Murder in the Telephone Exchange (6 page)

I knew where I was immediately: in the sick-bay on the eighth floor of the Telephone Exchange building. I had tried that hard bed before.

‘That's funny!' I thought. But I must have spoken aloud, because the man's voice said: “What's funny?”

I struggled to sit up. “I thought I was in a boat.”

A strange man stood over me, and another figure was in the background. They swayed a little before my puzzled gaze. I put my head down to my knees automatically. They spoke over my head.

“We'd better leave her until the last, Sergeant.”

“Very well, sir. What did they say her name was?”

I raised my head.

“M. Byrnes,” I said clearly.

The first man seemed amused. “What does the M. stand for, Miss Byrnes?”

“Margaret,” I replied, embarrassed. Ob. was to blame for my slip.

“How do you think you will stand up to a few questions, Miss Margaret Byrnes?” he asked.

“It all depends what they are about,” I answered, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

The two men gazed at me so keenly that I began to feel uncomfortable. I looked at them inquiringly, but they remained silent. Then a wave of horror started to sweep over me, and Mac's tragic whisper seared my brain.

“Sarah Compton,” I breathed in answer to my own question.

“Precisely, Miss Byrnes,” said the second man crisply. “I am Detective-Inspector Coleman from Russell Street Police Headquarters, and this,” indicating his companion, “is Detective-Sergeant Matheson. We are inquiring into the murder of Sarah Compton, late monitor at the Melbourne Trunk Exchange.”

I gripped the edge of the bed, hard.

“Murder!” I repeated, still whispering. Something seemed to have gone wrong with my voice-box. Detective-Inspector Coleman nodded in silence. The sick-bay room was so quiet that I could hear the thudding of the dynamo many floors below.

“Surely, Miss Byrnes,” he went on, “as you saw the body, you realize that Miss Compton has been the victim of foul play?”

I stared down at my clenched hands.

“I only looked into the room for a minute—a second,” I replied jerkily. “It—she was a shocking sight, but—murder did not occur to me. It doesn't seem possible. Those sorts of thing,” and I threw my hands out helplessly, “murders—only happen in mystery novels, not in a Telephone Exchange.”

“They happen in real life,” said inspector Coleman quietly, “only too frequently.”

I stared at him, trying to absorb the fact. Sarah Compton—murdered! Someone had killed her; taken from her the most precious thing we own. And Mac and I had found her, lying face down in her own blood. At once I realized what it meant. We would be mixed up in this ghastly business, no matter how repugnant we found it. But would I find it so distasteful after all? It was horrible and frightening finding Compton like that. I was not likely to forget the scene in the restroom in a hurry. But I had never cared much for the woman. I felt no personal grief on top of the horror.
The situation might prove exciting and intriguing. I wondered if Mac, who had always been indifferent to Sarah, was thinking the same.

“Where is Miss Maclntyre?” I asked abruptly.

“In the next room. I am just going to take her statement. Sergeant Matheson here has a few questions to ask you. I hope that you will give him every assistance.”

I nodded dumbly and watched him depart. He was a big man, but as light as a cat on his feet; later, I learned that he was an enthusiastic amateur boxer. Sergeant Matheson switched off the bright overhead light, leaving only the shaded one on the table aglow. I supposed that he thought the powerful light would only aggravate my aching head, but it had the effect of making me feet very nervous. It was as if he was setting his stage. When he sat down beside me, notebook in hand, I lost all my fears. He looked shy and ill-at-ease, so much so that I wondered if this was his first important case. It took me a long time to realize that this appearance was only part of his stock-in-trade, and that he was considered one of Russell Street's most able officers.

However, just then I thought he was bashful, and to break the ice I remarked lightly: “Why is it all you policemen only have blunt stubs of pencils with which to take your notes?”

His smile was infectious. It lit up his plain face, and made his eyes twinkle under their sandy brows.

“You seem to know a great deal about policemen, Miss Byrnes,” he remarked, writing carefully in his book.

“Here! I hope you're not putting that down to be used in evidence against me.”

His mouth was closed firmly, but his eyes still danced.

“No, just your name. Margaret Byrnes,” and he repeated it slowly.

“That's quite correct,” I said tartly. “Now what is it you want to know?”

“Your address, please, Miss Byrnes.”

“15 Lewisham Avenue, Albert Park. I board there. My real home is in the country. You've probably never heard of it. Keramgatta.”

“About twenty miles from the north-east border?” he queried.

“That is right,” I agreed in vexed surprise.

“I used to work in that district,” he said apologetically.

I kept what I thought was a dignified silence.

“Now, Miss Byrnes—you knew the deceased?” I nodded.

“What sort of woman would you say she was?”

“She was a—” I shut my mouth quickly. Sergeant Matheson looked up from his writing.

“You were saying?” he prompted.

I thought for a minute. “She was a very difficult woman to work with,” I said lamely.

He gave me a direct glance. “What were you going to say originally, please, Miss Byrnes?”

“I don't think that I'd better tell you,” I parried. “It was something very rude, though rather apt when applied to Sarah Compton.” I was sure that his eyes twinkled again, as he let the matter pass.

“I believe that you were the first to find the body,” he continued.

“The second,” I corrected. “Miss Maclntyre saw Compton a few seconds before I did.”

“Miss Maclntyre is a particular friend of yours, Miss Byrnes?” he asked quickly. I looked at him speculatively.

“A friend, yes,” I answered, “but not an accomplice.”

“I did not suggest it, Miss Byrnes,” he said, appearing uncomfortable and ill-at-ease again.

“No, but you were thinking it,” I retorted, and had the doubtful reward of another infectious grin. He shrugged his shoulders slightly.

