Murder in the Telephone Exchange (59 page)

It was during the afternoon of the second day, when I was sitting in the garden staring moodily at nothing, that my special attendant came across the grass, followed by Sergeant Matheson. Her face bore an expression of
professional sagacity as she reached for my pulse.

“Between seventy and eighty,” I declared, looking warily past her to the Sergeant. He had made no sign of recognition and I had seen a warning flash in his eyes.

“We are doing very well, doctor,” remarked the nurse, tucking in the rug that I had kicked off in a fit of petulance. “Very well indeed. This is your new doctor, dear. Doctor Ingram has been called away for a few days.”

“How do you do?” I said coolly. “What did you say his name was, Nurse?”

The Sergeant pulled up a garden seat, and spoke with professional briskness. “Matheson is my name. That will be all now, Nurse, thank you. I'd like to be alone with the patient for a while.” He dropped his voice to a confidential murmur, and the nurse, after nodding once or twice, hurried away. As soon as I saw her disappear into the house. I began to laugh softly.

Sergeant Matheson glanced nervously over his shoulder, “Hush! Someone might be watching. You have no idea the trouble I had to get in. If they knew my real profession I'd be thrown out quick and lively. How are you feeling?”

“Rotten, thanks. No one will tell me anything, and I'm nearly sick with curiosity. I asked for a newspaper one day, but they said that they'd all been destroyed. The doctors are worse; all pulse-feeling and medical terms. I really will go mad if I don't find out exactly what happened.”

He laughed and sat nearer. “I'd better hold your hand,” he suggested. “Maybe if anyone sees us, they'll think that it is part of my famous cure. I got your note.”

“Thanks for the flowers,” I replied gruffly, “and for saving my life.”

“Don't mention either. They were both very small deeds. You are still very nervy, I see. Your fingers are jumping all the time.”

I made an effort to draw my hand away, only to find it clasped the stronger.

“Who wouldn't be?” I retorted. “I'm not used to holding hands with strange men, especially married ones. What would your wife say if she saw you now?”

“Nothing,” he grinned, “because I haven't got one. Where on earth did you get that idea?”

“A girl I know told me. Did you know that you had three children as well?”

“How ghastly!” he remarked blankly. “She must have mixed me up with Inspector Coleman. I know he has several. It wasn't that Patterson wench who told you all these interesting facts, by any chance?”

“Never mind,” I replied, wrenching my hand away at last. “You're not here to talk about her, even though you did have two dances running with her.”

“Only for professional reasons. What do you want to talk about?”

“Don't be tedious,” I replied. “You know very well. And don't look at me as if you're scared I may crack up under the strain. I know it was Clark.”

“I don't want to upset you,” he said apologetically. “You see, I thought that you were—”

“I wasn't,” I said crossly. “Get on with the story. Was the Inspector pleased with solving the case?”

“No, he's in a foul mood because the killer escaped.”

I think that it was then that I realized how little Clark had meant to me. “Escaped!” I exclaimed fearfully, glancing around expecting to see that face, lit so horribly by lightning, lurking amongst the trees and shrubs.

“He escaped from justice,” Sergeant Matheson hesitated, eyeing me warily.

“Go on,” I said.

“When he saw that the game was up, he did what he was trying to do to you. Threw himself over the railing.”

I covered my face with my hands for one minute. “Was he killed outright?” I asked, my voice muffled.

“No. We got a confession from him before he died, two days later. It was rather—grim.”

Slowly I uncovered my face, and lifted my eyes to the sparkling sky. The wind and the trees, and the lone sky-lark circling overhead, reminded me of those days when we strode side by side down the fairways, Clark, Mac and I. How happy those days had been! Or were they, when all the time I waited for Clark to choose between us. Did he know then that he would murder Mac and make an attempt on my life? Had he made his plans as he looked laughingly into our eyes?

“Mr. Atkinson,” I said abruptly. “What has happened to him?”

“He was arrested the day before Mr. Clarkson died. He was more to blame than the person who actually struck the blows at the two women.”

I looked at him curiously. “Inspector Coleman seemed loath to discuss him with me,” I remarked. “Who was he?”

Sergeant Matheson grinned in a teasing fashion. “A broker.”

I let out one foot to kick him on the shin, amazed at my own familiarity. His manner was reminiscent of the day he took me to tea before we quarrelled. An atmosphere of contentment pervaded between us.

“He was,” Sergeant Matheson assured me, rubbing his leg. “Atkinson
bought and sold a certain commodity—secrets. As you once observed, the term broker can cover a number of affairs; in Atkinson's instance, rather nefarious affairs. The man ran an amazing show. Business secrets, social—anything he could lay his hands on was used. Contracts and estimates in the commercial world proved worthless overnight as the result of a rival party learning of them. The latest Society scandal became known to the world despite every precaution to keep it quiet. Another branch of Mr. Atkinson's activities was the trading of this country's defence secrets.”

“Espionage?” I raised my brows sceptically. “Surely—”

“Don't delude yourself. More spying goes on between wars than during them. We'd had our eye on Atkinson for some time, but he was too clever to let us have any proof. As soon as we knew he was connected with the murders at the Exchange we had a fair idea what was going on.”

“But, Clark? Where did he come in?”

“He was in Atkinson's pay; had been for some time, in fact. What could be a better place in which to pick up incriminating information about people and learn defence plans than the Trunk Exchange? Mr. Clarkson held a key position. I should say he was at the beginning of most of Atkinson's business deals.”

I said: “It is a wonder he didn't set up a rival concern.” I spoke in a flippant manner, mainly to hide the hurt that the tearing down of the rosy veil was causing.

