my feet.

“Later,” I said. “Roberts, will you help Mr. Clarkson while I am in the kitchen?”

Clark did not seem surprised to find either of us in his flat, but accepted the situation as if it was quite normal. I put it down to his dazed condition. If I had felt it was my second time on earth after taking two sleeping tablets, what must Clark be like after a triple dose? I heard the shower running as I made coffee and toasted some bread. By the time I had loaded a tray and carried it into the lounge-room, the two men were waiting, Clark's dark hair gleaming wet under the sunlight that streamed through the unopened windows. I poured out a cup of strong black coffee
and gave it to him in silence, passing on to throw open the windows. The air outside was humid, but at least it was better than the close atmosphere that pervaded the flat. As Clark drank his coffee, Roberts stood quietly against the wall holding his helmet in his hands, his countenance still unmoved. I watched a brighter look come into Clark's eyes as he ate some of the toast. Presently he glanced up, trying to grin in his old way.

“What have you done to yourself, Maggie?”

I glanced over his head to a mirror hanging on the wall, and gasped in horror. I had had neither comb nor make-up with which to lessen the effect of the plaster strip on my forehead. Even my dress was crumpled and dusty.

“What happened to your head?” Clark asked swiftly, setting down his cup and coming to stand near me.

“It's a long story,” I replied, pushing him gently into a chair, and seating myself opposite. “Sit down, Roberts. By the way, Clark, do you remember Roberts?”

“Just. You were with Inspector Coleman at the Exchange, weren't you? What are you doing here?”

“I brought him,” I interrupted. “I thought that something had—I mean I was worried you didn't answer your phone. I've been trying to get you all night from work.”

“I didn't hear it,” Clark replied. “All I remember is taking those damn tablets, and feeling so wonky that I lay down on the bed. The next thing that I knew was Roberts shaking me. Why did you ring me, Maggie? What has happened?”

“I remembered Dulcie Gordon,” I explained. “When I was in Mac's room after it had been searched, I found a lot of notepaper torn up. They were the beginnings of a letter that Mac had been trying to write to you. I wondered if she had posted a letter to you, explaining everything. Clark, I think she had. Only that man got here before us and took it out of your letterbox.”

“What man?” he demanded. “Take it quietly, Maggie. I can't think too well, yet.”

“Mr. Atkinson. We saw him drive off just as we arrived. Roberts followed the car, but he got away. Clark, he must be the murderer.”

“Atkinson! Don't talk nonsense. How can he have killed Compton and Gerda?”

“If he had an accomplice working in the Exchange, he could have come through that door I told you about. I think that that is what he did last night.”

Clark looked up, his eyes sweeping my face and coming finally to rest
on the ornament on my forehead.

“Did he do that?” he asked in a low, hard voice. “Maggie, are you sure that you're all right?”

I nodded happily, and told him about the discovery I had made in the basement storeroom, and the subsequent events that led up to my precipitous appearance in his flat.

“Will you be able to find that docket again'?” he asked dubiously. “Atkinson might have had another search, when he saw that the one he snatched from you was the wrong docket.”

“He might have,” I acknowledged, “but it was about two in the morning when he knocked me out. Bertie and Dan Mitchell must have found me soon after, as I was in hospital before 3 a.m.”

Roberts spoke slowly: “Excuse me, sir, but I think I'd better ring Headquarters and get them to pick up this man.”

“Certainly! You'll find my telephone around that door. I wonder how Bertie came to find you, Maggie?” Clark said, as we heard Roberts dialling in the hall.

“He'd had his eye on me all night. I searched Mac's locker first, and he caught me. I was terribly scared, but he didn't say a word until I went back to the trunkroom. Then he came up and said in a horrible voice that it would be better if I kept my mind on switching. Clark, could he be the person who was working with Atkinson?”

“His behaviour is suspicious,” Clark agreed, “but what I can't understand is why you think that Atkinson committed the murders. What possible connection could he have with Sarah Compton, and—and Gerda?”

“Mac was removed because she discovered something about Compton's death. She either guessed or knew who the inside person was. As for Compton, we all knew what type of woman she was; always prying into other people's business. Supposing she found out about some shady deal that Atkinson was up to, and threatened blackmail?”

Clark frowned, but made no reply. Outside in the hall, I could hear Roberts's slow voice saying with monotonous regularity: “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir,” and finally “Very good, sir,” as he hung up.

“Sergeant Matheson is coming right away. I have orders to keep you here until he arrives,” he announced from the doorway.

I got up to gather Clark's cup and plate. “I won't run away,” I promised, backing into the swing door that led to the kitchen. Clark followed me leisurely.