“We seem to be getting nowhere, and taking a long time about it,” he remarked. “Perhaps it would be better if you told me in your own words exactly what happened.”

“No interruptions?” I asked, and he raised one hand solemnly.

“Not unless strictly necessary.”

“Right!” I said briskly. “Have you a cigarette? I don't remember finishing my last one. Thanks. And a match, please?” I drew a long breath. “Are you ready? Shall I go fast or slow?”

“Medium,” he suggested. “I'll take it down in my own particular brand of shorthand, but I want to absorb all the facts.”

I looked at my cigarette a moment in silence, mentally gathering myself together.

“I'll begin by answering your first question more fully,” I began. “Sarah Compton was a prying old busybody. Hundreds of people, not only in the Exchange but outside, that is if she behaved anything like she did here, must have had her in the gun. But I don't know of anyone who would want to murder her for her inquisitiveness. You see, I have provided you with a motive for the crime already.” I flicked the ash from the cigarette and drew again. “I disliked her intensely myself; why, I won't tell you. That's my business! But I will say that the reason I detested her was not enough to make me even want to, murder her. I might have scratched her face, considerably, but bashed it in, no!” I wished I had not said that now. My stomach felt squeamish, and I fought against nausea. “When did it
happen and how?” I asked, desiring a breathing space.

Sergeant Matheson looked up from his notes.

“That's for you to help us find out, Miss Byrnes. Medical evidence is rather vague as to the time. The body was still warm, but then it is a hot night. We dare not give an accurate time. As to how—two blows were struck with some heavy instrument, as yet undiscovered; one on the temple, the other directly in the face. What time did you last see Miss Compton?”

I frowned in concentration. “The last time that I actually saw her,” I said slowly, “would be about five minutes to eight. I had finished the relieving—letting different girls have a short break,” I explained in answer to the question in his eyes, “and then Compton sent me to work the principal Sydney board. We were very busy. In our game you rarely lift your head during the rush period, but I can remember her querying me about various dockets. I think that the last I heard of her would be about twenty to ten. I can check up with the time on the docket, if you like.”

He made a note in his book.

“However,” I continued, “someone else is certain to have seen her after that. I was only one of many in the trunkroom.”

“Can you think of any reason why she left the room?” he asked. “Surely it is not usual for a monitor to absent herself during the busy time?”

“Yes,” I said promptly. “I told you that she was a busybody. Someone had locked the restroom door, which is quite against the rules. I'll bet you anything you like to name that Compton had her nose on the trail, trying to find out who it was. As a matter of fact, I was the chief suspect in that little affair; being the late telephonist, everyone jumped rashly to the conclusion that I locked it.”

“Why rashly, Miss Byrnes?”

“Because I didn't go near the blasted room after 6.15 p.m. I kept my telephone outfit with me while I had tea in the lunchroom, so that there would be no need for me to return to the cloakroom. After tea I went up on to the roof for a cigarette. Oh!” I ejaculated, pausing.

“Go on, please,” said Sergeant Matheson quickly. “What time would it be?”

“About a quarter to seven. What I was going to say was that I had an alibi concerning that door, but not now. She's dead,” I finished blankly.

Sergeant Matheson looked interested.

“You met the deceased on the roof?”

“Don't use that word,” I said in an irritated voice. After a gruelling night's work, to be kept from your well-earned rest by a murder inquiry
was a little trying on the nervous system. Heaven knew what I would feel like in the morning!

“I will tell you in detail,” I said resignedly. “I was smoking a cigarette and enjoying the hot night air, when I heard someone in a corner playing games with me.”

Sergeant Matheson looked at me sternly.

“It's quite true,” I protested. “I'm not trying to be funny. Compton was playing ‘peepo's' with someone, and I was the only one on the roof. At least I thought that I was. I'll tell you more about that in a minute. Compton was sitting at one side of the lift cabin. You'd better go and inspect that later, by the way. When I went round it to see what was up, she was reading a piece of paper. There's no use asking me what it was,” I interrupted, observing him take a breath. “It was nearly dark. You'll probably find it in her handbag. She put it there when she saw me. Then we talked for a bit.”

“What did you talk about, please, Miss Byrnes?” asked the Sergeant, writing furiously.

“This and that,” I answered airily.

“Was the conversation friendly?”

“Most. She barely said a thing, while I pursued an amiable discourse on the view. After a while, we started to go back to the stairs. Here is something that may be of interest to you. Just as we were at the door, Compton said that she saw someone go into the lift cabin.”

I paused for effect, but the Sergeant only asked in an expressionless voice: “Did you?”

“No,” I said, feeling unreasonably annoyed. “I thought that she was imagining things. But there must have been someone, because a note was thrown down into the lift at us.”

“The lift?” he asked, puzzled.

“We took the lift down to the trunkroom,” I continued impatiently, “only we didn't arrive. It got stuck or something. Anyway, some fool of a person hurled this letter at me. I gave it to Compton.”

“Why did you do that. Miss Byrnes?”

“Because,” I said, raising my eyes to heaven, “it had her name on it.”

“Did you see what it contained?”

“No, but I wish I had. The note will probably be in her handbag, too. I caught the words ‘spying' and ‘Compton' on it before I handed it to her.”

Sergeant Matheson looked at me thoughtfully.

“Why did you say that you wish you'd read the letter?”

“Because,” I replied, speaking very slowly, “it had the effect of changing her from a very insignificant, commonplace telephone employee into a snarling animal. She looked insane. I was scared stiff when I saw her face.
The lift had stopped at some floor, so I got out and ran like mad. But I don't think that I need have worried. She had forgotten my existence.”