“Atkinson, to give him his due, had amazing executive ability. His was the ultimate responsibility. Mr. Clarkson probably felt it was safer to leave things to him. He was waiting to learn certain instructions from Atkinson when Mr. Scott paid his surprise visit to the Exchange. Not only did their sources of business come from the lines, but they also used them to transmit certain information to their agents in the various states. To avoid detection that night, Mr. Clarkson had to find another telephone other than in the trunkroom.”

“You mean that Clark was the mysterious caller in the restroom?”

“He was. But he didn't know that you were there. He thought that you'd be asleep in the dormitory and took the precaution of locking that door.”

Suddenly I remembered Clark when he stood staring out of a window of the trunkroom, and the way his lips stirred as though he was repeating some phrase over and over. I mentioned the incident to Sergeant Matheson.

“He was probably memorizing his instructions,” he suggested. “A code, originated from your telephonic one, was always used. That was where Mr. Clarkson made his fatal mistake. We had Atkinson's telephone under constant observation, so he had to pass messages to Brown himself. Brown
was the head of the New South Wales bunch. He wrote one down on the back of the docket bearing the record of the Atkinson call, and Sarah Compton noticed it. Either she actually heard Clarkson using the Sydney line, or observed the same odd feature that you did, namely, that although the call had been completed at once, the remarks on the back signified that it had been delayed. Anyway, she took it away with her to study.”

“Clark had tea with her that night,” I nodded. “He probably knew she had it.”

Sergeant Matheson leaned back in his chair, half-closing his eyes. “Do you remember what you told me about that time on the roof? You came upon Miss Compton playing ‘peepo's' as you put it.”

“I remember,” I replied slowly. “I wondered at the time if she was going mad.”

“The following night you showed us over the trunkroom and explained, amongst other things, the standard phrases used on the lines. There was one that stuck in my mind. Particular person unavailable. Or, as you telephonists put it, P.P.U.”

“I follow what you mean,” I said, snapping my fingers in annoyance. “What a fool I was! Of course, that was what Sarah was saying, not that idiotic ‘peepo.' I suppose she was trying to decode the message. Did she realize that Clark was mixed up in espionage work?”

Sergeant Matheson shook his head. “I don't think so. Mr. Scott said that she was still in ignorance when he met her in the observation- room later that night.”

“Bertie must have had some idea of what was happening all the time,” I declared. “He had aged a great deal in the last few weeks. Of course, after that absurd yarn he pitched to Inspector Coleman, I naturally put it down to the fact that Compton must have been blackmailing him. What on earth possessed him to say what he did?”

“Probably it was the first thing that came into his head,” said the Sergeant. “Don't forget that Mr. Clarkson was present at that interview. Mr. Scott couldn't show his hand even to us.”

“Do you mean to say that Bertie knew it was Clark all the time?” I asked in amazement.

“He had a fair idea. You see, it had to be someone fairly high up on the Exchange staff, who could use an Interstate line without arousing any attention.”

“And I thought that he was the murderer!” I exclaimed faintly. “My opinion of him had dropped to zero.”

“So did we for a while,” grinned the Sergeant. “He was a good actor.”

“How did you first come to suspect Clark?” I asked in a low voice,
breaking the silence between us.

“I was prejudiced from the start of course,” he replied, and I looked at him inquiringly. “I think the first hint I got was when I read the report that the wireless boys took over the air from the car in which he drove you and Miss MacIntyre home the night of Miss Compton's death. It came out in the course of your conversation that he had been alone in the restroom for several minutes. You were in a faint, and Miss MacIntyre had gone to ring up the police. In itself, it was not suspicious, but the fact that he omitted it from his statement made me wonder.”

“But why should he want to be alone?”

“To answer that question properly, I will have to deal first with the mystery of the locked door.”

“Please do,” I said gratefully. “If there was one thing that depressed me more than another with its unreasonableness, it was that damned door. Why was it locked?”

“To hide the weapons,” was the prompt reply. I stared at him in a dazed fashion.

“There were two buttinskys,” explained the Sergeant. “One was used for the actual murder. The other to throw the police off the scent and on to Mr. Scott's trail. Mr. Clarkson tried to make a scapegoat of the Senior Traffic Officer. Once we got on to the espionage part of the story, we would immediately look for someone high up—one of the Heads, as you put it—who could be Mr. Atkinson's accomplice. You don't appear to be listening very closely,” he added in an injured voice.

“I've got it!” I shouted. Sergeant Matheson again glanced towards the house nervously. “For days I have been searching for a reason for what Clark said when he tried to push me off the roof. Now I know. I saw him with a buttinsky in his hand. No wonder he was concerned when I told him that there was something nagging at the back of my mind! That was it. When I escaped from the lift where Sarah Compton was reading that anonymous letter, I ran right into him. Clark must have taken a buttinsky out of one of the power-rooms. It registered itself on my unconscious mind as odd, although not unusual, that he should have one with him out of the trunkroom. I was just starting to remember it when I noticed the dump-yard from the roof, and mentioned it to Clark.”

“I wish that you'd remembered days ago,” said the Sergeant peevishly. “It might have meant the saving of a great deal of time, not to mention Miss MacIntyre's life.”

I winced at the mention of Mac's name, and bent my head to hide the sudden rush of tears to my eyes. Sergeant Matheson's hand closed over mine warmly.

“I'm sorry,” he said simply. I shook my head, unable to speak for the tightness in my throat.

“Would you like me to go?” he asked, making a move to rise.

I twisted my hand under his and gripped it urgently. “Please go on about the door,” I said, managing a rather watery smile. “I won't be able to sleep to-night unless I know.”

“The door! Yes, of course. Mr. Clarkson had to have somewhere to put both buttinskys. They are not over small, as you know. He evidently feared that his locker might be searched at some time or another. Also he wanted to form a bait for Miss Compton. According to you, she was the first on the scene at untoward happenings in the Exchange.